Chapter 57
SAM
I'm clutching the edge of my seat so hard my knuckles have turned an interesting shade of ghostly white, which, considering my current medical situation, isn't saying much. The Ridgewater Warriors are up 4-2 against Minnesota in the conference semifinals, but these Minnesota boys are like determined little beavers gnawing at a particularly stubborn tree—they just won't quit.
My mom and Caroline are flanking me like anxious bodyguards, as if the Minnesota fans might actually try to kidnap the sickly wife of Ridgewater's team captain. I almost want to tell them I'm probably not worth the ransom.
"Come on, defense!" my mom shouts beside me, her face flushed with excitement.
"If they win this, they're in the conference championship," Caroline explains to my mom for the third time. "One step closer to the Frozen Four trophy."
"I know that," Mom snaps back, not taking her eyes off the ice. "I'm not completely hockey illiterate."
I stifle a laugh.
"If they drag this to overtime, I might actually have a heart attack," I mumble, watching as Eli glides across the ice, his movements fluid despite having played for nearly an hour. "Which would be ironic considering all the other ways my body's trying to kill me."
Caroline gives me a look. "That's not funny, Sam."
"Oh, but it kind of is," I counter, forcing a smile. "Dark humor is how I cope with everything going on. Let me have this."
Caroline leans over, her eyes wide. "Did you see that? Number sixty-one just gave Luke the stink eye. I think he's plotting something nefarious."
"Nefarious? Did you swallow a thesaurus with your hot chocolate?" I retort, but my eyes are tracking the Minnesota player she mentioned. He does look like the type who might kick puppies for fun.
The minutes tick by with the speed of a snail on tranquilizers. Each time Minnesota gets possession, I feel my already weakened heart try to climb out of my chest through my throat. They're good. Annoyingly good. The kind of good that makes you want to invent new curse words just to properly express your frustration.
Then it happens.
Minnesota's number sixty-one—the puppy-kicker lookalike—lines up Luke with a determination that screams "I'm about to do something stupid." And oh boy, does he deliver.
The hit is vicious, unnecessary, and about as subtle as a sledgehammer to the face. Luke goes down hard, his helmet bouncing off the ice with a sound that makes my teeth ache.
For half a second, there's silence. Then the arena erupts.
Liam is across the ice in what seems like negative time. He doesn't bother with words—just drops his gloves and introduces number sixty-one's face to his fist.
"Oh shit," Caroline breathes beside me. "This is going to be good."
"Good? This is a disaster! We're going to get penalties out the wazoo!"
But the chaos has already escalated. Players from both teams converge, a swirling mass of aggression and padding. Gloves litter the ice like fallen leaves. Referees blow their whistles with the desperation of someone trying to stop a tsunami with a Dixie cup.
Eli and Zach are in the thick of it, trying to pull people apart while simultaneously making sure no one takes cheap shots at their teammates. It's controlled chaos, if such a thing exists.
The fight seems to last both forever and no time at all. When it finally breaks up, the ice looks like a battlefield. Five players get sent to the penalty box, including Luke, Liam, and the instigator himself, number sixty-one.
"Well," I say, when I can finally form words again. "That was... a thing that happened."
Ten minutes later, the mood in the arena shifts dramatically. Minnesota manages to score not just one but two goals in quick succession, tying the game 4-4.
My stomach clenches.
This is exactly what we didn't want. The Minnesota fans are going wild, their cheers drowning out our section's collective groan of despair.
"They can't let this go to overtime," I say, my voice tight. "It's too risky."
As if hearing me, Eli locks eyes with Zach across the ice. There's a moment of silent communication between them that I recognize from years of watching them together—they're plotting something. The puck drops, and suddenly they're in motion, executing a play that looks like it's been choreographed.
Zach steals the puck from a Minnesota player and makes a perfect pass to Eli, who breaks away from the defense. It's just him and the goalie now, the entire arena on its feet. I'm standing too, though I don't remember getting up.
"Come on, Eli," I whisper, my hands pressed against my mouth.
Time seems to slow as Eli approaches the goal.
He fakes left, then shifts right with a grace that shouldn't be possible on ice, and shoots. The puck sails through the air and hits the back of the net with a satisfying thwack as the final buzzer blares.
Eli has just scored a hat trick to win the conference semifinals.
