Chapter 22
Ethan
Ethan scrubbed a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he surveyed the house one last time. The scent of garlic and tomatoes filled the air, the lasagna his mom had spent the afternoon assembling now baking to golden perfection in the oven. The dining table was already set—plates, silverware, folded napkins, and a bottle of wine he’d picked out sitting next to the tiramisu his dad had brought home.
It was perfect. His mom had made sure of that.
And yet, Ethan still felt like a nervous wreck.
“Why the hell am I so anxious?” he muttered, glancing at Ranger, who sat calmly by the kitchen doorway, watching him with his usual stoic expression. “It’s just dinner.”
Ranger let out a soft huff, tilting his head.
“Yeah, I know,” Ethan mumbled. “But Mom’s been working so hard on this, and Dad’s trying to be social for once. I just want it to go well.”
And maybe—just maybe—he wanted Mark to feel welcome here. Like family.
Before he could analyze that thought too much, the doorbell rang.
Ethan wiped his hands on a kitchen towel, steeled himself, and went to answer it.
Mark stood on the porch, looking more casual than usual in a navy-blue sweater and grey jeans. He held a bottle of wine in one hand, his expression unreadable at first—until he caught sight of Ethan.
“Hey,” Mark greeted, stepping inside. His gaze swept around the house, taking in the warmth of the space. “Smells incredible in here.”
Ethan smirked. “Yeah, well, don’t get too excited yet. You haven’t met my mom.”
Mark arched a brow. “Should I be worried?”
Before Ethan could answer, his mom’s voice chimed from the living room.
“Is that Mark? Bring him in here!”
Mark chuckled, shaking his head as Ethan led him toward the quaint comfortable room.
His mom was seated in a cushioned chair, a shawl draped over her thin shoulders, but the moment Mark stepped in, her smile lit up the entire room. Ethan’s dad, standing beside her, offered Mark a firm nod.
“You must be Mark,” Martha said warmly. “Come here, let me get a look at you.”
Mark hesitated for half a second before stepping forward, shaking her hand gently. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Williams.”
“Oh, please, call me Martha.” She patted his hand, her grip frail but full of warmth. “Ethan’s told us so much about you.”
Ethan groaned. “Mom…”
“What?” she teased, winking at Mark. “I had to make sure you were good enough to be his friend.”
Mark chuckled, glancing at Ethan. “I feel like I should either be honored or terrified.”
“A little of both,” Ethan muttered.
His dad stepped forward, shaking Mark’s hand with a firm grip. “Joseph Williams. Good to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Mark said, nodding.
Ethan watched the exchange, feeling something settle inside him. It wasn’t lost on him that Mark seemed… different here. Softer, almost.
Maybe it was the house, the warmth of it. Or maybe it was just the way his mom had of making everyone feel like they belonged.
Dinner was perfect. The lasagna was rich, the salad crisp, the wine smooth. The conversation flowed easily, full of laughter and teasing.
And then, somewhere between bites of the last of the garlic bread, Martha turned to Mark with a gentle but knowing look.
“Ethan tells me you lost your wife.”
The table went quiet.
Mark froze, his fork hovering over his plate for a moment before he set it down. His expression didn’t change, but Ethan could see the way his shoulders stiffened.
“I did,” Mark said quietly.
Ethan’s dad shifted slightly, glancing at his wife, but neither intervened. They knew better than anyone—when she wanted someone to open up, they usually did.
“She had cancer too?” Martha asked, her voice soft.
Mark nodded. “Breast cancer. Stage four.”
Ethan’s breath hitched, his gaze snapping to Mark. He’d never heard him say it out loud before.
Martha’s expression remained warm, but her eyes softened. “She fought hard, didn’t she?”
Mark exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah. She did. Harder than anyone I’ve ever known.” His voice was steady, but Ethan could see the way his fingers curled slightly against the table. “She was… relentless. Even on the worst days, she never stopped smiling. Never stopped planning, dreaming.”
Martha reached across the table, placing a frail but firm hand over his. “And you were right there beside her.”
Mark swallowed, his jaw tightening for a second before he nodded. “Yeah.”
Ethan’s chest ached. He could see it now—the way Mark had carried that pain for years. How it was still sitting there, just beneath the surface.
“You took care of her,” Martha continued, her voice unwavering. “You made sure she wasn’t alone. That’s not something everyone can do, Mark.”
Mark stared at her, something unreadable flickering in his expression. He opened his mouth, then closed it, exhaling sharply.
“I didn’t do enough,” he admitted. “I wanted to do more, but I couldn’t save her.”
Martha squeezed his hand. “That’s because it wasn’t your job to save her, sweetheart. It was your job to love her. And you did.”
Mark inhaled sharply, his eyes dropping to the table for a long moment. When he looked up again, there was something different in his expression—not just grief, but something else.
