The clinic closed at exactly 7:00 PM, just like any other day. But instead of heading straight home, as one might expect after a long day, Li Zeyu often took a slight detour to somewhere quiet to wind down, a place that offered a good cup of coffee and a moment to decompress before the silence of home settled in.
The Velvet Hour
The lounge was dimly lit, warm-toned and modern, tucked neatly into the corner of a high-rise hotel that catered to the city's quieter elite. The kind of place where the music was low, the wine expensive, and the conversations stayed in the shadows.
Li Zeyu sat at a private table by the window, long fingers curled loosely around a ceramic mug of black coffee. Steam curled lazily into the air, its warmth contrasting the cool glass of the window beside him. He never touched alcohol — never had the taste or the time for it. Coffee was different. It kept him grounded, sharp, awake, in more ways than one.
Across from him, Zhou Wenkai, one of the few childhood friend he kept close, was talking far too much — as usual.
"I'm just saying," Wenkai said, swirling his drink with far too much flair, a whiskey, "for someone whose job is to inspire the public to take care of their hearts, you sure look like someone trying to steal them."
Zeyu didn't respond. He rarely did when Wenkai got like this.
But Wenkai, unbothered, leaned in and made a sweeping gesture with his glass. "Look at you. Black shirt. Two buttons undone like you're on a magazine cover. Sleeves rolled up. No white coat, no glasses. You could pass for a CEO or… or a villain in a thriller drama. Definitely not someone who tells people to cut down on sodium."
Zeyu arched an eyebrow, slow and dry. "Are you done?"
"No," Wenkai said cheerfully, tipping his glass toward him. "Because I didn't even start on the women yet."
Zeyu's fingers tightened ever so slightly around the mug.
Across the room, two women had been eyeing him for a while. And one of them finally made her move. She walks over, soft smile practiced, voice as smooth as the lounge jazz in the background.
"Excuse me, are you Dr. Li? From LZU?"
Zeyu looked up.
His features were striking in the way a sculpture might be — clean lines, sharp jaw, straight nose. His dark brows framed a pair of unreadable eyes, cool and steady. Even the fall of his dark hair, slightly tousled over his forehead, felt intentional and effortless.
"Yes," he said. Polite. Distant. No expression. Just like how he usually was.
The woman tilted her head, a graceful smile plastered on her lips as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her eyes twinkled. "My friend said she saw you once. You looked… different on the clinic website. I thought I'd come say hello."
Wenkai hid a grin behind his drink.
Zeyu set his mug down. "Thank you. Enjoy your evening."
There's no invitation. No opening. Dry, just like the coffee he was drinking.
The woman blinked, expecting more, but he only look away. Her smile faltered. And she quietly retreated a few seconds later.
Wenkai sighed dramatically. "You didn't have to exhale her soul like that. Poor thing barely made it out alive."
Zeyu reached for his mug again. Sipped once. Warm, bitter, but comforting. "I wasn't interested."
Wenkai leaned back with a lazy smirk. "You're never interested. Not even for a little harmless fun?"
Zeyu didn't answer.
Instead, he glanced out the window — toward the city below. Lights blinked like distant stars. Cars moved like flowing veins. But his reflection in the glass didn't show distraction.
It showed a man with too much on his mind.
Sun Ruolin.
The name came uninvited.
He saw her again in memory — the way she stepped into his clinic, ribbon in her hair, sleeves hiding her hands. Still soft. Still kind. Still the girl who once occupied his heart and mind.
Still pretending nothing had happened.
He hadn't spoken her name in years. Not aloud. Not even in thought. He'd buried it; folded it deep inside and pressed it beneath years of clinical cases, cold decisions, and quiet guilt.
But the moment she smiled and said, "Hi,"
— everything unraveled.
"I called one of my patients for a follow-up today," he said suddenly, voice low.
"Okay...?" Wenkai blinked. "You always do that."
"She didn't know anything was wrong. Thought it was just fatigue."
"And?"
Zeyu's fingers tapped once against the side of his mug. "And I know it isn't that simple."
Wenkai studied him now — not as a friend teasing, but as someone watching something shift. Because if there's anyone who could bypass this strict doctor's facade, it was him.
"You're talking about someone important," he said, the tone different. Softer.
Zeyu didn't answer. He didn't need to. Because her name was still there, tucked in the back of his throat like something he hadn't yet forgiven himself for.
"Wen," he said at last, eyes still fixed on the steam of his coffee.
"If someone smiled at you like they'd already let go... but you hadn't… what would you do?"
Wenkai blinked. Then exhaled. "I'd ask myself what made me so sure I deserved a second chance."
Zeyu looked away, jaw tight.
Somewhere beneath the polished surface of this man — this doctor, this success story, this son his mother could finally be proud of — was still the boy who chose everything but her.
And now, she was back.
Still wearing soft sweaters. Still smiling like forgiveness didn't hurt. Still warm. Still here in his heart... He thought he'd moved on from her.
Thought time had dulled the edges, that work and routine had buried her memory somewhere quiet and manageable. But then she came back — in a passing stranger's laugh, in the comfort of his clinic walls, in the soft curl of steam rising from his coffee. She was everywhere and nowhere, like an old bruise that didn't ache until you pressed the right spot.
And tonight, for reasons he couldn't name, the ache returned. Sharper. Clearer. Like she'd just left the room moments ago and forgotten her sweater on the back of his chair.
He closed his eyes and tried not to remember. Failed.
"Why?" Wenkai asked as he leaned back, arms crossed, watching his friend with calculating eyes. "You never said things out of nowhere. Who is it?"
"My patient."
"Sun Ruolin?"
Zeyu didn't say a word, but the quiet breath he let out told Wenkai everything he needed to know.
A beat passed. Then Wenkai gave a small nod, as if confirming something to himself.
"So I thought," he muttered, though there was the faintest flicker of surprise in his voice, like he hadn't expected to actually be right, even if he'd predicted it all along.
Still, he brought the glass to his lips and took a slow sip of whiskey. "You only ever hung onto her after all. Is she sick?"
"...Yes."
"And she came to you?" he asked. "Out of all the clinics in this city — hell, this country, she ended up at yours?"
Zeyu didn't say anything, and Wenkai let out a quiet, disbelieving huff of a smile as he shook his head, setting his glass down. "What a small world we live in."
Indeed. What are the odds?
He hadn't planned on seeing her again; didn't expect anything from the past.
But now that he had…
He wasn't sure if he could let her walk out a second time.