Cunningham Medical Corporate HDQ,
San Myshuno
The boardroom was pristine, a glass-walled monument to the Cunningham medical empire. The long table gleamed under the soft glow of recessed lighting, and the air hummed with the quiet tension of executives vying for his approval.
Brad sat at the head of the table, his tailored suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. A senior VP was droning on about expansion plans in Sulani, gesturing to a sleek presentation on the screen.
Brad nodded occasionally, but his mind was elsewhere.
He wasn’t thinking about Sulani or profit margins or the expansion of presence of the state-of-the-art clinics his company was planning. He was thinking about Bri, the way her laugh had lingered in his ears after their last stolen moment, the way her touch had felt like a lifeline in a world that had long since gone cold again.
Brad stared blankly at the glowing screen in front of him, barely registering the numbers and projections flashing by as his team droned on about the latest expansion reports. The air in the boardroom was thick with forced enthusiasm, executives eager to impress, eager to make themselves indispensable.
He should be paying attention. He was supposed to be paying attention.
Instead, his mind kept drifting—to a rooftop terrace under dimmed lights, to the quiet laughter of a woman who actually saw him, not just his title, his money, his legacy.
His phone buzzed on the table, the vibration cutting through the monotony. He glanced down, his brow furrowing as his wife’s name flashed across the screen.
Molly.
Brad exhaled sharply, unlocking his phone with practiced disinterest.
Molly:
Don’t forget the gala next week. I dropped your slate suit off at the cleaners—you’ll wear that. It photographs better. Colors make you look like a boy, and black makes you look like you’re in mourning. And since you can’t manage a single decent smile like a normal person, let’s not make things worse.
Speaking of photos, I booked a session to redo our family portraits. The last ones were unusable because your pathetic excuse for a smile made you look constipated. Try not to do that this time.
Also, I need you to approve the transfer for the new car. The Bentley’s interior is outdated—people notice these things. I’ll send the details later. Don’t forget.
A slow burning irritation clawed its way up his spine.
It wasn’t the gala. It wasn’t even the car. It was the complete dismissal of him as a person—as if he was a mannequin meant to fit seamlessly into the polished image she demanded.
And the worst part? This wasn’t new.
Brad flexed his fingers, willing himself to unclench his jaw, to not let it sink in—but it did.
He wanted to talk to Briar Rose now. To make him feel better.
It always did.
I miss you.
He typed the message before he could talk himself out of it.
The reply came almost instantly.
Bri: Miss you more. Taking a break from recording, Dad was getting hangry and I needed some Vitamin D. Wish you were here…
Brad: I want to see you so badly.
It took a moment before the three dots bounced, her text was a kissing Emoji.
Attached was a selfie—Bri by the pool, her skin glowing under the sun, her barely-there bikini top leaving little to the imagination. She was smiling, but there was a softness in her eyes, a vulnerability that made his chest tighten. In his mind he was spreading suntan lotion on her beautiful golden skin … so soft and warm.
God, she was stunning.
Brad: I wish I could feel that photo.
Her response was immediate. A new picture—this time, topless, her lips curved in a teasing kiss.
Brad’s breath hitched. His grip on the phone tightened as his pulse spiked. He shifted in his chair, as heat crept up his neck and he felt his crotch area tighten. “Holy crap!” The words slipped out before he could stop himself.
The VP paused mid-sentence, glancing at him nervously.
“Apologies,” Brad said smoothly, holding up his phone. “Honey-do list from the wife.”, he lied.
The room chuckled politely, the tension easing, but Brad’s mind was already racing.
He typed quickly, his pulse quickening.
Brad: I have to see you.
Her reply came just as fast.
Bri: Go away with me. Just us. Say the word and I am booking us somewhere we don’t have to hide. My treat.
He stared at the screen, the words sinking in.
Go away. Just us. JUST US. Her treat.
She had invited him before—visits, stolen moments, time together. But this wasn’t a visit. This was a gift. A getaway. A place where they could exist outside expectations.
We don’t have to hide.
The words from her text message echoed through him in her sweet voice, settling deep, twisting something inside him that had been too tightly wound for far too long.
How long had he been trapped in this cold, calculated marriage? How many years had he waited for affection that never came, for a touch that was never offered, for a love that had never truly existed? She had used him—not for his heart, but for his name, his influence, his standing among the old guard. And for years, she had betrayed him while he played the part of dutiful husband.
Now, he was the one stepping outside the lines. Not out of revenge. Not out of recklessness. But for something real.
A love that had never faded.
A woman who had never stopped feeling like home.
Briar Rose. His Bri.
A moment ago, the weight of his world—the empire, the responsibilities, the endless demands—felt like it might crush him. Now, it faded away.
Brad: Just tell me when and where, and I’ll be there.
San Sequoia International Airport
Domestic Arrivals terminal
Brad stepped off the plane, the hum of the San Sequoia International Terminal wrapping around him like a familiar tune. The air carried the sharp tang of coffee and jet fuel, blending with the rhythmic shuffle of hurried footsteps. He adjusted his blazer, his gaze flicking to the monitors, scanning for the gate to his Mount Komorebi flight.
He was mid-scan, his mind already shifting to the next step, when two hands covered his eyes.
“Boo!”
The voice was light, teasing, and unmistakable. His heart jolted, his body twisting sharply as he spun around, startled.
And there she was.
Bri.
Her smile was radiant, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she dropped her hands and stepped closer. She was dressed for escape—a long, stone-gray cardigan layered over an ivory cashmere sweater, perfectly tailored dark wash jeans, and ankle boots that clicked softly against the terminal floor. A jade green toned pashmina, matching the color of her eyes, soft and warm, was draped loosely over her arm, ready for the inevitable chill of the flight.
“Bri! I thought we said we’d meet at the departure gate!”
