Chloe
The waiting room is too bright and too quiet—although it’s only too quiet to me, full of sounds I can’t make out.
The buzzing in my right ear is relentless, a high-pitched ringing that turns everything around me into a muffled, distant version of itself. The receptionist said something when I checked in and I smiled woodenly and nodded, but I have no idea what she told me.
There’s a television mounted on the wall across from me playing something with the captions on, and I stare at the words scrolling across the bottom of the screen without reading any of them.
A little girl across the room is chattering to her mother about something, her voice animated and carrying.
I can hear the rhythm of it but not the words, and the back of my throat goes tight.
I’ve been sitting in the same chair for fifteen minutes with my hands folded in my lap, staring at the door.
When it opens and Tristan walks through, I’m on my feet before I’ve decided to stand.
His mouth is moving, his lips forming words I can’t hear properly, his voice distorted and strange behind the ringing, and I don’t care.
I cross the room and walk straight into him.
His arms come around me immediately, pulling me in tight, and the tension I’ve been holding in my shoulders since my hearing went out lets go in a single exhale.
He holds me there without saying anything else, one hand moving slowly up and down my back. His chest rises and falls against my face, the heat of him coming through his shirt. I close my eyes and try to let the ringing recede.
A nurse signals that it’s my turn, and Tristan’s hand moves to my lower back as we walk through to the examination room together. I’m aware of his hand the whole way down the corridor, past the framed anatomy posters and the hand sanitizer dispensers and the half-open doors of other rooms.
The examination room is smaller than I remembered from my last appointment, or maybe it just feels that way today.
There’s the paper-covered table, the rolling stool, the eye chart on the wall, and the subtle smell of antiseptic underneath everything.
I climb onto the table as Tristan takes the chair in the corner and leans forward with his elbows on his knees, watching me.
The doctor is thorough. He checks my ears with a small light, runs several tests, and writes out questions for me to answer as he tries to get a clear picture of what happened.
My right ear is the focus—the one that’s been deteriorating for years, the one that’s now throwing fits instead of quietly losing ground the way it usually does.
Doctor Ranklin has known me for several years, and he doesn’t flinch or look alarmed when I write out what happened, which I should find reassuring.
It’s hard to be reassured by anything right now though.
As we talk, the buzzing gradually fades. The ringing drops away until I can make out his words properly again, his voice resolving back into actual language, and the relief of hearing clearly is so overwhelming that my eyes sting. I blink hard and keep my face even.
Doctor Ranklin pulls up my file on his tablet and scrolls through it, his reading glasses pushed up on his nose. “You’ve been on an immunosuppressant for the hearing loss. Is that right?”
“Yes,” I say.
He nods slowly and sets the tablet down on the counter.
“It doesn’t appear to be having the effect we’d hoped for.
The progression hasn’t slowed the way we’d like to see.
” He folds his hands in his lap. “We have some options. We can adjust the dosage or move to a different immunosuppressant, and there are some newer treatments worth considering. I’d like to start by switching your medication and monitoring your response over the next few months. ”
I nod. Across the small room, Tristan goes still.
Doctor Ranklin continues, talking about hearing aids, about the technology available, about what different models can do at different stages of loss.
I listen and try to hold on to the specifics.
He hands me a pamphlet with photographs of small discreet devices on it, and I look at it while my brain refuses to take in information it doesn’t want.
And then he says the word “surgical,” and my stomach drops hard enough that I have to press my feet flat against the footrest of the examination table.
He says it as a distant possibility. Something to consider down the line if the new medication doesn’t help, not something to worry about right now, but it still sends a jolt of fear shooting through me.
Tristan asks two or three questions, specific and practical, his voice level. I’m grateful for it because I still feel dazed and disoriented, staring without really seeing as I try to fight down the lump in my throat.
“One more thing,” Doctor Ranklin says, looking at me directly. “Stress can accelerate this progression significantly. Managing your stress levels will matter as much as any medication changes we try.”
I nod. Avoid stress. I’ll get right on that.
I knew this day might come. I’ve known it since the original diagnosis, carried it around as this abstract future possibility that lived far enough away that I could look at it without flinching.
