“I don’t know how to turn it off,” I admit.
“You don’t have to,” she replies. “But don’t carry it alone.”
The weight of the day doesn’t disappear, but it does become manageable.
Eventually, her breathing evens out, slow and steady. Sleep finds her first. I stay awake a little longer, staring into the dark, aware of every point where our bodies touch.
This is different from desire. This is quieter. Deeper.
I didn’t come here looking for comfort. I don’t know why I came. But lying here with her, wrapped in warmth and stillness, I realize how badly I needed it.
And how dangerous that realization is.
Because the truth settles in, undeniable and heavy as the night around us:
I don’t simply want her when things are easy. I want her when everything is falling apart. And I don’t know what that means yet, only that the thought both steadies me and terrifies me in equal measure.
I close my eyes and let sleep take me, her heartbeat steady beneath my hand.
For tonight, that’s enough.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Melissa
It happens gradually.
If I hadn’t been paying attention or I hadn’t already learned what it looked like when someone started pulling inward, I might not have noticed at all.
Colton doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t snap at me or crumple. He tightens up.
His voice stays even, but quieter. His movements are now more controlled. He doesn’t linger in doorways or let conversations stretch beyond what’s necessary. He doesn’t look at me the way he used to, not completely, but enough that I feel the difference in my chest before I can name it.
And Frank’s numbers keep falling.
Every morning, I check the chart before I go into the room, even though I already know what I’ll find. The downward trend is unmistakable now. It’s not subtle, not arguable. This isn’t a bad day or a setback.
This is the body letting go.
Frank’s room has become a revolving door. Family members I’ve never met before come and go in quiet clusters, their voices hushed, even when they try to sound normal. Old friends show up with soft smiles and red-rimmed eyes, sitting at his bedside like they’re trying to memorize the shape of him.
Frank, of course, notices everything.
“Well, look at this,” he says one afternoon as a cousin I didn’t know existed squeezes into the room with flowers. “Standing room only. Should’ve charged admission.”
She laughs loudly, then presses her lips together like she’s afraid they’ll start trembling if she doesn’t.
Frank catches my eye and winks.
“See?” he says. “Still got it.”
I smile back, even as something twists behind my ribs.
Colton comes in not long after, white coat crisp, expression composed in a way that feels almost painful to watch. He does what he needs to do. He checks vitals, reviews labs, asks questions, but he doesn’t stay.
It’s not like he used to.
Where he once pulled up a chair, now he stands. Where he once lingered to trade barbs with Frank, now he keeps things strictly clinical. His eyes flick to the clock more than once.