“We did. But I couldn’t wait.”
Before he could process the words, she leaned in, her fingers brushing his jaw as she kissed him—bold, certain, totally overwhelming.
Brad inhaled sharply, his entire world narrowing to her presence, her warmth, the sheer contrast of everything he had accepted as normal.
His wife would never. Never.
His wife didn’t do surprises. His wife didn’t do spontaneity. His wife didn’t care.
But Bri did.
She pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, her smile softening as she whispered, “You’re way too easy to sneak up on.”
Brad exhaled, a slow, shaky breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days.”
This time, he didn’t hesitate. He pulled her in, wrapping his arms around her, burying himself in the warmth of her presence.
And then—her scent.
Soft, sensual, familiar, wrapping around him like a memory he never wanted to let go of.
And her clothing—the buttery softness of her cashmere sweater beneath his fingertips, the gentle brush of her long cardigan as she moved against him. It matched her softness, the way she was as a person—kind, effortless, never sharp, never guarded. Warm in a way that seeped into him, into places that had gone cold for far too long.
Bri giggled against his chest, her voice light with amusement. “Good thing there’s a doctor right here, then.”
Brad chuckled softly, his voice low. “A doctor can’t help themselves during a heart attack, you know.”
She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Well, then don’t have one. Relax!”
Her gaze flicked over him then, taking in the crisp business suit, the polished shoes, the carefully curated image of a man who was supposed to be traveling for work. The structured lines, the sharp professionalism—it suited his life, the one he had been expected to lead.
But not this trip. Not with her.
Her pashmina slipped from her arm as she adjusted it, the delicate fabric catching the terminal lights in soft waves. A color as warm as she was. As bright as the life she wanted to pull him into.
She arched a brow, amusement dancing in her eyes. “Please tell me you brought jeans.”
Brad hesitated.
“If not,” she continued, grabbing his hand and tugging him toward the lounge, “there’s a Saks Fifth Avenue right there, and I swear I will go shopping with you right this second. OMG, I can read it in your face, you only packed suits, didn’t you?!”
“Umm,” he managed, his voice trailing off.
Bri groaned dramatically, shaking her head as she pulled him along. “Brad, we’re going to have to teach you how to let loose. Consider it my personal mission this trip.”
Her laughter echoed as she led him forward, and despite himself, Brad found the corners of his mouth twitching.
She wasn’t just surprising him—she was pulling him out of the life he’d been trapped in, one spontaneous moment at a time.
The store was bright and elegant, the kind of place Brad usually walked through with purpose, not leisure. But today, Bri was in charge.
She held up a soft, ocean-blue sweater, tilting her head as she studied him. “This really brings out your gorgeous eyes,” she mused, stepping closer to hold it up against his chest.
Brad stood stiffly, his arms at his sides, unsure of what to do with himself. “I don’t think—”
“Shh,” she interrupted, her grin widening. “You don’t have to think. Just stand there being cute.”
Before he could protest, she grabbed a sleek, camel-toned cardigan and draped it over his arm. “You need color, Brad. Not circus-style, but no more hiding behind the same types of suits in navy and gray. More like you used to dress. Back then. Trust me.”
He sighed, but the corners of his mouth twitched. “I don’t hide behind suits in any color. I have other clothing. Casual. Just not … with me.”
She laughed, a sound that felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Well, what good does it do us then, huh? You are getting a makeover. No worries, I am making you look like I guy I want to be seen with. On that note, follow me.”
Bri loaded the sweaters she had chosen—masculine shades of blues, greens, and tans—into Brad’s arms, then looped her pashmina around his neck with a satisfied tug and pulled him along.
She darted toward a rack filled with men’s denim, her fingers skimming over the fabric until she found a pair of jeans in a deep indigo wash. Holding them up against him, she tilted her head, assessing the fit.
“Hmm. These right here might actually make you look like you’re on vacation instead of running a board meeting. Perfect!”
Brad raised an eyebrow, awkwardly shifting under the growing pile of clothing in his arms. With her pashmina draped over his shoulders, his suitcase dragging behind him, he looked like a wet kitten caught in a whirlwind of retail enthusiasm. Meanwhile, Bri, ever the picture of effortless sophistication, slung her rich cognac leather carry-on tote over her shoulder, the soft material resting against her side like it belonged there.
“Well, I wouldn’t run board meetings in any type of jeans,” he muttered, still grappling with the sheer amount of garments she was foisting onto him.
She smirked, tossing the jeans over his shoulder. “Exactly my point,” she shot back, grinning as she grabbed another pair—a stylish lighter distressed wash, effortlessly cool without trying too hard. She held them up to his waist, squinting dramatically. “Oh, these are perfect. They’ll make your legs look longer. Not that you need help in that department, Mr. GQ, Tall-and-Brooding edition.”
Brad shook his head, exhaling in defeat. “GQ? Oh jeez. Me? You are delusional. I look like a dork on a good day and I am very much aware of that fact.”
“Insulting my taste in men now?” she teased, grabbing a third pair—this one in stark white, crisp and refined. She held them up against him, then tilted her head thoughtfully. “These are totally something Jasper would wear, for sure. Perfect with the blues and greens for a maritime look and with the browns for a more relaxed casual one. These literally scream ‘I’m here to relax, but in the most ridiculously stylish way possible.’ LOVE IT.”
Brad stared at the jeans, then at her. “I don’t think I’m ready to scream anything. Especially not with my pants.”
Bri burst out laughing, tossing the jeans over her arm. “Well, Braddy, lucky for us you don’t get a choice. But don’t worry, I’ll teach you how to scream—metaphorically, of course.” She winked, her grin widening as she grabbed his wrist and started pulling him toward the dressing rooms.
