The next week passed in quiet rhythms—small, deliberate, and almost sacred in their ordinariness.
Every morning, Lily woke to sunlight filtering through the pale curtains of her bedroom. She was stronger now, less breathless, her energy returning like a long-lost friend creeping back into her bones. Imatinib had settled into her routine like the pages of a familiar book—something strange at first but easier with repetition.
Between rest, short walks around the neighbourhood, and ginger tea brewed precisely to her liking by her father, Lily returned to her writing desk. Her laptop, long untouched, felt foreign beneath her fingers. But the words came, halting at first, then with steadier momentum. Not a novel yet—just scenes, fragments, conversations between characters who had waited patiently in the quiet corners of her mind.
Throughout her days, she and Lance exchanged a soft but steady stream of texts and short phone calls. They never discussed the full depth of what had started between them—what had shifted—but there was something safe and sweet in that undefined space.
Tuesday Morning
Lily: I dreamt last night my laptop turned into a puppy. Still more productive than me.
Lance: Puppy productivity is underrated. Did it write any good material?
Lily: Mostly drooled on the keyboard. But it's still ahead of me on word count.
Lance: You're writing. That's the win. And I'm proud of you. Even if your laptop has paws now.
Thursday Evening
He called just after sunset.
"Are you still at your desk?" he asked.
"No," she said, stretching out on her bed. "I moved to the floor. Needed a new point of view."
"That's very philosophical of you."
"It's also where my back gave up on the chair," she said. "Where are you?"
"In the break room. Just stole a cookie from Dr. Kael's secret stash."
"You stole from a paediatric surgeon?" Lily gasped.
"He has it coming. He hides the good snacks behind the anatomy textbooks. I consider this justice."
Lily laughed. "I'll write about it. The morally ambiguous doctor with a weakness for chocolate chip redemption arcs."
"I'd read that," he said. "Twice."
* * *
One Saturday afternoon, Lily sat at the kitchen table with her dad, nursing a second cup of ginger tea. She twirled the string of the tea bag around her finger, her thoughts circling before she spoke.
"Dad… I've been thinking. I'm feeling a lot better now. Stronger." She paused, bracing herself. "I'd like to move back into my apartment soon. Maybe next week?"
Her father didn't respond right away. He studied her face, calm and unreadable, then set down his own mug.
"You're trying to put it nicely," he said. "But I know what this is really about."
Lily blinked. "What?"
"You just want to go and date your Dr. Lance without your old man's prying eyes."
"Dad!"
"Don't act surprised." He grinned. "You think I didn't notice that coat hanging in your room? Or how you smile at your phone like it's reading you love poems?"
Lily groaned and buried her face in her hands. "This is mortifying."
"I'm your father, Lily. I notice things. And you know what? I'm not worried."
She lifted her head, surprised. "You're not?"
"I'm not some grumpy watchdog," he said gently. "Dr. Lance saved your life. And mine remember. We've always had a cordial relationship, haven't we?"
Lily nodded, touched by his calm acceptance.
"You're grown up now," her dad added with a smile. "You want to protect a man. That's new. But it's sweet."
Lily gave a dramatic sigh. "At the end of the day, no matter how noble he is, he's still trying to steal away your princess."
Her father chuckled, reaching across the table to squeeze her hand. "Then let him try. But when you two have your relationship properly sorted out, bring him around for dinner. Deal?"
Lily's heart softened. "Deal."
A few days later, her father insisted on driving her back himself, brushing off any mention of movers with a wave of his hand.
"It's not every day I get to deliver my daughter back to the wild," he joked as they loaded the last box into the trunk of his car. "Like releasing a rehabilitated owl."
"Please don't say that at my building," Lily muttered, rolling her eyes. "My neighbours already think I'm mysterious."
"Perfect. Now they'll think you hoot at night and write in riddles."
