I took a cab home from the hospital. The driver didn't talk. I watched the city blur past the window. Gray buildings. Gray sky. Everything the same color.

When I got back to my apartment, I stood in the doorway for a long time. The place felt wrong. Like it belonged to someone else. Someone who used to live here before everything changed.

I packed a bag. Just a few things. Then I got in my car and started driving.

South on I-5. Past Tacoma. Past Olympia. The highway was empty. It was almost midnight.

Three hours later, I pulled onto a quiet street in Portland. Craftsman houses. Big trees. Porch lights glowing yellow.

I knew the address. I'd known it for fifteen years. Ever since my mother sent that first Christmas card with her new family's photo on it.

I parked across the street. Turned off the engine.

The house was pale blue with white trim. There were lights on inside. Through the front window, I could see the dining room.

My mother was there.

Patricia Ellis. Fifty-two now. Her hair was shorter than I remembered. She was laughing. Her husband sat at the head of the table. Two kids, maybe eight and ten, were arguing over something. The boy grabbed a roll off his sister's plate. She smacked his hand. Patricia said something I couldn't hear and they both laughed.

It looked warm in there. It looked like a family.

I pulled out my phone. Found her number in my contacts. I'd never deleted it. Never called it either.

My thumb hovered over the screen.

I could call. I could knock on the door. I could tell her I was dying. Tell her I had three months. Tell her I needed—

What?

What did I need from the woman who walked out when my father was dying of the same disease now killing me?

I watched her through the window. She was pouring milk for the little girl. Smiling. She looked happy. She looked like she'd built something good here. Something that didn't include me.

My finger was still on the screen.

I sat there for forty-five minutes.

The lights in the dining room went off. The upstairs lights came on. Bedtime.

I put my phone away. Started the car. Drove back to Seattle.

I didn't knock.

Not because I forgave her. But because some doors close and stay closed. And maybe that's okay.

Maybe that's just how it is.

The next day, I woke up wrong. My head felt like it was full of cotton. The pain medication made everything soft around the edges. Blurry.

I needed air. I needed to move.

I walked downtown. Pike Place Market was crowded. Tourists everywhere. The fish guys were throwing salmon and yelling. Someone was playing guitar badly near the flower stalls.

I stood on the corner waiting for the light to change.

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out. A reminder about a wedding dress fitting I'd scheduled three months ago. Before everything.

I stared at the screen.

The light changed. I stepped off the curb.

Someone screamed.

A horn blared. Loud. So loud it rattled my skull.

I looked up.

A delivery truck. Right there. Maybe three feet away.

Then someone grabbed my arm and yanked me backward so hard I stumbled. My shoulder hit something solid. A chest.

The truck roared past. The driver leaned on the horn again as he went by.

I couldn't breathe.

Reign's hand was still on my arm. His grip was tight enough to bruise.

"What the hell, Nori," he said.

I looked at him. His face was pale. Angry. Scared.

"I didn't see it," I said.

He didn't let go. "Get in my car."

"I'm fine—"

"Now."

He walked me to the parking garage two blocks away. Put me in the passenger seat. Got in the driver's side and just sat there for a minute, hands on the wheel.

Then he started the car and drove.

We didn't talk. He took the highway north. Exited at Discovery Park.

The trail to West Point Lighthouse was wet. It had rained that morning. The ground was slick. Reign walked ahead of me. I followed.

The lighthouse sat at the edge of everything. Gray water. Gray sky. The sound of waves hitting the rocks below.

Reign stopped at the top. Turned to face me.

"What's going on?" he asked.

I looked out at the water. "Nothing."

"Nori."

"I'm fine."

"Stop saying that!" His voice cracked. "You're not fine. You almost walked into traffic. You look like you haven't slept in a week. You quit your job. You canceled your wedding. And you won't tell me why."

The wind was cold. It bit through my jacket.

"I'm dying," I said.

The words came out flat. Simple.

Reign went very still.

"Stage IV liver cancer," I said. "Three months. Maybe four if I'm lucky."

He stared at me.

"I got the diagnosis the same day I found Kyle with Ayleen," I continued. "Same day. Isn't that funny? I came home from the oncologist and he was on the couch with her and I just—" My voice broke. "I didn't tell him. I didn't tell anyone. Because what's the point? My mom left when my dad got sick. Kyle left me on a bathroom floor to go help his girlfriend with a fender bender. Everyone leaves. So I'm leaving first."

My knees gave out.

I dropped onto the wet grass. The cold soaked through my jeans immediately.

I screamed.

Just screamed into the wind. All of it. The diagnosis. The betrayal. The three months. The bathroom floor. My mother's lit window. All of it came out in one long, ugly sound.

