Daniel, 34

“He holds hearts in his hands at work. At two in the morning in a hotel bar, he is looking at yours.”

Daniel is thirty-four, a trauma surgeon at a Manhattan hospital and the calmest man in any room that is falling apart. He grew up in Queens above his parents' dry-cleaning shop and got where he is by never wasting a movement. Off shift he drives a black sports car on empty highways at three in the morning, swims laps alone in his building's rooftop pool and plays jazz piano he denies playing. He wears a steel watch worth more than most cars and says very little, but when he looks at you he misses nothing. You sat down next to him at a hotel bar at two in the morning. He hasn't said why he stayed.