I stare at Zachary still asleep, his hair mussed, his face relaxed. He looks so peaceful. My world is tilting on its axis, and he’s just… sleeping.
“I’m calling with your biopsy results. They’re back earlier than expected.” My knuckles are white where I’m clutching the phone.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Okay.”
Dr. Sharma continues. “The preliminary report came in late yesterday, but I wanted to wait until the full pathology was back to call you. Maya... the news is good.”
I stop breathing. “Good?”
I can hear a smile in her voice. “It's very good, actually. There is some damage, I won't minimize that, but it's mild. Very mild inflammation and minimal scarring. Based on this, I'm optimistic. I truly believe we can manage this with the medication regimen you're already on. We’ll need to monitor you closely, of course, but for now… no aggressive treatments. No talk of dialysis.”
The words—mild damage, manageable, no dialysis—are just sounds. They hit my ears, but my brain can't process them. I'm waiting for the “but.” The “however.” The “unfortunately.”
It doesn't come. “Maya? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I whisper, my throat raw. “I’m here. It's... it's just mild?”
“It's just mild,” she confirms, her voice warm and kind. “You’re doing everything right. The new medication is clearly helping. We're on the right track.”
The floor seems to be coming up to meet me. I slide down the wall until I’m sitting on the carpet, my knees drawn to my chest. And then the tears come. It’s not a gentle weeping. It’s a full-body, soul-rackingsobthat tears its way out of my chest. It’s the release of months of terror. Months of imagining my life shrinking, tethered to a dialysis machine. All that fear, all that coiled-up anxiety, just... breaks. It pours out of me in a hot, messy, hiccupping rush.
“Oh, thank you,” I cry into my knees, not even sure if Dr. Sharma can hear me. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You're welcome, Maya. This is the outcome we were all hoping for. Just… breathe. Enjoy your weekend. We'll talk more at your appointment next week, okay?”
“Okay,” I manage to choke out. “Thank you, Doctor. Really.”
I hang up, and the phone slips from my boneless fingers, clattering onto the floor. I drop my head to my knees and just let go. A second later, the mattress creaks. Warm, strong hands are on my shoulders.
“Maya? Hey, what is it? What's wrong?” I'm being lifted, pulled forward. Before I can even process it, I’m sitting on the floor, but I'm wrapped in Zachary’s arms. He’s kneeling in front of me, wearing nothing but his boxers, his hair a disaster, his eyes wide with sleep-fog and a terrible, sharp worry. He pulls me against his bare chest, his arms locking around me, one hand tangling in my hair.
“Talk to me,” he murmurs, his lips pressing a soft kiss to my temple. “What happened?”
I cling to him, my face buried in the warm curve of his neck. He's so solid. So real. “It's good,” I gasp, my sobs making my words almost unintelligible. “It's... it's good news.”
I feel his body go rigid. “Good news?”
I pull back, swiping at my face with the heels of my hands. I’m a complete mess. My nose is running, my eyes are swollen, and I’m pretty sure I’m hyperventilating. Zachary just looks at me, his hands framing my face, his thumbs stroking the tears from my cheeks.
“That was my doctor,” I say, my voice trembling. “My kidney biopsy. The results came back early.”
His expression tightens. His hands are tense on my face. “And?”
“I’m okay,” I whisper, and a fresh set of tears break free and track down my cheeks. “She said the damage is mild. They can manage it. With the meds I'm on. I'm... I'm going to be okay.”
The relief that washes over Zachary's face is so profound it’s like a physical blow. His shoulders, which I hadn't even realized were tensed up to his ears, slump. He closes his eyes, his entire body going lax, and his forehead drops to rest against mine.
“Oh, thank God,” he breathes.
The words are shaky, raw. He pulls me back against him, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe, but I don't care. I bury my face in his chest, inhaling his scent, and just hold on. He rocks me slightly, one hand stroking up and down my back. It hits me then. I didn’t realize. In my own bubble of panic, I didn't realize how muchhewas worrying. How much my fear had become his. After a long minute, I pull back sniffling. He looks at me, his gaze so intense it's almost too much.
“You were really worried,” I say. It's not a question.
A dull flush creeps up his neck. “Of course I was worried,” he says, his voice rough. “You've been walking around with this...thisthinghanging over you, trying to pretend it’s no big deal. Maya, itisa big deal. I was... yeah. I was worried.”
A warmth spreads through my veins. It settles right in the center of my chest, a glowing, steady heat. He cares. Last night... it wasn't just a physical release. He listened to me vent about everything wrong in my life, and he’s still here, at nine in the morning, holding me while I ugly cry over medical results.
I remember last night, after... well,after... we'd realized with a jolt while we were cuddling and starting to doze off, that the oven was still on, preheated and waiting to cook the pizza we’d left out on the counter in our hurry to the bedroom. We'd made the frozen pizza, and he’d insisted we eat it in bed. We sat cross-legged on my duvet, surrounded by pillows, greasy pizza slices in hand, and my laptop balanced at the foot of the bed.
