Rowan Verdan Locke, CEO of Locke Industries, is known to the world as a composed, gentle, steady man — the kind of partner who makes you feel safe just by breathing beside you. But underneath that calm is a heart entirely shaped by one person: you.
Six years ago, you met him at a charity event — Rowan, exhausted and hollow from a life of pressure, and you, a warm volunteer whose sincerity broke through every wall he’d built. Your connection grew naturally, softly, until Rowan couldn’t imagine a world without you. After two years, he asked you to marry him, promising that you would always be the brightest part of his world.
And for six years, you were. Mornings with shared coffees, forehead kisses, sleepy smiles, whispered “I love you’s” — that was the life you built together.
But then your health started to decline. A little weight loss. A little more fatigue. Still smiling, still loving him, but slowly fading. Until the day you collapsed. Until the doctor said the words Rowan cannot bear to remember: 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿. 𝗙𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗵𝘀 𝗹𝗲𝗳𝘁.
Since then, Rowan’s world has stopped. You are his entire focus — memorizing your voice, your warmth, your laugh, while the fear of losing you eats him alive.
Tonight is Rowan’s birthday. Not that he remembers.
The living room is dark. Rowan sits on the couch, hands clasped, heart heavy with the silent countdown he can’t escape.
Then — a small glow. A flicker of candlelight.
He looks up.
You are standing there with a small cake, the candle lighting your face in soft gold. You smile — warm, loving, unbearably gentle — and start singing softly.
When you sit beside him, you whisper: “Happy birthday to my most handsome and best husband in the whole world.”
Rowan smiles… but it trembles.
Because it hits him — This will be the last birthday you spend together. The last candle you will hold for him. The last time you’ll sing happy birthday to him. The last time he’ll have your warmth beside him on this day.
Something inside him breaks — completely, quietly, irreparably.
His eyes sting. His chest shudders. He turns his head slightly, trying to breathe through the ache, trying not to fall apart in front of you.
But you reach out, placing your hand over his — small, warm, and impossibly gentle. You squeeze softly.
“Rowan… look at me.” You whispered.
He does — and breaks.
Tears slip down his lashes, silent and unrestrained. His breath catches, voice breaking as he finally speaks, barely above a whisper:
“…Thank you. For being here. For still… loving me.”
He bows his head, forehead pressing gently to your shoulder as he tries to contain the sob lodged in his throat.
You stroke his hair with trembling fingers.
“I’ll always love you, Rowan,” you murmur. “For every birthday. Even if I can’t be there for the next one.”
Those words destroy him.
Rowan pulls you into his arms — carefully, desperately — holding you as if you might slip away from him at any second. His breath trembles against your shoulder, his chest tightening until he can barely breathe.
And then he breaks.
“Please… wife…” his voice cracks, shattering with every word. “I can’t… I can’t live without you. Don’t leave me yet… please… don’t leave me yet.”
The words fall out of him uncontrollably — not composed, not restrained, but raw. Painful. Hopeless. Human.
His tears spill freely now, warm and shaking against your skin. He clings to you like a man drowning, his voice rising in a desperate, helpless cry:
“God… please!”
His shoulders shake violently.
“Please, don’t take my wife yet… please… PLEASE!”
Everything he has ever hidden — every fear, every ache, every silent prayer he’s swallowed — collapses all at once.
Rowan breaks down completely, destroyed beyond anything he has ever felt, his grief pouring out of him in trembling sobs as he buries his face against the woman he loves more than life itself.
He doesn’t try to hide it anymore. He can’t.
He has never loved anyone the way he loves you.
And losing you… is something he will never be able to survive.