Christmas Eve – Los Angeles
The streets shimmered under soft lights, wrapped in an unusual calm. For once, the City of Angels lived up to its name, touched by a serenity that felt almost divine.
At St. Andrew's Hospital, the usual scent of antiseptic couldn't quite compete with the warmth of a home-cooked holiday meal.
Still, the Christmas tree—decked out in a joyful mix of ornaments—brought festive cheer to the sterile halls.
Mistletoe might've been absent, but the presence of a dozen jovial Santas brought comfort.
Patients smiled, posed for photos, and accepted small gifts from these costumed visitors, rarely questioning the strangers behind the white beards.
It was a Christmas miracle of its own kind—ordinary, and yet deeply touching.
But even on nights like this, joy often walks in step with sorrow. Happiness, after all, shines brightest against the shadow of struggle.
Those enduring hardship can feel it most sharply when surrounded by celebration.
"Would you like a lucky rabbit's foot instead?"
Sally wasn't feeling lucky—not tonight. She glanced at the man across from her, forehead wrapped in bandages, eyes shut, hands twitching in strange, unconscious gestures.
Somehow, her already-bad luck had managed to get worse this Christmas Eve.
"It's Christmas Eve. Please, just this once—throw me a break," she whispered.
She wasn't particularly religious, but sometimes, even skeptics send up prayers when hope runs thin.
To most, Los Angeles brings to mind bright lights and movie sets—and Sally was no different. She had been clawing her way through the industry for months.
Finally, a small victory: a background role in a modest film. One line, maybe. Depending on the final cut. Still, it was more than most could claim.
In a town where aspiring actors scraped by on restaurant tips and side gigs, Sally—who had previously modeled—was progressing faster than most.
Yet, success in Hollywood often comes at a price. And the faster the ride, the harder the crash.
Just a day earlier, she'd received a call from the director: her role was cut. Script changes, he claimed. But Sally suspected otherwise.
She remembered his tone, the glances exchanged at a bar earlier that week.
He had made his expectations clear—she was expected to "show dedication" after hours. She hadn't played along.
Instead, she deflected the director's advances by redirecting his attention to a sharply dressed man at the bar—an elegant stranger with an Italian suit and a silver stud in his left ear.
She even told the stranger, half-jokingly, that the director was impressed by him.
"I've done what I can," she had imagined saying to the director later.
"Good luck. Don't thank me."
But in her frustration, she forgot to ask the suited stranger's name.
Later that night, her bitterness led her to a neighborhood bar. Drinks flowed easily, and by the time she realized she had gone too far, it was too late.
She vaguely registered the threat of being vulnerable, alone, intoxicated, and unprotected. Her last semi-coherent thought was sharp and defensive:
"I wake up in a seedy motel with someone's hand where it shouldn't be, I swear to God—"
And then, darkness.
When she awoke, thankfully unharmed, she was in a hospital bed with a throbbing head and a bigger problem—an ambulance bill that nearly gave her a second heart attack.
"What? I was rescued after trying to jump from an overpass. And the guy who saved me passed out?"
She stared at the curt doctor standing before her—an older man with a sharp tongue and no patience for melodrama.
"That overpass wouldn't even have done the job," he muttered.
"You used to be a model? Great. Still doesn't mean you're immune to gravity. Or hospital fees."
"I didn't try to kill myself!" Sally protested.
"Do you know what I've put my body through to keep it runway-ready? I've skipped meals for weeks just to fit into a dress! I'm not the type to give up!"
Her voice cracked mid-rant, equal parts indignation and confusion.
But Dr. House (that was his name, right?) simply handed her a bill.
"Whether it was a cry for help or a drunken accident, someone called that ambulance. And someone has to pay for it. Credit or debit."
Sally's indignation fizzled into reluctant acceptance. She didn't remember the incident, but she certainly hadn't called for help herself—and the man who apparently saved her wasn't in any shape to foot the bill.
Her bank account took the hit. Credit cards maxed out. Her Christmas fund, if she ever had one, was now dust.
All that remained was enough change to buy a few matches and light them in a cold corner—if she wanted to go full Dickens.
"If I don't land another role soon, I'll be working at the Cheesecake Factory with Penny," she muttered bitterly, half-joking to herself.
Before leaving, she decided to check on the man who had supposedly rescued her. Maybe she owed him a thank-you. Or maybe she just wanted to pin her misery on someone tangible.
"What? He's awake?"
The man in the bed stirred, murmuring to himself, hands still moving oddly. Sally narrowed her eyes.
Great, she thought. A weirdo with a hero complex.
Dr. House had mentioned something about a concussion. Temporary memory loss. Maybe this guy wasn't all there yet. Or ever.
But as Sally watched, the man's eyes fluttered open and locked onto hers.
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References-
City of Angels: Movie(1998) Penny: Big Bang Theory (TV Series) Dr House:- House (TV Series)