The AC blasted through the ice cold waiting room as we sat in two stiff-back chairs, my hand intertwined with Bryce's.

He hadn't let go since the moment we'd stepped out of the car, his grip firm. And now he sat filling out paperwork with one hand, lightly running his thumb over my knuckles with the other.

"You want me to help?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I need something to focus on."

So did I.

But I just sat with him, waiting. Until we heard the nurse call for Bryce Harrison.

"I should've called my mom," Bryce said, as he stood up.

"We can call her later."

His hand dropped from mine as he stepped up on the scale, took his vitals. I could see the slight tremble, the first sign in all of this that he was nervous.

I tried to think of something to say. Anything.

But there was nothing that could make a trip to the Oncologist seem routine.

His hand immediately threaded back through mine as he sat down, the nurse asking about his symptoms. What brought him here today.

Bryce answered all of it without looking up.

Fatigue. Nausea. Headaches. Tingling in the limbs.

We were led to a small exam room where the paper crinkled under him as he sat on the table. I stayed in the chair beside it, suddenly aware of how small he seemed.

How small I felt.

"You okay?" he asked.

I almost laughed. "You're the one in the paper gown, Bryce."

His smile was faint. But it was real.

"Do you want me to text Kayla?" I questioned. "Have her tell your parents?"

"Just my mom."

Of course. "And your dad?"

"When there's something to know, I'll think about it."

I sent the quick text, leaving the burden to Kayla, as that's what older sisters were for.

A soft knock came at the door, and then it opened.

A woman stepped in. She looked more casual than I expected, a blouse and a pair of jeans. It was comforting, almost.

"Bryce Harrison?" They shook hands.

She turned to look at me.

"Sophie Allen," I introduced. "The girlfriend."

"I'm Dr. Chandra. I've reviewed your initial labs, and I'd like to go over what we're seeing and what comes next."

Bryce's hand twitched next to him, and I wished I could take it. Offer some sort of comfort. But we were seated just too far apart.

Dr. Chandra sat on the stool across from us, tablet balanced in one hand, glasses perched low on her nose.

"As mentioned, I've reviewed your primary labs," she said, tapping the screen, "and your white blood cell count is elevated enough to warrant deeper investigation. It's not alarmingly high, but it's something we want to be proactive about."

Bryce nodded. His posture was straight, but I could see the muscle in his jaw tightening.

"We also noticed some irregularities in your neutrophil ratio and minor anemia," Dr. Chandra continued. "Individually, these things aren't always a red flag. But together, with the fatigue, the headaches, the tingling, it's enough for a full workup."

Leukemia.

I knew in an instant what they were testing for, my skin running cold. I took in a sharp breath, enough that it caused Bryce to glance over to me in concern.

"What does that mean?" Bryce asked. His voice was steady, but quiet.

Dr. Chandra looked up from the tablet. "We're going to do a series of more detailed blood panels. Genetic markers, inflammatory response markers, bone marrow function indicators. And I'm referring you for a bone marrow biopsy."

The lump lodged itself in my throat as I tried to remember to breathe. I couldn't afford to panic now, not when Bryce was the one sitting on the table.

I was the one who was supposed to be the professional in this situation.

Bryce repeated it, like he was still trying to understand. "Biopsy."

"It doesn't confirm a diagnosis," Dr. Chandra clarified gently. "It helps us rule things out: leukemia, lymphoma, autoimmune responses. It gives us a clearer picture of what your cells are doing."

And there is it. Leukemia.

I could feel Bryce processing that. Swallowing it.

I managed to find my voice. "And if it's not cancer?" I asked. "What else could it be?"

"There are several benign or treatable conditions that can cause this kind of elevation, including vitamin deficiencies, lingering viral infections, even extreme physical stress. But we don't want to guess. We want data."

Bryce was silent. Staring.

"How soon can you do the biopsy?" I asked.

Dr. Chandra glanced down at her tablet for a moment. "We can schedule it for the end of this week. I'll have my team call you this afternoon."

Bryce nodded again. Almost mechanically.

The doctor softened her tone. "You're young. Fit. There's nothing here that's an immediate emergency. But there's enough to justify a thorough look. You're doing the right thing by being here early."

There was a moment of silence, as I gave Bryce the opportunity to say something. To ask any questions. But he just stared at her, his eyes wide.

"Thank you," I said, filling in the silence.

"I'll give you two a few minutes," Dr. Chandra said, rising. "The nurse will be back with scheduling instructions."

When the door shut behind him, it got very, very quiet.

I stood up, resting my hand over Bryce's.

His was cold.

"A biopsy," he said again, more to himself this time. "Like a real, sharp-needle, surgical kind of thing."

"You don't have to pretend to be fine about it," I said.

"I'm not fine." His voice broke, and as quickly as he tried to clear his throat, there were tears in his eyes. "I want to go home."

"Okay, let's go."

His face dropped into my shoulder, and I felt his whole body shudder.

The sob that came out of him wasn't loud. But it was real. And it cracked something inside me.

"Hey, hey." I wrapped both arms around him, holding him like I could somehow protect him from the truth. "Baby, I'm right here."

Nothing terrified me more than hearing Bryce cry. While Bryce was more than connected to his feelings, often crying at the same spot in Hairspray every single time, this was different.

This felt different.

And there was nothing I could say or do to fix it.

~*~

I stood outside the pediatric wing with a pit in my stomach.

My hair was pulled back. My name badge was clipped neatly to my scrubs. I looked the part.

But I felt like I was floating.

I hadn't slept more than four hours. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Bryce on that exam table, his voice breaking, his shoulders shaking. I could still feel the weight of him leaning into me.

But that was yesterday.

And now, I had to be back on the floor.

