John

---

A melody tickles the edges of my mind. A song is there, waiting for me. But I can’t seem to coax it out. Thrumming idle chords, I try to let it come.

Instead I find myself thinking of red-gold curls and little cinnamon freckles. I miss her voice. I don’t think I’ve ever missed a person’s voice before. I can’t say there’s anything exceptional or truly different about Stella’s voice, except that it’s hers.

This is not good. I’m growing attached to a woman who thinks I’m an asshole. Even if she didn’t, getting emotional with someone is a bad idea. I can’t even be trusted to take care of Killian’s pets—how the hell am I supposed to navigate a real relationship? Fuck, I can’t even touch a woman right now. Doesn’t matter that the antibiotics have run their course and I’m perfectly healthy. I feel infected. Tainted.

“Fuck it.” I play a few chords but the sound clashes with the furious buzzing of Killian’s front doorbell.

I glance toward my own door. Stella has company? Perfect. Probably another oddball dude who is paying to be her friend. And she lets them. Me? I get a “fuck off” in response.

I don’t care anymore. But I do. I was a total asshat for trying to finagle friendship out of Stella instead of simply telling her how I feel. Something I’d apologize for repeatedly if she’d let me. It’s been three days and not a word from her. I’ve texted a couple of times to no avail. Yesterday, I rang her doorbell and she didn’t answer. Okay, she might have been out, but not knowing sucks. Being cast into social Siberia sucks.

The buzzing keeps going.

My fingers stumble over the strings. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Maybe it isn’t a client. Maybe it’s a date. Someone as cute as Stella likely dates all the time. Is she going to bring him into her bed? Let him touch her? Touch him? Of course they’ll touch. If a guy has Stella in bed, he’s going to touch her. A lot. Everywhere.

The back of my neck grows hot and pinched. Not my business. Not my damn business.

The buzzer rings again. I set my guitar down and grit my teeth. Sweat trickles down my spine. All I see is Stella, her soft, freckle-dusted skin slowly being revealed as some wanker undoes her top—

“Mother fuck.” I stand and pace toward the door. To do what? Make a fool out of myself? Beg her to stop? Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. No way am I going to be That Guy.

I turn to walk away when some dude starts yelling.

“Hey? Hello in there? You don’t answer, you still owe me money!”

My muscles seize. Owes him money? Oh, hell no. What the ass is going on?

“Yo!” the irate guy in the hall shouts. “Hello?”

He leans on the buzzer again.

That’s it. I’m done.

A skinny, college-age kid flinches when I whip open my door, but he soon settles. “Hey, man. Sorry to disturb.” He glares at Killian’s door. “Your neighbor buzzed me in and then refused to open the door. Someone has to pay for this soup.”

He holds up a bag laden with takeout cartons as evidence.

For one instant, the relief is so strong I lean against my doorway to let it ride. Then concern takes its place because if Stella buzzed this guy up, she should be answering her door. I pull a few bills from my pocket, way more than the food likely costs. Slapping the money into his hand, I grab the bag and don’t give him another thought as I quickly punch in the code to Killian’s door.

“Stella?” I call out, stalking into the place.

She isn’t in the living room, and my pulse kicks into high gear. The meaty organ pounds in my chest as I set down the soup and call her name again. Louder this time. Kind of frantic, because fuck. “Stella!”

A weak noise from her room has me running up the stairs, my blood ice cold, my throat dry.

Hell, if this is even a taste of what my guys felt when they found me, I totally get why they mother me. I slam into her room and almost stumble on the rug as I skid to a halt.

Stella lies curled up on the bed, shivering, her hair matted and damp, her skin flushed.

“Baby.” I hustle over and touch her forehead. She’s burning up. “Shit. How long have you been like this?”

Sheets, ripe with the scent of sweat, twist around her body. With dull eyes, she looks at me for a second, then sags into the pillow. She doesn’t give me any info, just whimpers. And my chest constricts.

It’s been years since I’ve been around anyone sick. I think the last time was for Killian when he had the flu. I didn’t take care of him, though. That had been Brenna’s job back then. But I remember my childhood and how my mother would care for me.

“Come on, love,” I whisper as I scoop Stella up. “Let’s get you more comfortable.”

Her head lolls against my shoulder, and she whimpers again. The unhealthy heat of her body seeps through my shirt, and I bite back a curse. Gently laying her down on the loveseat, I hustle into Killian’s room where I know there’s a wet bar. I know this because the bastard stole the idea from me.

