December 24, 2020—Seattle, Washington—A Month Later
Logan pulled into the hospital parking lot, his heart pounding, his fingers tightening around the steering wheel as he took a steadying breath. It was Christmas Eve, and even the bitter Seattle cold couldn’t dull the warmth curling in his chest at the thought of seeing Adrian again.
Had it really been just a handful of days since he last saw him?
He reached into the passenger seat and grabbed the paper bag that was sitting there before leaving the car and venturing outside into the freezing cold.
Logan’s breath hitched as he stepped through the sterile, whitewashed corridors of the hospital, the scent of antiseptic thick in the air.
Christmas Eve lights twinkled faintly through the glass-paneled windows, but inside, time moved differently.
Slower. Heavier. Every step he took toward Adrian’s room felt longer than it should have felt.
In his hands, he clutched a small paper bag containing a collection of things Adrian loved.
A book, though Adrian was often too tired to read now, and when he did read, he preferred audiobooks so he could listen with his eyes closed.
Socks, warm and soft, for feet that were always cold.
Chamomile tea. And cookies from the small bakery they had discovered early in treatment, when the doctors had cleared Adrian for a brief walk.
Bundled in layers against a Seattle December his Middle Eastern body was still learning to endure, Adrian walked hand in hand with Logan to the lake.
They sat on a nearby bench, the bakery bag resting between them, and although his appetite was thin, Adrian closed his eyes in quiet delight after every bite.
Logan clung to these small, human things; they were the ones who gave a homey feeling to those corridors and walls. They were the ones, in his mind, anchoring Adrian here, preventing him from drifting away from this world just a little longer.
When Logan reached the door, he didn’t knock.
This was home. This was all that was left of it.
Inside, the machines hummed their quiet, merciless symphony.
The beeping of the heart monitor, the slow drip of the IV.
And there he was—Adrian. Smaller now. Hollowed out.
His once golden skin was almost translucent under the fluorescent lights, his breathing steady but fragile, as if his lungs were made of glass.
The sight of him, the undeniable truth of his frailty, punched the air from Logan’s lungs.
But then Adrian opened his eyes, those deep, honey-whiskey eyes that had once stared at him across salt-sprayed waves, full of fire, full of life. And he smiled. A small thing, barely there. But real.
He set the bag down without a word and went straight to the sink to scrub his hands; it was hospital protocol.
When he turned back, Adrian was watching him with quiet amusement, his lips twitching in the faintest ghost of a smirk.
“You’re still washing your hands like a surgeon,” Adrian murmured, voice hoarse but teasing, as his dry lips fought to smile.
Logan huffed a laugh, but it cracked at the edges. “Can’t be too careful.”
He moved to Adrian’s bedside and leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. Then, lower, to the corner of his mouth. It was barely more than a brush of lips, but it was everything. A thousand unspoken apologies. A million silent I love yous.
Then he sank into the chair beside him, fingers tangling instinctively with Adrian’s, anchoring himself in the illusion of warmth that still remained.
Warm.
God, he needed that warmth.
Adrian sighed, his lashes fluttering as exhaustion pulled at him. “You don’t have to be here every second, you know.”
Logan tightened his grip around Adrian’s hand, his throat thick, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Yes, I do.”
Adrian studied him for a long moment before his lips curved, just slightly, into something delicate and knowing.
The kind of smile that had once driven Logan mad with longing, the kind that had felt like the sun breaking through heavy clouds.
Now it was quieter, softer, like the last ember of a fire refusing to go out.
“Merry Christmas, ahuv sheli.”
Logan swallowed past the ache in his chest, his fingers tracing absent patterns along Adrian’s knuckles, feeling the faint tremor beneath his touch. “Merry Christmas, love.”
Adrian’s fingers curled around his, weak but steady. A reminder that he was still here. That there was still time.
“Missed you,” Adrian murmured.
Logan exhaled, his breath shaking. “Me too.”
Adrian’s gaze grew distant for a moment, his mind drifting somewhere far away, somewhere untouched by sterile hospital rooms and the war waging inside his own body. “You know, I never really celebrated Christmas.”
“Really?”
Adrian hummed, shifting slightly against the pillows, wincing as the IV tugged at the tender skin of his arm. “Yeah… I always wanted to, though. It seems fun. With the tree and the gifts and those ridiculous matching pajamas.”