As they walked, she reached for a hat—a stylish fedora in a warm gray tone—and plopped it onto his head mid-stride. “Hold still.”
“Bri, no—”
“Too late,” she said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. “Perfect. You’re like a walking magazine cover. Very JT. Love me some Justin Timberlake, back when he was still cute and curly haired, like you. I never realized how much you give JT vibes. Love it.”
Brad sighed, quickly snatching the hat off his head and plopping it back onto the nearest mannequin with startling precision. “I’m not walking through the store like a rebirth of Cary Grant. And I am not even sure who that Justin guy even is.”
Bri paused mid-step, laughing so hard she had to clutch his arm. “Oh, Brad, you REALLY need help.”
“Thinking I am well beyond help,” he muttered, but the hint of a grin betrayed him.
“Nope. Just a work in progress.”
When he finally retreated to the fitting room with an armful of her selections, he was still shaking his head. But as he closed the curtain, he heard the soft rustle of fabric behind him.
“Bri, what are you—”
She slipped in, her smile playful as she pressed a finger to his lips. “Relax, Mr. Navy-and-Gray-Suit-and-Tie. I’m just here to make sure you’re properly defrosted before our vacation.”
Her hands slid up to frame his face, and before he could respond, she kissed him—soft at first, then deeper, more insistent.
Brad’s heart raced, his hands instinctively finding her waist as the world outside the fitting room melted away. Bri, ever the mischief-maker, let her hands slide around his waist, her fingers trailing deliberately, knowing full well it would make him squirm.
“Bri,” he muttered, his voice low and strained, gently catching her hands and pulling them away. “You’re torturing me.”
She grinned, unrepentant. “Oh, I know.”
“Excuse me,” a voice called out, startling him so badly he nearly stumbled. “Do you need any assistance in there?”
Brad froze, his pulse hammering in his ears. “We’re fine!” he managed, his voice an octave higher than usual.
“Yeah, Braddy’s got all the help he can handle,” Bri added, smirking as she watched his face change hues, her amusement only growing.
He stared at her, wide-eyed, his voice dropping to a whisper. “I’m not made for this kind of public spectacle.”
She leaned closer, her grin widening. “Good thing I am.”
Then, turning toward the curtain, she called out, “Just helping my husband get into his new jeans!”
Brad froze, his pulse hammering in his ears. “Bri!” he hissed, his face already burning.
But Bri wasn’t done. She leaned closer to the curtain, her voice carrying just enough to make sure the sales clerk could hear. “It’s a two-person job, you know. Some things just require four hands. Unless you wanna help too, we can always use an extra set of hands, isn’t that so, pookie-bear?” Bri giggled so hard she snorted slightly.
Brad’s jaw dropped, his face cycling through every shade of red imaginable. “Oh my God—Bri! Please stop, I am begging you!” he whispered harshly, his voice cracking as he stared at her in disbelief.
She turned back to him, her grin absolutely wicked. “What? I’m just being helpful.”
Then, just to push him further into his mortification, she wiggled her fingers theatrically, as if demonstrating exactly what those four hands were needed for.
Brad barely dodged, stepping back with a half-panicked, half-exasperated twist, covering his front in an instinctive defense maneuver, only making her laugh harder.
She stepped out of the fitting room with a satisfied smirk, giving him one last playful slap on the rear before snatching up the neatly folded clothes he had been wearing earlier.
“Bri!” he protested, reaching for them. “What am I supposed to wear?”
She arched a brow, gesturing toward him with a flourish. “You look covered to me.” Her eyes flicked over the ocean blue cashmere sweater layered over a crisp white Polo shirt and the indigo blue jeans that fit him far too well for his comfort. “Honestly, you’re welcome.”
Brad groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”
“Yeah, yeah, boo-hoo, get cracking, Cunningham,” she quipped, giving him a quick, cheeky goose before breezing past him toward the checkout counter.
At the register, Bri was in her element, piling up the rest of her selections: a soft tan cashmere sweater, a pale sage green linen shirt, sleek leather loafers, and a few other elegant yet casual pieces. Brad, still wearing the outfit she had chosen for him, stood beside her, his credit card in hand, ready to swipe. But just as he reached for the card reader, Bri snatched the card from his fingers with a grin.
“Bri,” he started, but she waved him off.
“Relax, Mr. Navy-and-Gray-Suit-and-Tie. I’ve got this.” She flipped the card between her fingers before handing it back to him.
A sales clerk approached, gesturing toward Brad. “I’ll just remove the tags and security sensors for you.”
Brad blinked, suddenly aware of the situation. “I could just—” He motioned toward the bag holding his original suit, ready to change back.
“Nope,” Bri cut in, smirking as she snagged a pair of scissors from the counter. “If you even think about ditching this outfit, I’ll find you something with glitter. And feathers. Maybe even a crop top.”
Brad groaned, his face heating as the clerk removed the ink tags with a practiced click, while Bri snipped off the remaining tags with a flourish. The whole ordeal felt oddly exposing, as if he were being dressed—or undressed—in public.
“You’re enjoying this,” he muttered under his breath.
“Oh, immensely,” she replied, her grin wicked as she handed the scissors back to the clerk.
Brad sighed, attempting once again to hand his card to the sales clerk. But before he could, Bri plucked it out of his grasp with lightning speed and—without warning—shoved it straight down the waistband of his pants.
Brad jolted like he’d been electrocuted, his brain short-circuiting entirely as he hopped back, frantically trying to shake the card loose. “Bri!” he yelped, his voice cracking as he twisted awkwardly, his face flaring crimson.
“I said I got this! Geesh!” Bri doubled over laughing, clutching her sides as Brad continued his panicked dance, trying to reclaim his credit card.
The sales clerk, who had been quietly scanning items, leaned in with a dry tone. “Must be a wonderland down there, as much as you have your hand in it.”
