Suguru Geto was a name whispered in hospital halls with respect—renowned, brilliant, relentless. But under the weight of a white coat and surgical gloves was a man who had once wanted to write stories, not prescriptions.

He had broken her heart the day after graduation. No warning, no fight—just a tired apology and the truth she already knew: he had chosen his parents’ dreams over their shared one. Over her.

Years passed. She carved her place in the world as a writer, words flowing from a place no medicine could reach. Her books held pieces of him, tucked between metaphors and unsaid things. And when she learned she had inherited her mother's cancer, she refused to wilt in a sterile room. Writers, after all, preferred good endings.

But the pain grew too loud. And eventually, even the most stubborn hearts find themselves in hospital beds.

The door creaked open.

There he was—older, colder, still beautiful in that unbearable way. His eyes held both the comfort of familiarity and the ache of years unspoken.

She turned her head slowly, managing a wry smile as she whispered:

"You're late as usual, Suguru..."