Because even when your boyfriend might have leukemia, med school doesn't stop.

"Sophie?" someone said behind me.

I turned to see Dr. Patel, clipboard in hand. He nodded toward the hallway. "We're ready for you."

I smiled. Or tried to. "Of course."

I followed him into the first room. A five-year-old with a fever and a cough. I read the chart. Listened to the questions.

I even made her laugh when I let her press the bell to my chest and told her she could hear my heart freaking out from too much coffee.

Everyone chuckled.

I smiled again.

But under that smile was a scream I didn't have time to let out.

We moved room to room. I nodded. Jotted notes. Asked Dr. Patel about symptoms between patients.

Fatigue. Nausea. Tingling in the limbs.

Every word was a trigger.

But I didn't flinch.

I pushed it down. Deeper. Farther.

By the time we made it to the charting station, my throat was dry and my jaw ached from clenching. But I'd done it.

Professional. Focused. Composed.

I'd been the version of myself everyone expected.

And the day was only just beginning.

~*~

The house was quiet when I pushed open the front door.

Too quiet.

Brad's shoes were by the entry. Dawson's leash was hanging on the hook, untouched. No music, no TV. Just the soft hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the faint tap of someone pacing.

I dropped my bag by the door.

"Clayton?" I called.

"In here."

He was pacing in the kitchen, his arms folded tight across his chest. "Have you heard from your boyfriend today?"

I shook my head, pulling the scrunchie down from my hair. "I haven't even had a moment to check my phone. Why?"

"He didn't go to practice today."

What? "Like, just didn't show up?"

"He didn't text the coaches. Didn't check in. Nothing." His voice was sharp, tight. "I called Brad and asked if he'd seen him. He hasn't. Bryce isn't answering his phone." He stopped pacing, whirling around to face me. "I went to check on him and he's asleep, didn't even budge when I opened the door."

I made my way down the hallway, muscles screaming for hot shower and a big bowl of carbs. But this came first.

Bryce was curled up in bed, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, the blanket bunched around his waist. His phone was face-down on the nightstand. Unread messages lit up the screen every few seconds.

He stirred, groaning a little as he turned toward the sound. His face was pale, skin damp with sweat.

"Hey," he rasped, voice hoarse.

"You didn't go to practice."

He slowly blinked a few times, his eyes unfocused. "What time is it?"

"It's 7 PM."

He blinked a few more times. "I fell asleep. I didn't think ... I was just tired."

Clayton appeared in the doorway behind me. "Tired? You missed practice. You don't miss practice. You once went to practice with a sprained ankle and a hangover."

"I didn't feel good," Bryce said. "Fuck. Coach is going to kill me."

Clayton threw his hands in the air. "That's what you're worried about right now?"

I held up a hand. "Clayton."

He looked at me, wild-eyed and tight-lipped, like he wanted to argue, but didn't.

I turned back to Bryce and knelt beside the bed. "Did you eat today?"

He blinked. "I don't know."

"Okay. I'm going to get you some water. And something light. You need to hydrate."

He nodded slowly, like even that took effort. "Can I have my phone? I gotta ... I don't know. Call Coach or something."

"After we get some food and water into you, okay?"

He was already settling back into the pillows. "Yeah, okay."

Behind me, Clayton paced a short loop, stopping and starting again.

"He's not allowed to just fade out like that," he muttered. "That's not how this works."

I looked up at him. "You're scared."

He didn't answer. Just turned and left the room, muttering something about needing air.

I turned back to Bryce. He was watching me with half-lidded eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

"You don't have to be sorry," I whispered, brushing a hand through his hair. "Just maybe next time, let someone know that you're feeling this way. So we can help."

He didn't answer, and I headed back out to the kitchen to find a protein bar and a bottle of water.

And noticed Clayton standing out on the back porch.

I let the screen door close behind me.

He didn't turn around.

"Clayton."

He exhaled sharply, the kind of breath you only take when you're trying not to lose it.

"I get it," I said gently. "It's scary."

"Scary?" he said, spinning around. "This is beyond scary, Sophie."

The first real emotion I'd ever gotten from Clayton, and he was trying hard to hide it, his eyes bouncing from me to the sky to the porch floorboards.

"He misses practice?" he went on, pushing a hand through his hair. "He forgets to eat? That's not Bryce. And it's not something you just write off."

"I'm not writing it off," I said, stepping closer. "Neither are you."

"But it's happening anyway," he snapped, throwing his hands out. "Right in front of us. And we're just watching it."

"It's all we can do right now."

Clayton took to pacing, his hands now shoved into his pockets. "You don't know what it was like for me when I had to go the hospital, after The Incident with my dad. Bryce came every single day. Even when I couldn't speak to him, to anyone. He just filled in the silences, entertained himself and me in the process."

The confession stunned me. Clayton hardly ever talked about that time, or any time with his biological dad. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," Clayton corrected. "Because I don't know how to do that in return. I don't know how to stand by and just watch this happen."

"You're doing it," I said.

He shook his head. "No. I yelled at him."

"Because you're scared."

Clayton didn't say anything to do, folding his arms tight across his chest as he slowly stopped pacing.

"Do you mind giving me some space?" he asked, after a few moments of silence. "I think I need to call Trenton."

"All hail, Trenton."

He rolled his eyes at that, but I caught a flicker of a smile.

"We'll be alright," I said, as I turned to go back inside. "What was the nickname I came up with?"

"I'm not calling us the threesome."

"I'm going to name the group chat that."

"We don't have a group chat."

"We do now."

What would be the first text in The Threesome group chat? I'm so curious.

Teaser: Bryce has a bone marrow biopsy but in true Bryce fashion, acts like it's nothing out of the ordinary.

This book will update again on Monday.