Armed with a bottle of cold water and a fresh glass, I head back and find Stella dozing. I use the time to change the sheets on her bed and get some painkillers. She makes a noise of protest when I pick her back up.

“It’s okay,” I tell her softly. “You’ll be okay.”

“Hurt,” she croaks.

“Where?”

“Throat. Everywhere.”

I set her down on the bed and unravel the dirty sheet. She’s dressed in a rumpled and sweat-soaked tank top and panties. Fuck. Running a hand through my hair, I hesitate for a second but then set my shoulders. She needs to be in clean clothes. End of story.

It takes some doing, but I wrestle a loose white T-shirt onto her and pull the tank off under it. Yeah, I’m being a prude. I’ve seen so many women nude, I’ve lost count. But this is Stella. It feels wrong to see her naked when she’s helpless and sick.

Not that she utters a word of complaint as I work. She just watches me with those dull, listless eyes. Her hand trembles when I give her a glass of cold water, and she only takes a small sip.

“More,” I tell her, pushing the glass back to her lips.

“Hurts.”

“I know, baby. But you need to hydrate.” I hand her two painkillers. “Take these.”

Her grimace hurts to look at but she does what I ask before flopping back onto the pillows. I cover her with a sheet and then find the thermometer.

It’s bad.

“One hundred and three?” I glare down at her. “Baby, you should have called me.”

Stella doesn’t answer but starts shivering again, and I cover her with the quilt.

Irritation and worry churn through my gut as I sit next to her and run my hand over her head. I’ve been dying to touch her hair, wondering if it would feel as silky as it looks. But it’s sticky with sweat now, and I curse again and pull out my phone to dial Dr. Stern.

She answers quickly.

“I have an emergency,” I tell her as I carefully comb my fingers through Stella’s snarled curls.

“Define emergency, Jax.”

“I have a friend here. She’s running a high fever. Chills. Says her throat hurts. I need you to check her out.”

Now, if I were an ordinary person, Doc Stern would tell me to take Stella to the nearest clinic. But since Kill John pays her extremely well to be on call for whatever reason, she tells me she’ll be right over.

I’m not good at waiting. I hate it. Right now, it’s killing me. Stella is in pain and sick with fuck knows what. My gut knotting, I lie back on the bed next to her. Immediately, she curls into me, resting her head on my lap. Her cheek pushes against my dick, and I try not to wince. I’m too tense to get hard. But that doesn’t stop my awareness of her.

Something about Stella makes my senses kick into high gear. If she’s around, I am focused. It’s a strange sensation. I try not to think about it as I gently trace the line of her hair along her temple. My fingertips tingle as if receiving a low-level shock.

“Why didn’t you call someone?” I ask, caressing her jaw. She’s still feverish.

“Who?” It’s barely a croak, but she says it as if truly curious. Like she has no one and hasn’t for a while. She told me she didn’t have any real friends, but it hits me that I didn’t really believe it. How could I? Stella is light and sweetness. Every person who gets near is pulled into her orbit. And she thinks she has no one.

My stomach clenches. “Me. You should have called or texted me.”

Her eyes are closed, but she moves her shoulder in a weak shrug. “Fighting.”

The tightness in my gut turns painful. “We’re not fighting. And even if we were, you could still ask me for help, Button.”

Christ. She doesn’t understand this? Friends fucking show. No matter what. I could be acting like a complete dick, but if I called Whip, Rye, Brenna, Scottie, Sophie, or Libby, they’d be there for me. I’d do the same for them. In an instant, I miss my friends.

My thoughts are interrupted when Stella jerks and opens her eyes with a gasp. It stops my heart. “What?” I touch her cheek. “Are you hurting?”

She just looks at the door. “Food. Guy should be here.”

Sagging against the padded headboard, I rest my hand on her head. “It’s okay. I paid him.”

But her eyes stay wild. “Stevens and Hawn.”

At the sound of his name, Stevens prowls out from under the bed and leaps up to cuddle Stella’s thigh. She weakly touches his head. I eye the little fur ball with trepidation. He might like Stella, but the bugger is shifty as fuck. “I’ll feed the pets,” I tell her. Stevens narrows his devil eyes at me as if to say, you better fucking do it or I’ll gut you. I believe it.

“His litter box,” Stella whispers, worried.

I swear Stevens smirks. I suppress a shiver. “Yeah, I’ll do that too.”

