MR. SURGEON IS IN MY ROMANCE NOVEL

The surgical lights bathed the operating room in a sterile, almost ethereal glow. Machines beeped steadily, the calm rhythm belying the urgency of the task ahead.

Dr. Akihiko Nakamura stood silently at the operating table, eyes fixed on the patient.

Junko Miura lay still beneath the blue drapes, her body prepped and sedated, fragile and small against the breadth of the surgical table.

To Akihiko, she wasn't just another patient.

She was someone's mother.

Makoto's mother.

And this wasn't a simple case.

A complete bowel obstruction— the kind that twisted the intestines into chaotic knots, cutting off blood flow, threatening necrosis.

If not treated urgently, it would lead to perforation, sepsis, and death.

Akihiko inhaled deeply behind his mask.

"Scalpel." he said calmly.

The nurse handed it over without a word.

Akihiko made the initial midline incision across Junko's abdomen with unwavering precision.

The moment the layers of tissue parted, the smell hit them—a harsh, sour tang of built-up gas and waste trapped inside the distended loops of the bowel.

The obstruction was severe.

"Retractors." he ordered. "Let's get a look."

With a careful rhythm, the assistants held back the abdominal walls, revealing the grotesque inflation of the intestines.

Akihiko's eyes swept across the surgical field, assessing the damage.

The intestines were dilated, congested, purple-blue in some areas.

Swollen beyond safe margins.

"There." he murmured, pointing. "Transition zone. It's in the sigmoid colon."

The site of obstruction was unmistakable: the segment of the sigmoid colon had twisted into itself, cutting off all passage and threatening the surrounding tissue with ischemia.

"Possible volvulus." the assistant surgeon offered.

Akihiko nodded. "Most likely. Prepare to decompress."

The surgical team sprang into action.

Suction lines hissed as Akihiko made a controlled enterotomy—a small, deliberate incision into the affected bowel to release the built-up gas and fluid.

The tension in the room was thick.

Junko's blood pressure dipped slightly.

"BP 92 over 61." the anesthesiologist announced.

"She's holding. Continue." Akihiko said, his voice low and confident.

His hands moved quickly, but every motion was deliberate.

He milked the distended bowel gently, carefully relieving the pressure without rupturing the fragile tissue.

The suction tube whined as it evacuated the toxic contents.

"Begin the lysis of adhesions." he said. "I need full access to the proximal and distal ends."

Adhesions—thin bands of scar tissue—had formed across the intestines, pulling them into abnormal positions.

Akihiko used electrocautery and blunt dissection to gently free the loops, one by one.

Each release was like untangling a dangerous knot.

One misstep, and he could perforate a segment of necrotic bowel.

That would make everything exponentially worse.

He didn't flinch.

"You're doing beautifully, Doctor." the scrub nurse whispered as she handed him the next tool.

But Akihiko wasn't listening.

He was counting pulse lines, tracking the capillary refill on the bowel surface, gauging the color—looking for signs of irreversible damage.

Then he saw it.

A short section of the sigmoid colon—twisted, discolored, unresponsive.

Necrotic.

He clenched his jaw behind the mask.

"We'll have to resection the dead segment." he said. "Get me the stapler and prepare for anastomosis."

"Understood."

The surgical team moved efficiently.

Akihiko transected the necrotic bowel with the linear cutter stapler.

As the segment was removed and placed in the surgical tray, he inspected the healthy ends.

Clean.

Pink.

Viable.

"Good."

Now came the most delicate part: reconnecting the remaining colon with a tension-free anastomosis—restoring the continuity of the digestive tract without risking a leak.

He carefully aligned the ends and stapled them together.

Every staple had to be perfect.

Even one gap could lead to a postoperative leak—fatal in someone's Junko's age.

"Check for bleeding."

The field was dry.

"Anastomosis intact. Begin irrigation."

The nurse irrigated the cavity with warm saline, and Akihiko methodically inspected every loop of bowel, checking for damage or discoloration he might have missed in the chaos.

When he was satisfied, he began to close.

Layer by layer.

Muscle.

Fascia.

Skin.

The surgery was nearly three hours long, but to Akihiko, it passed in a blink.

He removed his gloves last, the snap of latex echoing in the quiet.

His hands were steady.

Not a drop of blood on his scrubs.

The monitor beeped with a steady, reassuring rhythm.

Junko's vitals were stable.

The obstruction was gone.

The worst was over.

------

Akihiko stripped off his surgical cap and mask as he pushed open the swinging doors into the quiet corridor.

The air was cool, and the soft overhead lights seemed far too gentle after the intensity of the operation.

