Raven
Darkness settles around me so gradually I don't notice it until the living room has almost disappeared. At some point, the sun slipped behind the trees, but I never got up to turn on the lights.
Beyond the open window, the creek moves through the backyard with the same quiet rhythm it always has, gliding over stone as though nothing in the world has changed.
It keeps going.
Tomorrow it will sound exactly the same.
The thought should comfort me.
Instead, it makes my chest ache.
The familiar rumble of Sam's bike reaches me a few moments later.
The engine is quieter than usual by the time it dies, and then there's only the sound of his boots crossing the porch. They stop just inside the front door.
I can feel the energy rolling off him before I even look up. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
“There’s a doctor in California,” he finally says, his words sure. “He takes cases other doctors won’t. I left a message and emailed your files. We can leave tomorrow so we’re there when he can see you.”
He’s pacing.
“We don’t have to accept what that guy said.” We get another opinion. We get ten.”
I watch him. His hands move when he talks.
“Sam.”
He keeps going.
“We’ll fly out. We’ll stay as long as we have to. I don’t care what it costs. I’ll sell the cottage. My bike. I’ll call in every favor I’m owed.”
“Wolf.”
He stops this time and turns toward me.
I stand slowly. “I don’t want to go to California.”
His face changes.
Not anger.
Fear.
“This isn’t a diagnosis we can outrun. The doctor said the cancer is advanced. There isn’t a surgery that’ll fix this.”
“That’s not—” He runs a hand through his hair. “You don’t know that. We don’t know that yet.”
“I do.”
The quiet between us deepens.
“I don’t want my last months measured in treatment cycles,” I say carefully. “I don’t want to be sick from something that isn’t going to save me.”
The hope in his eyes dims. “We don’t know that.”
Simple. Human. Painful.
“The doctor said weeks,” I remind him gently. “Maybe months.”
Sam looks like I’ve struck him.
“I don’t want you remembering me in a hospital bed,” I continue. “I don’t want you remembering me hooked to machines.”
“I won’t,” he says immediately. “I won’t care.”
“I will.”
That stops him, and I step closer.
“I want to feel like myself for as long as I can. I want to walk to the creek. I want to ride with you while it’s still warm. I want to be here.”
His eyes search my face like he’s looking for hesitation.
There isn’t any.
“So, you’re just quitting.”
“I’m not quitting,” I tell him softly. “I’m choosing.”
“You’re asking me to just let it happen.”
“No,” I say. “I’m asking you to be here with me while it does.”
That breaks something in him.
“I can't lose you,” he says, the words catching before he can force them out.
“You don’t lose me yet.” I reach for his hands and lace our fingers together. “You still have me.”
The fight drains out of him. He exhales long and heavy as he steps into me. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me to him. I feel everything, the way his body shudders once like something in him finally gives way.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits against my hair.
“We’ll figure it out,” I whisper and tilt my face up toward his. “Kiss me.”
He hesitates only a heartbeat before his mouth finds mine. He moves like he's afraid to rush any of it, like every second matters more now. His hands come up to frame my face, thumbs tracing my cheekbones the way you handle something irreplaceable. I feel the tremor in them even as he holds steady.
My hands slip under his shirt, needing the feel of skin, of muscle, of something alive and solid beneath my palms. He's warm. Real. Here. I press my hands flat against his back and breathe him in.
He gathers me into his arms without a word. He's carried me like this before, laughing as I protested, but tonight there's no teasing in it. Only quiet care as he carries me to the bedroom and settles me gently onto the bed. His hands linger for just a moment, reluctant to let go.
I catch his wrist before he can step away and draw him down beside me.
He doesn't rush. Every movement is unhurried, deliberate, as though he's committing each moment to memory. His fingers find the hem of my shirt, then still.
His eyes lift to mine.
I reach up and cradle his face between my hands. "I'm still me," I whisper. "I'm still here."
His eyes close for the briefest moment, leaning into my touch before he opens them again.
