Chapter 50
SAM
The Archer beach house doesn't look real. It looks like something conjured from the mind of an architect with a God complex—floor-to-ceiling glass windows that let the ocean pour into every corner of the space, white linen couches that look too pristine to actually sit on, and soft driftwood accents that make everything feel airy and calm. Beyond the sliding doors, the ocean stretches endlessly, a shimmering blue that melts into the horizon. The waves roll in slow and steady, kissing the sand just a few steps away from the deck. You can literally walk barefoot from the living room straight into the beach.
Which I did. Briefly.
Until Eli practically had a heart attack and wrapped a blanket around me like I was about to evaporate in the ocean breeze.
I shift slightly on the couch now, tucked into that same blanket, my legs curled under me. The cushions sink just enough to cradle my body without pressing too hard against my still-sensitive abdomen.
Eli made sure of that. Of course he did. A small smile tugs at my lips at the thought of him fussing worse than my brother ever did.
This beach house is the Archer twins' gift to us—a temporary sanctuary just twenty minutes from Miami General where I can recover between treatments. They offered it so Mom and I wouldn't have to keep traveling back and forth to Naples, and because they thought the ocean and the change of scenery might help... somehow. Like maybe a better view could soften what my body is going through.
I didn't have the heart to tell them that no amount of ocean breeze or sunlight is going to fix what's happening inside me—but still, I'm grateful.
My leukemia doesn't care about beachfront views.
But I have to admit—it's a hell of a lot better than being stuck in a hospital bed, staring up at the ceiling with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company.
Zach and Eli decided to stay here too, ditching the hockey house without much hesitation. Not that I'm surprised.
Zach has always hovered when it comes to me—protective to a fault—but Eli...
Eli is something else entirely.
He barely leaves my side now. Not since he found out a few days ago. It's like he's afraid that if he looks away for too long, something might happen. Like I might disappear when he's not watching.
He fusses over everything.
The pillows. The blankets. Whether I've taken my meds. Whether I've eaten enough.
Zach, of course, refuses to be outdone.
Which means the two of them have somehow turned taking care of me into a full-blown competition.
Caroline finds it hilarious. She said the other day that it's ironic how they move in perfect sync on the ice, but put them in the same room with me and suddenly it's a rivalry over who can be the better "caregiver."
She's not wrong.
Right now, for instance, Zach and Eli are in the kitchen - cooking. For me. God help us all.
Apparently the fact that I haven't had an appetite in days—and that everything tastes either like nothing or something I might throw up—has turned breakfast into a challenge they're both determined to win.
I can barely taste anything lately. The medications have taken care of that, stripping food down to textures and temperatures instead of flavors. And most of the time, even that is enough to make my stomach turn.
Eating feels like a chore. A necessary one, but still.
But that doesn't stop them.
If anything, it only makes them more determined.
Which is how we ended up here—with Zach and Eli in the kitchen, each making their own dish, both convinced they're going to be the one who finally gets me to eat.
I glance toward the kitchen where voices bounce off the walls.
"They're taking this way too seriously," Caroline mutters beside me, legs crossed as she lazily flips through channels.
A loud clatter echoes from the kitchen.
"—because you're doing it wrong!" Eli's voice cuts through.
"I'm not doing it wrong, you're just being dramatic!" Zach fires back.
"I am not dramatic!"
Caroline snorts. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh. It's ridiculous. And somehow... perfect.
My chest tightens—not painfully, just enough to remind me I'm still here, still breathing, still alive in this moment. Because this? This feels like a dream. Eli hovering over me every five seconds. Adjusting pillows. Tucking blankets. Asking if I'm cold, if I'm tired, if I need anything.
It should be overwhelming. It is overwhelming. Because I've never liked being fussed over like this.
And yet... I love it. I love the way his attention feels like sunlight after years of standing in the cold. I love the way he looks at me now—like I'm something fragile and priceless and his all at once.
It feels surreal. Like I somehow slipped into the version of my life I used to daydream about. The one where Eli chooses me. The one where he stays. The one where he loves me like this.
...minus the cancer.
But even that thought can't fully take this moment away from me. Because right now—I have him.
"You're smiling like an idiot," Caroline says, nudging me with her foot.
I roll my eyes. "Shut up."
"You're literally glowing."
"I'm literally dying," I deadpan.
She winces. "Okay, yeah, that joke is still illegal. We're banning that one."
I grin faintly, then glance back toward the kitchen. There's another crash, followed by muffled cursing.