For a moment, he leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply.

In that silence, all the things he pushed away during the procedure returned.

Makoto's voice: "If she dies, I'll never forgive myself…"

Ayaka's eyes, lingering with worry as she played with his skull-shaped figurine: "Do you think he convinced her?"

He'd seen it on their faces.

This wasn't just surgery.

This was hope.

A chance to fix something that had broken long ago between a mother and son.

Akihiko knew too well how rare those chances were.

He ran a hand through his hair, tired but calm.

Then he turned down the hallway where Makoto and Ayaka would be waiting.

And for once, he'd be the bearer of good news.

-------

The hallway outside the operating theater was quiet except for the soft hum of overhead lights and the occasional footsteps of passing staff.

In the far corner, under a large wall clock ticking steadily, Ayaka sat with her hands clasped tightly on her lap.

Makoto paced in front of her, back and forth like a restless tide.

Neither of them spoke much.

The wait had hollowed out the words.

Makoto kept checking his phone out of habit, but there were no updates there.

No signal that things were okay.

Just silence.

Then—finally—the double doors opened.

Akihiko stepped through.

His scrubs were stained faintly around the sleeves, his hair tousled beneath the cap he'd just removed.

But his eyes were steady, calm and focused.

Makoto's feet froze in place.

Ayaka stood up immediately, her expression torn between hope and dread.

Akihiko approached them slowly, and for a moment, no one breathed.

Then—

"She's stable." He said simply. "The operation was a success."

Ayaka gasped, her hand flying to her chest. "Oh thank god…"

Makoto blinked, unable to move for a second.

His voice caught in his throat.

"W-What does that mean?" he asked, the words trembling out of him. "She's really… okay?"

Akihiko nodded. "The obstruction was in her sigmoid colon. It was twisted—volvulus. Part of the bowel was necrotic, but we resected the dead tissue and successfully connected the healthy ends. No leaks. No bleeding. Her vitals are stable and she's recovering in the ICU for observation."

Makoto covered his face with both hands, his shoulders trembling slightly—not from weakness, but the overwhelming wave of relief crashing through him.

His legs finally gave in, and he sat down on the bench behind him, exhaling like he'd been holding his breath for days.

"She's really… alive."

"She is." Akihiko confirmed. "She made it through the worst."

Ayaka sat beside Makoto, touching his shoulder gently. "See? She fought through it. Just like you said she would."

Makoto laughed—an unsteady, cracked sound. "I think I aged ten years waiting out here."

"I wouldn't recommend that as a lifestyle." Akihiko said, deadpan, and Ayaka let out a small laugh.

Ayaka gave Makoto a soft squeeze on the arm and stood. "I'll go grab some drinks from the vending machine."

She left them with a quiet smile, and as her footsteps faded, a different kind of silence settled between the two men.

Makoto leaned against the wall, arms crossed tightly across his chest.

For a long moment, he didn't speak.

Neither did Akihiko.

Then Makoto finally broke the silence, his voice low and unguarded.

"You saved her life."

Akihiko looked at him evenly. "It's my job."

"No." Makoto said. "Not like that. I know you treat every patient with the same intensity, but this—this wasn't just medicine. You knew how important this was. And you didn't walk away from it. So… thank you. For everything."

Akihiko didn't respond right away.

He crossed his arms and looked away slightly, as if weighing how honest he wanted to be.

"I wasn't going to let anything happen to her." He finally said.

Akihiko continued, "I did fight harder though because I knew what it would mean to you. You deserved that."

Makoto's lips parted, but the words caught in his throat.

A long, stretched silence passed between them.

Then, slowly, Makoto nodded. "Can I see her then?"

"She'll probably wake up within the next hour. One of the nurses will notify us." Akihiko replied.

Makoto exhaled deeply, shoulders finally easing. "That gives me time to gather the rest of my heart."

He gave Akihiko a light nudge on the shoulder and walked off down the corridor.

------

Moments later, Ayaka came around the corner, holding two bottles of water and a canned coffee.

"Hey where's Makoto?" she called softly.

"He went to see his mother." Akihiko answered shortly and gave Ayaka a long look.

She smiled as she handed him the canned coffee.

"You earned this, Doctor."

He accepted it, his fingers brushing hers just briefly. "Thank you."

Akihiko took a sip of the coffee, then glanced at the hallway leading to the ICU.

Ayaka turned to Akihiko. "Did you two make peace?"

He gave a soft hum. "Let's just say... we're no longer drawing swords."

Ayaka smiled warmly, looking up at him. "Then maybe something good came out of all this after all."

He looked down at her, then gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Yeah… maybe more than just one good thing."