YOU ARE MY LIGHT

CHAPTER 10 : THE SECRET MESSAGE

I got home and collapsed onto my bed, staring at the ceiling as my thoughts tangled into a whirl of confusion and color.

It was almost absurd.

The “Cold Surgeon,” the man everyone described as distant and untouchable, the one rumored to have nerves of steel and a frozen heart… carried chocolate bars in his pocket.

For shock.

I let out a soft giggle, the sound unfamiliar in the quiet of my apartment. Just hours ago, I had been sobbing on the pavement like my world had ended.

And now?

I was smiling at the memory of him crouching in front of me, holding out a chocolate bar as if it were a prescription.

I sat up slowly, my gaze drifting to the chair near the window.

His jacket hung there.

Dark. Expensive. Impossibly out of place in my modest room with its pale curtains and secondhand bookshelf.

I stood and walked toward it without thinking.

When I picked it up, the weight surprised me. It wasn’t just fabric — it felt substantial, solid. Like him.

On impulse, I slipped it on.

The sleeves swallowed my hands. The hem brushed against my knees.

“This could be a gown,” I murmured, turning slightly in front of the mirror.

But it wasn’t the size that stilled me.

It was the scent.

Sandalwood. Clean rain. Something sharp and quietly masculine.

It filled the room quickly, seeping into the air like a silent presence. For a fleeting second, it felt as if he were standing behind me again — steady, protective, close enough to catch me if I fell.

My heart fluttered at the thought.

I knew I had to wash it.

But I hesitated.

Washing it meant erasing that warmth.

Erasing proof that last night had been real.

After a long pause, I shook myself out of it and carried the jacket to the washing machine. I stood there watching it spin, the dark fabric tumbling in water, feeling an odd sense of loss as the scent slowly disappeared.

I told myself it was just a jacket. But it felt like I was letting go of something more.

When it finished drying, I ironed it carefully.

Every seam. Every fold.

I pressed it with more care than I’d ever given my own uniforms. It wasn’t just a jacket.

It was a bridge.

When I finally folded it neatly and placed it inside my best tote bag — wrapped carefully in tissue paper — I felt strangely accomplished.

Then exhaustion overtook me, and I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The next morning, the hospital felt colder.

The sterile scent of antiseptic usually blended into the background of my day, but today it felt sharp. Empty.

As I walked down the corridor, my eyes drifted toward her room.

The door was open.

The bed had been stripped of its bright blankets. No stuffed toys. No sketchbook. Only a bare mattress under harsh sunlight.

It looked… abandoned.

I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and forced myself forward.

When the elevator doors slid open, conversation in the hallway quieted almost instantly.

He stepped out.

White coat crisp. Expression composed. Every inch the “Cold Surgeon” the staff whispered about.

But when he passed my desk, our eyes met.

Just for a second.

And in that flicker, the mask slipped.

I saw the man from last night — the son who had lost a father, the doctor who understood helplessness, the one who had stood behind me in silence.

I gave a small nod.

He returned it with the slightest dip of his chin before disappearing into his office.

I waited until I had a legitimate patient report as an excuse.

Professional. Safe.

Then I grabbed the bag and walked to his door.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

His voice was deep and controlled, back to its usual tone.

I entered and delivered the report, carefully keeping my voice steady. He listened without interruption, asking a few precise questions about Ward B’s recovery progress.

Work.

Familiar. Structured.

When I finished, silence stretched between us.

I reached down and held out the bag.

“Sir… your jacket. And thank you. For last night.”

Our fingers brushed as he took it.

The contact was brief — accidental — but heat shot through me all the same.

He peeked inside, noticing the careful fold.

“You didn’t need to wash and iron it,” he said, one brow lifting slightly. “I have people for that.”

“I wanted to,” I replied quietly. “It mattered to me.”

Something in his expression shifted — softer, almost thoughtful.

I turned to leave.

“Wait.”

The word wasn’t sharp.

It was gentle.

He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a worn sketchbook.

“Your friend asked me to give this to you,” he said, his voice lowering. “She made me promise you’d receive it today.”

My heart tightened.

I stepped closer and took it.

The first page held a drawing of a woman with oversized, expressive eyes.

Me.

Underneath, in messy but careful handwriting:

Aunt Juliet, how are you? I know your eyes are swollen from crying. I’m glad you cried for me. You always try to be perfect, but I like you better when you’re human.

A laugh escaped me through tears.

I turned the page.

A drawing of us sitting on her hospital bed, leaning toward each other like we were sharing secrets.

Aunt Juliet, what Mr. Vincent said is true. Don’t blame yourself. You were my light in this gray hospital. You made the machines quieter. I made my decision because I wanted my parents to smile again. Mom doesn’t laugh anymore. Dad works too hard to pay for this room. I don’t want to be their burden. I want to be their angel.

My breath caught painfully.

Fifteen years old.

And already thinking like that.

Another tear blurred my vision.

Thank you for being my friend. I’ll be cheering for you and Mr. Vincent from up here. Don’t let him stay lonely.

A soft sniff escaped me.

Suddenly, a clean handkerchief appeared in front of me.

I took it without looking up.

When I flipped the next page, my entire face burned.

It was a detailed sketch of Vincent and me standing far too close, our gazes locked with unmistakable intensity.

I tried to flip past it quickly.

He laughed.

Actually laughed.

Low. Warm. Rare.

“It’s no use hiding it,” he said lightly. “She made me stand by the window for thirty minutes so she could get my jawline correct. She was extremely demanding.”

Despite everything, I burst into laughter.

The image of the legendary surgeon obediently posing for a teenager made the grief feel lighter.

“So you were cooperating with her matchmaking?”

“I had difficulty refusing her,” he admitted calmly.

I looked at the caption under the drawing:

Aunt Juliet, you’re very lucky in love — even if you don’t know it yet. Your heart is too beautiful to keep locked inside a nurse’s station.

My heart thudded painfully.

The final page showed all of us holding hands — her parents, her, Vincent, and me.

I love you all. Be happy for me.

That did it.

I broke into quiet tears, not violent this time — but healing.

A warm hand settled gently on my shoulder.

“It’s okay,” Vincent said softly. “She might have been the wisest person here.”

“Yes,” I whispered. “She really was.”

I looked up at him.

Something had shifted.

The space between us felt thinner now.

“Thank you, Mr. Vincent. Truly.”

His gaze held mine — not clinical, not distant.

Focused.

“If you really want to thank me,” he said slowly, “then treat me to dinner tonight.”

My brain stopped.

“I’ve realized I’m starving,” he continued smoothly. “And I prefer not to eat alone.”

My heart somersaulted violently.

Dinner?

With him?

Then reality slammed into me.

My bank account.

My modest nurse salary.

The terrifying possibility that he frequented restaurants where the appetizers cost more than my monthly utilities.

Six months of savings… gone in one evening.

I stared at him, my expression probably broadcasting pure financial panic.

He didn’t clarify.

Didn’t reassure.

He simply watched me with that faint, devastating smile, clearly aware of the chaos unfolding behind my eyes.

And in that moment, I understood something dangerous.

The “Cold Surgeon” wasn’t cold at all.

He was patient.

And he was enjoying this far too much.

I had no idea whether I was walking into a dinner... or financial ruin.