Brad froze mid-hop, his dignity dangling by a thread as Bri howled with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes.
“Oh, you have no concept,” she said, wiggling her eyebrows at him with a grin wicked enough to cause permanent damage. “Once you go Brad, you never go back.”
Brad finally managed to retrieve the card, shoving it deep into his wallet as if it might launch an escape attempt at any moment. “Why are you torturing me? What have I ever done to deserve this?” he muttered under his breath, pointedly avoiding eye contact.
Bri, still giggling, handed over her own card to the clerk. “You’ll be fine,” she said breezily, waving a hand. “He just needed a little color in his life.”
“Yeah, and in his face,” the clerk chuckled, sliding the receipt across the counter.
Bri patted Brad’s chest with mock sympathy, still grinning. “Well, at least you got some color on vacation, right, baby? One way or another.”
Brad groaned, rubbing his temples. “Can we all just quit trying to kill me? That would actually be relaxing at this point.”
Bri grabbed the shopping bags, tossing them into his arms with a satisfied smirk. “Oh, honey-bun. This is just the beginning. We’re on vacay! Come on, babe, let’s go start vacationing.”
As they stepped away from the counter, Bri looped her arm through his, giving him a quick squeeze before tugging him toward the exit.
Brad glanced down at himself, realization dawning. “Wait—so I’m just…wearing this now?”
Bri shot him a wicked grin. “Yup. Consider it a fashion baptism. You’ve been reborn into vacation mode.”
He let out a breath of laughter, adjusting the bags in his arms. “Not even a second to reconsider?”
“Nope!” Bri chirped, tugging him toward the sliding doors. “You look fantastic, and that’s final. Now, how about we get you some sunglasses to hide behind? That blush is starting to become your signature, very fresh look.”
Brad groaned, surrendering to the inevitable. “At this rate, I should just wear a full ski mask.”
She grinned, unrelenting. “And cover up that ridiculously handsome baby face? Not a chance! Besides, I think a little color in your cheeks really completes the look.”
Before he could respond, she reached up and gave his cheek a light pinch, her fingers lingering just long enough to make his blush deepen. “See? Perfect.”
Brad groaned, though the corners of his mouth twitched in spite of himself. With an exaggerated sigh—accompanied by yet another betraying flush—he let her pull him toward the first-class lounge, where the chaos of the outside world faded into quiet luxury.
Inside, the air smelled of aged oak and rich leather, the hum of conversation soft and unobtrusive. Bri ordered two glasses of champagne—the kind that tasted like liquid gold—and they sank into plush armchairs.
“You look tired,” she said, her voice softening as she studied him.
Brad exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “The last two weeks without you were hell.”
“Don’t be so melodramatic. It was only nine days, 14 hours, 36 minutes, and 12 seconds—but who’s counting, right?” she smiled, winking.
He chuckled briefly, shaking his head as he finally, fully exhaled.
Her expression gentled, and she stood, moving behind him. Her hands found his shoulders, kneading gently but firmly, and Brad closed his eyes, the stress melting away under her touch.
“You work too hard,” she murmured, her fingers working magic. “You’re so tense, Brad. It’s like your shoulders are carrying the weight of the world.”
He leaned his head back, the weight of it resting against her chest for a fleeting moment. Realizing, he straightened quickly, not wanting to hurt her or draw attention. But Bri stopped him, her hands sliding up to cradle his head, gently pulling it back again. Her fingers moved seamlessly to his temples, massaging in slow, soothing circles.
Brad felt himself melting, his body sinking deeper into the chair as her touch unraveled every knot of tension. When he finally opened his eyes, it was like seeing an angel. The soft glow of the ceiling lights caught her warm, medium honey-blonde hair, framing her face like a halo. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe.
She smiled down at him, her expression a mix of mischief and tenderness. “Better?”
He let out a slow, blissed-out sigh, his lips curving faintly. “I think I just died and went to heaven.”
Komorebi International Airport
Interntational Arrivals
The flight from San Sequoia had been smooth, but as Brad stepped off the plane, he immediately felt the shift. Mount Komorebi’s air was crisp and invigorating, carrying a scent of pine and distant snow.
Bri adjusted the strap of her carry-on, stretching as they moved toward the exit area. The terminal was sleek and modern, but noticeably quieter than the chaos they’d left behind. Still, outside the doors, the world beyond buzzed with life—commuters rushing to board trains, cars weaving through busy intersections, the steady hum of movement defining the city below the mountains.
Their driver waited by the curb, holding up a simple white sign reading ‘CUNNINGHAM’ ushering them into a dark luxury SUV. As soon as they pulled away from the airport, the scenery began to shift. The city streets, filled with towering buildings and endless neon, eventually eased into sprawling suburbs and then, finally, into open landscapes where the mountains loomed in the distance.
The climb was gradual—the traffic thinning, the air cooling. Lower down, the climate was temperate, inviting. Winding trails led past tranquil lakes that mirrored the sky, their surfaces undisturbed except for the occasional ripple from a passing bird. Quaint villages nestled between stretches of forests, their paths lined with lanterns that would glow softly by evening.
But as they ascended, winter took its hold. Snow dusted the ground, the roads edged with frost as the resort town came into view. Cozy lodges, steaming outdoor baths, ski trails carving down the slopes—it was a dream in contrast to everything Brad was used to.
Bri turned to him, resting her head against the seat. “So… have you ever been here before?”
Brad let out a low breath, gaze sweeping across the view outside. “Only for conventions. Meetings in the city, hospital visits. I’ve been near the base, but never had time to sightsee… or ski. But I learned a lot about the local cuisine. I like the food here. Father did make me learn some Komorebian, especially medical terminology.”