Despite my body's protests, I find myself bouncing up and down, screaming until my throat hurts. The scoreboard flashes 5–4 FINAL, and that sends the Ridgewater section into a frenzy.
Mom is hugging me from one side, Caroline from the other, all of us a tangle of joyful limbs.
Eli's teammates crash into him, a heap of celebratory hockey players shouting and grabbing at him, but he barely seems to register them. Even from here, I can see his chest heaving from exertion as his head turns, searching the crowd.
My breath catches because I know—I just know—he's looking for me.
When his eyes finally find mine, something electric passes between us. He shoves his helmet off, and breaks away from his teammates. He skates hard toward the boards, cutting straight across the ice like I'm a magnet pulling him forward.
He vaults over the boards, landing hard on the concrete, already pushing through the crowd. People reach for him, shouting congratulations, but he doesn't slow down. Not even a little. He's coming straight for me.
Oh my God.
My fingers curl around the railing, my breath coming out uneven as everything inside me starts to shake.
"Eli—" I start, but the word barely leaves my lips before he's there. Right in front of me.
"Hey, wife," he says, his voice low and husky, claiming me in a way that sends shivers down my spine. My eyes flutter, momentarily dazed by his presence.
The word hangs between us, weighted with meaning. Wife.
It still feels surreal, like someone else's life I've accidentally stumbled into. Eli Deveraux—the man who occupied approximately ninety percent of my daydreams since puberty—is calling me his wife in front of thousands of people.
My eyes flutter closed for a second, overwhelmed by the reality of it all. When I open them again, he's still watching me, a small, knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"Three goals," he continues, his voice dropping to a register that should come with a warning label. "One for every time I almost lost my mind this week thinking about you. A hat trick for my wife."
His hands are on me instantly—one cradling my face, the other at my waist, pulling me toward him like he's been dying to touch me.
And then his mouth is on mine, firm and insistent. He tastes like victory and sweat and Eli, and I melt against him, my arms winding around his neck.
The crowd is roaring around us, and I'm not sure if they're cheering for the win or for us, but frankly, I couldn't care less. In this moment, with my husband's arms around me, his lips on mine, nothing else matters.
Right now, I'm just a girl being thoroughly kissed by the boy she loves, and it's perfect.
The blast of cold Boston air hits me as we push through the arena doors, but I barely feel it. Eli's arm is draped over my shoulders. His body is like a furnace, always has been, which comes in handy when your blood runs perpetually cold like mine does these days.
I lean into him, letting his body heat seep through my thick winter coat and the scarf my mother insists on wrapping around me like I'm a fragile piece of china.
"Still cold?" he asks, his voice rumbling through his chest and into mine.
"I think my eyelashes are frozen together, but other than that, I'm peachy." I burrow deeper against his side.
Behind us, Mom, Caroline, and Zach are chattering excitedly about the game, their voices creating a soundtrack to our exit. Then my phone rings.
I fumble for it in my pocket, my fingers clumsy with cold and fatigue. The screen lights up, and my heart stutters to a complete stop before kicking back into gear at twice its normal speed.
Dr. Wilcott.
I stop walking so abruptly that Eli nearly trips trying to stay with me.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
"It's Dr. Wilcott..." I show him my phone, the screen still flashing with my oncologist's name.
We stare at each other, and I see in his eyes exactly what I'm feeling—a dangerous, fragile thing I'm afraid to name. Hope. It's been a stranger to us lately, especially since last week when I decided to stop the additional treatments after my second round of chemo failed. We've been living in the shadow of my decision, both of us trying to be brave about it, both of us failing miserably.
"Answer it," Eli urges, and I can't miss the slight tremor in his voice.
By now, Mom, Zach, and Caroline have crowded around us, their faces shifting from confusion to concern.
"What is it?" Mom asks, but then her eyes fall on my phone screen. "Oh."
I press the answer button with a shaking finger, bringing the phone to my ear. "Hello? Dr. Wilcott?" My voice comes out thin and unsteady.
"Sam, hello. I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
"No, not at all. We're just leaving my husband's hockey game." The word 'husband' still feels new on my tongue, still gives me that little flutter despite everything else. "Is everything okay?"
"Actually, I have some news I wanted to share with you as soon as possible," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes me snap my eyes to Eli's.
He's watching me intently, his gaze never leaving my face. "How are you feeling today?"
"I'm—fine," I say, impatient with pleasantries when my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. "What's going on, Dr. Wilcott?"
