A/N: Happy New Year dear Beans! ;v; My apologies for the slightly late update. I decided to go with something that suited the holiday season halfway through writing the next chapter, and I did take a short break for a couple of days due to some legal stuff happening in my household, but then burst of feels during Christmas led me to sitting down and writing this 5.6K chapter of young Vanilla in New York. 

I had this in my WIPs for the longest time alongside Leroy's Saw: Nineteen, but of course got sidetracked by plot which is ultimately a good thing teehee. There is a small surprise in the next chapter. Half of it is the main challenge of Italy and the other half is the surprise. All new scenes because yiipeee! Inspiration. 

I actually booked myself a flight to a specific part of China next month for some research on a future chapter, and you know what, perhaps one day I'd visit the places I write about. Oh I'd love to take some time off and visit Bali. 

Also, last week's poll was super interesting. Thank you for voting, those who did! And for being here, the last day of 2025—perhaps the most eventful year of my lifetime. 

To more years like this one; filled with candles and snow. 

____________________

There are two main types of professional eaters: food critics—generally known by the public—and competitive hot dog scarfers. The main difference, besides that which they choose to swallow, is what they do after swallowing.

"Your paycheck." His supervisor handed him an envelope of cash. "It's high time you set up a bank account, Julian. Finance has been CC-ing me on that thread of yours for days. Please, send them your banking details as soon as you can."

"Oh," she paused at the doorway, looking over her shoulder with additional instructions: "I don't know about you, but I'm thinking 'Ivy League freshman with expensive taste' for tomorrow's review. A classic cutaway would go lovely with that little vest of yours... Reminds me of Alfred, really. And don't forget the wig."

Ah, yes. The wig.

Of course.

More on that later.

First, it must be known that The New York Times hosts a grand total of three to four journalism fellowships per academic year despite receiving thousands of applicants every summer and amongst these three to four elites, only a single intern makes it into the legendary, all-illustrious food department. Behold, the power of Vanilla Julian White.

The scope of his internship encompassed all that he'd ever dream of doing as a critic: writing, creating, publishing quality content alternating between the Restaurant Criticism team and the Food Journalism team, aimed at enriching the lives of readers in the kitchen and beyond. After all, the work of a critic couldn't possibly be relegated to the mere act of providing guidance on where and what to eat; covering chef features and food trends were equally important in telling the story of memories on a plate.

This was no Yelp review dropping five stars and a one-liner about the 'yummy' food, accompanied by blurry pictures of a chocolate lava cake. Astute critics gave readers something enriching (and sometimes, possibly entertaining) to chew on—a meaningful way of recomposing that which they swallow into a nuanced perspective otherwise missed by the common tongue.

"Thank you, Ruth. I'll get that sorted over lunch, you have my word." He said upon receiving the envelope with two hands, peering inside as soon as his supervisor disappeared down the hallway. Three thousand dollars. A hefty sum for any nineteen-year-old, really.

Navigating through culinary school and working his way up the ladder from #43 to #19 to #7 and then, finally, #1 by the end of his final semester of four years meant a complete absence of free time for Vanilla—the school's first-ever valedictorian from the 'Critical & Business Studies' track to give that one honorable speech on graduation day. Part-time jobs and any other form of paid gigs on the side were simply impossible to fit into a schedule like his.

But then again, perhaps sheer willpower was what he lacked.

After all, he did know of someone who'd had much on his plate; responsibilities to manage; burdens to carry. Yet, every other day after school hours, he'd see him there behind the ice cream display of the parlor he worked at, all for the sake of his mother's medical bills. The one boy with candles for eyes.

___________________

[Attention: Family Business]

Group Chat | You, Aunt Julie, Uncle Al, Chocolate Chip

You: My first paycheck!

You: money.jpg

___________________

He brought up the quick photo he'd taken of the envelope of cash a second time and scrolled through the contact list on his messaging app in search of the silliest profile picture. The one he was so fond of.

There. Eleven contacts down. Still the longest contact name to date. According to the chat history, their last conversation had been a week ago and consisted of six messages. Of which two were pictures of New York since his landing here, and the other three, elaborate descriptions of the terrifying subway and pleasant weather.