Logan huffed out a quiet laugh, rough around the edges but real. “Well, then, I believe you are definitely due for a Christmas.” He lifted Adrian’s frail hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to his bruised knuckles, the touch lingering. “A hybrid Christmas-Hanukkah extravaganza.”
Adrian’s smile was tired but genuine.
Logan swept his eyes over Adrian, still not quite accustomed to how intensely his pulse raced at the sight of him. His gaze dawdled on the gray knit cap on his head, knowing it wasn’t just for warmth.
He remembered the morning Adrian was admitted, the way they had stood in the bathroom at their apartment—because for Logan, it was their apartment now—staring at the long, dark ponytail in the mirror.
Adrian had washed his hair carefully, combed it back one last time, before turning to Logan and saying, “Do it.”
Logan hesitated, scissors trembling in his grip. But Adrian met his gaze in the mirror, eyes steady, and nodded.
So, Logan did.
Tied the tail. Cut it. Shaved the rest.
Adrian sat there, staring at his reflection, his fingers ghosting over the buzzed skin of his scalp. He tried to make light of it, saying, “Reminds me of the army. Guess I won’t have to use all those ridiculous hair products anymore.”
But Logan heard it. The way his voice had caught. The way his throat had worked around the words.
They donated the hair. And on the drive to the hospital, Adrian ran his fingers over his shaved head, adjusting to the strange lightness. Logan stole glances at him the whole way home, thinking, different, but still Adrian. Always Adrian.
Now, a month later, there was nothing left to run his fingers through.
The chemo had been merciless.
From the start, the doctors had been brutally honest. Adrian’s cancer was advanced and aggressive. There was no easing in, no slow burn. They had gone full force, hitting him with everything they had.
No mercy.
No time to waste.
It had taken everything from him. His strength. His appetite. His sleep. Some days, it even felt like it was taking his spirit.
But not tonight.
Tonight, Adrian smiled at Logan with that same quiet, unshakable love, the love that had carried them across oceans, through lost years and broken hearts. The love that still burned, even now, even in the face of something neither of them could control.
Logan studied him, his heart aching at the sight. Of how much Adrian had lost, how his body had withered under the weight of the battle. His collarbones jutted out sharply, his fingers thin and delicate, wrapped around Logan’s hand like they might disappear if he let go.
But he was still here.
Still fighting.
And that was all that mattered.
Adrian’s voice, soft and hoarse, pulled him back. “How was your flight?”
Logan tore his gaze away from the sharp edges of Adrian’s face, from the ghost of the man he once knew, and met his eyes.
“Fine.” He shrugged, forcing a smirk. “Hate flying.”
Adrian hummed, a tired sound, his eyelids flickering. “Your dad still being… your dad?”
Logan huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Oh yeah. Classic Robert. Confused why I’d rather be here than flying around the world closing deals.”
Adrian squeezed his hand, the pressure barely there but enough. “Because you’re here with me.”
Logan’s throat tightened. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Because I’m here with you.”
He tried to smile, tried to keep the weight of everything from showing on his face, but Adrian saw it. He always did.
“I think he’s trying, though,” Logan admitted after a beat. “I can see it. He struggles, but he’s trying. And I’m… I’m trying too. Work is a lot. I push through, but my head’s not there.”
Adrian watched him, silent. Logan could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy despite the frailty of his body.
He didn’t say It’s okay. He didn’t say I understand. Because he did understand. And they both knew it wasn’t okay.
Logan glanced at the machines beside the bed. The IV bags were filled with chemicals designed to save Adrian’s life, dripping slowly into his veins. The monitors were beeping in rhythm with his heartbeat, each sound a reminder of how fragile that heartbeat really was.
“How are you feeling?” Logan asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I haven’t had a chance to speak with Dr. Tierney yet.”
Adrian sighed and moved against the pillows. “Like I got hit by a truck. Then backed over for good measure.”
Logan tried to laugh, tried to keep the moment light, but the sound barely made it past his throat. Because none of this was fair.
His grip on Adrian’s hand tightened, his thumb tracing slow, absentminded circles over the fragile bones beneath his skin. Holding onto him. Holding him here.
“I’m kidding, I’m good,” Adrian murmured, his voice softer now. “Though I think Dr. Tierney left for the rest of the evening. It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”