They were past the edge. This was the last chance.
“My sample?” he whispered, though part of him already knew. He was grasping for a miracle, for some loophole the universe might have missed.
Dr. Tierney hesitated, then shook his head. “We tested it. It’s not compatible.”
The words hit like a fist to the gut. Logan’s breath hitched, his ribs straining against the silence that followed.
“So—”
“As I told you before,” Dr. Tierney interrupted gently, “a compatible match depends heavily on ethnicity. The best-case scenario would be a full biological sibling. Does Adrian have any?”
Logan’s mind reeled. “A half-brother,” he said finally. “Same father. Different mothers.”
Dr. Tierney’s lips pressed into a line, and his expression betrayed the composer he always wore. “Not ideal,” he murmured. “The chances are slim, but he still needs to be tested. If he’s a match, and if he agrees, Adrian will need the transplant soon. But before we even get there… we’ll have to increase his chemo. Aggressively.”
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
More poison. More nights curled into himself, too weak to speak, too sick to eat. More days where Adrian’s body trembled under the strain, where his skin turned paper-thin and clammy, where his voice broke just trying to say Logan’s name. Logan had watched him suffer through the last rounds, seen how hard Adrian fought to hold on, and now they needed to make it worse? He could not even fathom that aworseexisted, that the torment had a deeper level.
He wanted to scream. Instead, he nodded, his focus narrowing to a single purpose:find the brother. Find the match. Save him.
His hand trembled as he reached into his coat pocket, fingers fumbling for his phone. His thoughts were scattered, his body buzzing with useless adrenaline.
“Is he awake?” he asked, wincing at how frail his voice sounded, like it barely belonged to him.
“No.” Tierney’s tone softened. “Rough night. He needs rest. You can see him soon, but let him sleep a little longer.”
Rough night.
Those words pierced deeper than any clinical term. Logan could already picture it: Adrian curled into himself in that too-white bed, the machinesaround him murmuring, steady and cold. He saw him there in his mind’s eye: his skin pale, lips dry, that slight tremble in his fingers when the pain crept in. And sometimes, in those moments, he would reach out blindly, his hand finding Logan’s wrist and holding it tight.
Logan had left just after midnight. Adrian had insisted—again—that Logan would go home, shower, and get a real night’s sleep. “You’ve been here all week,” he’d whispered. “Go. Please.” His voice had been barely audible, a breath wrapped around a smile. And Logan had gone. Against every instinct, against the tight ache in his chest, he had left.
He shouldn’t have.
There had been meetings scheduled at the office, ones his father insisted he attend. Clients. Stakeholders. People who didn’t know, or didn’t care, that Logan’s heart was breaking on the fifth floor of the hospital. Adrian had told him it was okay, again and again. “You don’t need to sit at my bedside all day,” he’d said, trying to smile like it didn’t cost him everything to do it.
But he was wrong.
Loganhadneeded to stay. He should have stayed. Because this wasn’t just illness anymore. This was the edge.
He was terrified that Adrian was getting too tired to keep fighting.
Dr. Tierney gave him a gentle nod and turned away to check on another patient, his coat trailing behind him, his voice low as he greeted someone down the hall.
The second he disappeared from sight, Logan’s composure collapsed.
He bowed his head and stared at the floor, squeezing his eyes shut, willing back the burn building behind them. His hands curled into fists athis sides, nails biting into his palms. The pressure helped, a small, physical ache to keep the other one at bay.
He would not cry here. Not yet. Not in the sterile hush of a hospital hallway where time had slowed to a crawl, where every breath felt borrowed. Not when Adrian still needed him to be strong.
ButGod, his chest hurt. Not in the way of broken bones or bruised ribs, but in the deep, hollow place where grief had begun to nest, quietly, insistently.
His soul ached.
Beside him, his father stood in silence, solid and still. Logan could feel the weight of his gaze, not judgmental, not even inquisitive. Just there. Watching. A man who had seen too much and said too little. There was something like understanding in Robert Vaughn’s eyes, something that might have been compassion. But Logan didn’t want compassion. He didn’t want sympathy or comfort or even hope.
He wanted Adrian to live. That was all.
