SAM
I count the ceiling tiles for the third time as my leg bounces involuntarily. Eli's hand covers mine, his thumb tracing small circles against my skin. The waiting room smells of antiseptic and coffee, a combination that once made my stomach turn but now feels almost comforting in its familiarity. Two months and six days since the transplant, and here we are again, waiting for Dr. Wilcott to either lift or crush the fragile hope we've been nursing.
"You look beautiful today," Eli whispers, leaning close enough that I can smell his aftershave. "Did I tell you that already?"
"Only about five times since breakfast," I say, but I don't mind. I catch my reflection in the darkened screen of my phone—cheeks with actual color in them, hair growing back in soft waves rather than patchy clumps.
I'm still thin, but no longer skeletal. The woman looking back at me is starting to resemble the one from my memories.
"Samantha Deveraux?" A nurse stands at the doorway, clipboard in hand.
I squeeze Eli's fingers so hard he winces. "Sorry," I murmur.
"Nothing to be sorry for," he says, helping me to my feet though I don't really need the assistance anymore. It's more habit than necessity now, this careful choreography of support.
Dr. Wilcott's office is unchanged—diplomas in simple frames, family photos on the desk, a model of the human body with removable organs that always makes me think of a puzzle someone forgot to finish. The doctor herself rises when we enter, her gray-streaked hair twisted into its usual knot, reading glasses perched on her head like an abandoned crown.
"Sam, Elijah, good to see you both." She shakes our hands, her grip firm and warm. "Sam, I must say, you're looking remarkably well."
"I feel well," I say, and it's not a lie I'm telling to be brave. The constant fatigue has lifted, the pain has dulled to occasional whispers rather than screams. "Better than I have in... I don't even know how long."
"Let's check a few things before we discuss your results," she says, leading me to the examination table. The paper crinkles beneath me as I sit, a sound that once signaled dread but now feels merely procedural.
Dr. Wilcott checks my vitals, her stethoscope cool against my skin. She asks questions about appetite and sleep and pain levels. I answer truthfully, no longer feeling the need to downplay symptoms or pretend things are better than they are. What a luxury honesty has become.
"You've gained four pounds since your last visit," she notes. "That's excellent."
"She's eating everything in sight," Eli says with a grin. "I found her at three in the morning last week making a sandwich that would have fed a small family."
"I was hungry," I protest, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "And you were supposed to be asleep."
"I was lonely," he counters, his eyes soft with a tenderness that still catches me off guard sometimes.
Dr. Wilcott smiles, making notes in my chart. Then she wheels her stool back, reaches for a folder on her desk, and opens it.
My test results. My future, contained in graphs and numbers and medical terminology that has become a second language I never wanted to learn.
The room falls silent. I reach for Eli's hand without looking, knowing it will already be extended toward mine.
"So," Dr. Wilcott says, and there's something in her voice that makes my heart skip. "I have your latest biopsy results here."
I feel Eli's fingers tighten around mine.
"The transplant has taken exceptionally well," she continues, "and I'm pleased to tell you that we've found no cancer cells in your latest tests."
The words hang in the air for a moment before they fully register. No cancer cells. None.
"You're in remission, Sam," she says, and now her professional mask slips just enough to reveal a genuine smile.
I hear Eli's sharp intake of breath beside me. My own lungs seem to have forgotten how to function.
"Say that again," I whisper, afraid that if I speak too loudly, I'll wake from what must surely be a dream.
"You are in remission," Dr. Wilcott repeats, more firmly this time. "The treatment worked exactly as we'd hoped. Your body has accepted the transplant, and there are no signs of malignancy in your system."
The tears come without warning, hot and fast, streaming down my face. I turn to Eli and find him already looking at me, his eyes shining with moisture, his lips trembling as he tries to maintain composure.
"You did it," he whispers, pulling me into his arms. "You did it, Sam."
I sob against his shoulder, feeling the fabric of his shirt grow damp beneath my cheek. His body shakes with his own silent tears, and we hold each other, rocking slightly, forgetting for a moment that we're not alone.
