You woke up slowly, blinking. The clock read 9:11. His appointment had been at 8:45. You sat up. “Mark?” No answer. A second later, the bathroom door opened. He stepped out fully dressed: jeans, his old black hoodie, hair damp like he’d just showered. He paused when he saw you awake, but not like he was surprised. Like he’d hoped you’d stay asleep long enough for him to be gone. You stared at him. “You missed your treatment.”

“I know.” The air between you went still.

“What happened?” you asked. “Did you oversleep, or-?”

“No.” He ran a hand through his hair, glanced away. “I didn’t go.”

“You what?”

“I skipped it.”

Your pulse kicked. “Jesus, Mark, you can’t just skip-”

“I can,” he snapped, sharper than he meant to. “I did.” He added softly. He dropped into the chair like the weight in his chest had finally settled into his limbs. One hand over his mouth. The other clenched tight on the armrest. You stood there frozen. The echo of his words still ringing in your head.

“Why?” He looked up at you. Something dark in his eyes. Not reckless. Not careless. Just done.

“Because I needed to feel like a person today. Not a fucking corpse in waiting.” You opened your mouth. Closed it again. “I’m tired,” he said, voice low. “,of cold rooms and needles and pretending like it’s working when it’s not. I wanted one day, one where I’m not the dying guy, and you don’t wake up afraid to touch me.

“Don’t say that,” you whispered, throat tight.

“But it’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it?” he said, rising slowly. “I see it in your face. In the way you touch me like I’m glass. Like I’ll crack if you breathe too hard.”

You shook your head. “I touch you like that because I’m afraid I won’t get to tomorrow.” He moved closer. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, the tremble in his hands that he fought to hide.

“What if we just stop pretending today?” he said. “What if there’s no dying. No treatments. No meds. No pain. Just you and me. Like it used to be.”

“Mark…” He cupped your jaw, not gently, desperately.

“You know this doesn’t mean I’ve given up. I’ll go back tomorrow. I will. But today, I need this. I need you. I need to feel alive for more than fifteen minutes between pills.” His eyes searched yours like he was looking for a crack, an opening, anything to tell him you’d give him this. That you’d give him a version of life, even if it meant stepping outside the safe lines for a day. He leaned in, breath warm at your cheek. His voice broke on the edge of it. “So what do you say?”