Chapter 100 I want you
When we get to the apartment, we shower and sit on the couch. Then Ryan falls asleep like it’s something that just happens to him.
One minute he’s sitting there, head tipped back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as he says something I don’t quite catch, and the next, he’s gone. Just quietly slipped under, like his body decided for him.
I don’t wake him.
I shift a little, careful not to disturb him, and reach for my laptop, balancing it on the armrest. The glow of the screen feels too bright for the room, but I keep it dim, keep everything soft.
I start where I’m supposed to. My book, little notes. Structure. Half-formed ideas waiting to be caught before they disappear. But somewhere along the way, it shifts. A word leads to another. A question opens into ten more. And before I even realize it, I’m no longer researching narrative arcs or character depth, I’m reading about treatment options.
High-risk t-MDS. Chemotherapy protocols. Survival rates. Alternatives. Clinical trials. Experimental therapies tucked behind medical jargon and cautious optimism.
I read everything. Too much but never enough. It’s a dangerous kind of rabbit hole, one that feels productive, useful, like I’m doing something. Like knowledge might translate into control if I just gather enough of it.
It doesn’t. But I keep going anyway. My eyes flick to him every few minutes. Still asleep. Still breathing. Still here.
At around eight, his phone starts ringing. The sound cuts through the quiet, sharp enough to pull me out of whatever article I’m halfway through. I glance at the screen lighting up beside him.
Dad.
I hesitate. I remember his mother’s voice yesterday, tight with worry, polite but strained when she asked for my number. It would be nice to have someone else we could reach out to, she'd said
I could wake him. I should, probably. But he looks peaceful for once. Untouched by the constant undercurrent of discomfort that seems to follow him now. So I let it ring. I figure it’ll stop. That maybe she’ll call me next, and I’ll explain, tell them he’s just asleep, that he’s okay, that....
Ryan stirs.
His brow furrows slightly, like the sound has found him somewhere deeper than the surface, and his hand moves blindly until it finds the phone. He squints at the screen, then pushes himself upright slowly. His eyes flick to me, then to the laptop for a couple of seconds. Then back to the phone as he answers.
“Hey dad,” he says, voice rough with sleep. He keeps it light at first. Reassuring. Answering the questions I can’t hear but can easily imagine.
Yeah, I’m okay.
Yeah, the treatment’s started.
No, it’s not too bad.
Yeah, I had to pause work.
There are pauses in between. Small ones. The kind that mean someone on the other end is asking something harder. His gaze drifts to me at one point, lingering. “Yeah,” he says. “It’s true.” I still, not sure what that’s in response to. Then he smiles. Small, subtle and almost private. Still looking at me, he adds, softer, “He’s wonderful.”
I don’t look away. A few more minutes pass like that....him listening, answering, reassuring in ways that sound practiced but not insincere. Then the call ends. He lowers the phone slowly, staring at it for a second before setting it aside.
“They’ve booked a flight,” he says after a moment. “They’ll be here in three days.”
I nod, closing the laptop fully, the soft click sounding louder than it should.
“Okay.”
It feels like the kind of news that should come with more. More reaction. More weight. But it just settles.
I stand, gesturing lightly toward the hallway. “You should go to bed. Get some more sleep.”
He shakes his head. “Can’t,” he murmurs. “Sleep’s gone.”
There’s a beat. Then he looks at me, something lighter slipping back into his expression, like he’s choosing it. “Do you want to play Scrabble?”
“Scrabble?”
He nods, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “I have the board in the closet. I used to play against myself, which, admittedly, is a very lonely way to win.” A small shrug. “Might be nice to have an opponent.”
Something about that, about him sitting alone, playing a two-player game just to fill the space, does something quiet and unpleasant to my chest. But I don’t let it show. Instead, I huff a soft laugh.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “But be warned. I'll challenge every 'word' you try to invent.”
He chuckles, and we end up in bed. Just sitting across from each other, the board between us, tiles scattered in a small, chaotic pile. The room is dim, the kind of dim that makes everything feel more intimate than it should.
He’s more awake now. Not fully energized, but present in a way that feels deliberate.
We play. Neither of us particularly competitive, though he pretends to be.
“You’re making that up,” he accuses at one point.
“I’m not.”
“That’s not a word.”
“It is.”
“It shouldn’t be.”
I laugh under my breath, shaking my head as I place another tile down. He watches me for a second longer than necessary, then looks back at the board, but I catch it....that softness again. That quiet, unspoken thing that lingers in the space between moves.
We don’t rush it.
The tiles clack softly as we draw our letters. And for a moment, the cancer is just a background noise, like the wind outside the window. We’re just two people in a bed, fighting over double-letter scores and the validity of the word ‘whelm,’ which he claims no one has ever used unironically in a sentence, and I’m starting to think he might be right.
We're arguing over nothing, because nothing is easier than everything else. And I’d let him win every time if it meant he’d keep smiling like that.
After a beat, Ryan reaches for the tiles. I’m watching him, half-distracted, half-amused, expecting something ridiculous....some obscure word he’s about to defend like it’s sacred. But then I notice the way his fingers move. Not from the pile but from the board.
“Hey....” I start, narrowing my eyes. “Are you seriously—”
He doesn’t even try to hide it. Just calmly lifts a letter from one of my words, then another, rearranging them with quiet intent.
“That’s cheating. That’s not even subtle cheating, that’s.....shamelessly blatant!”
He ignores me. His focus stays on the board until he places the last tile down with a soft, final tap. Then he leans back a little and gestures toward it, like....there.
I glance down, ready to argue. And then I see it.
KISS ME.
My throat goes dry. Slowly, I look up. His eyes are already on me. Grey, steady, something alive in them now...something warmer, sharper, cutting through the quiet ease of the night we’ve built around ourselves.
“Still cheating,” I murmur, but there’s no weight behind it anymore. Not when he’s looking at me like that. Not when the air has shifted. Not when I can feel that pull, like gravity suddenly decided to matter more.
I lean in before I can think too much about it. My hand comes up to the back of his neck, fingers curling there, grounding him, grounding myself, and then I kiss him.
It’s not rushed or desperate. Just certain. Like something we’ve both been circling all night finally finds its way into existence. His lips are warm and he exhales into it, a quiet sound that settles somewhere deep in my chest. I start to pull back, but he doesn’t let me.
He hooks his hand behind my head, his fingers tangling in my hair, and pulls me back in. This kiss is different. It’s slower, deeper. Like he’s taking his time with it, like he wants to feel it, remember it, hold onto every second of it.
It tastes like a rebellion.
I feel his other hand slide downward, the palm cool as it dips beneath the hem of my shirt. When his skin meets mine, it’s like an electric current. He strokes the small of my back, his touch light but searing, and a low, involuntary sound catches in my throat.
I break the kiss just enough to look at him, my forehead resting against his. His grey eyes aren't tired anymore. They’re wide, alive, and burning with a hunger that makes my blood turn to liquid fire.
"Michael," he whispers, his voice dropping into a register that makes my chest ache. “I want you.”