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His tone was too curt. Too abrupt. She sank into silence, clearly upset by his brusqueness but no longer arguing.

He hated that he’d made her feel that way, but he couldn’t continue this conversation. Just like he never listened to any of the voicemail messages left by his doctor’s office. He’d gottenthree over the past week—no doubt trying to follow up about a treatment plan—and he’d deleted each one without listening or reading the automatic transcription.

He was going to live the rest of his life the way he wanted, and he wasn’t going to get dragged down by pressure to try out medical treatments that weren’t going to work.

“I’m sorry,” he said after a minute. “I know you want to help.”

“I do. And I know it’s your decision. I’m not trying to pressure you. I’ll accept whatever you decide. But—” She broke off with a strangled sound.

He sat up and turned around to face her, cupping her face with one of his hands. “But what?”

She cleared her throat and gave her head a little shake, the tightness of her features softening. “You’re not the only one that your decisions affect. Just… just remember that.”

He stared at her, stunned and bewildered and flooded with far too much emotion to handle.

When he didn’t respond, she dropped her eyes. “I’m not trying to make it weird. I’m not living under any delusions or fantasies. But if you have even a little longer than they expected, then I want… I want to know that. Because I… I…”

“You what, angel?” he asked hoarsely, leaning forward and still cupping her cheek. His chest was overflowing with both hope and dread as he waited to hear what she was about to say.

“Because I… I don’t want you to suffer any longer than necessary, but I also don’t want you to… to die.” She started to shake. Her face twisted with the effort to hold back her tears.

She couldn’t do it. She started to sob.

With a guttural inhale, he pulled her into his arms and let her cry into his chest. His arms were tight, and his heart was pounding like a jackhammer.

He could barely breathe.

She hadn’t said what he’d been holding his breath for, but it didn’t actually matter. Because she’d told him enough.

He knew now. For sure. No question. The truth had descended on his heart with an overpowering weight of guilt and responsibility.

He’d been wrong only this morning when he’d thought about how she cared for him. And nothing else.

She loved him.

Somehow. In some way. A miracle had happened. She’d fallen in love with him, even knowing he would die.

She was sobbing now with the grief of it, and there was nothing he could do to help her.

Because very soon he wouldn’t be alive to love her back.

She’d be left alone with nothing but the memories of a few months and a spirit full of affection and commitment that no longer had a resting place. Her sweet heart would be broken. She wasn’t the kind of person to pour out her love easily. She held her heart carefully, guarding it from harm and offering it to only a very few.

That was why he’d never believed she would fall in love with him for real or even grieve for long after he was gone. He’d assumed there was nothing in him that could touch the depths of her being, but he’d been wrong.

He’d been unforgivably wrong.

What had he done to her? How selfish could he have been?

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about her. He’d always wanted her to be safe and secure and content after he was gone. He’d simply never believed she could love him, and his mistake would leave her all alone—broken and suffering after he died.

He couldn’t stand it. The truth of it wracked him, upended him so fully that it was all he could do not to let her go and run out of the room.

But she was still crying, and she needed him. So he held her until she finally fell quiet.

“I’m sorry,” she said as she pulled away at last, wiping her damp face with her hands. “I’m trying to do better and not fall apart like this. It’s the last thing you need.”

He didn’t care what he needed. That no longer mattered.

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