Maybe peace. Maybe understanding.
Maybe both.
Ethan watched the exchange, his heart hammering in his chest.
He’d never seen Mark like this before. So open. So vulnerable.
And all it took was his mother’s kindness to make it happen.
Mark turned to Ethan, his gaze steady, something quiet but meaningful in his expression.
“Your mom’s pretty incredible,” he murmured.
Ethan smirked, forcing some lightness back into the moment. “Yeah, she is. And she’s got a black belt in making people talk about their feelings, so you never really stood a chance.”
Mark chuckled, shaking his head. “Noted.”
Mark had just shared Jessica’s battle with cancer, his voice thick with grief yet lighter than Ethan had ever heard it before. It was like his mom had peeled back a part of him no one else had been able to touch. Now, she took a steady breath, her eyes, tired but ever full of love, shifting to Mark with the same comforting warmth she had given Ethan his whole life.
“I know what it’s like,” she said softly, her hands folded on the table in front of her. “To be the one with cancer.”
Mark, who had been swirling the last sip of his wine in his glass, stilled. Ethan did too.
She didn’t say it often—not like this. Sure, she talked about treatments, about good days and bad, but rarely did she speak about what it felt like. And never had she spoken about it this openly, like she was trying to bridge something between herself and Mark.
“When I first found out,” she continued, her voice steady but quiet, “I wasn’t scared for myself. I was scared for them.” She nodded toward Ethan, then toward her husband. “I knew it would be hard on me, but all I could think about was them. My family. How could I tell them? How could I make them go through this?”
Ethan clenched his jaw, staring at his hands, but he didn’t interrupt. He had never asked her this before. Never had the heart to.
She gave a small, soft laugh. “Then I realized—I didn’t make them do anything. They choose to love me through it. And that’s what love is, isn’t it? Choosing someone, even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.”
Mark exhaled sharply through his nose, but Ethan saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers curled slightly on the table.
She smiled at him, kind and knowing. “I don’t know if I’m speaking out of turn, Mark, but I have a feeling Jessica felt the same way.”
Mark swallowed, his throat working against emotion. “She… she never said it like that,” he admitted. “She was always trying to make it easier for me. Like she didn’t want me to feel—”
“Helpless?” Martha finished for him.
Mark blinked, nodding.
She hummed knowingly. “That’s what’s hardest about this. The dignity. Losing pieces of yourself—physically, emotionally. Being carried up the stairs, being too weak to open a jar, to cook, to do the things you once did so easily. It’s humiliating, to be honest.” She took a deep breath, then gave a wry smile. “But then I remember that love isn’t about strength. It isn’t about being useful. Love is being loved and accepting it even when you don’t feel worthy of it.”
Ethan had to force himself to breathe. He hated this—hated knowing that she felt like this. That she saw herself like this. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, but he also knew that, in her own way, she wasn’t.
Mark’s expression was unreadable, but something in his eyes shone—something breaking and mending all at once.
Martha reached across the table, her thin fingers wrapping over Mark’s hand again. “Men like the three of you—my husband, my son, and you… you’re the cure for cancer.”
Mark let out a shaky laugh, shaking his head. “I wish that were true.”
“It is,” she said firmly, squeezing his hand. “Because love is the only thing that heals. And when the day comes that cancer takes my body, I’ll go knowing that I was loved. That’s the greatest gift anyone could ever give me.”
Ethan clenched his jaw, looking away, because if he looked too long at her—if he let this moment sink in—he wasn’t sure he could hold it together.
Mark’s grip tightened over hers. His voice, when he spoke, was rough, heavy. “Jessica was right.”
Martha tilted her head. “About what?”
“She always said love could transcend anything.”
Martha smiled, her eyes shimmering. “Smart woman.”
Mark’s throat bobbed. “Yeah. She really was.”
Silence stretched between them, not uncomfortable, but full. Ethan inhaled slowly, steadying himself.
Then his mom, ever the one to lighten a heavy moment, let out a breath and waved a hand. “Alright, enough of this. I’m not dead yet, and I’d rather not sit here like I am. Where’s that damn tiramisu?”
Mark barked out a laugh, and Ethan did too, rubbing his eyes before standing to grab the dessert. His mom was impossible. And he loved her for it.
Once the last bites of tiramisu had been savored and a comfortable ease settled over the room, Joseph pushed back from the table, gathering his plate and silverware. Before he could take more than a step toward the sink, Ethan and Mark were already on their feet, moving to help without a second thought.
Martha winked. “Honey, why don’t you take Mark up to your room and show him your trophies?”
Ethan, looking flustered rolled his eyes as his mom pushed him—almost literally—toward the stairs. “Mom, seriously, Mark doesn’t want to see my old trophies from high school.”