"I'm so glad you two finally got your shit together," Caroline says, her voice softening. "It's about damn time."
Heat rushes to my cheeks—which, given that I currently have the complexion of a raw chicken breast, must be painfully obvious.
"Yeah," I say, picking at a loose thread on the blanket. "Me too. But sometimes I wonder if I'm being selfish."
Caroline's eyebrows shoot up. "Selfish how?"
I shrug, the movement small and careful. "He deserves more than this. More than being with someone who—" I can't bring myself to finish the sentence. "He deserves to be happy."
"Sammy," Caroline says, her voice gentle but firm. "You know what would make Elijah happy? If you'd stop this martyr bullshit and let him love you."
"But—"
"No buts. You deserve happiness too. Even if—" She pauses, recalibrates. "Especially now. And his happiness is being with you. Anyone with eyes can see that."
Another crash from the kitchen, this one followed by a brief but intense silence. Caroline and I exchange a look.
"You think we should check on them?" I ask.
Care waves her hand. "Nah. If they've managed to set the kitchen on fire, we'll know soon enough. The smoke alarms in this place are ridiculously sensitive. Zach complained about them yesterday when he tried to make toast."
As if on cue, Elijah's voice floats through the doorway. "Sweetheart? You still doing okay out there?"
I raise my voice just enough to be heard. "Still alive! You boys having fun playing chef?"
There's a muttered exchange we can't quite make out, then Zach calls back, "We're creating culinary masterpieces! You just sit tight and prepare your taste buds for greatness!"
"WHY ARE THERE SHELLS IN THIS?" Eli yells.
"They're eggs!" Zach shoots back. "They come from shells!"
"Not IN the food, Zach!"
Caroline bursts out laughing. I press my hand over my mouth, shoulders shaking. "Oh my God..."
Caroline's phone buzzes, and she glances at it. "Mom just texted. They'll be here around five. They're bringing already cooked dishes for the New Year's celebration tonight."
I nod. "Mom too, I guess they're all leaving Naples same time." My mother had gone back to Naples yesterday to deliver flowers to my father's grave. A somber tradition she couldn't do on New Year's Day since we'd all be here in Miami.
The kitchen door swings open, cutting off our conversation. Both guys emerge, looking remarkably like they've been through a war rather than a cooking session. Zach has what appears to be flour in his hair, and Elijah's apron is stained with something that could either be tomato sauce or blood. I decide not to ask.
"Ladies," Zach announces with a dramatic flourish, "prepare to have your minds blown and your taste buds... well, taste-budded."
Eli rolls his eyes but can't hide his smile. "What he means is, breakfast is served."
Zach sets his creation on the coffee table in front of me with a little too much force, making the silverware jump. "Behold! Zach's Famous Soft-Scrambled Eggs with a side of perfectly toasted... well, toast."
I peer at the plate. The eggs do look impressively yellow and fluffy, and the toast is indeed toasted to a golden brown. Points for presentation.
"Is that made with love?" Caroline asks.
"No, with an ungodly amount of butter," Eli mutters, setting his own plate down more gently. "And for your dining pleasure, I present Elijah's silky egg-white custard with herb broth, paired with honey-drizzled yogurt."
His creation looks... professional. Like it belongs in one of those health food cafes that charge twenty dollars for a bowl of granola. The egg custard gleams like pale satin in its shallow bowl, a separate bowl of clear herb-infused broth set beside it.
Next to it, the yogurt has been drizzled with honey in a pattern that vaguely resembles a maple leaf.
I blink. "Did you use a ruler for that honey design?"
Eli flushes. "Maybe. A little. I wanted it to be perfect."
"Show-off," Zach grumbles.
They both sit there, watching me like hawks.
"Well?" Zach prompts when I don't immediately dive in.
I pick up the fork slowly. "Okay..."
I try my brother's scrambled eggs first. They're... eggs. A little dry, but not offensive. My taste buds register approximately zero percent of whatever flavor Zach was going for. The chemical wonderland that is my medication regimen has pretty much nuked my ability to taste anything subtler than a fire alarm.
"Mmm," I say, which is the universal code for I can't really taste this but I don't want to hurt your feelings.
Zach straightens slightly, eyes lighting up.
Then I try Eli's. I start with the yogurt, because it looks the least threatening.
The yogurt is cool and smooth, the honey adding a faint sweetness that actually manages to penetrate my medication-induced taste barrier. It's not much, but compared to the complete flavor void I've been experiencing, it's practically a taste explosion. I can't help the surprised noise that escapes me.
