CHAPTER TWO: A BREAK

The nurse was kind, with a soft voice and practiced hands that made the process nearly painless. Still, Lily found herself holding her breath as the needle slipped into her vein. The sterile scent of the clinic stung her nose. Her father stood nearby, arms crossed, trying his best to appear casual, but his worry was evident in the deep crease between his brows.

"Almost done, just one scan and you are done," the nurse murmured. "You're doing great."

Lily exhaled slowly and looked away. The blood filled the vials steadily, dark and vital.

"So, this is just to check for inherited cancer risks," she said, more to herself than anyone else.

Her dad answered anyway. "It's precaution. That's all. You're perfectly fine."

She smiled faintly. "You don't know that."

He leaned in, brushing a hand down her back. "I believe it."

She didn't respond. She wanted to believe it too, but something inside her curled tight with anxiety.

When the nurse finished and bandaged her arm, Lily stood slowly, stretching her fingers. "How long till the results?"

"A few days," the nurse replied. "Dr. Lance will go over them with you once everything's processed."

His name triggered something warm in her chest. She nodded and murmured a thank you.

* * *

That night, they decided to celebrate. Her father's clear results deserved more than just relief. They deserved joy, hope and laughter.

Lily picked a cozy restaurant nestled on a side street, the kind with brick walls, old jazz on vinyl, and fairy lights strung across the ceiling. It felt warm, lived-in, and a little magical.

They chose a booth by the window. Her dad wore his nicest sweater, and Lily let her hair fall loose around her back. She wore a soft red blouse that made her feel brave.

"You know," her dad said after their drinks arrived, "I didn't think I'd live to see another spring."

"Don't say that," she said quickly.

"No," he smiled. "I mean it in the best way. Every morning feels like a bonus. I forgot what it was like to wake up and not dread the day."

Lily reached for his hand across the table. "You made it. We made it."

He squeezed her hand, eyes glassy. "We did."

The food came. Pasta, wine, laughter. The kind of dinner that wrapped around you like a soft blanket.

She was halfway through a story about a bakery mishap when her father's gaze flicked across the restaurant. He stilled.

"Don't look now," he said.

She looked.

Lance.

But not Dr. Lance. Not hospital-coat, serious-faced, clinical Lance. This Lance wore a dark button-down, sleeves rolled, collar open. He looked relaxed, laughing.

And he wasn't alone.

At his table sat a woman with elegant streaks of grey in her hair—his mother, maybe—and an older man with a firm jaw and kind eyes who had to be his father. There was also a younger girl, maybe a niece, swinging her legs under the table and asking him questions between bites.

Lily blinked. It was like seeing someone step out of a dream and into a real, ordinary world.

Her father, too, was watching. But not rudely. Just—curiously.

As their waiter approached the table beside Lance's, Lily and her father turned their attention back to their plates, pretending to talk. But their ears, clearly, tuned in to the other table.

"So," the older man—his father—said, his voice low but distinct. "You've built something solid now. Your work's steady. You've done well, son."

Lance laughed under his breath. "Thanks, Dad."

"I'm just saying," his father continued, "Maybe it's time to think about settling down. You're not getting any younger."

There was a pause.

Then Lance answered, voice quieter. "I've thought about it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. There's someone," Lance said. "Someone I've been thinking about for a while. So, you don't need to worry."

His mother laughed softly. "Well, why haven't we met her yet?"

"It's complicated," Lance said, and there was something in his voice. Tender. Weighted.

Lily felt her heart thud.

She looked away quickly, not sure what she felt. Was it disappointment? Envy? Was it foolish to feel anything at all? She barely knew him. And yet… something twisted deep in her chest.

The rest of dinner passed in a blur. Her dad didn't mention it again, nor did she. But as she stirred the last bites of tiramisu, her thoughts wouldn't settle.

Had she been too late in meeting him?

Did he already love someone else?

Why did it hurt? Why did she care?

She barely knew the man.

But her soul acted like it remembered something she couldn't explain. Something distant and buried beneath the layers of time.

She shook her head as her dad called for the bill. Maybe it was nothing. Maybe she was imagining it all.

Still, the weight in her chest lingered long after they left the restaurant.

* * *

The days that followed the dinner were calm, quiet in a way that felt sacred. Lily and her father fell into a gentle rhythm at home, like the tide returning to shore after years of crashing storms. The sun filtered through the living room curtains most mornings, casting golden puddles on the floor where their aging cat, Willow, sprawled with the air of someone who owned the place.