The drive was short, filled with easy conversation and comfortable silences. Lily leaned her head against the window, watching the familiar streets roll past. Everything felt a little sharper now—each building, each corner, edged with meaning. She had returned to them, changed but still herself.
When they reached her apartment complex, her father parked and stepped out with purpose.
"I know you said you don't need help unpacking," he said, opening the trunk, "but I also know that's a lie. So, I'm coming up."
Lily didn't argue.
The apartment had the soft, stale scent of somewhere that had slept too long. As soon as they opened the door, Lily wrinkled her nose.
"Okay, yeah. It smells like an antique bookstore in here," she said, stepping inside.
Her father nodded. "It's got charm."
"It's got dust."
"Same thing."
Together, they opened windows, rolled up sleeves, and aired the place out. Her father changed a light bulb without being asked. Lily wiped down surfaces and re-sorted the books on her shelf. They didn't speak much, but they didn't need to. It was a quiet choreography of shared tasks, of transition.
In the kitchen, her father found a nearly expired can of lentils in the pantry.
"You keeping this for sentimental reasons?" he asked, holding it up.
"I was hoping it would evolve into soup on its own," Lily replied, grinning.
"Out it goes," he declared, dramatically tossing it into the trash. "You're starting fresh. New pantry, new chapter."
She paused then, hand on a dish towel, looking around the room that had once been hers and would be again.
"It's a little scary," she said quietly.
Her dad looked at her, and his expression softened. "Of course it is. But it's good, too. You've fought hard to come back here, Lily."
She nodded. "Thanks for coming with me."
He smiled. "Always."
Later, after her father left with a lingering hug and a "Text me if the apartment turns into a sentient dust bunny," Lily stood by the window and let the early evening light spill across her floor.
Her phone buzzed. A message from Lance.
Lance: Thinking of you today. Hope the place feels like home again.
She looked around. Not quite yet. But it was close.
Lily: It will. Just needed a little air and a lot of detergent.
She added after a pause:
Lily: Thank you for checking in.
His reply was simple.
Lance: Always.
Later that night, Lily curled into bed, the comforter half-draped over her legs. She had brought his coat—of course she had. She didn't even pretend otherwise, it was now wrapped around her shoulders, the weight of it grounding. Her fingers slipped into the deep pockets and stayed there, cradled by warmth that wasn't just fabric. She didn't feel so empty anymore. Not in the quiet. Not with this. Not with him.
The week slipped by like petals floating downstream—unhurried, delicate, and full of tiny glimmers that made Lily's heart flutter in unfamiliar ways.
Lance texted her every day.
How's the coffee today? Strong enough to fuel five novels?
Want me to sneak you some medicinal tea disguised as sinfully good jasmine milk tea?
Sunset's extra golden today. Feels like the kind you'd write into a scene where two people fall in love.
Sometimes he called late in the evening, his voice gentle, often paired with the sounds of soft music in the background or the occasional beep of a hospital monitor. They never talked for long—just enough to exchange pieces of their day, a laugh, or a quiet thought.
Lily would often sit on her tiny balcony afterward, legs curled beneath her, phone still warm in her hand, cheeks warmer.
She wrote. Slowly, steadily, like her hands remembered how to tell stories again. Her editor sent encouraging emojis, and her father dropped by with home-cooked meals and a raised brow.
"Getting used to being alone again?" he asked one evening, setting down a glass container of ginger chicken.
"Mm," Lily answered, stirring her tea, "I'm not really alone."
Her father chuckled. "Let me guess. That coat still sleeps with you?"
She swatted at him with a laugh, cheeks turning a bashful pink. "Maybe."
But one evening, after typing the final line of a chapter, Lily looked around her apartment and felt it—this wasn't just a recovery space anymore. It was becoming hers again.
By the weekend, Lily had an idea. A place she hadn't been to in years—a tucked-away dance studio in the city, one that transformed into a cozy ballroom on Saturday nights. She remembered the fairy lights strung across the ceiling, the laughter of strangers swaying to acoustic jazz, the comfort of strangers becoming silhouettes in movement.