Stella sighs and snuggles back down on my lap. “’Kay.”

“You want some soup?”

She shakes her head, burrowing in deeper and slinging her arm over my thighs. It does something to me, the way she clings. No one has ever looked to me for simple physical comfort. Ever. I wouldn’t have allowed it. I’m not a cuddler. Women have tried to cling. It made my skin crawl. I used to think I was broken that way. Incapable. But comforting Stella feels good. Useful.

Idly, I run my fingers through her curls and stare at the ceiling.

The door buzzer goes off. Dr. Stern. Finally.

I move to let her in, but Stella clutches my hips. Her wide blue eyes, dull with fever, find mine. “Don’t leave me.”

Fuck. She’s breaking my heart. I cup her cheek. “Never, baby. I’m just getting the door, okay?”

She blinks, looking hazy and confused.

I kiss her temple. “I’ll be right back. I promise.”

The second I lay eyes on Dr. Stern, I grab hold of her bag. “She’s in the bedroom.”

Stern follows me inside. “Calm down, Jax.”

“I’ll be calm when Stella is better.” I halt and spin to face Stern. “Shit. She has a sore throat, Doc. And some kind of pinkish rash on her neck. Could I have …” I run a hand through my hair. “What if I infected her?”

Stern’s eyes narrow. “You didn’t have unprotected sex with this woman while you were undergoing treatment, did you?”

“What? No! Fuck no. But we kissed once. Remember the grocery store incident I asked you about? The kissing bandit? That’s Stella.”

Stern shakes her head, and her voice softens. “Then you’ll remember that I said you can’t contract chlamydia through a kiss. Jax, the antibiotics did their job. We tested you. You’re clean. So unless you two have had some oral form of sexual contact …”

“No. Just that kiss.” I run a cold hand over my face. “I’m worried … Her throat is sore.”

Dr. Stern touches my arm. “Which could be caused by a number of things. I will test her if that’s what she wants.” Her expression turns serious. “But I’m going to need your friend’s permission to examine her, Jax. Though, between you and me, if you’re in a relationship with this woman, I would tell her about what happened.”

A weight settles in my chest and guts. “I should have told her from the beginning. I just …” I shrug, my shoulders tight. It feels like ants are crawling over my skin. “Look, can you suggest she get tested?”

Dr. Stern gives my arm a friendly squeeze. “Let me see her. High fever, rash, and a sore throat could indicate strep.”

I expel a sigh and take her upstairs and promptly forget about my own worries when I see Stella curled up on the bed looking weak and pitiful and in pain. Hurrying over, I scoop her up and settle her on my lap, cuddling her close. “Stella Button, the doctor is here. She’s going to help you.”

Stella rests her cheek on my chest. “Okay.”

She trembles, and I kiss her temple before looking at Stern. “Fix her, Doc. Fix her fast.”

Stern’s smile is clearly bemused. “She isn’t broken, Jax. Just sick.”

That might be true. But while Stella is hurting, nothing feels right.

Stella

---

There is being sick and there is being in hell. I am in the latter. Jesus wept, I want to beg for drugs. Just knock me out and wake me when I’m better.

My mind drifts, an ebb and flow of pain and heat and strange noises. I know John is with me. I feel the hard strength of his body next to the mushy, hot mass of mine. I hear his voice, his gorgeous smooth-as-amber honey voice telling me to drink, asking me to lift my arms as he slips a clean, cool shirt over my battered body, telling me that I will be better soon.

Ha. Lies. The pain in my throat is broken glass and slow-moving lava.

Still I cling to him. He is all that is safe and comforting in my aching world.

Then the doctor arrives. I didn’t know doctors even made house calls anymore. She tells me she’s the band’s personal physician. Part of me wants to laugh—of course Jax Blackwood would have a doctor at his beck and call. But I hurt too much and am too weak to do anything more than answer her questions with soft croaks that barely sound like real words.

She’s telling me something important as she examines me. I just don’t care. As long as she makes this pain and hot hell go, I’ll do anything she wants. She swabs my throat and then she’s gone. John is back, forcing fluids down my hellfire throat.

It’s a haze after that. I know he’s here. He lies down next to me, his hands drifting through my damp hair with soothing strokes. It feels too good, and I move closer. He is cool compared to my flame. His arm curls around me, drawing me against his chest. My head finds the crook where his shoulder meets his arm. A perfect resting spot, and I relax with a sigh.

