Alright, so I was going through some of my old files and I found this, a short story I wrote for a contest a while back, but it fit so perfectly with how I think Neal might feel at times without Kate. So I decided to post it and let the world of White Collar fans have a read at it. I think I'm going to continue writing this relationship, however, feed back will be great. Too much negative feedback and I promise not to post the story. But I hope you enjoy this short little pick me up!

By Chance, By Design

My heart jumped when I saw him. That silly leap that hearts do when they lodge in your throat until you swallow it down and then it flutters like a humming birds' wings, beating so fast you can scarcely breathe. And you fight to calm yourself because you can't hear anything else over the pulsing beat in your ears. That's what my heart did the first time I saw him.

And my stomach danced, too. It made me think of butterflies, their beautifully colored wings silently fluttering, tickling my insides, making me feel happy and nauseas all at the same time. I felt like I wanted to throw up, but I was still trying to get my feet on the ground because my heart was soaring. Yeah, that's what my stomach did.

He was only standing there. Maybe that's why he appealed to me. My life was stressed, chaotic. It was full of anxieties and worrisome decisions, most of them not even my own. And he was simply standing there, carefree, no weight to bear, no deadlines to rush. He was just…existing.

I loved how handsome he was. I know that's shallow and petty because looks don't count and all that rubbish. But he was breath taking. The statue of David had nothing on him. His dark hair was brushed back in waves, locks falling over his forehead to dangle in front of his piercing blue eyes. The dimples on his cheeks made the humming bird wings beat quicker and the strong jaw made the butterflies dance faster. He wore a trench coat and its flaps fluttered in the wind, his hands stuffed in its pockets.

Adonis eat your heart out.

He was standing on the curb, staring out into traffic. I took my coffee from the vendor and stepped away from the cart, still watching him.

No one surprised me anymore. No one had for a long time. I worked for a male model agency, worked with models as handsome as him everyday. Some were even better looking, but none of them made my heart beat like that. Not one of them made my head race with wonder and daydreams.

I'd already picked out our wedding colors just staring at this man.

What was it about him that made me feel this way? Why couldn't I take my eyes off of him, for this irrational fear that he'd disappear the moment I looked away?

I was a rational, logical girl. Fiction and fairytales had no place in my life, but I was beginning to wonder if they were right. Maybe God made us, but left a part out, and then he made someone else. Someone with our missing piece tucked inside them so that when we finally meet, by chance or by design, we would know that only with that person could we be whole.

Was it chance that my usual coffee shop had backed up sewers and the entire building smelled of feces and dead goldfish? Or was it design that I walked down the street, headed to the next Starbucks three blocks away and happened to see the street vendor? And even though I hate all coffee that isn't made in a shop with four walls and hand sanitizer, was it chance that I was running late because the elevator was broken and I had to take the stairs ten stories up to my office? Or was it something else? Something bigger than I could have dreamed, or hoped for?

Of course, I would never know if I didn't talk to him.

Just the thought made my stomach clench and my tongue tie in knots. My face burned as the blush crept up my neck and onto my cheeks. I pulled my turtleneck up and wiped my sweating palms on my slacks.

I didn't get nervous around men. That was why I was so good at my job. While most assistants ruined their careers by giving into temptations, I kept focused. I didn't take crap from anyone, and I gave as good as I was given.

Yet this man, who I hadn't even met, who was simply standing on a curb, made me forget how to speak and made me want to pee my pants.

And then he looked at me.

But he didn't see me. It was as if he were looking through me. Not in the pretentious, holier than thou way, but almost as if he was blind. It was as if he was…lost.

His eyes were piercing in color, but they were dull of life, empty, agonizingly sorrowful to the point I almost wanted to cry out of empathy. They vacantly scanned the crowd, then turned back to the street. It was as if he was disconnected from the rest of the world, from his own body. I had seen that look before. Reflected in the mirror on my way out the door as I wondered what in the hell my miserable life was for.

I never had found an answer in the tempered glass. Or in the pews as I stared up at the stained glass windows, hands folded, head bent. Or even at the bottom of the ice cream bucket and Jack Daniels bottle.

But maybe I had found it now.

The sky clapped with thunder, loud and sharp. People pulled out their umbrellas from nowhere and popped them open without missing a step. I stepped under the awning of the vendor cart as the first drop hit the pavement. Those without umbrellas scurried for shelter, ducking on doorsteps, running into stores, like cockroaches when the naked bulb turns on.

But the man stayed on the curb, tipped his head back, and closed his eyes.

The down pour started and it rained in sheets as it only can in New York. But even through the rain, I saw the tear slip past his closed eyes and trail down his cheek. I felt a lump lodge in my throat and blinked back tears of my own.

Watching this beautiful man cry was like watching a masterpiece painting be ripped to shreds. It was like being ten and spending hours kneeling on your drive way, the gravel digging into your knees as you slave over a drawing to show your mom only to have a summer storm wash it away. Nothing so beautiful should be made to feel so much pain.

I stepped out from under the awning, setting my cup down on the vendor's cart. I was soaked instantly. The curls I'd spent hours perfecting died as they were drenched. My make up ran in rivulets; the mascara circled my eyes like a raccoon's mask.

And like a sugar cube in water, the anxiety I felt before dissolved only to be replaced with a sense of urgency. I had to get to him.

He looked to the left and something changed in his face. Ever so faintly. He looked relieved. I followed his gaze and saw the bus headed our way.

And I knew exactly what he was going to do.

The bus lumbered closer, moving at the head of traffic. It was two blocks away. He stepped off the curb just as my fingers brushed his coat. I didn't even remember moving.

"Wait."

He turned. Surprise crossed his face as he locked eyes with me. I couldn't find the words to make him change his mind. I couldn't make my tongue move. It felt like cotton had been jammed inside my mouth.

As he stared at me, the vacant look in his eyes faded. Something else took its place. Curiosity, wonder perhaps. I didn't know, but it was enough to spur me on.

"Don't."

It was a whisper, a plea. The desperation in that one word surprised even me. He opened his mouth, furrowed his brows in confusion. He looked over his shoulder. The bus was only a block away now.

He looked back at me and took a step back. I tightened my hold on his coat as my lower lip began to tremble.

"Please."

"Why?"

His voice was heartbreaking. My tears slipped past their defenses. He gawked at them, followed them down to my turtleneck. I sucked in a shuddering breath.

"Just don't."

We stood still, him in the gutter, water sloshing over his shoes and soaking his socks, and me on the curb acting as a bumper car as people brushed past and kicked up water to drench my slacks. My hand was the only thing that connected us. That and the desperate need to be wanted, to never be alone again. To simply be loved.

Behind him, the bus lumbered by.

He stepped onto the curb. I moved to step back but he caught me by the arms. His warm hands felt good through my soaked jacket. The contact took my breath away. I looked up into his blue eyes, nearly hidden by the wet black curls, and felt my heart nearly burst.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Angelica Watson," I said, "but most call me Angie."

Wonder overcame his face. He reached his hand up and trailed his fingers over my cheekbone as if he were touching a priceless artifact, almost reverently.

"I was praying for an angel," he whispered.

I smiled, "Maybe God answered your prayers."

Because he sure as heaven answered mine.

Ta-da! Now leave your complaints, aggravations, editing remarks, and anything else you wish to share with me. I'd love to hear from you all!

Ismay