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He plucks the bottle from the desk and shakes out a pill before placing it at my lips. I quickly pull it under my tongue, allowing it to melt.
We sit in silence for several minutes, waiting for it to take effect. He's rigid beneath me, his entire body rock hard. I can practically hear the questions pinging around in his mind, but he doesn't voice them. He doesn't say anything.
For the first time, I feel small in his presence.
"I didn't want you to find out this way," I whisper into the silence.
"Find out what exactly?" he asks. "Because I've got about nineteen scenarios running through my head right now, and every single one of them is fucking me up."
I squeeze my eyes closed and tell him what I never wanted him to know. "I'm sick, Kris."
"Yeah, I'm getting that." He crooks a finger beneath my chin, forcing me to face him. "Do you know what's wrong?"
I nod reluctantly.
"Tell me," he orders, his tone full of command.
"Leukemia."
The color drains from his face.
"The actual name of the condition is chronic myeloid leukemia," I hurry to add, hating that look on his face, as if his whole world is crumbling. Hating that I put it there. "It's a chromosome mutation that interferes with the body's ability to create healthy red blood cells."
"How long, Kelsey?"
"It's not terminal," I whisper.
"I know what it is," he says, his voice a soft rumble of sound. "I've volunteered for the American Cancer Society for years. I'm not asking how long you have. I'm asking how long you've known."
"A while," I mumble.
"Tell me,elskan mín."
My stomach flutters at the way he growls that nickname. "Since I was eleven. It's rare for kids to have it, but I was one of the lucky few, I guess." I give him a weak smile that he doesn't return. My stomach quivers again, another wave of guilt and shame crashing together like cymbals in my chest. "I didn't want you to find out this way."
"You didn't want me to find out at all."
"I…" I bite back the lie and admit the truth. "I didn't," I whisper, tears burning their way up my throat. "I've never made it a full five years without a flare-up. I thought I was going to make it this time without having to restart treatment, but…"
"You're falling out of remission," he finishes for me.
A tear slips down my cheek. "I haven't been in to confirm yet, but yeah, it looks that way."
"Goddammit, Kelsey," he whispers, his voice thick with emotion as he drags me deeper into his arms. "Goddammit."
More tears slip down my cheeks, the floodgates opened now. Not because of my pain but because of his. Because I didn't want to do this to him. This is exactly why I never told him. This is why I've tried so hard to stay away from him.
He shouldn't have to go through this. It's not fair to him.
And yet, for the first time in two years, I feel as if a weight has been lifted from my shoulders. For the first time in weeks, I feel like I can breathe. My secret isn't my own anymore. He knows now why I've turned him down all this time. He knows why I've kept him at arm's length, refusing to let him too close. He knows why I lied to him and told him I feel nothing.
My illness is my cross to bear, but it doesn't feel so damn heavy right now. For the first time since he pulled me into his arms and kissed me, I don't feel like I'm drowning.
I burrow into him, letting him hold me as I cry quietly.
He rubs my back, not saying anything. I'm unsure where his head is, and I'm a little afraid to ask right now, so I don't. Instead, I just let him hold me.
"Come on," he mutters eventually. "Let's get you home."