Needs a little snow

A short response with little context and at the same time, all the context in the world. Vanilla had not drafted, nor sent a reply. How does one reply to something like that? A statement so neutral, yet imaginative. Teasing, if he could hear him. Embarrassing if he could see him. He hesitated; thumb hovering over the send button at the corner of the image when his phone buzzed with a notification, sliding into view at the top of his screen.

Chip Honeycutt.

Almost always the first to reply to messages on any group chat. It is time! He said. Time to treat yourself (hopefully to some pudding hehe)!

Naturally, Alfred Dempsey was appalled. He shall have no pudding.

Aw...

Were we seeking your opinion, love?

Julie you know the boy can't have pudding he needs to take good care of his gut health! Sugar inflames the stomach. None of that. He's got enough dessert places to review.

He could order a pudding at one of those places he needs to review! (; v ;)

A wonderful idea, typed Vanilla as the smile on his lips grew behind his phone. He pulled up a list of things on his notes app, arranged to look like a spreadsheet of his finances over the past couple of weeks. Under monthly expenses of food, groceries, and transport, he added 'Pudding'. And at the top of the list of savings that included a fancy Thanksgiving dinner for Aunt Julie and Uncle Al, was a thousand dollars set aside for a mysterious item labeled Christmas gift.

After a day's worth of meetings, restaurant visits, interviews, and typical office hours, the intern returned home to his rented room on the fourth floor of an old apartment building with winding stairs and no elevator.

The apartment was the size of a shoebox and smelled faintly of cigarettes and ash. Within five feet of each other were his bed, a small desk, the pantry, and the door to his bathroom that felt oddly disproportionate considering the size of his main living area.

Still, after four weeks at the Times and twelve more to go, a standard evening routine was bound to manifest in the life of a Libra amidst periods of the new and unfamiliar. First, a candle for company. Thank goodness he'd packed it; the large, heavy thing served three purposes all at once: light, heat, and a scent that soothed the senses after a day of thinking in sprints. Afterwhich, his daily intake of supplements to improve metabolism and regulate blood sugar levels. Then, a glass of detox juice and a cup of low-fat yoghurt.

Showers were timed for the benefit of efficiency and a healthy number on his utility bill, and overhead lights turned off while emails were read and messages replied to. The absence of a hairdryer meant waiting for the next hour or so before crawling into bed, often spent communicating with his two attached supervisors: Ruth Wells, the head critic of restaurant reviews, and Claire Mae Laurent, a feature writer with specific interest in modern gastronomy and the science of taste. Sensory perception, she called it. Both, exceptional mentors.

As per Ruth's instructions, he picked out a suitable outfit for his restaurant assignment the next day; a prim and proper look that honestly felt a little more like 'Cambridge' than 'Ivy League' but conveyed the sort of imagery his supervisor suggested he embody. Every instance of disguise was akin to playing a brand new character in a video game; like tossing mushrooms while racing on Peach Beach in tiny colored karts.

The other critics found fun in the otherwise taxing inconvenience, reaching into a box of cards at the entrance of their department that would determine the theme of their next disguise—laughing at the occasional 'Mary Poppins' and 'Ugly Sweater' options.

At present, Vanilla's hand hovered over the knob of a tiny drawer in his wardrobe at the foot of his bed.

Inside was a pair of leather suspenders, gifted by a certain special someone whose scent filled the room he was in, meant for special occasions.

His hand fell after seconds of deliberation and he closed the doors of his wardrobe, turning in for the night.

Tomorrow wasn't special enough.

_______________

One does not simply ask The New York Times to review their restaurant. All critics dine anonymously under aliases and pay for their meals, representing typical guest experiences in writing that has nothing to do with a restaurant owner's deep pockets for PR and advertising. No invitations; no special treatment.

And so the intern stood outside New York City's latest fine dining craze Le Bard in his supervisor's recommended disguise for the day, complete with a wig of short, black hair. Styled inconspicuously for obvious reasons.

