Chapter 70 I feel guilty
The blood takes its time, it always does. It’s not dramatic, just persistent. Like my body is quietly reminding me that it’s working on different terms now.
Twenty minutes pass before it finally slows. Then stops.
I lower the cloth and the white is mostly gone. In its place is red. Deep, blooming and irreversible. I stare at it. Blink again, then turn to him. Michael reaches over and gently takes the handkerchief from my fingers. He opens an empty coffee cup in the console and tucks it inside like he’s putting something precious away instead of something ruined.
He glances at me and gives me the smallest smile.
“You owe me a new handkerchief now.”
I let out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He squeezes my hand once before shifting the car back into drive. The city moves again. I rest my head against the window once more.
I’m the type of tired that feels like slipping under warm water and not entirely caring how deep it is. Outside, the night is beautiful and indifferent. Inside, my body feels like a haunted house....quiet corridors, fragile wiring, something leaking behind the walls.
But his hand is still wrapped around mine.
And the car keeps moving forward.
And today was still a good day.
I make the mistake of sitting down the second we get home. The couch swallows me whole. I barely register the cushions beneath me before everything goes black at the edges. It isn’t even sleep, not properly. It’s more like my body pulling a fuse.
“Ryan.”
A hand on my shoulder. Gentle and insistent. I blink up at Michael, disoriented, like I’ve surfaced from somewhere deep and airless. “Bed,” he says softly. “Come on.”
I nod and push myself up..The room tilts immediately. A hard, violent sway. I steady myself against the arm of the couch, but it’s useless. My knees forget what they’re for..Michael’s hands are there before I can pretend they don’t need to be.
“I’m fine,” I murmur automatically.
“Mm,” he hums, not agreeing.
He doesn’t let go of me as we make our way down the hall. His grip isn’t tight, just certain. Like he’s already calculated how much of my weight he might have to carry.
By the time we reach my bedroom, Ember is sprawled across the middle of the bed like she pays rent.
Michael scoffs softly and guides me to the edge of the mattress. I don’t sit, if I sit, I’ll get pulled under again. He crosses to the dresser and pulls out a t-shirt and pajama pants for me, laying them out with quiet efficiency. The bed looks dangerously inviting. All I'd have to do is close my eyes.
I force myself to stay upright.
I change slowly. My fingers feel clumsy, distant, like they belong to someone else. Halfway through taking off my shirt, a chill crawls across my skin so sharply I shiver.
“Why is it so cold?” I ask, genuinely confused. “Did you open a window?”
Michael looks at me. It’s not a long look, just soft. “It’s not cold,” he says gently.
Oh..... right.
Another side effect. Of the illness. Of the chemo. Of my marrow turning against itself. Hard to tell which culprit deserves the credit anymore. I nod like that settles it.
He hands me my meds and waits while I take them. Watches to make sure I swallow. The domesticity of it sits heavy in my chest. Then he leaves to go turn off the lights. And in the brief dimness before he leaves the room, it hits me. He’s here pretty much every night. Not because it’s convenient. Because he thinks I need to be looked after.
He’s rearranged his life quietly, to make space for me in this condition. To orbit my appointments, my infusions, my unpredictable blood counts. His days bend around my weakness.
From one angle, it’s unbearably sweet.
From another, it feels like a trap I didn’t mean to build.
I slowly get into bed, sit up against the headboard and draw the covers up around my shoulders, tucking them close like they might hold the heat in if I ask nicely enough. Ember lifts her head at the shift in weight. Then, with a long-suffering stretch, she stands, turns in a slow circle, and pads toward the end of the bed like I’ve single-handedly disrupted the sacred balance of her evening.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
She doesn’t look back. Just curls up near my feet instead. I watch her settle, and for a second, I almost envy how easily she adjusts....no overthinking, just movement.
It’s cold.
No... I’m cold.
Just me.
The room isn’t.
I wait, footsteps return down the hallway. The light outside clicks off. The doorframe fills with Michael’s silhouette. He stops just inside, his eyes land on me immediately. Upright, rigid, cocooned in blankets like I’m bracing for something.
He knows something's up, because he's become so attuned to me he can tell with one look.
“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly.
I don’t answer him right away. The silence stretches. Michael doesn’t fill it. He just stands there in the doorway, patient in a way that makes it worse. I stare at the blankets gathered in my fists.
“I feel guilty,” I confess finally.
He doesn’t hesitate. “What for?”
I gesture weakly between us. The room. The bed. The invisible gravity pulling him closer every day.
“For this,” I murmur. “For turning you into a personal caretaker.” My eyes drop. “It’s unfair. And deeply unromantic.”
The word sounds ridiculous in my mouth.
Michael exhales something that might almost be a laugh.
“Ryan.”
I don’t look up.
“Have you never watched a romance?” he asks mildly. “Patient and caretaker is basically a genre on its own.”
I try to smile but it doesn’t quite happen. He watches that failure for a second, then he moves. Crosses the room. Sits down beside me, the mattress dipping under his weight.
“I don’t like being alone,” he says after a moment.
I glance at him.
“Especially not when there’s someone I really genuinely like and would rather be around.”
I force a faint smile. “Yeah? Who?”
“Still narrowing down the shortlist. You’re currently leading by an embarrassing margin.”
He shifts closer, lifting a hand to my face. His fingers brush along my jaw, my cheekbone, slow and familiar. Casual enough to pass as affection. His thumb lingers at my temple. He’s checking my temperature. He thinks I don’t notice.
I let him pretend.
“If you really think about it,” he says lightly, “I’m just exploiting your illness to increase my proximity to you.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m a terrible opportunist,” he adds. “No shame.”
My throat tightens despite myself.