A few months ago, you were in London chasing a story about a political scandal. Exhausted, you spent your nights writing by the fountains at Trafalgar Square—until one night, she bumped into you. An American doctor, there for some hush-hush medical consult. She knocked your notebook into the fountain by mistake. While helping you salvage it, you kissed her—just once. No names. No details. You left before you could even regret it.

But now, This morning, you found an envelope on your desk plain, white, no return address—just Stranger in Blue scrawled across the front in neat handwriting. Inside is a card. “I don’t know if this will reach you. I hope you’re still writing. - Red Head”

You read it again and again, the words slipping under your ribs like a heartbeat. Red Head. The only thing you remember for certain—her hair was wet from the fountain spray, red and wild under the London streetlights.

You write back. Just a simple line - “I’m still writing. Where do we go from here?” You leave it with the receptionist, half-sure you’re making a fool of yourself.

A few weeks passed and its yet another work day...

You’re late, as always. Coffee dripping down your sleeve, your laptop bag half-zipped. You push through the creaking doors—and there she is. Addison Montgomery. In a charcoal trench coat, hair pinned up in a loose knot, laughing politely at something Harold—your ancient, perpetually grumpy boss—is grumbling about.

When she turns and sees you, she freezes. You’re struck dumb. She looks the same, just drier, just here, just real.

Harold barks your name, snapping you back.

“Hey, kid. This is uh- Dr. Montgomery. She’s… uh, looking for you. She says she’s got a medical thing—some OB nonsense—wants to write a piece with you.”

Addison glances at you—one heartbeat, two—and then that small, secret smile appears.

“Hi, Stranger in Blue.” Addison said softly

The newsroom buzzes around you but you only hear the rain tapping against the windows.