Chapter 71 I've chosen
“Ryan,” he says more quietly now, hand still warm against my skin, “I want to be here. I don’t like that you’re sick. I hate that you’re in pain. But that has nothing to do with my time. Or my priorities.”
His eyes lock onto mine.
“Even if the circumstances were different,” he continues, voice lowering, “even if none of this existed... you would still be the axis. Everything else would just arrange itself around that.”
My gaze narrows. That’s not casual, that’s not some throwaway line.
“Am I?” I ask, before I can stop myself.
There’s something dangerously exposed in the question. He nods once.
“Nothing I have to do,” he says quietly, “....means more than who I choose to be there for. And I’ve definitely chosen.”
He doesn’t dramatize it. Doesn’t dress it up. And it does something to me. Something warm and terrifying and vast. The kind of thing that makes the cold recede for a second. The kind of thing that makes me forget I was trying to protect him from orbiting me.
He stands like the conversation hasn’t just shifted the ground beneath me. Like he didn’t just quietly rearrange my entire understanding of where I stand in his life. He hooks his fingers into the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion.
I watch.....I absolutely watch.
He knows it, too. He lets the shirt fall, unbuttons his jeans slowly, like he’s aware of every inch of air between us. When he pushes them down and steps out of them, he turns to face me fully.
Smug and unapologetic.
“You’re ogling again,” he says casually. “Just like at the pottery studio.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“I was not.”
He arches a teasing brow. “Do you like what you see?”
I look away, but then glance back at him anyway. Because I’m weak.
He’s down to his boxers now, and he notices everything. The way my eyes drag before I can stop them.
“You’re not denying it.”
“Why would I deny it?”
He smirks and walks around to the other side of the bed. Ember lifts her head again when he starts to climb in, clearly offended by the continued disruption. He pulls the covers back gently and gets in, slow so the mattress doesn’t dip too suddenly. Once he’s settled on his back, he exhales, staring up at the ceiling for a moment before turning his head toward me.
He extends one arm across the bed, palm open.
“Come here,” he says softly, full of affection. “Let me warm you up.”
I hesitate for half a second, just because moving feels like effort tonight. But then I shift, inching across the mattress toward him. The sheets drag softly under me. Michael lifts the covers higher as I move, creating space for me without rushing it. When I reach him, he wastes no time. His arm slides around my back, drawing me in until there’s no distance left to negotiate.
He adjusts the blankets with his free hand, tucking them around my shoulders, sealing the warmth in like he’s building something protective around us.
I let myself fold into him.
My head comes to rest against his chest, right over his heart. It’s steady beneath my ear. The rhythm of it seeps into me slowly, like heat returning to numb fingers. His hand moves up and down my back in an absent, soothing line.
“Better?” he murmurs into my hair.
I nod against him, eyes closing and breathe him in.
For a moment, everything feels steady. Then a thought creeps in, one that’s been lingering uninvited.
I swallow.
“Michael?”
“Mm.”
My voice drops, “What about your needs?”
He shifts slightly. “What needs?”
I hesitate. It feels ridiculous to say out loud. Embarrassing. Vulnerable in a way the illness almost isn’t. “You know,” I murmur. “Sex, and... stuff. What if I can't....” I pause.
He goes still for half a second.
“What if I get too tired?” I continue quietly. “What if I can’t give you what you need?”
The words taste like defeat. Like I’m already apologizing for something that hasn’t even happened. He exhales softly, thoughtful.
His hand slides into my hair, fingers warm against my scalp. “My needs,” he says carefully, “...are not a checklist you’re responsible for completing.”
I hold my breath unintentionally.
“Being close to you isn’t transactional,” he continues. “It’s not dependent on performance. If you’re tired, we rest,” he says. “If you’re not, we don’t. If all you wanna do is complain about how cold you are, I assure you I'll survive.”
Despite myself, I huff a small laugh..He softens. “I don’t plan to measure what we have by how often we have sex,” he adds quietly. “I measure it by whether you’re here. Whether you’re okay and happy. Got that?”
My chest tightens. “Yeah” I whisper.
“Good,” he replies simply. His hand slowly drifts down my back. And somehow that steadiness feels more intimate than anything else could.
I reach for my briefcase on the dashboard, resting it on my lap. Feels like it’s been ages since I held it in my hand. My gaze flicks to Michael, and I can see it....he’s not pretending he’s okay with this. He’s got a meeting in a couple of hours, Vivienne Hansen, contracts, signatures, the whole circus. I don’t want to keep him here any longer than I have to, not when he’s been sacrificing office comfort just to sit next to me during chemo, even after I told him he didn’t have to.
It hits me suddenly, this is the first time we’ll be separated for more than a few hours in the past week. Strange, considering three weeks ago we didn’t even know the other existed.
“Take your time,” he says softly, his voice carrying that taut undercurrent of concern. “Don’t stand too long. Just settle back in. Move at your own pace.”
I nod, giving him the usual assurances, though I know they barely scratch the surface. It’s almost noon. He knows I only have one class today, but he still worries.
“Don’t walk home,” he adds, his tone firm. “Wait for me. If I can’t come, order a ride.”
“It’s only a few blocks.”
He gives me a look that could cut glass. Then, softly, almost coaxing: “Ryan.... work with me here. I know you’re set on proving you’re not fragile. I have nothing against that. But we also have to be realistic. Overexertion won’t prove anything, it’ll just make things worse.”
I listen. The care in his voice, the worry in his gaze, it’s almost unbearable. And I smile. Stupidly, because I like it. He cups my jaw, fingers pressing gently against my skin, still focused. “Tell me you understand. You’ll listen.”