She smirked, nudging his arm. “Well, then you’ve never actually been here. We’re gonna change that. Today we’ll rest, tomorrow we’ll pop you skiing cherry. I suck at it too, so I am not even at any advantage, we’ll be spending most of our time sitting on our asses in the snow, laughing at ourselves and each other, it will be hella fun! You don’t have to be good to enjoy it.”
Brad allowed himself a small smile. All his life he had been held to different standards. Finding amusement in failure was a foreign concept to him. ‘Whatever you start, son, see it through to the end and be better than anyone else. Nobody remembers second place.’, he heard his father’s commanding voice resound in his head. But maybe Bri was right. Maybe, for once, he would actually let himself fall into it, just enjoy this. He would try, for Bri.
Sakura no Miyabi Restaurant,
Mount Komorebi
The restaurant was tucked away down a quiet, snow-dusted lane, its entrance glowing with the warm light of red paper lanterns. Brad and Bri were led through a narrow corridor lined with bamboo and soft shoji screens before entering a private dining space. A low table, set impeccably with lacquered dishware and ceramic sake cups, awaited them. Above, a single paper lantern cast a soft, inviting glow. The room exuded a timeless tranquility, a stark contrast to the fast-paced world they’d left behind.
The first course arrived with quiet fanfare—a delicate arrangement of sashimi, the fish so fresh it gleamed. Bri’s eyes lit up, delight playing across her face as she reached instinctively for her chopsticks.
“Oh, this looks so good. I’m absolutely famished,” she sighed happily, already lifting a piece.
Bradford picked up his own chopsticks, hands steady but breath uneven. He knew how to use them—had for years—but tonight, they felt different. His fingers trembled slightly, the weight of everything pressing in around him.
Then, as if to prove his own anxiety, a perfectly cut piece of sashimi slipped from his grasp, landing back onto his plate with an unceremonious flop. He exhaled through his nose, adjusting his grip with renewed concentration—until Bri’s chopsticks darted in, plucking up the piece with practiced ease.
“You’d think a surgeon would have steadier hands,” she teased, holding it just out of reach.
Bradford huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Scalpel work doesn’t usually involve raw fish and emotional whiplash,” he muttered.
Bri grinned, then, without hesitation, lifted the piece toward him. “Lucky for you, I’m a pro at this,” she said, tilting her head expectantly.
For half a second, he hesitated—then surrendered, leaning forward to accept the bite. The rich, delicate flavor melted against his tongue, grounding him more than he expected.
She watched him, something knowing in her gaze. “Better?”
He swallowed, eyes lingering on hers. Better wasn’t even the right word.
The meal unfolded as a symphony of flavors and textures. There was chawanmushi—steamed egg custard infused with a hint of umami; skewers of yakitori, the glaze shining like polished amber; and nabe, a clay pot brimming with steaming broth and tender slices of marbled beef. Each dish was a revelation, eliciting murmurs of appreciation from both of them.
Then came the moment of culinary daring. The server presented a small, unassuming dish, bowing slightly as she explained. “Shirako,” she said, the syllables rolling off her tongue like a secret.
Bri, always game for a new experience, started reaching for it without hesitation. “Okay, what exactly is shirako?” she asked casually, her chopsticks poised to pick up a piece.
Bradford’s lips twitched. “Fish sperm,” he answered matter-of-factly, his tone betraying the faintest glimmer of amusement.
Mid-motion, Bri froze, chopsticks hovering inches from the delicate mound. She eyed it warily, giving it a tentative poke as if testing its integrity. The soft, yielding texture made her nose wrinkle instinctively. “Ew—wait. Seriously?”
Bradford chuckled, picking up a piece without hesitation. “Seriously,” he confirmed before popping it into his mouth. He chewed thoughtfully, then nodded. “Not bad, actually. It’s… creamy. Kind of like custard but with an ocean twist.”
She exhaled, still grimacing as he picked up another piece and held it out to her. “Come on, it’s packed with nutrients—vitamins, protein, supposed anti-aging properties.” His grin widened. “Never too early to start preserving that youthful glow of fame, right?”
Bri shot him an unimpressed look but narrowed her eyes, clearly torn. He had eaten it, and if she backed out now, it would be like admitting defeat. Huffing out a breath, she finally leaned forward, taking the bite from his chopsticks.
Her expression shifted rapidly—confusion, intrigue, and something close to satisfaction when she realized it’s a little like tofu.
Bradford watched her closely, the amusement glinting in his eyes as he leaned in slightly. “Well?” he asked, the corner of his mouth tugging into a smirk. “What do you think?”
She swallowed and shook her head with a wry chuckle. “If you’d told me I’d be swallowing something like THAT today, I would’ve assumed it was coming from you—not a fish. That’s what I think.” She paused, considering. “But honestly? It was surprisingly… not revolting.” She giggled at her off-color insinuation.
Bradford blinked, caught completely off guard. For a moment, he just stared at her, and then it happened—a deep, unrestrained laugh burst out of him, rich and full, carrying beyond their private dining space and into the main room. Heads turned—curious glances from other diners who could see through the slightly open door—but he didn’t care. The sound was rare, unfiltered, and entirely unlike him.
He caught himself after a moment, clearing his throat as he leaned in, still visibly amused, his voice low and teasing. “The night is still young,” he murmured, a playful wink punctuating the words.
That was it. Bri practically lost it. She doubled over, laughter bursting out of her in unrestrained waves. A snort escaped before she could stop it, making her laugh harder until her eyes glistened with tears.
Her reaction was contagious. Bradford, despite himself, started laughing again—this time softer, but no less genuine. For once, he didn’t try to rein it in. He just let it happen, the sound blending with hers in a moment that felt entirely their own.
“Who are you, and what have you done with the always conservative and prim and proper Dr. Bradford Cunningham?” she managed through gasping giggles, wiping at her face.