Then I was crying. Actually crying. For the first time since the oncologist's office. For the first time since I was sixteen.

Reign sat down beside me. Pulled me against his chest. His arms went around me and he held on tight.

"I notice," he said quietly. "I see you. I've always seen you."

I pressed my face into his jacket and cried until there was nothing left.

I woke up in a motel room that smelled like bleach and old carpet. The kind of place you stay when you're running from something. Or running toward the end.

Someone knocked on the door.

I sat up too fast. My head spun. The pain medication made mornings feel like swimming through fog.

I opened the door.

Reign stood there holding two black coffees.

Not oat milk lattes. Just black coffee.

He held one out to me. Didn't say anything.

I took it. Stared at the cup. At the steam rising in the cold morning air.

"How did you know?" I asked.

He stepped past me into the room. Set his own coffee on the table by the window. "You always ordered oat milk. But your face did something complicated every time you drank it. Like you were tolerating it instead of enjoying it."

I looked down at the cup in my hands. "Kyle said I needed to watch my weight."

"Kyle's an idiot."

I sat on the edge of the bed. Took a sip. It was perfect. Strong and bitter and exactly what I wanted.

It was the first time in six years someone had given me what I actually wanted instead of what I'd been told I should want.

I didn't cry. But it was close.

Reign sat in the chair by the window. Drank his coffee. Didn't push.

After a while, I said, "I booked a flight to LA. Cheapest ticket I could find."

He nodded. "When?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"Good," he said. "I'll drive you to the airport."

I looked at him. At the way he was watching me with that steady gaze. Like I was a problem he was already solving in his head.

"You don't have to," I said.

"I know."

But he showed up the next morning anyway.

The airport was crowded. I checked my bag. Got my boarding pass. Gate C7.

Reign walked with me to security.

"Thanks," I said. "For everything."

He looked at me for a long moment. Then he nodded. "See you around, Nori."

I went through security. Found my gate. Sat in a plastic chair and waited.

They called my boarding group. I got in line. Walked down the jetway. Found my seat.

22A. Window.

I put my bag under the seat in front of me. Buckled in. Stared out at the tarmac.

The middle seat next to me was empty.

People kept boarding. Shuffling down the aisle. Shoving bags into overhead bins.

Then I saw him.

Reign. Walking down the aisle with a carry-on bag and a boarding pass in his hand.

He stopped at my row. Looked at the seat number. Looked at me.

"You're in my seat," he said.

I stared at him. "What?"

He lifted his bag into the overhead bin. Sat down in 22B. The middle seat.

"I had first class," he said. "Traded it. Now move your elbow. You're hogging the armrest."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out.

"You quit your job," I finally said.

He buckled his seatbelt. Pulled out his phone and switched it to airplane mode. "This morning. HR was very confused."

"Reign—"

"It was a terrible job," he said. He looked at me. Really looked at me. "You were the only good part."

I turned to the window so he wouldn't see my face.

The plane taxied. Took off. Seattle disappeared below us.

I pressed my forehead against the cold glass and closed my eyes.

We drove down the Pacific Coast Highway in a rental car Reign insisted on paying for. The ocean was on our left. Endless and gray.

My phone started buzzing.

I looked at the screen. Kyle. Again.

It had been going on for an hour. Seventeen calls. Twenty texts.

I put the phone face down in the cup holder.

Reign glanced at it. "He's persistent."

"He's panicking," I said. "He finally checked my apartment. It's empty. My social media's been dark for days. His emails to my work account bounced back."

The phone buzzed again.

"Want me to answer it?" Reign asked.

I looked at him. "What?"

"I'll answer it," he said. "Make it stop."

I should have said no. Should have let it ring out. Let Kyle spiral on his own.

But I was tired. So tired.

"Okay," I said quietly.

I closed my eyes. Leaned my head against the window. Pretended to sleep.

The phone rang again.

Reign picked it up. Answered.

"Who is this?" Kyle's voice came through tinny and sharp. I could hear him even with my eyes closed.

"I'm the man who's with her right now," Reign said. His voice was calm. Cold.

"Put Nori on the phone," Kyle demanded.

"No."

"Listen, I don't know who you think you are—"

"I'm the man who's with her right now," Reign repeated. "Unlike you, I don't leave her bleeding on a hospital bathroom floor to rescue a woman who can't parallel park. Lose this number."

He hung up.

The car was quiet.

I kept my eyes closed. Felt the tears slide down my face. Hot against my cold skin.

Reign didn't say anything. Just kept driving.

After a while, he reached over and took my hand.

I held on.

And for the first time in six years, I felt like someone was holding on too.