Her father seemed to grow stronger by the day. The lines around his eyes softened, not from weariness but from smiling. He hummed more now—snippets of old songs Lily only half-remembered from her childhood. He cooked breakfast most mornings, or at least tried to. More than once, Lily had caught him burning toast while distracted by the newspaper, and they'd both laughed until their stomachs ached.

"You'd think after beating cancer, I could conquer the toaster," he grumbled once, scraping charred bread into the sink.

"Miracles have limits," Lily teased, handing him a new slice.

They went for walks in the park when the weather allowed. He liked to point out birds and talk about things he'd never had time for before—poetry, the smell of rain on pavement, how good the world looked when you weren't afraid to die. Lily listened, sometimes quiet, sometimes joining in with stories of her own.

One afternoon, they drove to visit her Aunt Claire, her mother's sister, who lived a few towns over. Claire had always been a whirlwind of color and ideas, with paint-stained fingers and shelves overflowing with books. Her home smelled like cinnamon and ink.

She greeted them with a dramatic gasp. "My stars, look at you! Both of you, alive and kicking and beautiful. Come in, come in."

Claire hugged Lily tight, whispering something about how much she looked like her mother. Lily blinked fast and held on a little longer.

They spent the afternoon in Claire's cozy sunroom, drinking spiced tea and flipping through old photo albums. Her dad fell into easy conversation with Claire about the past, about Lily's current manuscript (which she refused to let anyone read yet), and about how he might finally consider dating again.

Lily raised her eyebrows at that, but her aunt only winked. "Let him have his fun. You never know who you'll meet at the grocery store."

Later, while her dad napped in Claire's armchair, Lily helped her aunt prepare dinner. The kitchen was small but warm, cluttered with potted herbs and scrawled recipe notes pinned to the fridge.

"You look lighter," Claire said, slicing carrots with a surgeon's precision. "Like something's shifted."

Lily hesitated, peeling potatoes. "I don't know. Maybe. Life feels... quieter now. In a good way."

"And?"

She glanced up. "And there's someone. Maybe. But I don't really know him."

"Ah." Claire smiled without prying. "Those are the best ones sometimes."

"Right! When will you finish with the new book, I can't wait to read it, for someone who have yet to experience romance you sure know how to write about it," Claire asked.

"I am working on it, it will probably be soon now that there isn't much going on at home, as always you will get it first," lily replied.

That night, Lily sat on her bed by the window, notebook open but mostly untouched. She doodled in the margins instead, vague shapes that hinted at flowers or maybe faces. She wasn't sure. Her thoughts drifted.

She thought about the way Dr. Lance had looked outside the hospital, his face relaxed in the glow of restaurant lighting, his voice tinged with tenderness when he spoke to his family. Someone I've been thinking about for a while. The words looped in her mind.

Was there a chance that it could be her?

She didn't know. And more than that, she didn't know why it mattered so much. She had bigger things to focus on. The tests. The results that hadn't come yet. Her father's continued recovery. Life itself, vast and uncertain.

Still, her heart stirred when she remembered the way he had smiled. And how some part of her recognized him, not just from the hospital, but from a place she couldn't name.

The days passed in gentle succession. No calls from the hospital yet, which she took as a good sign. Or at least not a bad one.

She read more. Walked more. Cooked with her father. Visited Claire once more that week and helped her rearrange her bookshelves, during which Claire declared her "a menace to literary order" but thanked her all the same.

One morning, she found herself sketching again, something she hadn't done in years. A figure in a coat. Eyes she couldn't quite get right. She smudged the charcoal until the page blurred, but she kept the sketch anyway.

Outside, the world began to bloom again. Cherry blossoms in the neighborhood park. Daffodils near the post office. Spring unfolding itself delicately.

Lily wrote in bursts, scribbled plot lines and snippets of dialogue on the backs of receipts and napkins. Her story was still loose, a tangle of memory and imagination, but the words came easier now. The quiet had opened something up inside her.

One Sunday morning, Lily brought out an old photo box from the attic. They spent hours sitting cross-legged on the floor, sorting through pictures of summers past, birthdays, and road trips. Her dad chuckled at his younger self's moustache and teased Lily for her "angsty" teenage fashion phase. The room was filled with laughter, sunlight, and the subtle scent of warm coffee.

Later that day, they made cinnamon rolls from scratch, flour dusting the countertops and their clothes. Her dad insisted on doing the icing himself and somehow managed to get more on his shirt than the pastries. When they finally sat to eat, licking sticky sugar from their fingers, it felt like something sacred—something whole.

It was that kind of day.

And it made what came next even harder.