But sitting in this too-bright room with a hearing aid pamphlet in my hand and the word “surgical” sitting in my chest, it doesn’t feel abstract anymore. It feels too fucking close.
I keep my face even through the rest of the appointment. I ask the right questions, nod at the right moments, take the pamphlets and the new prescription and the follow-up card, but I feel like it’s all happening to someone else.
When we finally leave, Tristan holds the room’s door open for me. Once we’ve checked out, we step outside into the afternoon sun. Its rays are warm on my face and the air smells like hot concrete, but somehow, none of that reaches me.
I’m not okay.
Tristan guides me to the car with his hand at my back.
I get in, sit in the passenger seat with the pamphlets in my lap, and stare at the dashboard.
I’m going deaf. Not someday, not eventually, not in some ephemeral future I’ve been keeping it in.
Actually going deaf, the progression speeding up, the medication not working.
Maybe new meds will help for a while, but how long can it last?
The drive home is quiet. The hum of the car engine does little to slow my racing thoughts. I feel Tristan’s gaze move toward me every few moments, his concern obvious.
After a few miles, he reaches over and takes my hand. I grip his fingers tightly, finding some comfort in the simple gesture.
The ocean comes into view, an expanse of deep blue on the horizon, a sign that we’re nearing the house. The palms that line Tristan’s street are a familiar sight, but everything feels different now, as if the world has shifted slightly off its axis.
We pull into the driveway, and Tristan cuts the engine. He turns to me, his eyes searching mine. “Chloe, talk to me,” he murmurs.
I take a deep breath, the words caught in my throat. “I’m… it’s fine. This is… this is all fine.”
Tristan shakes his head, a crease between his brows. “You don’t have to do that, dimples. You don’t have to pretend you’re okay. I’ve got you.”
Those simple words break something inside me. The facade I’ve been holding up crumbles, and I feel the tears welling up, unstoppable. I try to blink them away, but it’s no use. They spill over, and I start to cry, my shoulders shaking.
Tristan is out of the car and around to my side in an instant. He opens the door and pulls me into his arms, holding me close. I bury my face in his chest, my tears soaking his shirt. He rubs my back, murmuring quiet words that I can barely hear through my crying.
“I’ve got you,” he repeats in a low voice. “I’ve got you.”
I clutch at him, my fingers digging into his shirt as I let all the fear and frustration pour out. I feel like a mess, my face hot and my eyes stinging with the sudden rush of tears.
Tristan lifts me out of the car seat, carrying me inside in his strong arms. We head upstairs, and he sits on the edge of the bed, keeping me on his lap.
I bury my face in his chest again, letting the tears flow. It feels like I’m crying out all the fear, frustration, and sadness I’ve been holding in for so long. Tristan holds me tightly, his presence solid, whispering words that slowly seep into my consciousness.
After what feels like forever, the sobs slow, leaving me feeling drained but oddly lighter. I take a few deep breaths, trying to pull myself together. Tristan’s hand rubs slow circles on my back, and the heat of him pulls me back to myself.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper again, my voice still shaky.
“Don’t apologize. You have nothing to apologize for.”
I nod against his chest, taking another deep breath. “I just… I feel like I’m losing a part of myself,” I finally admit in a small voice. “There are so many things that I… I’m going to miss. And I feel like I’m desperate to hold on to it, but… I’m going to lose it. There’s no way around it.”
Tristan’s hand stops on my back. He says nothing. I can tell he’s waiting for me to continue.
“Like…” I gesture to the large windows, to the gorgeous view of the sea outside of them. “Someday, I won’t be able to hear the waves crashing anymore. I… I won’t be able to hear my favorite songs. Or… or your voice.”
The thought is so terrible that it silences me. I sit on the edge of the bed, numb, for several seconds before I can continue.
“I know it’s not the worst thing that could happen, but I still feel so sad about it. And then I feel guilty for being upset when there are people who have it so much worse.”
Tristan tilts my chin up, making me meet his eyes. “It’s okay to mourn what you’re losing. That’s human. Just because others might have it worse doesn’t mean your feelings aren’t valid.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “I just don’t want to be a burden. I want to be strong.”