Not in a million years would his natural hair go unnoticed in public, let alone in establishments like these. Dining out three times was enough for servers to start recognizing the young man on the street; not just the shade of it, but the length as well—framing his face and shoulders in soft, wavy locks tied low behind his neck.

"Ruth? Excuse me for calling in the middle of your meeting." He said quickly into his phone, glancing between the restaurant and the end of the street. "It's ten minutes past reservation and Francesco isn't here, nor has he replied to any of my messages."

Vanilla had checked his phone a grand total of seventeen times and sent four polite messages to his arranged partner for today's review before deciding to give his supervisor a ring.

Francesco, the new national critic employed by the Times for his reputable reviews as a freelance writer at The Washington Post, had been onboarded just the week before the intern himself but claimed to know everything there was about the Times. Oddly enough, this was not the first time he'd stood the poor boy up outside a fancy restaurant for a review. Apparently, working with 'kids' wasn't his cup of tea.

"What! Oh that little... I'll call you back as soon as I can. Two minutes. Sorry you have to deal with this again."

"Thank you. And no, it's nothing to apologize for."

The last time this happened, Ruth had made the call to cancel the review for that day, noting the publication's requirement for every intern of the food department to be accompanied by someone else for a restaurant piece. Vanilla didn't particularly mind dining alone; it was simply due to rules and regulations that he couldn't.

Alas, a reservation at Le Bard was hard to come by since its opening two weeks ago; fully booked every service, all thanks to viral social media shorts and a clever little collaboration with a designer brand.

"I'm sorry, Vanilla. But you're going to have to dine alone," said Ruth on the other end, voice firm but laced with worry. "Francesco called in sick just this morning. No one had the brains to tell me. And, well, apparently, he doesn't either. The general meeting ends in an hour. I'll be right there as soon as I can."

Not a word of protest made its way into his response; even after dropping the call, Vanilla headed straight for the double doors of the restaurant without a sliver of hesitation. After all, this was simply a matter of unfortunate events.

Inside, however, his disposition trembled like a leaf in the wind. Somehow and somewhere, throughout his years of boarding school in which he, years younger than his peers, dealt with fragile, teenaged egos that belonged to bullies and the like, the young man had mastered the art of appearing unfazed—hardened by his years at culinary school as he worked his way up the ladder of numbers.

The industry, despite its heated kitchens and sizzling pans, froze him cold to the bone. An Everest in the making.

"Good afternoon, sir. How can I help?"

The owner himself greeted Vanilla at the host stand, easily recognized by the silver plated badge and the sheer number of TikToks he'd been featured in. Quite the personality, really. At least according to the intern's research. An eight-course tasting menu modeled after the unique concept of What's in my Bag? in collaboration with one of the most famous luxury brands with a discernible motif meant much, much attention in New York City. To say it had 'taken off' would have been a severe understatement.

"I have a table reserved in the main dining area, I believe." He smiled politely. "One-thirty. Cox would be the name."

The waiting area was tastefully furnished; tiled floors reminding him of a vintage American kitchen with handpainted iconography on every alternate color, the shade of forest green.

"Ah yes! Mr. Cox." The owner nods at the screen of his tablet. "Main dining area, table for two?"

"Well, um. About that, my partner is... unavailable, unfortunately." He expressed, hesitant all of a sudden. "Something came up."

Instantly, the warmth in the air vanished without a trace. "Oh. Well then, we'll... do our best to sit you appropriately." The owner performed a couple of taps on the tablet, keying something into the system before faking a smile. "Not to worry, Mr. Cox. This way, please."

No critic from The New York Times would be in the right mind to book a table under their real name; it simply wasn't standard procedure. Nobody questioned the one he chose.

After all, Cox was a fairly common last name in the States.

The undercover intern was shown past the main dining area into a narrow walkway lined with bar stools by the counter, overlooking a trendy open-kitchen concept modern restaurants boast nowadays. Eager to please with the blurring of lines between the Front and Back of House.

Confidence was the word.

"Here we are." The owner showed him to the right-most seat on the counter, rearranging the tableware mere seconds before he arrived. "Your server will be with you shortly."

