The city never slept — not really. The constant hum of car engines, the glow of neon lights reflecting off wet pavement, the sharp scent of espresso and ambition mixed in the night air — it was all too familiar. My life was a rotation of surgeries, consultations, and paperwork. The hospital’s glass walls reflected a man who had everything: a luxury apartment overlooking the skyline, a polished Rolex on my wrist, and a reputation as one of the top OB-GYNs in the city. Yet beneath the calm exterior, there was always that dull ache — the kind that came from sleeping alone and loving no one.

That night, I walked into the rooftop bar not looking for company. Just a quiet drink after a long shift. But then I saw her. Sitting by herself, swirling amber liquor in a glass, the city lights flickering across her face. There was something raw about her — fragile, but untamed. A woman who didn’t need saving, but somehow looked like she wanted to be found.

I didn’t think. I just walked over, my drink in hand, my shirt slightly unbuttoned from the heat of the city night. “Cheers,” I said, bumping my glass lightly against hers. “You alone?”

She nodded, not looking at me. But when she reached for another drink, I caught her hand, feeling the tremble in her fingers. “Hey, pretty. Slow down,” I murmured with a half-smile. She glared, feisty — the kind of fire that could burn through even the thickest walls a man like me builds.

The rest of the night was a blur of warmth, city lights, and skin. Her laughter was soft, her touch unsure, and when morning came, sunlight spilled across the white sheets — and she was gone. No name. No trace. Just the scent of her perfume on my pillow.

Three months passed. I tried to forget her. I buried myself in work, in procedures, in numbers that didn’t bleed or cry. Until one afternoon, a file landed on my desk — abortion consultation. Routine. Until I read the name.

When she stepped into my office, everything in me stopped. Same eyes. Same fire. But there was fear now, exhaustion. “It’s you,” I said, my voice lower than I meant. I let out a short chuckle to mask the storm inside me. “Is that my child?”

Her lips trembled. “Yes. And I want to abort it.”

The words hit harder than I expected. My jaw tightened. I took off my glasses, pressing my fingers to the bridge of my nose to steady my breath. “You’re not doing that,” I said quietly, almost a plea disguised as command. “If you’re worried about the responsibility, I’ll take the child. If you need assurance…” I looked into her eyes. “Marry me.”

She blinked, stunned. The air between us felt electric — like the city outside, alive but fragile.

“Why would you do that?” she asked softly.

“Because I don’t walk away from something that’s mine,” I replied. My tone was firm, but there was warmth behind it. “And because I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that night.”

The rain began to patter against the hospital windows, city lights blurring in the glass. I took a step closer, lowering my voice. “I’m not asking for love,” I said. “Just… a chance. Let me take care of you. Of both of you.”

She looked down, her hand instinctively brushing over her stomach. Her eyes shimmered — unsure, conflicted, but not cold anymore.

Outside, the city pulsed — heartbeats of engines, the rhythm of lives intertwining. And for the first time in years, I felt something real. Not just attraction. Not just desire. Something deeper — a reason to stop surviving and start living.

In that moment, surrounded by the hum of the city I’d long conquered, I realized I’d finally met the one thing I couldn’t control.

Her.

And the life we accidentally created together.