His humor—so unexpected, so uncharacteristic—added a whole new dimension to the man she thought she knew.
As the server brought out the final course—thin slices of fugu sashimi arranged like a delicate chrysanthemum—they shared a moment of quiet awe. Bradford marveled at how this evening felt different—unburdened, alive. He tried to remember the last time he laughed this much, and the only moments that came to mind were with Bri. Back in the Bay. When they were teens.
Then came the dessert tray—a decadent selection of matcha mousse, mochi, and azuki bean pastries. Bri surveyed it with a mix of awe and suspicion.
“Any more obscene ingredients among all this, Brad?” she asked, arching a brow.
Bradford chuckled. “Not that I’m aware of, but my Komorebian only goes so far—and mostly leans medical.”
She scooped up a bite of mousse, delicate and precise. The moment it hit her tongue, her complexion shifted from rosy to alarmingly pale. Setting her spoon down, she pressed a hand to her stomach and groaned dramatically. “Oh my God, I surrender. Tapping out. If I eat anything else, I swear you’ll have to roll me back to the cabin while I puke like a fountain.”
Bradford’s warm, deep laugh eased some of her discomfort. “I’ll spare both of us the indignity,” he said, rising from the table. “But come on, let’s take a walk instead. Fresh air should help—and we’ll burn off a few calories while we’re at it.”
Walking in a Winter Wonderland
After he settled the bill, they bundled up in their coats and scarves and stepped outside into the brisk night air. The town was quiet now, lanterns casting golden pools of light on the snow-covered streets. The soft crunch of their boots against the snow punctuated the stillness, and their breath came out in frosty puffs.
They wandered without destination, marveling at their surroundings. The towering cedar trees loomed dark and majestic against the moonlit sky, their branches glittering with frost. The snow on the rooftops of nearby cottages sparkled like a thousand tiny diamonds, and the faint sound of a creek burbling beneath the frozen surface added a sense of tranquility to the scene.
As Briar Rose’s skin regained some color, her cheeks glowing with a healthy rosiness, a mischievous glint sparked in her light green eyes. Without warning, she grinned devilishly and shoved Brad straight into a snowdrift. He stumbled, arms flailing, before landing with an audible thud. Taken aback, he opened his mouth to protest, but his indignation dissolved when he saw her drop down beside him, her laughter ringing out like the clearest melody.
“What are you doing?” he asked, half-smirking, brushing snow off his sleeves.
Bri’s grin widened as she lay back, moving her arms and legs enthusiastically, the motion fanning the snow around her. “Snow angel!” she yelled, giggling uncontrollably.
Brad shook his head, bemused. “Aren’t we a bit old for that?”
“Do it! Do it! Do it!” Bri cheered, clapping her mittened hands together. Her childlike excitement was infectious, and he found himself lying back into the snow, mimicking her movements with cautious deliberation. Before long, her laughter broke through his stoic reserve, and he chuckled, genuinely amused.
It escalated quickly—they laughed until their sides hurt, their unrestrained joy melting the frost of the night. Bri, still breathless from laughter, rolled onto him, her hair tumbling like a curtain around their faces. She pressed her lips to his, and in that moment, the playful energy between them softened, deepened. Her kisses slowed, each one deliberate, as if she were trying to etch her affection into his very being.
“Thank you for this, Braddy,” she murmured, her voice a gentle caress against his lips. “For letting go. For being here with me.”
His hand found her cheek, his thumb tracing the delicate curve of her jaw as if memorizing it. “No, Bri,” he said, his voice low but steady. “I should be thanking you. You don’t understand. For years, I’ve been…numb. Just going through the motions. A walking, talking shell. Schedules. Expectations. Never enough. Never—” His voice cracked, and he looked away, as if ashamed of the rawness spilling out of him.
She caught his gaze, her green eyes fierce and unwavering. “You are enough,” she said, her words cutting through his defenses like sunlight through a storm. “Enough. And you’re everything I want.”
The weight of her words hit him like a tidal wave, crashing over the walls he’d spent years building. He gasped, his chest tightening—not with pain, but with something unfamiliar and overwhelming. Hope. Her simple truth unraveled him, rewrote him. For the first time in years, he felt seen. Whole.
Bri winked, breaking the intensity with a playful kiss before rolling off him, leaving him staring at the stars above. But the stars weren’t the same anymore. Nothing was. Her words echoed in his mind, reshaping his world: Enough.
The poignant moment lingered until, out of nowhere, Bri scooped up a handful of snow and hurled it at his face. Bradford blinked, stunned, the snow clinging to his hair and eyelashes. Against his usual nature, something in him broke free, and he retaliated with a well-aimed snowball. What began as a dignified evening transformed into a chaotic, joyous snowball fight.
Laughter echoed through the quiet streets of Mount Komorebi as they wrestled in the snow, both losing themselves in the moment. At one point, Bri tackled him to the ground again, and their laughter melted into kisses—playful ones at first, but soon they deepened, becoming tender and heartfelt.
Eventually, Bradford pulled himself upright, shaking snow from his coat and offering her his hand. She took it, her fingers curling around his as he helped her to her feet. With another lingering kiss, they started back toward the cabin, his arm wrapped securely around her shoulders.
Brad inhaled deeply, filling his lungs with the cold, clean air. “I haven’t felt this alive in years,” he admitted quietly, the weight of his words making Bri glance up at him.
Sakura Ridge Retreat,
Mount Komorebi
The cabin came into view, a cozy haven glowing softly against the snowy expanse. A sanctuary against the biting cold.
Inside, Brad crouched before the fireplace, coaxing flames to life until they danced warmly, chasing away the lingering chill. Across the room, Bri brewed tea in the small kitchenette, the gentle clink of porcelain punctuating the quiet. Despite her fatigue, her movements remained graceful, methodical—as if savoring the simple ritual.