One does not need to be a genius to know when they are being sat in a heedless spot that wasn't the table they reserved a week prior and why this was the case.

Sometimes, instinct was loud enough.

And in Vanilla's case, so was the noise in the restaurant. Though the seat beside his own was empty, it appeared to be the only unoccupied space in the busy establishment. In front of him in the open kitchen calling tickets and expediting orders was the head chef—a young French woman by the name of Beaumont whose exceptional career began in Arpège's working with Chef Du Bellay, another outstanding chef discovered by Ruth, who'd arranged a trip to France next month for a special review of the restaurant.

The line cook in charge of the cold station stood just several feet to his right, and the rôtisseur and saucier, two-three feet apart behind the head chef. For a place this busy, the kitchen seemed surprisingly small to the critic. He could even feel the heat of the grill, flames licking slices of turbot, from where he was seated.

Sizzling. Crackling. Shouting. The sound of the service bell going off again and again.

A mild wave of claustrophobia made its way down the intern's throat but he knew better than to show it. Instead, he pulled out a notebook under the counter; resting it on his lap and clicking his pen.

"Hi, how are we this afternoon?" The assigned server came by with an a la carte menu. "Can I start you off with a drink?"

"Good, thank you. And, well, before that I..." Vanilla took one glance at the sheet of designer paper before addressing the server. "I'd like to have the tasting menu, please."

"Oh." He looked surprised, casually sliding the menu off the counter. "Alright. The eight?"

"Yes, precisely."

"And anything to drink, or...?"

While Vanilla had been encouraged by several mentors back in culinary school to look into Wine Studies after discovering his incredibly magical tongue, he hadn't exactly consulted his supervisors about drinking on the job.

"What would you recommend?" He asked instead. "I'd prefer something non-alcoholic."

Oddly enough, this appeared to touch a nerve.

"Well if you want to be impressed, you have to be the right person," the server remarked out of nowhere in a weirdly snobbish manner. His words caught the poor intern off guard; in fact, he didn't quite know how to feel about them.

He watched, flabbergasted, as the server proceeded to take his leave and head straight for the six top in the main dining room to do a full rundown of the difference between meat preparations and the restaurant's specialty desserts without being asked.

Alas.

The woes of dining alone.

And in New York City, no less. The servers here worked for gratuity; in other words, making the most of their time on a shift by attending to a table full of guests for a big fat tip was the norm. It didn't matter if Vanilla was a man or a woman or someone decked out in designer clothes (or perhaps it did, since, well, preconceptions of others in narrow-minded people was apparently a thing), a table for one in luxurious restaurants like this somehow meant subpar treatment.

Even if the undercover writer had the privilege of having renowned international food critic Alfred Dempsey bring him around the world to Michelin-star restaurants with stunning service since the ripe young age of five, he'd always had company.

And so he stewed in thoughts of his own, adjusting the new pair of glasses on the bridge of his nose (also part of the supposed 'Ivy League' disguise—aviator-style frames, black and oversized, an abomination in Violet's terms), and putting pen to paper.

"What is this? You cannot serve it."

Halfway through his second course (a rhubarb jelly with pâté de canard and grilled asparagus put together to resemble lipstick in someone's purse), Vanilla could not help but perk his ears at the sound of conflict in the kitchen.

"I followed the recipe, chef."

"No you did not. Don't argue with me—look at this. The cream is flat! It looks nothing like the sample. Do you think this is a joke? It is critics season. Three came yesterday and more are coming. New York Times has not come yet and it could be tomorrow, could be tonight, could be the person you are serving that merveilleux to. Go! Refire."

Poor chef.

The New York Times was already here and still, she remained perfectly in the dark thanks to an ignorant owner and inattentive Front of House. No matter. Vanilla was not one to ever allow personal judgement and emotions to influence the manner of truth at work; tasting and evaluating every component of the dishes he'd been presented before coming around to the end of his meal. An hour and a half dining at the counter and no one had bothered to come by to check in on the guest.