So, she asked him.
Hey. Want to go dancing with me? It's a small gem in the city. Casual, no pressure. Just a good old-fashioned sway.
Are you sure? My dancing involves more hope than rhythm.
Perfect. Mine involves more twirling than grace.
He sent a laughing emoji and a heart.
Saturday arrived.
Lily stood before her mirror, brushing out her hair, then slipped into a loose, flowing dress the colour of dawn. It swayed like it was born to catch the rhythm of a song. She added her favourite heels—just high enough to make her feel light, not dizzy.
Outside, the city breathed in golden dusk.
Downstairs, Lance's car pulled up slowly.
Lily took a deep breath, grabbed her phone, and opened the door with a smile blooming like music across her face.
Lance stepped out of the car the moment Lily opened the door. He looked effortlessly relaxed in a soft grey sweater layered over a white tee and jeans that hugged just right. His smile was immediate—unfiltered, boyish, like the sight of her had knocked the wind out of him.
"You look…" He paused, taking her in. "Like you belong in a slow-motion montage under string lights."
Lily laughed, easing the door closed behind her. "You clean up pretty well yourself, Doctor Heartthrob."
He opened the passenger door for her, bowing slightly. "Milady."
They drove through the city as dusk melted into indigo. Lance kept one hand on the wheel, the other near the gear, his pinky brushing against hers between shifts, each touch sending a ripple through the soft quiet between them.
"You sure I won't embarrass myself?" he asked, eyeing her shoes as they paused at a red light. "Those heels say 'I came to slay.' I'm just here trying not to trip on my own feet."
She grinned, looking over at him. "Dancing isn't about being perfect. It's about forgetting who's watching."
He glanced at her, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. "That I can do. Especially if you're the only one watching."
They pulled into a narrow side street tucked behind a bakery that smelled like cinnamon and warmth. The building ahead was plain from the outside—faded bricks, soft yellow lighting—but the moment the door opened, it was like stepping into another world.
"I actually learnt of this place while I was buying some cinnamon rolls upfront, they reminded me of my mom," lily said in passing.
Lance smiled at her, "they do smell like home."
The studio had transformed into a cozy ballroom: dim golden lights strung across the ceiling, soft jazz pulsing like a heartbeat through the floorboards, and clusters of people swaying, spinning, or laughing on the sidelines.
A gentle hum of life, without pressure.
Lily turned to him as they stood near the entrance. "Still want to run?"
Lance looked around, wide-eyed but smiling. "It's charming. And I've definitely seen this in at least three of your books."
"Which means you're contractually obligated to dance with me," she teased, tugging at his hand.
He let himself be led in, chuckling. "You're dangerous in heels, Lily Storm."
They found a spot near the centre as the music changed—a slow, swinging rhythm that felt like moonlight in musical form. Lance placed a hesitant hand on her waist, the other catching her hand, warm and steady.
She leaned in, close enough for him to feel the swish of her dress against his jeans. "Just follow my lead."
He did.
Their steps weren't perfect—Lance fumbled once, muttered a soft "sorry," and Lily giggled, spinning him instead—but something in their rhythm aligned, not in the choreography, but in the way their smiles matched, in the way their eyes locked in the gentle turns.
The crowd faded. The music curled around them.
"I haven't done this in years," she murmured, leaning slightly closer.
"I've never done this in my life," he replied, a little breathless, a little dazed. "But I think I'm getting the hang of it."
They went at it for quite a while before Lance offered a quick, "Want something to drink?" She nodded, and he disappeared into the small refreshment nook tucked along the edge of the studio, returning a few minutes later with a soft drink in each hand.
He paused before walking back.
She was moving.