"Oh."
Eli's eyes widen. "Good oh or bad oh?"
"Good oh," I assure him quickly. "I can actually taste the honey a little."
The smile that breaks across his face could power a small city. "Really? You can taste it?"
I nod, taking another spoonful. "It's subtle, but it's there."
My brother makes a skeptical noise. "That's because honey is, like, pure sugar. Of course you can taste it. Try the eggs. See if you can taste those."
I obediently move on to the egg custard. The first spoonful slides against my tongue—silky and delicate. The eggs are soft—perfectly smooth—and warm in a way that settles gently in my stomach.
And for once, it doesn't make me want to gag. I take another bite. And another.
It's been so long since I've wanted to eat more than a single bite of anything that this feels like a minor miracle. In a life now marked by medical disappointments and diminishing options, being able to taste—to enjoy—something as simple as eggs feels like finding an unexpected gift.
Eli notices immediately. He makes a choked sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, then leaps to his feet, punching the air.
"YES! YES! IN YOUR FACE, ZACH! VICTORY IS MINE!"
Zach rolls his eyes so hard I'm surprised they don't pop out of his head and roll across the floor. "Oh please. She's just being nice because it's your first time cooking for someone and she doesn't want to crush your delicate soul."
"I'll have you know I've cooked before!" Eli protests, still beaming. "I made pasta once! It was edible!"
"Edible is a low bar, my friend." Zach turns to me with an exaggerated pout. "Tell me the truth, Angel. You only like his because he made it look all pretty, didn't you? It's the presentation. Women love presentation."
I swallow my current mouthful carefully before answering. "Actually, I can taste his food a little. Yours just tastes like... warm."
Zach clutches his chest dramatically. "Angel! You wound me! After all we've been through? After I single-handedly kept you alive with my impeccable PB&J sandwiches through middle school? This is betrayal of the highest order! I may never recover from this slight upon my culinary honor!"
Laughter bubbles up from my chest, unexpected and bright. My brother, the drama queen.
Caroline stands up, stretching languidly before moving over to Zach. She places a gentle kiss on his cheek. "Don't worry, babe. I'll eat your food no matter how spectacularly awful it is. Someone has to take one for the team."
"Hey!" Zach protests, but he's already grinning.
"I'll even pretend to like it," Caroline continues, patting his chest consolingly. "Just like I pretend to like your taste in movies and your weird collection of hockey figurines that stare at me while we sleep."
"They're limited edition memorabilia, and they appreciate in value," Zach mutters, but he's already tugging her closer, his mock outrage melting into something softer.
"You," he says, cupping her face, "are the only woman who truly understands me." He kisses her on the lips, lingering just long enough to make me want to throw a pillow at them.
When they part, Zach sighs dramatically. "At least someone appreciates my efforts. This is why you're my favorite, sugarplum."
"I thought I was your favorite," I say.
"You've been demoted," he says solemnly. "The position of Zach's favorite person is contingent upon appreciation of his scrambled eggs."
Laughter spills out of me before I can stop it, light and breathless and a little shaky at the edges. God, my brother is so dramatic. The absolute theater of it all. But it's exactly what I need—this normalcy, this silliness, this pretense that we're just four people having breakfast instead of three people watching the fourth one fight for her life.
"Fine," I concede, taking another small bite of his eggs. "They're not bad. For something that tastes like warm nothing."
Eli settles on the couch beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him along my side. "Want to try the broth?" he asks, voice gone soft. "I used thyme and a little garlic. Just a hint."
I nod, letting him guide the spoon to my lips. The broth is subtle, but there's a whisper of something herbal and earthy that breaks through the chemical flatness of my altered taste buds.
"Good?" he asks, watching me carefully.
"Good," I confirm.
For a moment, we just look at each other, and I think about how bizarre and wonderful it is that he's here, that he's looking at me like I'm something precious, that we've somehow found each other in the midst of all this mess.
Caroline clears her throat. "So, are we all going to pretend that wasn't completely nauseating? Because it was. You two are disgustingly cute and I hate it." But she's smiling as she says it.
Zach makes gagging noises in the background, but he's smiling too, settling back into an armchair with his own plate.
For the next twenty minutes, we eat together—well, they eat, and I manage a few more bites before my stomach starts to protest. But it's the most I've eaten in one sitting since before the hospital, and that feels like a victory, however small.