And when they finally did, it was during the signing of the bill when his server caught a glimpse of the notebook on his lap.

"Yelp reviewer?" He snorted, brow raised in mockery as he returned the intern's company card.

"... Something like that," said Vanilla with grace behind a glass of still, giving the restaurant one last survey and noting, despite the quality of service, its potential to be a cozy, regular spot for guests young and old. In here, everyone else seemed to have brought a companion with them.

It made sense, really. To enjoy a meal alongside company and share the excitement of something fresh and novel. Critics on the other hand, rarely care for external opinion beyond their own.

Yet, for a brief, flickering moment, Vanilla felt the slightest bit cold in the absence of a flame.

_______________

Ruth Wells was way past fifty years of age; it made sense to her that a life of running around like a crazed reporter looking for scoops no longer appealed to her. All she ever wanted after twenty years at the Baker's Times with Alfred Dempsey was a sedentary life free of worries—so how did she find herself at The New York Times of all places, dropped off by a yellow cab three stores down Le Bard nearly two hours after receiving her poor intern's call?

The assignment was long concluded; or so she'd gathered from Vanilla's very polite text twenty minutes ago. Yet, her instincts of motherly concern insisted on showing up for the young man who, she thought, must've been frightened out of his wits reviewing an establishment like that alone. She'd practically ran out of the building and onto the streets to hail a yellow after the general meeting, and at present, remained clearly out of breath as she brisk-walked three stores down to the restaurant.

Definitely not what she signed up for.

Still, all was worth her time and effort the moment she spotted her beloved intern (instant favorite, the over-performing, humble sweetheart with an exterior that resembled that of fresh snow) standing outside Le Bard.

She raised a hand to wave him over but paused the moment her eyes—honed by years of conscious, thorough observation in the field—noted a discrepancy between her assumptions and reality.

Vanilla was not standing directly outside the restaurant; his attention was focused entirely on the display of the store beside it. So absorbed he was in the task of looking that he hadn't at all sensed Ruth's presence right beside him, intrigued by the subject of his study.

It was no secret that the head critic's favorite pastime was nosing around her team's private business. For Alfred Dempsey, it was his collection of enemies.

For Vanilla Julian White, well—she thought he was gay.

Now, that itself did not warrant Ruth's interest because one, this was New York, and two, everyone in his generation was a little fruity nowadays (not entirely, just, sometimes, a little) and being gay on Twitter was apparently a trend.

One thing that stood out to her was how he'd always shown up to work impeccably dressed for his age. Every teenager she knew and met had a preference for hoodies and varsity jackets regardless of gender; boasting a wardrobe full of graphic tees they now called 'vintage' while Vanilla had every inch of his clothing groomed to classic perfection, down to the shine of his shoes, and so honestly her first assumption was, simply put: Gay or European.

Needless to say, she'd considered the prospect of his uncle's influence since, well, the man made it his mission never to be found in anything but a proper suit, but still! That hair. Those glasses. His handwriting. And that book he was reading the other day—Oscar Wilde, king of Victorian gays—all meant something to her inner journalist.

Alas, her deductions and conjectures fell through the moment she discovered, two weeks into his internship, that the young man was, one, single, and two, painfully married to his soon-to-be startup he called GLACÉ, a product of years of online writing that had, over time, gained traction amongst those with a taste for integrity and a finer palate.

And so she'd concluded: No. Not gay.

It would be simply outrageous—shocking; scandalous; downright criminal—for no one in the city to have made a move on a stunning catch like Vanilla. The sweet boy with flawless manners, an incredible work ethic, a mature sense of self, and to top it all off, well-dressed and pretty!

Also, he knew a grand total of zero gay bars in New York. Dead giveaway. Surely that meant he was straight (?).

Ruth liked to think herself a modern aunt at heart but unfortunately for her, Alfred Dempsey's nephew did not quite fall under the typical category of boys his age and as such, was a rather confusing person overall—straight or not.

At present, the crux of the matter was in the storefront that had all his attention.

