Tears came before he could stop them. He turned his face into the pillow, pressing down hard, hoping the weight might stop the flood. His fingers curled into the sheets, grasping and clinging to the fabric.
He hated this.
Hated the way grief softly curled up in his chest, as if it belonged there, like a dark, silent companion.
Hated that he cried so easily now, hated that even his emotions had become soft, exposed, raw.
This fear, this hollow, gnawing ache that lived at the edge of everything, it wasn’t about death anymore. It was about being left behind before he was even gone. About watching someone he loved carry the unbearable weight of him, and knowing—deep down—that one day, that weight might be too much.
Because cancer didn’t just take the body. It took the self. It wore Adrian down in layers, first his strength, then his voice, then his light, and finally it came for his sense of worth.
And Adrian could feel it now. The unraveling. The part of him that used to believe he was enough. That he was worthy of being chosen.
Even on the good days, even when Logan was there, whisperingI love yousinto his skin like a prayer, something inside him pulled away. Because love—real as it was—didn’t always survive sickness.
And no matter how tightly Logan held him, Adrian couldn’t stop wondering when it would happen.When the hand would loosen.
When the goodbye would come.
Because some part of him believed it already had.
Then the door opened.
Adrian didn’t move. Didn’t sit up. Didn’t even turn his head.
He just listened, to the soft click of the latch, the shuffle of familiar footsteps, the rustle of Logan’s jacket as it hit the chair, the water rushing, the sterilized soap dispenser being pressed, the sound of a paper towel tearing, and finally, the slow exhale as Logan stepped fully into the room, like he’d been holding his breath until now.
“Missed you,” Logan murmured as he leaned down, pressing a kiss to Adrian’s forehead. His arms wrapped around him without hesitation, like instinct, like home. Like nothing had changed.
Adrian let him. Let the weight of Logan’s body settle near his. Let the scent of him—warm skin, lingering cologne, body wash—fill his lungs. And then something else. Something foreign. A trace he couldn’t name, and didn’t want to.
“You just landed?” he asked, voice flat, his body unmoving.
Logan eased onto the edge of the bed beside him, fingers seeking Adrian’s hand, holding it gently. As if he hadn’t noticed how stiff Adrian had gone. As if he hadn’t felt that his fingers didn’t return the touch.
“Yeah… horrible flight,” Logan groaned, rubbing his temple. “My head’s killing me.”
Logan wasn’t wearing his suit; he was dressed casually in jeans and a sweater. He was frantic about keeping Adrian away from germs, so either he changed into clean clothes in the car or stopped at home. Adrian thought it was the latter.
Adrian stared at the ceiling, breath steady, until he couldn’t hold it in any longer. “You didn’t call last night.” It was soft. Almost laidback. But the words cut like glass in his own throat.
Just a whisper of accusation. Just enough to betray the ugly thing curling in his chest, the bitterness he hated, the desperation he refused to name.
Logan sighed, shifting in his seat.
“Yeah, by the time I got back to the hotel, it was late. Didn’t want to wake you up or something.”
He said it as if it were nothing.
Like it hadn’t mattered. Like Adrian hadn’t spent half the night staring at his phone, counting the minutes, waiting for a screen to light up with his name.
Adrian nodded, looking away.
Didn’t sayit would have mattered to me. Didn’t sayI waited for you. Didn’t sayevery fucking second without you feel like another part of my body dying, and you didn’t even think to send a text?
He said nothing.
But Logan noticed.