I lean back against the cushions, suddenly aware of how tired I am. The energy required for all that emotion has drained me completely. It's ridiculous how quickly exhaustion claims me these days, like my body is operating on a timer that keeps getting shorter and shorter.
Eli notices immediately. "You should rest," he says, "We can clean up this mess."
Zach nods, "Yeah, go ahead and close your eyes for a bit. We'll be quiet."
"Like that's possible," Caroline mutters, but she's already gathering up the plates.
I want to protest, to tell them I'm fine, but my body has other ideas. My eyelids feel like they've been weighted down with lead, and every muscle is begging for relief. Fighting it seems pointless, and honestly, I'm too tired even for that.
"Maybe just for a minute," I concede, letting my eyes drift shut.
The last thing I'm aware of is the gentle weight of a blanket being tucked around me, the soft press of Eli's lips against my forehead, and the sound of whispered bickering as the guys try to decide the best way to load the dishwasher without waking me.
*****
The sky is barely awake when I slip out the beach house door, my bare feet meeting the cool wooden planks of the deck. Everyone else is still out cold—soft snores and heavy breathing drifting through the quiet rooms behind me.
I clutch my sketchbook against my chest as I make my way down the steps and onto the sand, wincing slightly at the pull in my abdomen. The doctors wouldn't exactly approve of this little excursion, but some things are worth the risk. Like feeling the sand between my toes one more time before chemo renders me a bedridden ghost of myself.
The beach is empty at this hour—a private canvas stretched out before me. My feet sink into the sand, each step leaving behind a temporary signature that the tide will soon erase. Like my existence on this earth, I think, then immediately roll my eyes at my own melodrama.
God, I'm turning into a walking Hallmark card. Stage 4 cancer really does a number on your inner monologue.
I inhale deeply, the salt air filling my lungs.
It almost hurts how good it feels—this simple act of breathing in something that isn't hospital antiseptic or the lingering scent of sickness that seems to follow me everywhere now. The horizon is a watercolor blur of pinks and oranges, the sun just beginning to push its way above the water line. I stop to watch it, my toes curling into the wet sand as a gentle wave washes over my feet.
"Happy New Year," I whisper to the ocean, which responds with another lazy wave. The water is cold, but I don't retreat from it.
I continue walking, the water occasionally nipping at my ankles. The beach curves gently ahead, and I follow it. The sun has risen higher now, casting long fingers of light across the water. It's beautiful in a way that makes something inside me ache.
The new year stretches out in front of me and I find myself hoping—quietly, stubbornly—that it gives me a miracle.
That somehow, this year, things will be different.
That my body will listen. That it will fight for me instead of against me.
The thought feels too big, too impossible, so I let it settle without holding onto it too tightly.
And if it doesn't...
If this year isn't the year for miracles—then I hope like hell I get to make it count.
Every day. Every second.
I want to fill whatever time I have left with things that matter. With moments I can hold onto when everything else starts slipping away. With memories that feel full and bright and real.
With the people I love.
Especially with him.
Deciding I've walked far enough, I find a dry patch of sand with a good view of both the water and the sky. I sink down carefully, mindful of my still-tender stomach, and stretch my legs out in front of me. The clouds above are wispy things, delicate brushstrokes against the blue canvas of morning.
I lay back for a moment, watching them drift by, cataloging their shapes. A fish. A misshapen heart. Something that might be a dog if you squint and have an active imagination.
After a few minutes, I sit up and open my sketchbook. My fingers feel clumsy today, uncooperative. I haven't been drawing as much lately. The pencil feels foreign in my grasp, and my first few lines are shaky, uncertain.
I'm so engrossed in capturing the light on the water that I don't hear the footsteps behind me until something soft and warm drapes over my shoulders. I startle, looking up to find Eli standing above me, his face haloed by the morning sun.
His hair is a rumpled mess, like he just rolled out of bed, and his eyes are still heavy with sleep. But his smile—that slow, crooked smile that never fails to make my stomach flip—is fully awake.
"Hey," he says, his voice morning-rough as he sinks down beside me in the sand.
I smile back, "Hey yourself."
"What time did you wake up?" His hand cups my cheek, so gentle it almost hurts, and he leans in to press a soft kiss to my forehead.
"Not long ago," I reply, leaning slightly into his touch.
"I was scared when I didn't see you in your room," he admits, a line appearing between his brows. "I looked everywhere in the house before I thought to check the beach."
I laugh softly. "Sorry about that. I just... I wanted to feel the air, you know? See the ocean. And the sunrise looked too perfect to miss."
