“I’m helping.”
Naoki touched his cheek, expression unreadable. Then, without another word, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, folded note. He tucked it into her chart.
When he was gone, Kotoko opened it.
She grinned, tired but fierce. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
The hospital corridors at 2 AM smelled of antiseptic and exhaustion. Kotoko Irie, nee Aihara, pressed her forehead against a stack of patient charts, her nurse’s cap slightly askew.
“I can’t,” she whispered to the vending machine coffee. “I absolutely cannot memorize the difference between a Type 2 and Type 3 myocardial infarction before sunrise.”
She hugged the chart to her chest, the cold hospital lights suddenly warm.
“For luck,” she said.