Something in him settles, and he eases my shirt over my head. His gaze moves over me slowly, not with hunger but with something deeper and quieter that makes my chest ache more than anything the doctors said today.
My hands slide under the hem of his shirt and push it up. slowly, palms dragging against warm skin, feeling the shift of muscle underneath. Sam reaches back and pulls it off in one motion, tossing it onto the floor.
My hands slide slowly up his body, feeling the familiar strength beneath my fingertips until they come to rest against his chest.
His heartbeat is steady beneath my palm.
Steadier than mine.
When I look up, his eyes are already on me. His jaw is tight, his expression caught somewhere between love and heartbreak.
I lean forward and press a kiss to the center of his chest.
"Raven."
It's only my name, but it holds everything he can't bring himself to say.
I smile against his skin, then shift slightly and press another kiss over his heart, letting my lips linger there. It beats strong and sure beneath them.
His fingers slip into my hair, gentle at first before tightening just enough to coax me back to him.
"Come here," he says, his voice low, the words almost disappearing between us.
Our mouths meet, and the rest of the world falls away.
Sam kisses me the way he loves me—with quiet certainty, never rushed, never careless. His hand cups the back of my neck while the other settles against my waist, holding me close without asking for anything except this moment.
When he finally draws back, his forehead rests against mine. His eyes are darker than usual, but there's no distance in them now. Only the man I've loved all along, stripped of every wall he carries for everyone else.
No vice president.
No protector.
Just Samuel.
He eases me onto my back, never breaking our gaze. His hand drifts from my shoulder to my arm, then along my side until it settles lightly at my waist. Every touch is unhurried, filled with a quiet tenderness that says more than words ever could. He watches my face while he does it.
Every shift in my breathing.
Every place my body answers him.
His mouth follows the path where his hands have been. My jaw. My throat. The curve of my shoulder. Then lower.
When his mouth reaches my stomach, my breath leaves me in a rush. I feel him smile against my skin.
“Sam.”
“I know,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t stop.
By the time he works his way back up my body, I’m trembling. He kisses me slow and deep as his hand slides between us. I gasp into his mouth, my fingers curling hard into his shoulder.
“Look at me,” he murmurs.
When I open my eyes, he's already looking at me.
His expression is so unguarded it catches me off balance. The fear is still there, just beneath the surface, but it isn't the only thing I see.
I see the man who refused to accept the first answer.
The man who’ll move heaven and earth if it means finding another one.
The man who came home to me.
His hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away a tear I hadn't realized had fallen.
For a long moment, neither of us moves. His forehead rests against mine, our breaths mingling in the quiet between us.
"I love you," he says, the words so soft they almost disappear.
A tear slips free, and I smile through it.
“Then don’t spend tonight saying goodbye," I whisper. "Love me.”
His eyes close, and the breath that leaves him feels almost like surrender—not to the diagnosis, but to us.
When he opens them again, I see the decision settle over him.
Not fear.
Not grief.
Unconditional Love.
He kisses me again, and when he finally closes the last of the distance between us, he does it slowly, giving me every chance to stop him.
I never do.
Instead, I wrap my arms around him and hold him as close as I can.
Tomorrow will still be waiting for us.
Tonight belongs to us.
We come apart in each other’s arms, holding on like neither of us is ready to let go. I cling to him as he breathes against my neck.
After a moment, he slowly rolls to my side, one arm still wrapped around me. He slides his free hand to my chest, resting over my heart as if he’s counting the beats.
I cover his hand with mine and feel the tension still living in his fingers. He won't let himself fall apart. Not tonight. Not in front of me. That's so entirely him that it makes me love him harder and ache for him all at once.
"I want you to remember me like this," I whisper.
He lifts his head. His eyes are fierce.
"I'm not memorizing you because you're not leaving."
I smile faintly. "Memorize me anyway."
Something crosses his face, too many things at once before he pulls me into his chest, leaving no space between us.
He holds me like he can anchor me here by will alone.
And maybe for tonight, he can.