The discharge paperwork came with the rustle of crisp forms and the clatter of a rolling vitals cart. The hospital ward felt different that morning—brighter somehow. The window beside Lily's bed framed a perfect spring sky, pale blue streaked with the blush of sunrise. Birds chirped beyond the glass, as though congratulating her on surviving something monumental.
Lily was ready to go home.
Lance had done the rounds early that morning, the clipboard in his hand feeling lighter than usual. Lily's blood work had come back stable. Her incision was healing well. Everything pointed toward recovery.
Now, Imatinib would take over.
He'd explained everything to Lily, Claire, and Mr. Storm the evening before—the importance of compliance, the mild side effects, the long-term plan of surveillance. Claire had taken notes furiously, as if she could ward off danger with diligence. Mr. Storm sat quietly, hands folded, eyes fixed on Lance with quiet gratitude and deep worry. Lily had simply listened, her eyes unusually still.
Lance didn't blame her. The word "benign" carried weight, but so did "follow-up treatment." It was a reminder that life, even in recovery, came with shadows that needed watching.
That morning, he visited her room one last time.
"Ready?" he asked gently.
Lily wore jeans and a soft grey sweater, her curls bouncing freshly washed around her shoulders. Her face was brighter than it had been in weeks, though she still moved a little slower than usual. She gave him a small smile.
"I am," she said. "Though I think I'll miss the pudding cups."
Claire groaned playfully. "You'll miss your fan club of nurses more."
"They were pretty great," Lily admitted, her eyes flicking to the hallway as if expecting one of them to barge in with a Sharpie and a copy of her book.
Lance handed her the discharge packet. "The Imatinib prescription is inside, along with follow-up blood test dates. You'll take one tablet daily with food. We'll monitor for any signs of resistance, but right now, everything looks good."
She nodded, flipping through the pages. "Got it, boss."
He chuckled. "You're not out of the woods entirely—but you're walking a clearer path now."
* * *
The days that followed fell into a quiet rhythm for both of them.
Lance dove back into work with the intensity of someone who hadn't paused long enough to realize he needed the distraction. He was a brilliant doctor—regardless of who he was treating. He'd built his reputation on precision, empathy, and an uncanny instinct that often knew when to push and when to pause.
That week alone, he oversaw a craniotomy on a twelve-year-old with a benign brain lesion, diagnosed a rare mitochondrial disorder in an infant after three other hospitals missed it, and counselled an elderly patient facing her third recurrence of lymphoma.
But in every case, Lily lingered.
The girl with the brain lesion had written poems on her cast. The infant's mother had a voice that cracked when she whispered thanks. The elderly patient had once been a writer herself—Lance found her sketchbook tucked in her bedside drawer. A lifetime of stories. A quiet, determined spirit.
He couldn't help it. In each of them, he saw Lily—not in body, but in courage.
* * *
Meanwhile, Lily was trying to re-enter her world.
She lived at home now, her apartment left for the time being. Mr. Storm had insisted she stay with him during recovery, and despite her initial resistance, she quickly realized how comforting it was to have her dad nearby. He cooked her breakfast, brought her tea in the evenings, and pretended not to hover when she spent too long at her desk.
Claire visited often, usually bearing groceries or new herbal teas she swore by. "Anything to keep your brain fueled," she'd say.
Lily sat curled on the couch in her childhood living room, blanket over her knees, laptop warming her thighs. The cursor blinked at the end of a sentence she wasn't sure she meant.
Her dreams always felt like warnings. But maybe this one—maybe this one was a beginning.
Her phone buzzed with increasing frequency. A call from her editor. Three texts from her agent. A voice memo from the publishing house reminding her of the upcoming deadline for her next manuscript: The Garden Where Time blooms.
She hadn't written a word of it.
Lily stared out the window. The world felt too large and too quiet all at once. But slowly, her fingers began to move. Not on the new novel—no, not yet—but on a new scene. One she hadn't dreamed, but imagined.
A woman sitting by a lake. A man beside her, silent. They didn't say anything. They just breathed the same air.
And it was enough.
It was Mr. Storm who urged her out first.
"You can't become a hermit again, kiddo. You're going to start growing moss."
So, Lily wrapped a scarf around her neck, grabbed a tote bag full of notebooks, and walked to the nearby park.
It was quiet. Spring had just started unwrapping its blooms. Tulips poked curiously through soil. Kids chased bubbles in the distance. The city moved like a heartbeat—steady, alive.
She sat on a bench and began to sketch in her notebook—thoughts, fragments, the beginnings of a line.
"Mind if I join you?"
She looked up—and there he was.
Lance wore a dark jacket, coffee in hand, a casual scarf draped around his neck in a way that suggested he'd thrown it on without much thought. He looked like someone who didn't belong to the chaos of the hospital just for a moment.
Lily blinked. "Dr. Lance."
He raised a brow. "Just Lance, out here."
