Mark slammed the bathroom door behind him. You heard the medicine bottle hit the tile. Then the faucet. Then nothing. You waited. Fifteen minutes passed before the door creaked open and he stepped out, damp hair curling slightly at the nape of his neck, eyes bloodshot. He didn’t look at you. Just walked across the room and sat down on the edge of the bed like gravity had become personal. You stayed in the chair. You’d learned not to crowd him when he was like this. He wouldn’t shatter. Mark Meachum didn’t shatter. He’d cut you to pieces instead. Still, you wanted to touch him.

“You took your meds?” you asked gently.

His laugh was dry, humorless. “Yeah. Took the fucking miracle cocktail.” Silence. Then, without turning around: “If you could take it from me… would you?”

You straightened slowly, heart skipping. “What?”

“The tumor.” His voice was low, almost inaudible. “Would you take it? Into your own skull. Trade places.” He turned to face you now. Eyes locked. No smirk. No bravado. Just the raw underbelly of someone who’d run out of ways to keep pretending he wasn’t scared. You opened your mouth, but no sound came. “Don’t give me some poetic answer,” he said, voice tight. “Don’t say what you think I want to hear. I’m asking, really asking. You take it. The countdown. The pain. The end. Would you?” You got up and crossed to him. Knelt in front of him. Rested your hands on his knees so he could feel them shaking.

“Yes,” you said, breath catching. “Yes. God, yes. If I could pull it out of you with my bare hands and shove it into myself, I would. I would, Mark.” His breath caught. “I lie awake some nights,” you continued, voice barely holding, “wishing I could make a deal with something…someone…anything. Just to give you more time. I don’t want to survive this without you.” He stared at you, stunned, like your words knocked the wind out of him more than the diagnosis ever had. “I hate watching this eat you alive,” you whispered. “I hate that I can’t do anything except hold your hand and pretend like it’s enough. But if there was a way to trade places, if there was a door I could walk through; I’d run.”

Mark’s mouth parted slightly. Then closed. Then opened again, but no words came. Instead, he reached out and gripped the sides of your face, hands trembling. “I didn’t think you’d say yes,” he said quietly.

“I didn’t think you’d ask.” He pulled you forward then, kissed you like a man trying to breathe through someone else. Like he’d found something just this side of salvation in your answer. His hands slid into your hair, desperate, reverent. When he finally broke the kiss, his forehead pressed to yours, voice hoarse: “You scare the hell out of me.”