She doesn't make me wait any longer. "We've found a donor match for you, Sam."
The world around me seems to pause, sounds muffling as if I've been submerged underwater. I stare at Eli, unable to process what I've just heard.
"A—a donor?" I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
Eli's eyes widen, his hand tightening on my waist. Mom makes a small, choked sound.
"Yes," Dr. Wilcott continues, her voice steady and clear. "We actually identified a potential match last week. We waited to confirm the donor's availability and clearance before discussing it with you... and I'm happy to say we now have that confirmation."
Something breaks inside me—a dam I've built over months of bad news and worse prognoses—and tears start streaming down my face. Eli's expression immediately shifts to alarm, his free hand coming up to cup my cheek, thumb brushing away tears.
"Sam? What is it?" Mom asks, her voice tight with worry.
I can't speak, can only shake my head as more tears come.
"Sam? Are you still there?" Dr. Wilcott asks through the phone.
"Yes," I manage, the word breaking in the middle. "I'm sorry. I just—what does that mean, exactly?" My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, fragile and disbelieving.
There's a gentle understanding in Dr. Wilcott's tone when she answers. "What that means is we're able to move forward with a stem cell transplant." She pauses, giving me a moment to absorb this. "I'd like you to come back in as soon as possible so we can begin the pre-transplant process. There are a few steps we need to complete before the transplant itself, and we don't want to lose time."
I nod stupidly, forgetting she can't see me. "We'll be there. As soon as we can," I tell her, struggling to keep my voice steady. "Thank you, Dr. Wilcott. Thank you."
"You're welcome, Sam. Get some rest tonight, and I'll see you soon. We'll talk through all the details then."
After a brief goodbye, I end the call and stare at my phone for a long moment, afraid that if I look up, I'll discover this was all a dream.
"Sam?" Zach's voice breaks through first. "What did she say?"
I finally lift my gaze to the circle of worried faces surrounding me. "They found me a donor," I say, the words feeling strange in my mouth.
My mother's hands fly to her face, her eyes instantly filling with tears.
"Oh my God," she whispers, and then she's pulling me into her arms, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. "Thank you, God. Thank you."
When she finally releases me, Zach steps forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. "That's amazing news, angel," he says. Caroline is openly crying, nodding in agreement.
But it's Eli I turn to next. He's standing perfectly still, tears welling in his eyes, looking at me like I'm a miracle he can't quite believe in.
"Does this mean—" his voice breaks, and he has to start again. "Does this mean I get to have more years with you? That we get more time?"
I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. "If the transplant works, then yes."
That's all it takes. His tears spill over, tracking down his cheeks as he pulls me into a tight embrace. I feel his body shudder against mine, all the fear and grief and desperate hope of the past months pouring out of him.
"It's going to work," he murmurs fiercely into the crook of my neck. "It has to work. It will work." He pulls back just enough to press his lips to my forehead, my cheeks, my lips—gentle, reverent kisses that taste of salt and promise. "We've got so much more living to do, sweetheart."
Standing there in the cold Boston night, surrounded by the people I love most in the world, I allow myself to believe him. For the first time in months, I let myself imagine a future—spring turning to summer, holidays and anniversaries, ordinary days stretched out before us like a gift.
I don't know if I'll get all of that, but tonight, I have this moment. Tonight, I have hope. And for now, that's enough.
*****
Two days.
That's how long I have before the transplant.
By this point, my body barely feels like it belongs to me anymore. Everything in me is worn down, like I've been scraped hollow from the inside out. The conditioning chemo has already started doing its job, stripping away what's left of my bone marrow, weakening whatever defenses my body still had. Even the simplest things feel heavier now—sitting up, walking a few steps, keeping my eyes open for too long.
There's a constant metallic taste in my mouth that no amount of water can wash away, and my skin feels too tight, too sensitive, like it doesn't quite fit right anymore.
This is the "preparation" part.
Which is a very polite way of saying they've already started tearing everything down inside me so something new can take its place.
High-dose chemo. Stronger than anything I've had before. Designed to wipe out what's left of my bone marrow, what's left of my immune system—what's left of me, really.
I'm not allowed to think too hard about that.
It's been two weeks since Dr. Wilcott called.
Two weeks since everything shifted so fast I barely had time to catch my breath.