She gestured to the seat beside her. "Be my guest."
They sat in a comfortable quiet.
"I was nearby," he said. "Hospital run. Thought I'd clear my head."
Lily smiled. "I'm trying to remember how to live out here. It's weird. The world kept moving, you know?"
"It always does," he said. "But that doesn't mean you can't pause now and then."
She nodded, tucking a curl behind her ear. "Are you always this philosophical?"
He smirked. "Only when I'm trying to impress someone."
She gave a soft laugh, then glanced sideways. "You've been...kind. And patient. And very...doctor-y. But I hope that's not all this is."
Lance tilted his head. "What do you mean?"
"I mean...don't be afraid to be something other than my surgeon. I'm okay now. You don't have to hold me like I'm fragile."
He looked at her then, really looked. The wind tugged gently at her scarf. There was color in her cheeks again. A quiet power behind her gaze.
"I'm not your doctor anymore, Lily," he said softly. "I'll always care, but I'd like to be more than that."
Her breath hitched just slightly, the words hanging in the space between them like morning mist.
She smiled slowly; her voice warm. "Good. Because I think I'd like that too."
They sat there as the clouds moved on, not saying much more, but knowing enough had already been said.
Somewhere inside her bag, her phone buzzed again.
Another deadline.
Lily smiled, then hesitated. "I actually need to head out soon—publishing office stuff. My editor's been calling nonstop."
He gave her a look of mock concern. "Don't strain too much. Your body's still rebuilding its rhythm."
"I know, I just... deadlines."
Lance's gaze softened. "Stop by my office at The Lily of Hope Oncology Centre when you can. I've been putting together a tonic—something from my traditional Chinese medicine background. It'll help with your recovery. Better than coffee, I promise."
Lily blinked, surprised. "You... made me something?"
He smiled. "Let's just say I have a few old tricks. Consider it a gentle nudge from someone who still cares."
She stood, brushing her coat sleeve. "I'll come by. Thank you."
As she turned to go, Lance reached into his hands, where he'd been holding his coat. With quiet ease, he draped it over her shoulders.
"Don't catch a chill," he said. His voice was gentle, but it curled warm around her heart.
She paused, fingers brushing the lapel. "You're impossible, you know that?"
He grinned. "You'll thank me when it gets breezy."
Their eyes met for a beat longer than necessary.
Then Lily nodded, turned, and walked away—his coat wrapped around her like a memory she hadn't made yet.
Somewhere behind her, Lance remained still, watching, a quiet hope flickering in his chest like spring light through new leaves.
The afternoon was starting to fade into evening by the time Lily stepped out of the park, Lance's coat wrapped around her like a borrowed memory. It was comically large—shoulders broader than hers, sleeves slightly too long—but oddly comforting, as if the fabric itself remembered every moment he'd worn it. She tugged it tighter, smiling faintly to herself as she caught her reflection in a shop window.
She looked like a kid wrapped in her father's overcoat. Or like someone who had been seen, truly seen, and left a little stunned by it.
The subway was mercifully uncrowded. She rode with her notebook clutched to her chest and her phone buzzing occasionally in her coat pocket—probably Marla again. Her editor had been trying to wrangle her into a meeting all week. And now, there was no more avoiding it.
By the time she pushed open the glass doors of Bellwether Publishing's downtown office, the lobby was humming with end-of-day energy. Someone was dragging a Ficus plant toward the elevator. Another assistant in a headset was speed-walking with a latte tray like her life depended on it.
And then came the voice.
"Lily Storm! Good Lord, did you get mugged by a coat rack?"
Lily turned, already grinning. Marla Renner, her editor of five years and unofficial life coach, stood by the front desk holding a half-eaten scone and looking genuinely scandalized. Her sharp bob framed her angular face like punctuation, and her glasses were perched on the bridge of her nose with academic precision.
Lily held out her arms, the sleeves drooping like bat wings. "I'll have you know, this is a very fashionable—"
"—trench tent? Darling, no. Where are your usual flamingo scarves and watermelon shoes?" Marla circled her dramatically, as if inspecting a suspect garment. "You look like you've gone grayscale."
Lily laughed, heat rising to her cheeks. "It's... not mine. Just something I borrowed."
Marla's eyes narrowed. "Borrowed from whom? The linebacker boyfriend you've been hiding from me?"
Lily looked down at the coat, suddenly shy. "Something like that."
Before Marla could pry further, a voice called from down the hallway. "Is that the elusive author herself? Miss Storm, you owe me three chapters and a nervous breakdown!"
Lily turned to see Theo from marketing—rumpled button-down, hair that never fully obeyed, and the chaotic energy of someone who drank coffee like it was a dare. He skidded to a halt in front of her, then stared at the coat.
"Okay, seriously, is this from the set of Sherlock Holmes?"
Lily rolled her eyes, clutching the lapels tighter. "You're all very loud today."
