Two years ago — Juba, South Sudan.
Before the white coats, before the buzz of fluorescent hallways and surgical gloves snapping into place, there had been music. There had been laughter. There had been us — strangers orbiting each other without realizing the inevitable pull of gravity.
But Juba hadn't been peaceful. Not then. The city was rough-edged, always on the brink. Nights echoed with distant gunfire or sudden sirens, and we moved through days with the cautious grace of people who'd learned not to take safety for granted.
Still, life went on. It always did.
I didn't have a car. I rode to the hospital every morning on the back of a colleague's motorbike, clinging to my files with one hand and the seat with the other. Dust in my mouth. Wind in my eyes. Heat in my bones.
Then came Nian.
He didn't arrive alone. The Chinese medical alliance had sent an entire team of trauma and general surgeons to aid the overstretched local staff. But even among the ten or so specialists, he stood out. Not just for his credentials, but for the way he moved. Controlled. Precise. Like he was always three steps ahead.
The hospital had contracted a vehicle just for him — sleek, black, bulletproof glass. And every time I saw it pull into the hospital gates, something in me stirred. Maybe envy. Maybe curiosity. Maybe something far more dangerous.
He wasn't flashy, despite the ride. He wore simple navy scrubs, no watches or gold. But he commanded attention in every room. The local staff whispered about him like he was a legend. "Dr. Nian," they'd say with awe. "The one who stitched up the boy from the compound ambush in under twelve minutes."
We didn't speak for the first few weeks. I'd see him across the trauma bay or in the operating theatre gallery — surgical mask on, gloved hands moving like art. He never looked flustered. Never shouted. Never showed fear, even when chaos surrounded him.
Then came the symposium.
It was hosted by the Ministry of Health and an international alliance. I was just one of the many local volunteers helping organize, wearing a name tag that didn't seem to carry weight.
But Nian noticed it.
He walked in like he owned the room. Sharp black tux, hair swept back, calm and composed. When he took the podium to speak on advanced trauma techniques in low-resource settings, the room hushed. Not out of obligation — out of reverence.
His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. Every sentence was deliberate. Every word chosen. He talked about managing chest wounds with minimal equipment, improvising surgical tools, dealing with high-adrenaline cases without backup.
"He's been in war zones," someone whispered beside me.
I didn't doubt it.
Later that night, there was a gala.
The music was sultry — jazz and soft drumbeats laced with saxophone. I slipped outside for air. The crowd was too thick, the air too warm, and the gowns too stiff. I leaned against the stone balustrade, looking over the dim lights of the city.
Then I felt him beside me.
"Escaping the chaos?" he asked, his voice quiet but deep.
I nodded. "Too loud. Too many masks."
"You don't like masks?"
"I like faces that don't lie."
He finally turned to me. And when he looked, it wasn't polite. It wasn't casual. It was deliberate. Measured. A full-body scan without touching.
"I don't lie. I just don't say everything."
That made me smirk. "Isn't that the same thing?"
He didn't smile back. "Not if you know what to look for."
I stepped a little closer. Maybe I shouldn't have. But I did.
"Tell me one thing," I said, "just one… true thing."
He held my gaze and took a slow sip of whiskey. "I don't forget faces. And I'm not going to forget yours."
I should've laughed. I should've left.
But I stayed. Of course I stayed.
We talked. Laughed. I learned he had lived in Shanghai. Trained in Beijing. Worked on emergency missions in Nepal and rural Kenya. He didn't brag. He stated facts like a surgeon — precise and clean.
When I asked him what China was like, his answer surprised me.
"Lonely," he said. "Until tonight."
We didn't kiss. We didn't sleep together. But the tension between us was electric. The kind that leaves your skin buzzing for days.
At the end of the night, he walked me to the gate. The hospital hadn't provided transport for volunteers. My ride was late. I stood awkwardly under the yellow streetlight.
He opened the door to his vehicle and said, "I'll drop you."
I hesitated, then nodded. The car smelled like leather and antiseptic — his smell. Clean, expensive, and sterile. He didn't speak much during the ride. Just glanced at me once when I shivered from the air conditioning.
"You're not like the others," he said.
I turned. "What others?"
He shrugged. "People who want something."
"And you?"
"I already have everything I want. Except…"
He never finished the sentence.
When we reached my gate, he got out, opened my door, and walked me to the entrance. Before I could thank him, he leaned in and brushed his lips — not on my mouth, but my temple.
"Next time," he whispered.
But next time didn't come.
The very next morning, he was gone. Recalled to a different region. The hospital whispered it was a sudden reassignment. Others said it was politics. I didn't know.
All I knew was that he left.
---
Back in the present.
Nian stood at the nurse's station, casually reviewing patient charts like he didn't just explode into my life a second time like a storm I thought had passed.
He looked up.
"Morning, Naya."
I blinked. "You remembered?"
"Told you. I don't forget faces."
There it was again — that heat. That magnetic pull. But now it wasn't fresh. Now it had history. Now it burned.
"You left without saying goodbye."
His gaze sharpened. "You remember that?"
"I remember everything."
He was silent for a beat too long. "So do I."
A nurse walked by and handed him a file. He didn't look away from me.
"I'm heading into OR in ten minutes," he said. "Watch if you want. I like having you near."
That wasn't a request. It was temptation wrapped in command. And I hated how easily I said:
"I'll be there."
But deep down, something cracked open. A wound I thought had closed. A night from two years ago. And a car ride that still haunted me.
He had come into my world when it was falling apart — and left before I knew how much he'd taken with him.
And now he was back.