Not just dancing—moving like the music belonged to her, like each note bowed before her and offered itself up to be shaped by her rhythm. Her loose dress swayed around her knees like a second performer, and her heels barely made a sound against the floor, as if gravity, too, chose to go easy on her.
Lance stopped in the middle of the crowd, his breath catching in his throat.
It wasn't just the present he was seeing. Something in the way she moved tugged at memories that he had learnt to suppress.
He blinked, and in a sliver of a moment, it wasn't Lily on a cozy studio floor. It was her, but in another life. A stage. Velvet curtains. A long silk gown clinging to her frame, the spotlight kissing her cheekbones. She sang—not with her mouth, but with her entire being. And the crowd? Spellbound. Just like he was now.
The illusion passed as the music shifted, but the ache it left behind was vivid and sharp.
He exhaled slowly and made his way to her, her drink still in hand, her glow unmistakable.
As she turned and caught him watching her, a slow smile curled her lips.
"What?" she asked playfully, reaching for her glass.
He handed it to her, but didn't let go of her fingers right away.
"You're incredible," he said simply, voice lower, a little rougher. "Like this whole room is yours and they don't even know it yet."
She raised a brow, amused. "You always this poetic after a root beer?"
He chuckled, stepping closer. "Only when watching someone who might've been a singer in another lifetime."
Lily tilted her head. "You think I was?"
"I know you were," he said quietly, brushing his thumb along the back of her hand. "And I think I loved you even then."
Her smile softened, and she reached up to fix the slightly crooked collar of his sweater.
"Then I hope you were less shy about dancing back then."
"Oh, I'm not shy," he replied, finally slipping his arm around her waist. "I just need the right partner."
They danced until the music slowed to a hush and the crowd thinned. He spun her one last time, and when she landed softly in his arms, neither of them moved for a moment.
Outside, the world was quiet. But inside, there was music.
Still holding her hand, Lance smiled. "Can I take you home, Miss Storm?"
Lily nodded, cheeks flushed, eyes shining. "Only if you promise not to step on my toes again."
He lifted her hand and kissed her knuckles. "No promises. But I'll do my best."
The city had quieted by the time they pulled up in front of Lily's apartment complex, the street lamps casting long, gentle shadows across the sidewalk. The soft murmur of the car's engine idled beneath them, neither quite ready to break the stillness.
Lily leaned her head back against the seat, heels kicked off and tucked beside her. "We really shouldn't wait weeks to see each other again," she murmured, eyes closed but smiling. "That was too long."
"I was just thinking the same thing," Lance replied, turning slightly in his seat to face her. "You're not the only one who felt the week stretch like it was months."
She opened her eyes and looked at him, and there was something warm and open in her gaze. Familiar and new, all at once.
Lance hesitated for only a second before speaking again, his voice softer now. "So… how about we stop pretending we're just casually seeing each other?"
Lily's breath caught. She turned toward him fully, heart starting to thrum again—but this time, it had nothing to do with dancing.
He reached across the console, gently taking her hand in his. "Be my girlfriend, Lily."
Her lips parted, and for a moment, she didn't say anything. Then her smile bloomed, and she gave a small, teasing scoff. "Wow, going old-school with the title request, huh?"
He grinned. "Guilty. But also, serious."
"Good," she said. "Because... yes."
Lance let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, eyes crinkling with quiet joy.
She squeezed his hand before gently pulling away. "I should go," she said, gathering her things. "If I linger too long, I'll do something dangerous. "
As she stepped out and closed the door behind her, he rolled down the window to call after her.
"Goodnight, Lily."
She took a few steps toward the building before spinning on her heel and darting back. Before he could say anything, she leaned in through the open window and pressed a quick, giddy peck to his cheek—fast, flustered, and full of delight.
"Goodnight, boyfriend," she whispered, then turned and ran toward the door, her laughter trailing behind her like the tail of a comet.
Lance sat there for a beat longer, dazed, a hand to his cheek and the biggest grin of his life stretched across his face.