One moment, I had already made peace with the idea of dying. I had said it out loud, accepted it, convinced myself—and everyone else—that I was done fighting. And then suddenly, I was back here again, back in a hospital room with a packed bag and a timeline, being pulled into something I had already decided to walk away from.
Everything after that happened quickly. Tests, endless tests, one after another, as if they needed to confirm over and over again that my body could withstand what they were about to put it through. They checked my heart, my lungs, my blood—every part of me that could potentially fail under the strain.
They placed a central line in my chest so they wouldn't have to keep puncturing my veins, and now everything runs through it—fluids, medications, chemicals I've stopped trying to name because they all blur into the same thing anyway.
Dr. Wilcott explained, carefully and clearly, that because I hadn't achieved remission, this transplant carries more risk than it would for someone who had. The chances of complications are higher. Even the chances of my body not making it through the process at all are higher.
She didn't need to spell it out in harsher terms—I understood exactly what she meant the moment she said it.
Still, she walked us through everything. What the conditioning would do to me, how it would wipe out what little remained of my immune system. The risk of infection, the possibility of my body rejecting the donor cells or the donor cells attacking me instead. The long recovery, the uncertainty of whether the transplant would even work the way we hoped it would. Nothing was left unsaid. There were no false reassurances, no promises of outcomes they couldn't guarantee.
And then she asked me if I still wanted to go through with it.
If I wanted to try.
I said yes.
I didn't hesitate. Not the way I thought I would have just weeks ago, when I was so certain I couldn't take any more of this, when I had already chosen to stop. Somehow, standing there in that room, hearing everything laid out so plainly, it didn't feel like giving up anymore.
It didn't feel like prolonging something inevitable. It just felt like... a chance. A small one, maybe. A risky one. But still something.
And that was enough for me to say yes.
Now I'm here, two days away from the transplant, already feeling the cost of that decision in every part of my body. I know this isn't the hardest part yet—that's still coming—but it doesn't make this any easier to sit through. There's a quiet kind of waiting that settles into you during moments like this, where everything has already been set in motion and all that's left to do is see it through.
I should be more afraid than I am.
Maybe I am, somewhere underneath all of this.
But mostly, I just feel... tired.
The steady beeping of the monitor is the first thing I hear when I stir. I blink slowly, hauling myself out of the drug-induced fog that pins me down. My limbs feel like dead weight, my mouth is bone-dry, and every inch of me aches with that deep, relentless exhaustion. Even breathing feels like work.
Before my eyes even open, I know he's here. The air carries his scent—clean and masculine, with a rich hint of sandalwood, edged by crisp bergamot. His cologne clings to his hoodie, to his skin, to the space beside me.
It smells like comfort wrapped in strength. Like home. Like mine.
When I finally open my eyes, my lips instinctively curl into a small, tired smile.
My husband.
My heart flutters the moment I see him pacing by the window, back and forth like a storm enclosed in human form. He looks tense— shoulders tight beneath his Ridgewater Warriors hoodie, jaw clenched, hands twitching through the short stubble of his hair, rubbing his face, balling into fists and then releasing.
I haven't seen him since early this morning, when he went to practice. Their coach is pushing the team hard, gearing them up for the Frozen Four championship next week. Even with that pressure on him, Elijah has never used it as an excuse to stop coming here.
When he's not on the ice or in class, he's here—with me. Sleeping in that awful hospital chair. Holding my hand through transfusions. Making the nurses laugh. Watching movies until he's nearly dozed off on my shoulder. He never complains, but I know he's bone-tired. Hockey-tired. Sam-tired. And still... he comes. Always.
I try to sit up, wincing at the effort, and manage a small, breathy sound. "Eli...?"
He freezes. His head turns slowly. And then—I wish he hadn't. His eyes lock on mine, and everything inside me stops. I've seen Elijah frustrated, exhausted, even furious on the ice. But this is different. His face twists with raw betrayal, confusion, heartbreak—all tangled in the silent wreckage behind his gaze.
"What's wrong?" I ask, panic prickling beneath my skin. "Did something happen at practice?"
He just stares. Then his voice cuts the silence, rough and hoarse: "Why didn't you tell me?"
My heart drops. "Tell you what?"
He steps forward, voice barely controlled. "That you signed a DNR."
I feel ice spread through my veins. "Eli—"
He cuts me off, voice cracking. "Your doctor told me in the hallway like I already knew, Sam. He thought you and I had talked about it."
