The fluorescent lights of “Style Spree” hummed with an indifferent brightness, casting a sterile glow over racks of brightly colored fabrics and the too-perfect smiles of mannequins. It was the kind of place Kate loved, a temple of casual fashion where she could drift, her fingers trailing over soft cottons and sleek polyesters. For Mark, it was another circle of his personal hell, made infinitely worse by his step daughter Julia’s acid presence.

“Seriously, Mom, are you even looking at this?” Julia’s voice, sharp and laced with her usual teenage disdain, cut through the low murmur of other shoppers and the tinny pop music drifting from hidden speakers. She held up a frilly, lemon-yellow top that looked like it had lost a fight with a flock of angry canaries. “This is, like, something a grandma would wear to a bingo hall. A sad grandma.”

Kate, ever graceful, sighed. “It’s just a color, sweetie. And try to be a little less ... descriptive.”

Julia pressed on, holding up another skimpy dress, looking at Mark with disdain. “Do you think Dad would ever let you wear something from this store? He had taste.”

“Julia, that’s enough,” Kate said, her voice a little sharper this time, but still lacking conviction. She caught Mark’s eye for a fleeting second, a flicker of something unreadable, pity? Annoyance? before turning back to the clothes.

Kate glanced over her shoulder at Mark, who was deliberately keeping a ten-foot radius, pretending to be fascinated by a display of men’s socks. Her eyes, usually so full of warmth when they met his, held a flicker of something he couldn’t quite decipher weariness, maybe? Or was it the pity he dreaded?

“Whatever,” Julia huffed, tossing the yellow top back onto the pile with theatrical disgust. Her gaze, cold and calculating, snagged on Mark. “Why is he even here? It’s not like he has any taste. Or, you know, a reason to be around actual clothes instead of just ... potato sacks.”

Mark flinched internally, Julia’s familiar barb sinking deep “Fatty, Ugly, Wimp, Pussy”. James her father. The man whose cheating had shattered their family, yet whom Julia inexplicably championed. Mark knew Kate still looked half her age, stunningly beautiful, and the thought that she might be missing the life she had with James, a life undoubtedly more glamorous than what he could offer, was a constant, grinding torment. Julia’s words weren’t just teenage banter; they were sharp, poisoned arrows hitting the bullseye of his deepest insecurities.

Julia’s lexicon of insults was extensive and creatively cruel. Mark kept his face impassive, his gaze fixed on a pair of argyle socks that suddenly seemed the most fascinating objects in the universe. He could feel the heat rise in his neck, the familiar shame coiling in his gut. He was 5’7”, built like a sturdy oak barrel next to Kate’s willowy 5’10” frame. He knew he wasn’t conventionally handsome; his features were blunt, his hair thinning, his belly a soft testament to too many lonely nights with takeout before Kate. But Kate ... Kate was a goddess. Her auburn hair still held fiery glints, her skin was smooth, her laughter like wind chimes. How had he, Mark, ever thought he could hold onto someone like her?

He remembered the early days, three years ago. The smoky haze of O’Malley’s, the way Kate had been surrounded by slick, predatory men, all polished smiles and easy lines. He’d been nursing a beer, feeling the familiar ache of loneliness, when he’d seen her laugh, a genuine, unguarded sound. He’d walked over, fueled by a potent cocktail of cheap whiskey and a desperate ‘what the hell’ attitude. He’d expected a polite dismissal, maybe even a scornful laugh. Instead, they’d talked for hours. About old movies, a shared love for a niche indie band, the ridiculousness of modern dating. He’d felt a connection, a spark he hadn’t felt in years, if ever. When she’d suggested they meet again, he’d almost fallen off his barstool. Their dates had been a blur of giddy disbelief for him. Men still hit on her constantly, their eyes flicking over Mark with dismissive surprise when Kate introduced him as her boyfriend.

“You’re with ... him?” one particularly brazen Wall Street type had slurred, looking Mark up and down like he was something scraped off a shoe. Kate had just squeezed Mark’s hand tighter, her eyes flashing. “Yes, I am. And he’s more of a man than you’ll ever be.” That memory, once a warm shield, now felt like a distant, fading photograph.

Lately, though, her hand felt ... limp. Her goodnight kisses were brief, almost perfunctory. In bed, she’d turn away, a soft sigh escaping her lips as she feigned sleep. The old fire, the passionate abandon they’d once shared, had dwindled to cold embers. Mark lay awake many nights, staring at the ceiling, his mind replaying Julia’s taunts: “She’s just using you, fatty. A placeholder. Waiting for someone better, or for Dad to finally see sense.”

He’d tried to dismiss it, but he knew Kate’s ex husband Julia’s dad James possesses the look every man envied, his cheating was the reason Kate divorced him, and he knew that Julia’s trying her best for her parents to get back together. Mark loved Kate with an intensity that bordered on worship. She was his sun, his moon, his everything. But the doubt, an insidious weed of Julia’s words, had taken root. Was he enough? Could he ever be? The chasm of her beauty, her vivacity, compared to his own perceived inadequacies, seemed to widen daily. He saw the men who still looked at her, their eyes lingering with an appreciation he felt he no longer inspired, if he ever truly had. Had he been delusional? A fool living in a dream?