"We missed you!" Marla said, looping her arm through Lily's and dragging her down the hallway. "You vanish for weeks, survive a health scare, and now you waltz in wrapped in a man's coat like a character from one of your own novels."
They reached her office—a cozy nook filled with shelves, a cluttered desk, and a velvet armchair that had probably been stolen from the break room lounge.
"Sit," Marla ordered. "Talk."
Lily lowered herself into the armchair. Theo leaned against the doorway, sipping something suspiciously green.
"I'm working on it," she said finally. "The Garden Where Time blooms. I have the outline. A few scenes. But it's been... hard getting back into the headspace."
Marla's voice softened, though she didn't drop the editor tone entirely. "We're not monsters. You've been through a lot. But I also know you. Writing is how you process things. It's where you run to when the world spins too fast."
Lily looked down at her hands. "It's different now. The dreams—my stories—they always felt like echoes. But now they feel like... conversations I haven't finished. I don't know how to put that into a book yet."
Theo, unusually quiet, piped up. "You don't have to know yet. Just keep writing until you recognize yourself again."
That earned him a grateful look.
Marla scribbled something in her planner. "We'll nudge the internal deadline, tell marketing to hold off on teaser blurbs, and keep the wolves at bay—for now. But you need to give me something soon. Even if it's just one finished chapter and a title that doesn't sound like a forgotten Enya song."
Lily saluted weakly. "Yes, ma'am."
The rest of the evening passed in a warm blur—catching up on publishing gossip, reviewing book cover mock-ups, even doing a mini brainstorming session on a new short story submission.
But through it all, the coat stayed on. She never once took it off.
By the time Lily finally left the publishing house, the sky was streaked in hues of burnt apricot and indigo. The city glowed in its evening rhythms—headlights like fireflies, windows warm with domestic scenes she'd never know, and crosswalks blinking with tired urgency.
She walked slower than usual, not because she was drained, but because she didn't want to rush whatever strange, quiet joy was building inside her. The day had been long, yes, but also light in its own way. Like something old and heavy had shifted just enough to let in air.
The coat was still draped around her shoulders. Lance's coat.
She buried her fingers in the pocket and found a single cough drop and a small packet of sticky notes with a faded smiley face drawn on the top one. It was so him. Practical, unintentional softness.
By the time she got home, the hallway light was on but the rest of the house was steeped in hush. She slipped off her shoes at the door, her messenger bag sliding to the floor with a familiar thump.
"Hey, sweetheart," her dad's voice called from the living room, where a sitcom murmured low in the background. "You want me to reheat the lasagna?"
Lily stepped halfway into view, already backing toward the stairs. "No, thanks, Dad. I grabbed something with Marla after work. I'm super tired—going to crash early!"
She didn't wait for more questions. Not because she didn't want to talk—she always did, really—but because she couldn't keep the giddy smile off her face for even one second longer.
"Night!" she called as she disappeared up the stairs.
Her dad's chuckle followed her faintly. "Goodnight, honey."
In her room, she dropped everything at once—the bag, her sweater, her hair tie—then turned and flung herself backward onto the bed with a dramatic sigh.
The ceiling stared blankly back at her. The silence settled like a pause before the next sentence.
Then, slowly, she curled onto her side and pulled the coat over her like a blanket.
It smelled like him. A mix of soap, hospital linen, and something hard to name—maybe eucalyptus or bergamot. Maybe just Lance. The weight of it on her shoulders earlier had been comforting, but now? Now it was something else entirely.
She buried her face into the collar, a tiny squeak escaping her as she kicked her legs up into the air.
"Oh my god," she whispered, muffled by fabric, her legs flailing gently in delighted chaos. "This is so not okay."
But she was grinning like an idiot.
Her legs dropped back onto the mattress, heels bouncing once. She turned her head and hugged the coat closer, lying on her back now, hands gripping the lapels like the anchor they were quickly becoming.
"He gave me his coat," she said aloud to the empty room, as if saying it would help her believe it more.
Not just any coat. Not a casual loan, either. He'd wrapped it around her. He had seen her in a moment of uncertainty, vulnerability—and chosen, instinctively, to give something of himself.
It wasn't just the gesture. It was the way he did it. Like it was second nature.
Like he'd done it before.
That thought sent a ripple through her chest. Her smile softened into something quieter. She pulled the coat up until it covered her face and just lay there, breathing him in.
A memory—no, a feeling—surfaced from the deep, blurry pool of her dreams. She couldn't remember the details, but she remembered warmth. A hand brushing hers. A voice in the dark. That same sense of being known before being understood.
Her fingers curled into the fabric.
"I don't even know your face," she whispered into the coat. "But I think I've known you forever."
Outside her window, the wind whispered through the trees, and somewhere in the distance a car horn bleated faintly.
But in her little room, tucked under layers of cotton and dreams and a too-big coat, Lily Storm smiled herself to sleep.