"You should have woken me up," he says, "I would've walked with you. Would've given me a great excuse to hold your hand the whole time."
He shoots me a playful wink.
Heat crawls up my neck to my face. His eyes catch mine, one corner of his mouth lifting in that way that makes my stomach flutter.
My fingers twitch in the sand beside his, less than an inch apart now. I can almost feel the phantom pressure of his palm against mine, the way his thumb might trace circles on my skin. I swallow hard and look away, suddenly aware of how dry my lips have become.
"You don't need an excuse to hold my hand," I say, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
"Yeah?"
"You can just... hold it. Whenever you want."
His eyes light up at that, and without hesitation, he intertwines our fingers, lifts my hand to his lips, and presses a soft kiss to my knuckles.
"I'll remember that," he murmurs against my skin, and I swear I can feel the curve of his smile. "God, I love when your face turns red like that. Makes you even more beautiful."
"Stop it," I mumble, feeling my face grow impossibly hotter. "You can't just say things like that."
"Why not?" he asks, his smile widening. "It's true. And I'll tell you as often as you need to hear it."
"Because if you keep talking like that, I might actually get used to it," I protest weakly.
His thumb brushes across my cheekbone, feather-light. "That's the idea, sweetheart. I want you to get used to it. I want you to get used to me telling you exactly how perfect you are, every single day."
I shake my head, unable to stop smiling despite my best efforts at playing it cool. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you had a lot of practice with these flowery pickup lines. Are you sure you haven't been testing them out on unsuspecting women all over Miami?"
He laughs, the sound warm and rich in the morning air. "I can honestly say I've never told anyone they were beautiful before you. Not and meant it like this."
His expression turns serious, his eyes holding mine. "It's only ever been you, Sam. And it's only ever going to be you."
My heart does an acrobatic routine in my chest. How does he do that? Turn me into this blushing, giddy mess with just a few words? I can't contain the happiness bubbling up inside me, so I do the only sensible thing—I shove him playfully, making him fall back onto his hands in the sand.
He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head at me.
"You're ridiculous," I say through my laughter.
"Ridiculously charming?" he suggests, his grin mischievous.
"Ridiculously something," I agree.
"By the way, I have something for you." He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants and pulls out something small.
"I wanted to give this to you for Christmas, but then I didn't see you that day, and with everything that happened after..." He shrugs. "It slipped my mind until now."
I gasp softly as he dangles a delicate gold bracelet in front of me. It catches the sunlight, throwing tiny prisms across the sand between us.
"Oh my God..."
He looks suddenly unsure, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don't know if you'll like it, but I—"
"I love it," I blurt out, my voice breaking.
His shoulders relax a fraction, relief flashing across his face.
"When I was shopping for a Christmas gift for you, I thought... I wanted to give you something that showed you how much thought I put into it. Something that would make you feel special."
"Can I?" he asks.
I nod, barely able to speak as he takes my wrist gently in his hands, his fingers warm against my skin as he fastens the bracelet. It's beautiful—a delicate chain adorned with tiny charms that tinkle softly when I move my arm.
"This one," he says, tapping the first, "is obvious." A small '78' gleams between his fingers. "Had to make sure you don't forget who your favorite player is." He grins, cocky and charming all at once.
I laugh through the tears already gathering in my eyes.
"This one," he continues, touching a tiny paint palette charm, "is for the amazing artist you are." His finger moves to a small purple flower. "Lavender, because it's your favorite scent. Which has also become my favorite because it reminds me of you."
My throat tightens as he moves to the next charm—a tiny watermelon. His mouth tilts into that familiar teasing smile. "For your borderline unhealthy obsession with sour patch watermelons."
I let out a soft giggle.
He shifts his fingers to the tiny goldfish charm, his thumb brushing over it.
"And this..." his voice softens, almost like he's stepping into a memory, "For your goldfish named Immortal."
I look up at him, blinking. "You... remember that?"
He huffs out a quiet laugh under his breath, shaking his head slightly. "How could I not?"
His gaze drops to the bracelet again, like he's replaying it.
"You told me this whole story about your goldfish that died," he says, "and you decided it deserved a proper send-off. How you made it a sailor hat out of tinfoil and... gave it a whole ceremony." he adds, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
I let out a shaky laugh, covering my face for a second. "Oh my God..."
"You said that you even sang," he says, glancing back at me, his eyes warm. "Hot Cross Buns as you flushed it down the toilet."
"I didn't know any other songs," I mumble, already half-crying, half-laughing.
"I know," he says softly.