Soon, they were seated on the floor by the wide window, wrapped in a shared blanket, steaming mugs nestled between their hands. Snowflakes drifted outside in a mesmerizing cascade, the white blending seamlessly into the darkness. The fire crackled, its glow painting their faces in golden hues, softening the edges of reality.
Brad leaned back, exhaling slowly. For the first time in too long, he allowed himself to simply exist in the moment. No pressure. No expectations. Just this.
Bri stared out at the snowfall, her expression unreadable. “This is perfect,” she murmured, almost as if afraid to disturb the quiet.
Her gaze flicked to him then, searching. And in that intimate hush, the tension of their usual lives melted away—leaving only the warmth of now.
Brad reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face, his fingertips lingering against the curve of her cheek. Bri’s lips curled into a soft smile, her light green eyes shimmering in the firelight. When she leaned in, her hand rested lightly against his chest, and he felt his breath hitch at the closeness.
Their lips met—tentative at first, a quiet exploration—but deepened within moments, the connection between them grounding and intensifying.
The blanket slipped from Bri’s shoulders as Brad’s hands moved to her waist, pulling her closer. Her fingers skimmed his jaw, a deliberate yet gentle touch that sent a shiver down his spine. Shadows flickered across his skin, the warmth of the fire merging with the heat between them, their kisses growing more urgent.
Brad’s hands moved to his shirt, but Bri stopped him with a playful smile, her fingers brushing his as she tugged the fabric upward.
The firelight cast shadows across his skin as the shirt slipped free, the heat between them rising—until Bri suddenly froze.
Her body stiffened against his, a flicker of distress flashing across her features.
Brad barely had time to react before she lurched upright, staggering as she retched violently onto the wooden floor.
For a heartbeat, the room hung suspended—silent, save for the ragged breaths of shock.
Brad caught himself first, scrambling to his feet. His instinct kicked in before his mind could, a rare crack in his usual control.
Still, he managed a nervous chuckle, though it was thin at best. “I’ll try not to take that personally.”
Bri groaned, mortified. “I’m so sorry—I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I think I just overdid it at dinner like a little pig. I have never eaten so much in my life. I will never eat again.”
She moved to clean up the mess, but Brad was faster. Gently but firmly, he guided her back to the couch, fetching a damp cloth to wipe her face before turning to the floor.
“I’m a doctor, Bri,” he reminded her, offering a small, reassuring smile as he worked. “I’ve seen much worse. A little vomit is nothing.”
When he was done, he glanced at her again. Too pale. Too still. A flicker of unease crept into his chest.
“Let’s call it a night,” he said, gentling his tone.
Bri barely managed a nod. She was exhausted.
But just as they settled into bed, Bri suddenly bolted upright, clutching her stomach.
She barely made it to the bathroom before retching again, the sound sharp and painful. Brad followed instantly, his medical instincts snapping into focus. Kneeling beside her, he steadied her as she vomited, murmuring quiet reassurances.
When her body finally slumped in exhaustion, Brad hurried to his luggage, retrieving a small medical kit. He rifled through its contents, pulling out anti-nausea medication and electrolyte tablets.
“Let’s try this,” he said softly, handing her the pills with a glass of water.
Bri obeyed, swallowing them with trembling hands. But minutes later, the water came right back up, her body rejecting everything.
As the hours stretched on, Bri worsened. At some point, she couldn’t keep even water down.
By early morning, Brad had seen enough.
Lost in the Snow
Moving with swift efficiency, he bundled her up in layers, concern pressing in like a weight. Bri’s normally vibrant face was ashen, her eyes dull with exhaustion.
The night air was sharp, cutting through Brad’s coat as he half-carried, half-supported Bri along the narrow streets of Mount Komorebi. Snow had fallen relentlessly for hours, thick drifts turning every step into a battle.
He should have carried her from the start. He knew that now. But Bri had protested, waving him off with shaky reassurance. “Just a stomach bug, just a little puke-y,” she’d insisted, brushing away his concern. She had even tried to walk on her own at first, leaning against him with stubborn determination.
That hadn’t lasted long.
Brad had suspected food poisoning—maybe a bad ingredient, something her body wasn’t used to. Neither of them ate dishes like shirako or fugu regularly, and while he felt perfectly fine, Bri had crumbled. First nausea, then vomiting, and now she was barely conscious, her body drained from the relentless cycle. Maybe she really overate, maybe a sensitivity or allergy. Impossible to say without proper testing.
It didn’t help that Bri was already slender—fit and toned from weeks of preparation for her upcoming tour. She had been meticulous about her diet, determined to stay in peak condition for the grueling schedule ahead. But now, with nothing left in her system, her frame felt fragile against him, her weight alarmingly light.
His legs burned with effort as he pushed forward, snow dragging at his stride, swallowing his boots with every step. The once-lively resort town was eerily silent, the lantern-lit streets deserted at this hour.
“Bri,” he murmured, trying to rouse her, but she barely stirred against him. Her breaths were shallow, faint wisps in the icy air.
Panic tightened in his chest.
“Help!” His voice cracked as he shouted into the empty streets. “Doctor! Hospital!”
No answer.
His calls vanished into the stillness, swallowed by the whirling snow and shuttered storefronts. He pressed forward, scanning desperately for any sign of life.
Then—her knees buckled.
Brad barely caught her in time, sinking into the snow as he cradled her limp frame. His pulse thundered in his ears.
“Bri! Stay with me!”
No response.
Desperation clawed at his throat. His grip tightened around her. This can’t be happening.
“Doctor! Help! Please!” He switched to broken Komorebian, stumbling over the words. “Hospital? Anyone?”
At last, movement.
