Chapter 85 So Much
RYAN'S POV
I’m in love with someone who loves me back.
It still feels strange to say that in my head, like the words belong to someone else’s life. Like they were meant for another version of me that exists somewhere far away. But it’s true, I’m in love with Michael.
And Michael is in love with me.
I found something I’ve spent most of my life hoping for without really admitting it out loud. The kind of thing people write songs about and build entire movies around. The kind of love that feels easy and steady and real in a way that doesn’t make you question it every five minutes.
And somehow it feels even better than I imagined it would.
The timing, however, is catastrophically bad.
So are the circumstances.
There’s no elegant way to put that. No poetic phrasing that makes it sound less tragic. The universe handed me the best thing that has ever happened to me and attached an expiration date to it like some kind of cosmic joke. But I try not to think about that too much. Because there isn’t anything I can do about it.
So instead, I try to soak it in.
I try to let myself exist inside this strange, lovely little bubble where the only thing that matters is the fact that Michael and I found each other. A small, colorful pocket of reality where the future isn’t a looming shadow and the only truth that exists is that I love him and he loves me.
And most of the time, I manage it.
Like two nights ago, when we were dancing in his living room. Or when I watched him run around the house after Ember, who was in one of her awfully energetic moods. Or the quieter moments. When I’m lying on the couch reading something and he wanders over without saying a word, climbs in beside me, and rests his head against my chest like it’s the most natural place in the world to be.
Those are the moments I like best. Little pockets of time where everything feels almost normal.
But there are other moments too.
Moments when my body refuses to cooperate with the illusion. Moments when I’m too sick, too weak, too mentally exhausted to stay inside that bubble.
Like when the nausea hits so suddenly I have to sit on the bathroom floor with my head resting against the cool porcelain of the tub while my hands shake for no reason. Or when I'm simply walking around and have to stop halfway because my lungs feel like they’ve forgotten how to work. Or when my bones ache so deeply it feels like the inside of my body is slowly grinding itself down....or moments like last night.
When my nose started bleeding out of nowhere, dark stains spreading across the fabric and the pillow beneath my head before I fully woke up. I tried to move quietly, carefully, slipping out of bed so I wouldn’t wake Michael.
But lately, he doesn’t really let himself sleep deeply. Not anymore. Not with the possibility that I might need him. So he woke up anyway.
I told him to go back to bed.
He didn’t. He just stood there in the soft yellow light, watching me while I held tissues against my nose until the bleeding finally slowed down and stopped. And when it did, he quietly stripped the pillowcase off the pillow and replaced it while I changed my shirt.
Neither of us said much. We didn’t really need to.
Morning comes quietly. The light slipping through the curtains is soft and pale, the kind that makes everything look slower, gentler than it really is. I’m lying on my side, watching Michael.
He’s on his back, one arm resting above his head, the other draped loosely across his stomach. His eyes are closed. But I know he’s not asleep. There’s a difference in the way his breathing moves when he’s really sleeping. When he’s pretending, there’s always this faint awareness in it, like his body is listening for something.
For me.
After a moment, his brow shifts slightly, and then he murmurs, “Morning.”
I smile. “Morning.”
I reach out and brush the back of my fingers gently along his cheek. His skin is warm, slightly rough where the faint shadow of stubble has grown in overnight.
His eyes open slowly. For a second he just looks at me, his gaze moving across my face like he’s quietly checking something. Like he’s making sure I’m really there. Then he exhales.
“I had a dream about Ember,” he says.
“Oh?”
He squints slightly at the ceiling like he’s trying to reconstruct the absurdity of it.
“She learned how to open doors,” he says. “Which was already concerning. But then she figured out how to operate the coffee machine.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“And she made herself espresso at three in the morning,” he says seriously. “Then jumped on my chest and screamed directly into my face.”
I laugh softly. “And you still consider it a dream?”
He huffs a quiet breath through his nose. For a moment we just lie there again, looking at each other in the soft morning light.
“You look really lovely when you sleep,” I say. He scoffs immediately, like the idea is deeply offensive. But there’s a small smile trying to escape at the corner of his mouth.
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” he mutters.
I lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek. When I pull back, I stay close enough that our faces are only inches apart. And then, quietly, before I can overthink it, I whisper... “I love you.”
The words hang in the air between us.
Simple and bare. Not tucked inside another sentence. Not disguised as something lighter. Just the truth, laid out plainly.
For a moment, Michael doesn’t move.
His expression changes in this slow, almost fragile way, like something inside him has just been carefully unlocked. His eyes soften first, then his mouth parts slightly. His gaze searches my face again, slower this time. Like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s holding the moment very carefully in his hands. His hand moves before I can read the intention behind it.
One second he’s lying there looking at me, and the next his arm wraps firmly around my waist.
There’s a sudden shift of weight and blankets and limbs as he pulls me with him, rolling us over in one swift motion until my back meets the mattress and Michael's hovering above me.
“Hey—” I start, startled.
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. He just looks down at me, one hand braced beside my shoulder, the other still loosely around my side like he doesn’t intend to let me go. Then he leans down and kisses me.
It’s not hurried or desperate. Just warm. Certain.
When he pulls back, our faces are still close enough that I can feel his breath against my mouth.
“I love you too,” he says.
My arms slide around his neck without thinking, holding him there. And then we just look at each other.
Michael has this way of holding eye contact that feels almost intrusive sometimes. Those bright blue eyes don’t just glance at you, they study you. They settle in. Right now they’re softer than usual, but the intensity is still there.
It makes my chest tighten a little.
After a moment he dips his head again and kisses me once more, slower this time. When he pulls back, his forehead almost brushes mine.
“So much,” he murmurs softly.
My grip tightens slightly around his neck. I open my mouth to say something....
But before I can, the unmistakable sound of a loud knock echoes through the apartment.