Reaching up, I stroke my fingers across the stubble on his jaw. “Easton, I never stopped loving you.” He dips his head, lowering his mouth toward mine, but I stop him with a fingertip to his lips. “Loving you is part of who I am.”

He must see the hesitation on my face because the worry doesn’t leave his. “But . . .?”

“But I’m scared.”

“Even having decided that you’re not moving? You’re still . . . You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust life. I don’t trust all the things out of our control. Things happen and choices have to be made and . . .”

“I’ll prove it to you, then.” He nods, and I see his determination in the set of his jaw. “I’ll have to prove you can trust me. That I won’t hurt you again.”

I press my palms against his chest and rise onto my tiptoes as I slide them up to his shoulders.

He dips his head, stopping with his lips a breath from mine. “When you pictured your future today . . . could you make any room in there for me?”

“No, Easton.” I shake my head, and his face drops. “I don’t need to make room because you were already there.”

He wraps his arms behind my back and lifts me off the ground, crushing my body to his as he kisses me. I kiss him back and try to ignore the nagging feeling that tells me I’ve invited heartache back into my life.

Shay

Do doctors’ offices intentionally turn down the heat in rooms where women are wearing these flimsy exam robes? Because as I sit on the edge of the table and wait for my doctor to join me, I’m practically shivering. I think my toes might be turning blue.

I wrap my arms around myself and sigh. The fact that I’m even here instead of just getting a quick STI panel drawn up at the lab speaks to the magnitude of my hypochondria. Symptoms? Exhaustion. Queasiness. And a side of I-could-fall-asleep-any-fucking-where.

I’m a doctoral candidate slated to defend her dissertation in less than a month. I don’t need to talk to my doctor. I need a nap. Or at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself for the past few weeks. But even when I made sleep a bigger priority, it didn’t make any difference. And according to the scale on the way in, I’ve lost weight.

Please don’t be cancer.

Fear is an icy hand on my lungs.

There’s a soft knock on the door.

“Come in,” I call.

Dr. Hassell steps into the room and closes the door behind her. “How are you, Shayleigh?”