I don’t know how long we stay like that. Time passes, I know. He gives me the antibiotics the doctor prescribed, helps me to the bathroom when I have to go. Helps me back to bed when I’m done. We always settle in the same position. His fingers in my hair, my hand burrowing under his shirt to find his smooth, cool skin.

Any sense of self-consciousness burns away with my fever. My world narrows down to pain and trying to escape it. John helps me escape. He takes care of me. My fever peaks in the middle of the night, and he’s there, wiping my arms with a cold cloth that burns along my skin.

“Easy,” he whispers in the dark. “We’ve got to cool you down, Button. Easy now.”

That voice, smooth and gentle, grounds me, makes me do what it wishes. I concentrate on that voice throughout the night and into the morning.

I don’t know why he doesn’t leave me, but am afraid to ask in case I give him ideas. Doesn’t matter; he stays. He stays, and he has no idea what that means to me. I haven’t been cared for like this since my mom died. Part of me wants him to go. I can’t become attached to him. Because no one stays forever and the leaving hurts too much.

But I don’t say a word. I cling like the weak woman I am.

At some point the next day, he forces me to eat some soup. I am not a good patient, pushing his hand away with a snarl every time the damn spoon hovers in front of my face.

“If you dribble your soup,” he tells me, smiling with his eyes, “we’ll have to put you in the shower.”

I glare at him, spoon pressed between my lips, then sag against the pillows. “Actually, I need to shower. I feel gross.”

John sets down the soup I’ve been avoiding for the past half hour. “Well, let’s get you showered.”

“Alone, rocker boy.”

A look of reproach shoots my way. “I’ve already had about ten chances to see you naked today.” John stands and holds out his hand. “Believe me, I have no interest in that.”

I stare up at him. “Why? What’s wrong with my body?”

He chokes on a laugh. “You’re serious now? Stella Button, your body is fucking gorgeous.” His eyes heat, and he looks me up and down. “Any place, any time you want to get naked for me, I will be there. With fucking bells on. But not when you’re sick. We get naked, it will be when you’re healthy and wanting it. Panting for it.”

God, the way he looks at me. Like he’s picturing it in detail. Like he’s a little dizzy with the idea. Then again, I’m dizzy too. Right now, I don’t know if it’s the fever or him. Maybe both. “We are not getting naked.”

I wish that had sounded more emphatic.

His lips quirk to the side, but he fails to hide the amused smile in his eyes. “Not today.” He grabs my hand and hauls me up. “Into the shower with you, Stells. No offense, but you kind of stink.”

My head is leaden, and I lean against him even as I nudge his ribs. “Ass.”

He smiles as he walks me into the bathroom. “And to think women claim they want total honesty.”

“Silence is also appreciated in some situations.”

John snickers, then gets the shower ready. He leaves me to it but insists on staying by the door outside. “Call me if you’re in trouble. I mean it,” he says with a tone that is downright bossy. “If you feel dizzy. If you wobble at all, you call me. I’ll close my eyes if you’re worried about me seeing you, but I’m not having you faint and hurt yourself. Okay?”

“Yes, sir.” I give him a weak salute. Truth is, my head is becoming heavier, and I need to get clean before I really do sag to the floor.

My shower is quick. I can’t linger the way I want. My body weighs a thousand pounds, and my throat still hurts. I want to lie down, but the cool water is glorious.

At some point, John slides fresh clothes in for me. They rest in a neat pile on the floor by the door. I don’t exactly like that he picked through my panty drawer, but I’m grateful regardless.

Feeling a little more human, I open the door and find him waiting just as he promised.

“Better?” he asks, keeping his eyes on my face. He’d left me a tank top and sleep shorts to change into. Skimpy but nice and cool. And frankly, I don’t care if he sees the outline of my nipples. Comfort beats out modesty at the moment.

“Yes.” But I’m fading. My voice is weak and my head pounds from standing up for too long.

Utterly patient, he holds out his big, calloused hand, and I let him guide me back to a freshly made bed.

I don’t hesitate to slide all the way into the middle, making room for him. I need him there so much, I’m tempted to plead, but I don’t have to. He follows me into the bed and, when I tuck myself against his side, he covers us with the blanket. My hair is damp, and he lifts it to drape over his shoulder before wrapping an arm around me.

We don’t say a word, neither one of us wanting to bring up the fact that he’s in bed with me and I’m now lucid enough to be fully aware of him.