This was an expensive, luxurious part of New York they were talking about. Hotels lining the street; designer brands; haute couture; Michelin-star restaurants. That Vanilla had decided to pay one such storefront such rapt attention honestly came as a surprise to Ruth.

After all, the young man was only ever this serious about work.

Nothing else!

Upon taking a closer look at the display and following his gaze, she noticed he appeared to be studying, or admiring, an abnormally large... watch.

Alarmingly big. Matte black, with a digital display; chrome-finish buttons all around, and an ion-plated strap that seemed almost indestructible.

It looked worlds apart from any accessory she'd seen him own. In fact, Ruth had always imagined her intern as the sort of person to own and care for a vintage timepiece. Some kind of delicate pocket watch from the 1800s, gifted by his family. An heirloom. Something like that.

Definitely not a large, heavy duty, nuclear-proof digital watch the size of a monster on that tiny wrist of his.

"You're not thinking of spending your first paycheck on something like that, are you?" She remarked over his shoulder, to which he jumped, startled, and whipped around at once.

"Ruth! Sorry, I—I didn't mean to linger idly outside. I was going to head back to the office."

"Relax, Vanilla. You're far too serious for your age," his supervisor laughed. "I cleared your schedule for the afternoon; you're coming with me to Chef Bloom's interview right around the corner. It's Wednesday so I know you don't have that volunteering thing you do at that shelter at the end of every week. Anyway, it's ridiculous how Francesco thought I'd magically know about him calling in sick. Again, I'm sorry you had to go through the review alone."

"It's nothing to apologize for, really. You had meetings lined up all morning and, well, the eight-course was a particularly enlightening experience. I quite enjoyed it. I'll send you my notes. First draft by tonight."

"No rush," Ruth teased as they headed down the street. "The interview's in two hours. Wouldn't mind if you did some shopping to pass the time."

Red dusted the young man's ears. "I-I really wasn't..."

"I'm joking." She had to lay out before her poor intern started overthinking. "But seriously, that watch doesn't suit you one bit. It looks horrendous."

It was Vanilla's turn to laugh.

"Indeed, it does. Except, well, I think it might look rather handsome on someone else's wrist."

Those words tripled Ruth's interest in an instant.

"Oh. A gift, then?"

"Yes. For Christmas."

"Not Alfred, I hope."

"Heavens, no. Uncle Al would faint at the sight of it." He admitted, musing privately. "It's... for someone else. Someone important."

BANGING NEWS: HAS ALFRED'S NEPHEW FINALLY GOT HIMSELF A FANCY?

Variations of the eye-catching headline echo in Ruth's head as her journalistic instincts kick in. Frankly speaking, she was dying to nab the scoop; to hear the story; to uncover the mystery that was her most talented and capable intern to date.

"Explains the hefty price tag."

"Well, those models in the window are military-grade. They are built to withstand extreme underwater activity, heat, and shock, with numerous functions for first responders and even an in-built GPS system. A hefty price tag is to be expected. These watches could save lives."

"... Indeed." She encouraged, subtly nudging the conversation in a direction of favor like a true journalist. "I can see anyone in emergency services making good use out of it."

"Exactly."

In the span of five efficient, masterful sentences, Ruth could already make out several key attributes of the aforementioned mystery person of staggering importance.

"So then, what are we waiting for? I say make that purchase." She egged him on. Classic case of enabling. "A meaningful gift like that must be bought at once—not a want, but a need."

"Oh, well. Yes, but. Not yet, I think," expressed the young man with some hesitation. "The receiver has been moving a lot and um, well. He's rather... busy. With things."

Dear heavens, is that a pronoun? Ruth was swimming in a pool glee. So she was right. Thank goodness, she hadn't lost it. Still, on behalf of Alfred Dempsey, it'd only be right to look out for sweet Vanilla.

"Hm. No one's ever too busy for those they truly care about. Are you sure he's worth your time and effort?"

"There's no doubt about that," Vanilla confirmed at once; without a bat of an eyelash. "He is. We're just... leading different lives. Everyone is."