"I remembered it because..." he exhales slowly, like he's choosing whether to say it out loud, "that was the first time I laughed in a long time."
My smile falters.
"Things were really bad for me back then," he continues, softer now. "My parents' marriage was falling apart, and I was... pissed at everything. All the time. I didn't talk much. Didn't joke. Didn't really... feel anything except that."
My chest tightens.
"And then you told me that story," he says, looking at me again. "It shouldn't have been funny. But it was. And it caught me off guard."
I stare at him, something warm unfurling in my chest. "I didn't know that day meant something to you too."
"It meant everything," he says simply.
Then he touches the last charm, a snowflake. "And this one...is for Duluth." he says, a small smile pulling at his mouth."
That day..." he shakes his head lightly, like he's still stuck in it, "I didn't think I'd enjoy it as much as I did."
I raise a brow. "Wow. Rude."
"I mean it. I thought it was just going to be... another day."
His gaze meets mine. "But it turned out to be one of the best days we've ever had... the kind of memory we keep tucked away for the bad days. Like we've got this perfect snapshot of us—something nothing can touch."
Tears blur my vision, hot and sudden. I blink, and they spill over, trailing down my cheeks.
"I know the next few weeks are going to be hard," he continues, his thumb brushing gently beneath my eye. His voice dips, quieter now. "And as much as I want to be there every second—holding your hand, sitting next to you—I know I won't always be able to."
He lifts my wrist slightly, the bracelet catching the light between us, "So this is the next best thing." His fingers curl loosely around mine. "A part of me you can keep with you, even on the days I can't be in the same room."
"Eli..."
"And whenever it gets to be too much—when it hurts, when you feel like you can't do it anymore..." he continues, steady despite the lump in his voice, "I want you to hold this."
His thumb presses lightly over the bracelet.
"Let it remind you that you're not alone," he says. "That you're loved. That I'm right here... waiting for you on the other side of all this."
I trace the bracelet with trembling fingers. "I love it. I love it so much. It means everything to me." My voice cracks. "It's the first gift you've ever given me."
"First of many," he promises. "So many that you'll get sick of opening presents from me."
"Not possible," I whisper.
"We should head inside. The wind's picking up, and you're already shivering." He stands then, offering me his hand. I take it, letting him pull me gently to my feet.
For a moment, we just stand there, close enough that I can feel the heat of his body, see the flecks of gold in his eyes.
Then I'm rising onto my toes, my arms snaking around his neck, pulling his face down to mine. His hands find my waist, steadying me as our lips meet. He tastes like toothpaste and promises, and I sink into the kiss, memorizing every sensation—the pliant warmth of his lips parting against mine, the heat of his palms sliding from my waist to the small of my back, drawing me closer until our bodies press flush together.
His breath catches when my fingers tangle in his hair, tugging gently, and something molten and urgent blooms between us. The wind whips around us, but I barely notice, lost in the intoxicating contrast between the cool morning air and the burning trail his thumb traces along my waist.
When we finally part, his forehead rests against mine, his eyes shining with all the love I've ever wanted to see there.
"I love you," he whispers against my lips. "More than I know how to say."
"I love you too," I whisper back, my voice trembling under the weight of it. The words feel too small for something this big, this overwhelming. "And I don't think I'll ever get tired of hearing you say that."
Before I can say more, he slides an arm behind my knees and lifts me—hardly an effort. A startled squeak escapes me as I wrap my arms tighter around his neck.
"Eli—"
"Relax," he murmurs, smiling as he adjusts his hold, his biceps flexing beneath my weight like I'm nothing more than a feather. "I've got you."
And I believe him with every cell in my body.
I let myself settle against him, pressing my face into his chest. His heartbeat is steady beneath my cheek—strong, warm, alive.
For a suspended moment, I just listen.
Feel it vibrate through me.
And then I realize—it almost matches mine.
Two rhythms, slightly out of sync, but trying... trying to find the same pace.
My fingers curl into the soft, wrinkled fabric of his shirt, clutching handfuls tighter than I mean to, as if I could anchor myself to this perfect moment.
He doesn't say anything about it and just holds me closer.
And despite everything—despite the cancer eating away at my insides, the bone-deep pain that wakes me at night, the terrifying uncertainty of tomorrow—I can't stop the smile that curves against his chest.
Because right now, right here. This is what happiness feels like.
The sound of the waves rolls in behind us, like the world itself is trying to protect this moment.
Like it knows. Like it understands that this is something no one gets to touch.