“Stells?” he whispers after a moment.

“Hmm?”

“Earlier, you said there was no one to take care of you …” His words trail off as I tense, now fully awake and uncomfortably alert. John squeezes my shoulder, bracing me against him. “What happened to your family? You don’t have to tell me, but …” He shrugs, clearly at a loss.

He’s right. I don’t have to tell him a thing. My life is my business. But he’s also here, caring for me when no one else has. And if I want to have friends, I have to learn to let them inside these walls I have built.

Licking my dry lips, I answer slowly. “My mom died when I was eleven.”

“Babe …” His hand cups my the back of my head in a tender gesture. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

I shrug and pick at a piece of lint on his shirt. “Undetected heart condition. It sucks but that’s life.” It hurts like hell to swallow. “My dad wasn’t in the picture until then. Mainly because he was a bum. When Mom died, he showed up and brought me to New York to live with him.”

For a second, I see my dad as he was in those early days, fading red hair, scraggly beard, skinny as hell. “My dad was utterly at a loss at what to do with a grieving preteen. He’d taught me what he knew, how to charm people, how to get them to do what he wanted without them even realizing it. My dad is a grifter, and I’d learned at his feet. Only I’d made an effort not to be like him—to never take advantage of others”.

Blinking rapidly, I clutch the loose folds of John’s shirt. “The day I turned eighteen, he left. Job was done, he was out.”

“Jesus.” John wraps me up in a tight hug. I let him because I need it too much. His chest is firm and warm, and I hear the steady beat of his heart against my cheek.

“It was … well, it was shit,” I admit with a pained laugh. “But I got through it.”

“Of course you did. You’re a badass, Stella Button.”

With a snort, I ease back, and he lets me, moving a bit until we’re both comfortably lying side-by-side once more. Showering, and this ugly trip down memory lane, has worn me out, and my eyes close.

John seems to know I need a break because he starts to sing, his voice soft and low. The sound rolls over me like a gentle hand, and something inside me eases with a sigh. I’ve never been sung to before. I probably would hate it coming from anyone else, or crack internal jokes about it being cheesy. But John isn’t just anyone. His voice is his soul. I soak in its beauty and let it take me where it will.

My hand slides under his shirt again, seeking his firm skin. He leans into the touch as his fingers thread through my hair.

I feel safe and protected, entirely at home in his arms. But a small voice inside my head wonders if this is a strange dream. He is adored by millions, his voice a gift people pay to hear, and yet he’s singing to me. How did it come to this?

I drift, listening to the bittersweet cadence as he starts to sing “Asleep” by The Smiths. “Isn’t this song about suicide?” I ask, without thinking.

John pauses and his abs tense. “Yes?” It comes out as a question, almost apologetic and a little cautious, like he expects a lecture. “Or maybe just dying. Hard to tell when it comes to Morrissey.”

“He is quite the chipper fellow,” I murmur, thinking of The Smiths’ singer who’s known for being maudlin on a cheerful day.

John’s chest rumbles in a low laugh. “You know about The Smiths?”

“‘I Am Human’ is one of my favorite songs.” I run my hand along his side. “Used to listen to it on a loop when I was fifteen and deep into my teenage angst.”

“Oh, yeah?” His voice is husky and fond. “What made you angsty, Button?”

I lift a shoulder in a shrug. “I’d never been kissed. Never even been asked out.”

His stomach muscles tighten. “How is that possible? You’re cute as hell.”

“Eh, I was redheaded, freckled, round-faced, and at the time, completely flat-chested. Not what the guys in my class were looking for, I guess.”

He smooths his hand up my arm. “Teenage boys are idiots. I mean, I basically had one criterion for girls: easy lay.”

“Lovely.”

“Hey, I said we were idiots.”

“Are you saying that your standards have changed?”

“Ah …”

“Maybe just start singing again,” I advise.

His lips brush the top of my head. “You’re the one who interrupted the quiet beauty of my singing about slowly sinking into an inevitable death as your friends look on and weep.”

Closing my eyes, I flatten my palm against his skin. “Your sense of humor is a little twisted, you know that?”

I can almost feel him smile. “The guys find it annoying as hell.”

“Were you like this before …” I trail off awkwardly.

His chest lifts and falls on a sigh. “Yeah. Abysmal gallows humor and lacking in proper social tact.”

He sounds as though he’s quoting Mr. Scott.

