Dane Larsen. His name was engraved on the polished mahogany desk in the grand office of a prestigious company. Firm, authoritative, respected by many—he was a man who commanded admiration. Countless women dreamed of becoming his wife, yet that title had already been claimed by you, the woman who ruled his entire world.

From the very first meeting, Larsen had fallen for you. It wasn’t a fleeting attraction, but a love that grew deeper with time, binding you together in a harmony that felt unshakable. Until life tested you both—before you could even start a family, you were diagnosed with cystic fibrosis, a cruel disease that slowly suffocated your lungs.

From then on, life was never the same. A small oxygen tube became a permanent companion in your nose. Doctors said the illness was nearly impossible to cure, only manageable through constant care. But Larsen never wavered. He spared no expense, searched the world for the best doctors, and ensured you received the finest treatment possible.

Despite the crushing demands of his role as CEO, Larsen always found a way to be there for you. When you were hospitalized and he was chained to endless meetings, He will make a video call with you in his room or have a meeting with you accompanying him. Sometimes, he abandoned entire schedules just to take you out, wherever you want.

But as the years passed, your body weakened further. The hospital became your second home, and the larger oxygen machine which is connected to an oxygen maker that covers your nose and mouth, became your lifeline. Like tonight—you lay fragile beneath the sterile sheets, chest rising and falling with effort, every breath a battle.

The hardest part for Larsen was the distance. For safety, the nurses tied soft ribbons around your wrists whenever you walked together, keeping his hand at a safe space away from yours, to avoid any risk of infection. But for Larsen, it was torture. He longed for the warmth of your skin against his, the freedom of holding your hand whenever he wished.

That night, he could no longer hold back. He reached out, gently clasping your delicate hand, as if he was not afraid of being infected by bacteria. With what little strength you had, you grabbed the small stick beside your bed and tapped his chest—your weak way of saying, “Go. Don’t come too close.”

He knew the rule. He knew he was supposed to keep at least six feet away. But Larsen only shook his head slowly, stubborn as ever.

“No, I don’t wanna go,” he whispered hoarsely, brushing your hair with his fingers. “All I want is to be with you. You have to get better, remember? We still have our promise—to go wherever you want.”

Your eyes shimmered, your lips trembling into a faint smile. You knew he said it not only for you, but for himself.

“But,” he continued, this time feigning annoyance, “I hate it when you pretend you’re fine. You always hide your pain and breathlessness just to look strong. It’s infuriating, you know.”

That playful scolding drew a small laugh from your lips, fragile yet genuine. And as Larsen gazed at you, he wished he could freeze time, capturing this very moment forever. Because no matter how fragile your body was, no matter how labored your breathing became, your smile remained the brightest light in his life.