I look down, unable to meet his eyes. Shame blooms in my chest. "I was going to tell you," I whisper.
"When?" he asks, stepping closer. "After the transplant? Or when something goes wrong and I find out you made that call without me?"
"I'm sorry," I murmur, the words catching in my throat.
"Why, Sam?" he asks again, softer now. "Why would you do that and not even talk to me first?"
I swallow hard. My fingers curl into the blanket, but then I look down at my hands—and instantly regret it. My nails are darker today. A bluish purple. I hate seeing it. Another reminder. Another sign my body is shutting down on me. But right now, I'd rather stare at the dying parts of me than look into Elijah's eyes.
"This morning, I have a meeting with Dr. Wilcott and the transplant team. They... they explain everything again. About the procedure. The odds. The recovery. The things that could go wrong."
He steps closer, his brow furrowing. "So you just... what? Sign your life away?"
"No. It's not like that."
"Then what is it like, Sam?"
I exhale slowly. Quietly. My voice barely escapes me.
"It's about being prepared. For the worst-case scenario."
"What worst-case scenario?"
I hate saying it, but I have to. "Me dying."
He flinches as though I struck him. Then he crosses the room and drops to his knees at my side, cupping my face in trembling hands. "You're not dying," he insists, eyes blazing with desperation. "The transplant will work. You'll come out of this."
"I hope so." I feel tears sting my vision. "God, I hope so. But Eli... you heard what Dr. Wilcott said before we even started the pre-transplant process. You already know the risks."
My voice trembles as I shake my head slightly.
"My immune system is wiped out to prepare for the transplant. I have no defenses, nothing to fight even the smallest infection. My platelets are almost gone... if I start bleeding, my body might not stop it. If an infection hits—sepsis can come fast. People crash before anyone can stop it. Even survivors sometimes never wake up. Lack of oxygen... brain damage... they just—"
"No," he says sharply, stepping back as though he can't bear to hear more. "No. That's not going to happen. That's not your story, Sam."
"You don't know that," I say, my voice rising now, my own fear spilling out. "No one does. If I fall into a coma... there's no telling I'll come out of it. No one can promise that," I say quietly. "And the hope, the waiting—it's cruel. I don't want to make you choose between letting me go or keeping me alive on machines. That choice... it's torture. I can't do that to you. Not when you're already carrying so much because of me. I don't ever want to break your heart like that."
Tears glitter in his eyes, catching the afternoon light like fractured glass. "That DNR," he whispers, voice trembling, "is already breaking my fucking heart."
My chest tightens at the pain in his voice. "You think you're sparing me? You're not." He grips the bed rail. "You don't get to decide how much I can bear. That's my choice."
"Eli..."
"I don't care how hard it would be. I'd take every ounce of pain and carry it to the grave if it means your heart still keeps beating."
He pauses, dragging a hand down his face, voice unraveling.
"Because that's what keeps me breathing. You keep me breathing. Your heart beating—that's what keeps mine steady. So yeah, I want that responsibility. I need that. Don't take it away from me, Sam."
He kneels again, pressing his forehead to my temple as though praying. "I know I can't understand what you're going through. I don't know what it's like to be in your body. To lose your strength day by day. I don't know how scared you are."
He lets out a sound—half laugh, half sob—and looks up at me like he's drowning.
"But I know what it feels like to lose you. Because I've already started to. Every time you close your eyes and don't wake up for hours. Every time I see another part of you fade, another bruise, another needle. I feel like I'm watching you disappear in pieces. And I refuse to let you go without a fight."
His shoulders shake, his hands trembling as they cup my cheeks.
"I know it's selfish. I know life support might keep your body alive while hurting you. I know it might be cruel. But you have to understand—loving you has made me this. It's made me selfish. It's made me a goddamn wreck. I'd rip out my own ribs and build a shield around your heart if it means I can keep it beating a little longer."
He bows his head, pressing his forehead against my lower abdomen, his arms wrapping around me like he's holding on for dear life.
"I'm begging you, sweetheart. Please. I need more time. I know it's not fair, but I want more days. Even if you don't wake up for them. Even if you're silent and still and I'm the only one talking. I'll wait. I'll sit here and wait forever if I have to, because a heartbeat means hope. And I choose hope every damn day."
Tears run down my face in rivers. My chest aches with every plea he makes.