“I knew it.” With a smile, I turn my head into his warmth. He carries the scent of my lemon-honey soap he’s been using to wash his hands with; underneath that is a tinge of creamy sandalwood that might be his deodorant. Nothing special, really, but I’d happily press my nose to his skin and breathe him in for days. Truth is, the simple act of being near him makes me happy. “Never change, John. Promise me that much.”

He’s silent for a second, his hand resting on the crown of my head. “Promise.”

“Good. Now, sing me a song that isn’t about death.”

He chuckles, slow and easy, and his fingers play with my hair again. “Mmm … You know, I just realized most slow songs are kind of morbid. Loss of love, longing, death … Jesus, we musicians are a sick, sad bunch.”

I let out a huff of laughter. “The world is sick and sad half the time. You’re just singing its songs, giving a voice to let all those feeling out.”

He toys with a lock of my hair.

“Do you ever,” I begin thoughtlessly, and then bite my lip to shut up.

His breath warms my hair. “Do I ever what?”

“Nothing.” I snuggle closer. “I don’t know what I was going to say.”

His voice is soft but slightly amused. “Yes, you do. Just ask, Stells. It’s okay.”

I find myself pressing into him, trying to ground myself, to ground him. “Do you ever think about that night?”

He knows exactly what night I’m talking about, and his body tenses.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. “I shouldn’t have—”

“Don’t be,” he cuts in. “I’d rather have you ask then tiptoe around me.”

Dully, I nod, my pulse picking up.

John adjusts, settling down in a more comfortable position. “Everyone tiptoes around it, myself included. It’s like it’s some dark secret, which is a joke because everyone knows.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because I don’t know what else to say.

But he seems to appreciate it. He gives me a little squeeze. “We live in a world where people greet each other with ‘How are you?’ But few of us actually want an answer. It’s kind of hilarious if you think about it. We don’t really want to know how someone else is doing, but we want to look as though we do.”

“I’m always tempted to answer that I have horrible period cramps and I can’t remember if I left the oven on, and can you still call it a grilled cheese sandwich if you add any meat other than bacon?”

He laughs short and light. “Definitely no on that last question.” He pauses, then goes on in a subdued tone. “I didn’t know I was in trouble back then. I’d always lived on highs and lows. I kind of thought everyone did. I’d be pumped about life, churn out song after song, stay up all hours just wanting to keep going. Then I’d hit this wall and everything would plummet. I wouldn’t want to get out of bed, preferred sleep over waking, had no interest in anything. But the band was always there. I was famous; I didn’t have time to ‘wallow’ as I used to call it.”

“What changed?” I whisper.

“I don’t know,” he says in a hollow, faraway voice. “The lows became longer, stronger. I started living in my head. I realized I didn’t have any dreams. They were all gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Most people have a dream they’re trying to achieve, a goal in life that keeps them going. I’ve done what I wanted to do. I’ve reached my pinnacle. I had nothing left, nothing to strive for. The knowledge of that hit me and I was left staring into an abyss. And the darkness swallowed me up.

“And all I could think was, who the fuck am I? I felt like a lie, and then all this … ugliness started pouring in—telling me I was unlovable, unworthy, a fake—until I felt so dirty and trapped in my own skin that I couldn’t stand it. And there was no way out.”

I stroke his skin now. This beautiful man who has influenced and inspired countless people and didn’t seem to know it. This beautiful man who makes me feel more alive than anyone I’ve ever met. I want to cry because I’ve felt that way before too. Not to the extent that John did, but I understand that horrible feeling.

His body eases a little, but he continues in a rough voice. “But that’s not what I think about.” He swallows audibly. “What I hold onto, what I keep crystal clear, is that moment when I started to fade. I remember how fucking terrified and regretful I felt. I didn’t want to go. Not really. I just wanted to feel okay.”

“Honey.” I turn into him, and just cling, my fingers digging into his side. “I’m so freaking glad you’re here.”

He lets out a harsh breath. “So am I, Button. Right. Fucking. Here.”

I hadn’t meant it literally, but I don’t disagree. John and I have had our moments. We bicker and bounce around each other like opposing magnetic forces. But right now, it’s perfect.

It falls quiet, then John starts to sing “Something” by the Beatles. I am struck silent. Emotion swoops in strong and thick, and all I can do is lie there and take it, close my eyes and hold him to me. I’m sick as hell, my body aches, and yet I feel like I’ve been granted the best gift in the world.