“You are strong,” Tristan says. “But being strong doesn’t mean you can’t feel. You don’t have to carry this alone. I’m here with you, every step of the way.”
His words help. As I lean into him, I feel some of the panic ease. His arms around me feel like a wall around me, a place where I can be both vulnerable and safe.
He looks down at me, his gaze locked on mine and full of a love that takes my breath away.
The depth of his care is almost too much, and it’s in these moments that I realize how deeply I am loved.
His love isn’t just comforting. It’s a promise of support, a real commitment to face whatever comes our way together.
“You know,” he says, “you’re one of the most beautiful, amazing people I know.”
I manage a weak smile, although my cheeks are still wet with tears. I gesture to my tear-stained face, feeling the dried streaks on my skin. “I’m not exactly beautiful right now,” I murmur, a hint of self-deprecation in my tone.
He shakes his head, his eyes never leaving mine. “No,” he says. “Always.”
There’s such conviction in his voice that it takes me aback. He’s not just saying it to make me feel better. He really believes it. I can see it in the way he looks at me, a combination of admiration and affection that makes my heart ache with gratitude.
Like he’s determined to prove it, he cups my face in both hands and kisses me.
Not a quick kiss, not a reassuring peck, but a real one, and something in my chest loosens at the feel of it.
He pulls back and presses his lips to my cheek, where the tears dried, then the other cheek, then across the bridge of my nose, my closed eyes, my temple, moving along my jaw with a patience that makes my throat tighten all over again for a completely different reason.
I let my head fall back slightly as he moves to my neck.
His lips press against my skin over and over, working down the side of my throat, and I feel my breathing slow and deepen.
The fear that’s been sitting in my chest since the doctor’s office doesn’t disappear, but it recedes enough that I can breathe around it.
“There isn’t a single part of you that isn’t beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin. He pulls back to look at me, his thumbs moving lightly over my cheekbones, and I try to hold his gaze and mostly manage it. “Nothing is going to change that. Nothing.”
I nod because I don’t trust my voice right now, my throat tight.
He works his way lower, his lips moving down to my collarbone, pressing soft kisses there, his hands finding the buttons of my shirt.
He undoes them one at a time, and I feel each one come loose while the arousal building quietly underneath everything else gets a little louder with every one.
When he parts the fabric and looks at me, the expression on his face hits me right in the chest.
I slip out of my shirt and reach back to unhook my bra, and he watches every movement like he has nowhere else to be and nothing more important to look at. His hand comes to my chest, urging me gently to lie back on the bed.
He takes his time undressing me, pressing his lips to my ankle before he slides off my sock, then doing the same on the other side. It’s such a small thing, and it makes my eyes sting.
“Every part of you,” he says quietly, kissing the inside of my ankle. “I mean that.”
He works his way up, his hands moving ahead of his mouth, and when his fingers graze lightly between my legs on their way to the button of my jeans, I suck in a breath.
He tugs my jeans down and off, then his fingers hook under the waistband of my panties and pull them down slowly, the fabric trailing over the sensitive skin of my legs all the way to my feet.
Then he stands and strips out of his own clothes.
I watch him, my hand drifting to my clit as he pulls his shirt over his head.
He catches me staring at him and holds my gaze as he undoes his pants, smirking as his cock springs free.
By the time he’s fully undressed, I can’t wait any longer. I reach for him, pulling him toward me.
“I need you,” I breathe. “Now.”
This man loves to tease me. He loves to torture me, getting me so worked up that I feel like I might die before he finally gives me what I need. But not tonight. Instead, he grips himself and presses inside like he can’t wait either.
He fucks me with slow, purposeful strokes, his forehead dropping to mine.
His hands move over my skin like he’s mapping every inch of me, and as I wrap my arms around his back and hold on, the doctor’s office seems to get farther away.
The word ‘surgical’ fades into the distance.
All of it recedes with every thrust until I can’t find it at all.
I cling to him, letting myself get lost in the connection between us, and for a while that’s the only thing there is.