“Hell yes, I do,” Mark interrupted, setting his wine glass down with a grin. “Lead the way, champ.”
Ethan groaned but obeyed, leading Mark up the narrow staircase toward his childhood room. As they reached the top, he hesitated. No one besides his parents had really been in here since he moved back. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of it, but there was something deeply personal about the space. It was his childhood wrapped up in four walls, a place filled with both his dreams and the weight of his responsibilities.
He pushed open the door.
Mark stepped inside and let out a low whistle. “Holy shit, Williams.”
The room was small, cluttered, and utterly lived-in. The walls were lined with old wrestling trophies, medals, and framed team photos. A shelf above the bed held Air Force memorabilia. A folded flag, a few challenge coins, and a picture of him with his first K9 partner, Katie. His twin-sized bed, still against the wall, looked comically small for a grown man. A dog crate sat beside it, Ranger’s designated sleeping spot.
Ethan noticed that what caught Mark’s attention the most was the ceiling—the faded, peeling glow-in-the-dark constellations that Ethan had stuck up there when he was twelve.
Mark chuckled, crossing his arms as he took it all in. “Man, this room is… alive.”
Ethan raised a brow. “Alive?”
“Yeah,” Mark said, glancing around with something close to admiration. “You can feel it. It’s like your entire life is here. Your dreams, your passions, your achievements. It’s not just a bedroom—it’s a story.”
Ethan shifted awkwardly. “You’re getting a little poetic there, Jensen.”
Mark ignored him and stepped toward the twin bed. His smirk deepened as he tapped the mattress with his knuckles. “Aww, is this where you had your first wet dream?”
Ethan groaned, smacking Mark’s shoulder. “Oh my God, shut up!”
Mark laughed, rubbing his arm dramatically. “I’m just saying, this is a goddamn time capsule. I can just imagine you lying awake in this tiny bed, staring at those stars, dreaming of being a hero.”
Ethan hesitated, glancing at the constellations. “Yeah,” he admitted softly. “I guess I did.”
Mark took another slow look around the room, his gaze falling on a framed photo on the dresser—Ethan in his Air Force uniform, standing beside a German Shepherd. He picked it up. “Who’s this?”
Ethan nodded, stepping closer. “Katie. She was my first K9. My first partner.”
Mark could hear the warmth in his voice, but something else, too. Loss.
“She looks like she was a badass,” Mark said, setting the frame down carefully.
Ethan let out a quiet chuckle. “She is.”
Mark’s gaze drifted to the bedside table where another photo sat—this one of Ethan’s parents, smiling, his mom looking healthier, his dad looking less worn. Mark swallowed. “Ethan…” He hesitated. “You didn’t tell me your mom had stage four.”
Ethan’s breath caught.
Mark turned, watching as Ethan stiffened, his expression unreadable. For a moment, he thought Ethan was going to brush it off like he always did, make a joke, or change the subject.
“It’s ok, I never really opened up about what happened to Jessica, so I get it.”
Instead, Ethan inhaled sharply, gripping the back of the chair by his desk. “I didn’t really… let myself think about it. It’s so hard to say the words.” His voice was hoarse, quiet. “I mean, I know. Of course, I know that I should. But…” He exhaled, shaking his head. “Hearing you talk about Jessica tonight, about how she fought, how you fought for her…” His throat bobbed. “I have to be strong.”
Mark didn’t say anything, letting the silence stretch between them.
“I have to be strong…”
Then, Ethan choked on a breath, his shoulders trembling, and suddenly, the dam broke. His hands flew to his face as the sob tore through him, raw and uncontrollable.
Mark’s heart clenched. Without thinking, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him.
Ethan didn’t resist.
He clutched Mark’s shirt, burying his face in his shoulder as his body shook. Mark held him firmly, rubbing a slow hand up and down his back, grounding him for several minutes.
For the first time in years, Ethan let himself break.
Mark held on, his grip strong, his voice quiet. “You don’t have to carry all of it alone, you know.”
Ethan shuddered, sucking in a deep breath. “You do what you have to do.”
“No, you don’t.” Mark pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, one hand still gripping his shoulder, the other on his chin. “I know what it’s like to feel like you must be strong for everyone else. But trust me, Ethan… you don’t have to do it alone, and from now on, you’re not alone. You have me!”
Ethan searched his face, his own eyes red-rimmed, his breath uneven.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Ethan sniffed, let out a weak chuckle, and muttered, “Damn. You give really good hugs.”
Mark rolled his eyes, smirking. “Yeah, yeah. Get used to them, Williams.”
Ethan laughed softly, wiping at his face.
And just like that, Ethan knew—this wasn’t just friendship anymore.
It was something more.
Something deeper.
Something unshakable.