"I knew," Eli says, his voice thick. "I knew you would beat this. I never doubted it for a second."
It's a beautiful lie, one we both need right now. We had doubted. We had feared. We had prepared for the worst even while hoping for the best.
Dr. Wilcott gives us a moment before gently clearing her throat. "Now, this doesn't mean we're done," she says. "We still need to continue monitoring you."
I wipe my eyes, nodding. "How often?"
"Monthly visits for the first six months, then we'll move to quarterly if all continues to go well. After two years with clear scans, we can discuss reducing the frequency further."
Two years. A lifetime. A blink. I'll take it. I'll take every day, every hour.
"That's fine," I say quickly. "I'll come every day if I have to."
That earns a small, amused smile from her.
"I don't think that'll be necessary," she says.
"So... what happens now?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
Dr. Wilcott leans back slightly, her expression reassuring.
"Now we focus on recovery," she says. "You'll still need to be careful—your immune system is rebuilding, so avoid large crowds, stay on your medications, and listen to your body."
I nod.
"But," she continues, a small smile returning, "if things continue like this, you can slowly start getting back to normal activities over the next few months. Nothing too strenuous right away—but you'll get there."
Dr. Wilcott leans forward, her professional distance dissolving completely now. "Sam, I've been doing this job for thirty years, and I've seen all kinds of patients come through that door. But you—" She shakes her head, smiling. "You've been a warrior since you were a child. That same determined little girl who fought through her first round of treatment, refusing to let anyone see her cry... she grew into this extraordinary woman who never once gave up."
"I wanted to, sometimes," I admit.
"We all do," she replies. "But you didn't. And now here we are."
Here we are. In remission. Alive. With a future stretching out before us like an unexplored country.
As we prepare to leave, gathering pamphlets and follow-up appointment cards, Dr. Wilcott catches my hand. "Celebrate this, Sam. You've earned it."
"I will," I promise, my voice steadier now. "We will."
Outside in the corridor, Eli pulls me into another embrace, this one fierce and unconstrained, like he's done holding back now that he knows I'm really here.
I laugh into his chest, soft and shaky. "You're squishing me."
"Good," he murmurs without loosening his hold. "That means you're not disappearing on me."
I tilt my head back to look at him, rolling my eyes even as my heart flutters. "I'm not going anywhere, you psycho."
"Yeah?" His hands slide to my waist, tightening just slightly, like he still needs the reassurance. "Because I'm not above following you around for the rest of your life just to make sure."
A smile pulls at my lips. "That sounds exhausting for you."
He brushes a quick kiss under my jaw. "Worth every second."
He steps back just enough to peer at me, that teasing half- smile in place. "So, beautiful wife, what grand adventure would you like next?"
"Everything," I say, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt. "I want everything. I want dates—like, a million of them. I want to do all the things we kept putting off."
His nose nudges mine. "A million, huh?"
"Mm-hmm." I nod.
"Well, good thing we have forever to do it."
"Forever doesn't seem long enough," I murmur.
"Greedy," he teases, but his voice catches slightly, betraying the emotion underneath. "I like it."
He kisses me then—soft, insistent— hands sliding to cradle the back of my head. I grip the front of his hoodie to steady myself against the dizzying wave of sensation.
When we break apart, both slightly breathless, he grins. "Just so you know," he says as we step into the elevator, pressing the down button, "I'm going to blow your mind with these dates. I'm talking romance movie level stuff. Ryan Gosling is going to watch us and take notes."
"Oh yeah?" I laugh, leaning in.
"Yeah. Get ready for the full Elijah Deveraux experience. There will be flowers. There will be grand gestures. There might even be—" he lowers his voice dramatically "—coordinated dance numbers."
"Now that, I'd pay good money to see."
"For you?" He kisses my temple as the elevator doors slide open and we step inside. "No charge."
His thumb traces over my knuckles, then he presses his forehead to mine. "I love you."
I trail my fingers along his jaw, watching his eyelashes flutter briefly at my touch. "I love you too," I reply, the words feeling inadequate for the enormity of what I feel.