He turned to walk away, but she caught his sleeve. On impulse, she rose on her toes and pressed a quick, playful kiss to his cheek—the kind that left a faint lipstick mark he’d pretend to hate.
Behind her, footsteps clicked with a rhythm she’d know in her sleep. Naoki. Her husband. The genius. He didn’t walk so much as glide, his white coat immaculate despite 36 hours on call. He stopped beside her, glanced at her charts, then at the coffee dripping onto her fingers.
Naoki said nothing. He simply plucked the chart from her hands, scanned it for three seconds, and handed it back. “Type 2 is demand ischemia. Type 3 is sudden death. You’ll remember if you think of it like this: Type 2 is you forgetting to eat lunch again. Type 3 is my patience when you leave wet towels on the floor.”
“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.”
When he was gone, Kotoko opened it.
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.
“Same thing.”
She grinned, tired but fierce. “That’s the most romantic thing you’ve ever said.”
“Because you’re an Irie now.” He paused. “And Irie women don’t fail. They just annoy everyone until they succeed.”
“How do you know?”
She wanted to argue. But then she noticed the small, rare curve at the corner of his lips—the one he only ever showed her. In Season 1, that smile would have made her heart stop. In Season 2, it made her heart run .
Kotoki blinked. Then she laughed—a tired, bright sound that echoed down the empty hall. “Did you just… make a medical analogy using our marriage?”