Oh, the poor boy, thought Ruth. Inside, she was dying to bring him around the city for a gay club session or two. Alfred would kill her for being a bad influence, yes, but if only everyone could see the sweetheart's true character! Whoever this person was better be treating him right because first crushes (as far as she knew) always had a lasting impact on one's life.

Except Vanilla did not have a crush on Leroy Cox.

In fact, Leroy Cox never had a crush on Vanilla either.

'Crush' was never the word they would've used to describe their feelings for one another. Why would a young man who had a 'crush' on another go to the extent of volunteering at a homeless shelter that sought to improve lives with good food free of charge, handed out to people from all walks of life—the lonely and the elderly—in an attempt to observe, quietly, the effect of psychological stress on human sense of taste?

Why would he scrimp and save every penny despite having earned a prestigious scholarship that paid him monthly for his work at The New York Times on top of his three-thousand-dollar salary?

Why would he seek to start an entire company to fund his independent, private search with no standard test subjects, gathering data in hopes of reaching out to scientists in the field of gastronomy and psychology with the aim of filling that one specific knowledge gap?

And why would his heart stop, still, after years of being apart from a flame, at the mere buzz of his phone in the middle of the night, in which he'd sometimes wait up—watching the candle as it kept him company?

The distance was painful.

Something he'd never have it in him to tell Leroy because the last thing he wanted to do was to tear him away from the path the latter was trying to pave for himself. Voicing it would have made the other drop everything to be by his side and that was precisely what he did not want his beloved to do.

In the shadows, he lingered still.

Quietly. Like the falling of snow.

Waiting in the cold.

His plans were simple; keep at it from afar, in the dark, where he planted seeds and watered them slow. Day by day. Bit by bit. And when the trees start to flower and perhaps bear fruit, one day—one day, he'd stop waiting.

One day, he'd fill the silence with the sound of company once more.

That night, he waited for the holiday sale countdown on the watch's online store with bated breath in his tiny shoebox apartment. Already, he could see it on the wrist of the person it was meant for; the one he missed terribly. The one who felt, at present, so far out of his reach.

The idea had stemmed from one of the volunteers at the shelter, an ex-firefighter who served for more than fifteen years at his station in the NYFD. The man wore a scar on the entire right side of his face; a third degree burn. He'd seen him own a watch just like this one. And it was his watch, the firefighter said, that saved him from the biggest structural fire he was ever called in for. His last one.

And yet, after all that he'd been through, he still harbored a flame of kindness that burned brightly within—enough to be volunteering at shelters and helping, supporting, giving himself to those in need. Fighting, still.

That flame reminded Vanilla of another.

One that kept him company in the nights he was alone.

________________

Dear Annie,

Merry Christmas.

It is cold in New York. My uncle sent me a single-breasted wool coat of Herringbone weave. He says it'll keep me warm in weather like this, but I think he's just worried I might feel a little lonely spending the holiday season abroad.

I'm sending you a scarf of the same material. The shopkeeper said this was what they called 'summer sun', a specific shade of orange that felt, to me, warm to touch. It resembles your energy. I hope you like it.

The watch is a separate gift.

You'll find that it is built to withstand extreme conditions, including heat up to a thousand degrees, and underwater activity up to two-hundred meters. Extreme shock resistance makes it almost impossible to destroy even under punishing conditions like collapsing debris. With inbuilt navigation and performance metrics, you can track and record multiple health statuses on the device or a downloadable app. It also has a heart rate monitor. There is a safety feature that beeps an alarm and sends a first-responder signal when it detects the wearer is in danger. I've never seen anything like it. Unfortunately, the sheer size of the timepiece, along with its ion-plated strap, may look intimidating on wrists like ours.

Perhaps you know of someone befitting.

Does it snow in London? It is all he ever talks about; waiting for a snowstorm. According to the internet, it is an extremely rare phenomenon.

He mustn't know about the watch. It would be ideal if he somehow believed in Santa Claus and elves but I think reindeers for some reason, interest him the most. If you would be so kind to keep this between the two of us, I'd be honored to owe you an extravagant eight-course dinner and hours of conversation. If you will have my company, of course.

You have my word.

Warmest Regards,

Vanilla