Hours later, the chaos had settled.
The hallway was quieter now, dimmer. Machines hummed softly behind closed doors, and the rush of earlier had faded into a tense stillness.
She stood outside his room.
Hand on the door.
Not moving.
She had faced critical cases before. Life and death decisions. Loss.
None of it made her hesitate like this.
Taking a breath, she pushed the door open.
He was awake.
Barely.
Bandages wrapped around his head, his arm secured in a cast, chest rising slowly beneath the hospital blanket. The harshness of earlier had softened into something fragile.
But his eyes—
They found her immediately.
Like they had been waiting.
Silence stretched between them.
Heavy. Familiar. Unforgiving.
"You're... a doctor now," he rasped, voice dry, uneven.
She almost smiled.
Almost.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "Looks like it."
Another pause.
Too many things pressing at once questions, regrets, anger, memories that refused to stay buried.
"You disappeared," he said.
No accusation in his tone.
Which somehow made it worse.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of his chart.
"I had to," she replied.
A lie.
Or maybe just an incomplete truth.
His gaze didn't leave her.
"That's it?" he asked, voice barely above a whisper. "After everything?"
There it was.
The past, clawing its way back into the room.
She stepped closer this time, stopping beside his bed.
"You think I wanted to?" she said, and for the first time, her composure cracked. "You think that was easy for me?"
"Then why?" he pressed, wincing slightly as the movement pulled at his injuries. "Why not say anything? Why not—"
His voice broke.
Not from pain.
From something deeper.
"I waited," he admitted quietly. "For months."
The words hit like a blow.
She looked away, blinking hard.
"I know," she whispered.
That was the problem.
She knew.
And she still left.
Silence filled the space again, thicker this time.
He let out a slow breath, staring up at the ceiling.
"Funny," he murmured. "Out of all the ways I thought I'd see you again..."
A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"This wasn't it."
Her chest tightened.
"Yeah," she said softly. "Me neither."
Another pause.
Then, more gently—
"You're going to be okay," she added, slipping back into something safer. "No internal bleeding. Fractures, but nothing we can't treat."
He let out a quiet huff.
"Good," he said. "Wouldn't want to die before getting answers."
She met his eyes again.
This time, she didn't look away.
"Then don't," she said. "Get better first."
A challenge.
A promise.
Or maybe a warning.
Because whatever they left unfinished years ago—
It wasn't over.
Not even close.
Naya called her friend to tell them what happened. She's still in disbelief and shocked.
They then told her that, they were planning to inform them that, "he's back".
The next few days blurred into a routine neither of them expected.
Rounds. Medication. Silence.
And her.
Always her.
"You're healing well," she said one morning, checking his chart without looking at him.
"Yeah?" he replied, watching her instead. "Feels like I got run over by a truck."
"That's because you almost did," she said dryly.
Then—very slightly—her lips twitched.
It was the first time he'd seen something close to her old smile.
And it hit harder than the accident.
He wasn't supposed to notice things.
But he did.
The way she avoided staying too long in his room.
How she kept conversations strictly medical.
How her hands were steady except when they brushed too close to his.
How she never once called him by his name.
Not even once.
"Why are you avoiding it?" he asked one afternoon.
She paused mid-note.
"Avoiding what?"
"My name."
That made her look at him.
Really look this time.
The air shifted.
"I'm your doctor," she said carefully. "It's not appropriate—"
"That's not it," he cut in gently. "You used to say it like it meant something."
Her breath caught.
There it was again that crack in her armor.
"Things change," she said.
"Do they?" he asked.
Because to him ...
They hadn't.
Not really.