An elderly woman peered out from a doorway, concern flickering in her tired eyes. She exchanged hurried words with someone inside before pointing frantically up the street, urgency flashing in her gaze.
Brad didn’t stop to ask questions.
A small clinic. Glass doors. A faint glow from within.
They had found help.
But was it soon enough?
The Clinic
The fluorescent lights of the clinic’s waiting room cast a stark, unforgiving glow over the small space. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, and the hum of a nearby heater barely masked the quiet chaos unfolding within. Brad burst through the sliding glass doors, Bri cradled in his arms, her head lolled against his chest, her complexion a haunting shade of gray. He could feel the feeble rise and fall of her breaths, but they seemed shallower now—fragile and fleeting.
“Help! Someone help us!” His voice cracked as he scanned the room, searching for anyone who could offer aid.
A nurse rushed forward, her Komorebian uniform crisp and her expression calm despite the urgency of the situation. “Sir, bring here,” she instructed, gesturing toward a nearby gurney.
Brad obeyed, carefully lowering Bri onto the mattress, though his hands lingered protectively at her sides, unwilling to let go. The nurse adjusted the IV stand before turning to him. “Sir, what happened? She have illness, symptom, unusual food?”
Brad exhaled sharply, his voice steady but urgent. “Patient presents with severe nausea and repeated vomiting. She’s pale, diaphoretic, and likely dehydrated—onset roughly four hours ago, worsening steadily. I suspect hypovolemic shock, likely foodborne illness, but labs will confirm.”
The nurse’s pen paused midair as she glanced up at him, her expression shifting from assessing to impressed. “You are doctor?”
“Yes, surgeon. Dr. Bradford Cunningham,” he admitted without hesitation, though his voice softened as his gaze dropped back to Bri. “But right now, I’m just—” He caught himself, swallowing the words. “She’s my priority.”
The nurse gave him a brief nod of understanding before continuing. “We’ll take her back immediately. You family?”
“Yes,” Brad lied without hesitation, his jaw tightening. There was no time for bureaucracy.
“Ok, Sir, you can go with your wife, there.”
Two orderlies appeared, wheeling Bri into the treatment area, and Brad followed closely behind, unwilling to leave her side. The room was small but equipped with the essentials—a bed, monitors, and a cart laden with medical supplies. As the staff worked quickly, Brad observed their every move, his training urging him to assist but his heart tethered to Bri.
An IV was inserted into her arm, the clear liquid dripping steadily to replenish her lost fluids. The monitor beeped rhythmically, a small reassurance in the sea of uncertainty.
A young doctor entered, his white coat pristine, and exchanged a few quick words in Komorebian with the nurse before turning to Brad. “I am Dr. Takeda. We are running tests to confirm exact cause. For now, we’re stabilizing her condition,” the doctor explained in accented English before disappearing with another bow.
Brad nodded curtly, his mind racing with possibilities. He perched on the edge of a nearby stool, his hand reaching for Bri’s.
Her fingers, cool to the touch, twitched weakly as she stirred. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing glassy, unfocused eyes. “Brad…” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“I’m here, Bri,” he said softly, squeezing her hand. “You’re going to be okay. Just rest.”
Minutes stretched into an eternity as blood was drawn, vitals were monitored, and fluids continued to drip into her veins. Brad alternated between silent prayer and sharp observations, noting every detail—the slight improvement in her skin tone, the gradual return of warmth to her hands. It gave him hope, though the tension in his chest refused to ease.
Finally, the door opened, and the doctor stepped inside, a clipboard tucked under his arm. His expression was unreadable, his posture measured. Brad rose to his feet, his heart pounding in anticipation.
“Dr. Cunningham, Sir,” the doctor began, his tone careful. “Your wife’s condition is stabilizing, but the test results have revealed something unexpected—something you did not mention.”
Brad stiffened. The way the doctor studied him now wasn’t just as a concerned spouse—it was as a fellow physician.
“Given your background, you may already suspect the contributing factors,” the doctor continued, shifting into the crisp, clinical precision Brad was used to. “The primary cause is an endocrine shift, but her symptoms suggest an exaggerated response. Hyperemesis gravidarum—far beyond standard gastrointestinal distress—is the likely culprit. The repeated vomiting has left her severely dehydrated, leading to temporary hypotension and weakness.”
He gestured toward Bri’s IV, his voice steady. “In addition, her immune response is heightened. Certain hormonal fluctuations can make the body react more strongly to foods, even those previously tolerated. If she consumed something high in histamines or toxins—pufferfish, certain seafood, or strong fermented ingredients—it could have exacerbated the situation.”
Brad absorbed the explanation, his mind automatically sorting through the medical possibilities. It fit. The rapid decline, the relentless nausea, the near collapse—it wasn’t just food poisoning. It was something deeper, magnifying every vulnerability.
His pulse pounded as his gaze dropped to Bri’s frail form, her fingers twitching faintly in his grasp.
With a sudden urgency, he tore the clipboard from the doctor’s hands, flipping through the pages as if searching for an error, for something that disproved the impossible.
Then—
“Oh my God…” The words slipped out in a breath, too quiet to be anything more than disbelief. The pieces clicked into place, and the weight of the realization crashed through him like a tidal wave.
Bri stirred again, her voice barely above a whisper. “Brad… What is it? Am I—am I going to be okay? Is it bad? Was it the pufferfish? Or that fish sperm? Is it… cancer?”
Brad’s lips parted. For a moment, he could only stare at her, his mind spinning. Then, with a faint, incredulous laugh, he exhaled—
“It’s a type of cellular growth, but not cancer. Wasn’t the fish… it was a human version of shirako.”
Bri blinked, her confusion deepening. “What?”
He swallowed hard, locking his gaze onto hers. Her mouth gaped open, and her eyes widened when she realized the truth …
EchoesOfLegacy 