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“I know you’re tired, so I’ll let you go, but keep this up. And if possible, get Willow in the stands for another game.”

I mutter a goodbye before ending the call with a noisy exhale. I’m used to feeling irritated and restless, but this new ache feels etched into my bones.

As the elevator ascends and Van Morrison spills into the shaft, my chin drops to my chest. With Willow awake, I won’t be able to slink off to my room to lick my wounds. Except, when I enter the penthouse, there’s no air-guitar session. Willow sits on a short stepladder in front of her easel, all of her studio lights on, still wearing my jersey.

The puff of breath leaving my mouth hurts more than a fastball to the ribs.

My beautiful wife continues to paint, oblivious to my presence. Yesterday, I learned that Willow gets so wrapped up in her work that the world falls away. I could blow an airhorn, and she wouldn’t flinch.

Before I can think better of it, I snap a few pictures of Willow. There’s a streak of white paint in her bangs, a smudge of purple along her jaw, and the most serene yet focused expression on her face.

Forget the painting, she’s breathtaking.

Willow told me she’d paint me anything I wanted after this arrangement ended. At the time, I had no idea what that would be, but now I know what I want—Willow in my jersey, doing the thing she loves.

I watch for what is probably a creepy amount of time until Willow’s fingers begin to tremble. When her low-blood-sugar alarm sounds, she groans and sets down her brush.

“I just want to refine values in peace.”

“Here.” I step forward, pulling her glucose tabs from the duffel bag I forgot to take off.

With Willow seated on the stepladder, we’re eye to eye. She blinks, recognition brightening her face.

“Oh, hey. When did you get home?”

I slam my walls down, not letting Willow’s happy expression or her casual use of home deter me from the task at hand. There are no cameras here, but her delighted smile doesn’t mean anything. Willow is always smiling.

After handing her the tabs, I take off my duffel and jacket, pushing back the sleeves of my Henley. “Why are you running low? I thought your doctor was trying to keep you in the normal to upper levels.”

“I don’t know!”

When Willow snaps at me, I realize my mistake. In my spare time, I’ve been reading ebooks on T1D management, including a few memoirs, to gain a better understanding. By this point, I should know that sometimes her blood sugar will do its own thing, despite her best efforts.

“I can do everything right and this”—she waves her shaky hands at nothing in particular—“will still happen.”

Without thinking, I scoop Willow up and carry her to the kitchen. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I’ll make you a snack to have after your fifteen minutes are up. Would you like peanut butter toast, Greek yogurt with granola, or cheese and crackers?”

After setting Willow on the counter, I smooth my hands down her arms until I grip her quivering fingers.

Willow shrugs, her forehead bunching. “Nothing sounds good right now.”

I almost lean forward to kiss her temple but manage to keep my distance.

“You’re foggy because you’re low. Once the glucose hits your system, you’ll feel better.”

Willow is unusually quiet as I toast bread and get the peanut butter out of the cabinet, opting for something warm and comforting for her snack. I also fill a large glass with filtered water, assuming she probably hasn’t had anything to drink either. When I set the cup next to her, Willow grabs my wrist.

“Thank you.”

My sternum caves in when her voice cracks.

“Honey.” I sweep her hair behind her ears. “It’ll be okay.”

When Willow shakes her head, I let my palms fall to her knees.

She doesn’t say anything for a long moment, alternating between blinking at the ceiling and chewing on her lip.

“This is hard.”