"Please..." His voice drops to a whisper. "Tear it up."
I reach for him then, because I can't not. My fingers tangle in the collar of his hoodie and tug him closer, like I'm trying to pull him back from whatever edge he's standing on. His forehead touches mine, and I feel it—the trembling. Not from my body this time. From his.
The strongest person I know... is shaking.
Like his body can't hold the weight of what he's feeling anymore.
This isn't the Elijah everyone knows.
Not the one who captains Ridgewater's undefeated team.
Not the one who keeps his temper on the ice even when the whole rink goes to war.
Not the one who carries his teammates on his back, even when his own injuries are killing him.
This version of Elijah—this is raw.
Fractured.
Unraveling like stitches torn loose.
His chest heaves as he cradles my face, his thumbs brushing the tears from my cheeks even though his own keep falling. "All my life, I've been the one people look to. The calm one. The one with answers," he says. "I've been playing through injuries since I was eleven. Dislocated shoulder? Keep skating. Broken finger? Tape it and score. I've held my teammates' heads when they were crying, stand up for them in the locker room, take hits for them on the ice."
He is crying harder now, voice breaking apart like it can't hold the pain anymore.
"I've always kept it together. Because that's what captains do. That's what I do."
His head bows, forehead resting against my lap like he's surrendering everything.
"But I don't know how to do this without you. I don't want to."
My heart shatters. Right there. In that moment.
"I know this is unfair," he goes on, voice barely holding. "I know you're in pain. That every needle, every transfusion, every second feels like hell. And maybe signing that DNR is your way of taking back some control in all this. Maybe it gives you peace."
He looks up again, and I nearly choke on the heartbreak in his eyes.
"But it doesn't give me any peace. It's killing me, Sam. You say you don't want me to hurt. But you signing that paper? That already is the pain. That is the goodbye. And I'm not ready. I'm not ready to let you go, sweetheart."
"You owe me this," he whispers, his voice fraying like a thread pulled too tight. He lifts his head just enough to meet my eyes—God, those eyes—and I see the storm there. "After all those years you spend chasing me. Don't pretend you don't remember. The way you hover around the edges of my world, hoping I'd finally look at you. All the girls you scare off. All the nights you wait for a version of me that doesn't know how to love you back."
A sob slips out of me, and I nod, broken.
He gives a soft, pained laugh—like it hurts to remember. "You were always there. Loving me when I didn't deserve it. And I was too blind, too scared, too stupid to see what was right in front of me."
His voice drops, low and shaking. "Well, now I see you. And God, I love you. I love you so much it's unbearable. It's in my bones now. In every beat of my heart, in every breath I take. You're in me, Sam. You've got every damn part of me. My heart. My future. My soul."
He leans in closer, eyes burning. "So now it's your turn to listen. You don't get to run. Not now. Not when I've finally caught up to the girl who never stops waiting for me, who never stops loving me."
He leans in and kisses me—desperately, fiercely, like it's the only thing keeping him alive. Like this kiss is the only thing tethering us both to this side of hope.
And God, I kiss him back.
Because he is mine.
Because he is breaking.
Because I've never seen him so vulnerable, and never imagined I'd be the reason.
I smile through my tears as our lips break apart, our foreheads pressed together, both of us sobbing and laughing in the same breath.
I never expect him to fall apart like this.
But even broken... Elijah still holds me like I'm the only thing keeping him whole.
I don't even realize I'm still crying until I feel him kiss the tears straight from my cheeks. Slow, reverent, like each drop is something sacred.
"Elijah..." I whisper, my voice barely there.
He pulls back just enough to look at me—really look at me. His eyes are red, lashes soaked, but the storm behind them has calmed.
"I'll cancel it," I breathe, the words coming out broken and soft. "The DNR. I'll talk to Dr. Wilcott again."
His lips part, like he hasn't dared to believe I'd say it.
And then the relief hits him all at once—like the weight of the world slides right off his back and he can finally breathe again. His shoulders sag, his eyes flutter shut for just a second as a soft, ragged exhale escapes him.
"Thank you," he chokes, and then again—this time more guttural, more desperate, like it comes straight from his chest. "Thank you."
Before I can say anything else, he kisses me again.
I kiss him back through my tears, through the pain, through the pulse of our hearts pressed together.
"You have no idea what you just gave me."
"More time?"
"More everything."