“Mark, go wait by the entrance or something, will you?” Julia’s voice snapped him back to the present. “You’re crowding the aisles, and frankly, your vibe is killing the shopping mood.” Mark looked at Kate, a desperate plea in his eyes. Say something. Defend me. Show me I’m wrong.

Kate just offered a weak, apologetic smile. “Maybe just ... give us a little space, honey? We’ll be quick.”

It was a gentle dismissal, but it hit Mark with the force of a physical blow. It’s over, a cold voice whispered in his mind. Julia was right. It was always going to end. How could someone like her stay with someone like me? His gut twisted. This is it, he thought, the cold dread solidifying. Julia was right. Kate’s done.

Mark wanted to scream at Kate, to demand what was wrong, to beg her to tell him if there was someone else, someone more “in her league.” But the words caught in his throat, a knot of fear and despair. What if she said yes? The thought of life without Kate was a black hole, a terrifying void. He’d never been loved like that before, and the prospect of it ending was crippling. So he stayed silent, a habit he’d cultivated, swallowing the bitterness, letting Julia’s words fester. He nodded at Kate’s word, unable to speak past the lump in his throat, and turned away. Each step towards the entrance felt like a nail in the coffin of his marriage.

Julia felt a small, mean thrill of victory as her mother hadn’t defended Mark. Not really. Maybe, just maybe, she was starting to see it too. See how ill-fitting he was, not just in this store, but in their lives.

“See, Mom?” Julia said, her voice softer now, more earnest. “Doesn’t it feel ... better? Lighter? Without him hovering? I still can’t believe what you see in him.” Julia felt a desperate need to make her mother understand, to shake her awake. That this wasn’t just a teenage banter. This was about her mother’s life, her happiness. And by extension, hers.

“He’s kind to me, sweetheart. He’s steady. He loves me.” Kate’s voice was flat, rehearsed, as if she were reciting lines she no longer fully believed. Or maybe that was just Julia’s wishful thinking.

“Kind and steady is what you get in a golden retriever, Mom, not a husband,” Julia scoffed. “Dad was exciting. He challenged you. Okay, so he messed up. Big time. I get that. But people forgive each other, right? Especially when the alternative is ... Mark.” She practically spat his name. “Don’t you miss Dad? Don’t you miss being with someone who actually, like, matches you?” The image of her father, charming and persuasive, rose in Julia’s mind. He’d made mistakes, yes, but he was still her father. And he was, undeniably, in Kate’s league. They’d looked good together, a power couple. Mark just made Kate look ... desperate. Or blind.

“It’s not that simple, Julia,” Kate said, finally turning away from the clothes, her gaze meeting Julia’s in the mirror. There was a sadness there, a weariness that Julia, in her self-absorption, interpreted as dissatisfaction with Mark, rather than exhaustion with her daughter’s relentless campaign.

“Maybe it is,” Julia insisted. “Maybe you’re just scared to be alone, or scared to admit you made a mistake. But you don’t have to settle for ... for him. He doesn’t deserve you, Mom. Someone that ... ugly ... just doesn’t deserve someone with your kind of beauty, inside and out.”

Julia watched her mother’s face, searching for any sign of agreement, any flicker that her words were hitting home. Kate just looked tired. But she hadn’t rushed to Mark’s defense, hadn’t told Julia to stop. Julia allowed herself a small, hopeful thought, Maybe this is it. Maybe she’s finally seeing him for the placeholder he is.

Mark found a worn bench near the doors, sinking onto it heavily. He watched Kate and Julia from a distance, a tableau of mother-daughter bonding that starkly excluded him. Kate laughed at something Julia said, a genuine, bright laugh, and the sight pierced Mark to the core. Was she happier without him even in her immediate vicinity? Was the relief already setting in? He imagined the conversation he’d been dreading, the one he hadn’t had the courage to initiate. “Mark, this isn’t working anymore ... I need ... I need someone else ... James and I have been talking...” The scenarios played out in his head, each one more agonizing than the last. He cursed himself for his cowardice, for his ugliness, for not being the man Kate deserved.

BANG!

The gunshot was deafening, ripping through the bland Muzak and casual chatter. It wasn’t like in the movies. It was raw, brutal, and utterly terrifying. Screams erupted instantly, a wave of panic washing over the shoppers. People dropped bags, ducked behind racks, a stampede of fear heading for the exits. Mark’s head snapped up. His own misery, his own heartbreak, vanished in a millisecond, replaced by a primal surge of adrenaline. He scanned the chaotic scene, his eyes searching, desperately. Then he saw him. A man, wild-eyed, face contorted in a mask of rage or madness, holding a semi-automatic rifle. He fired again, this time into the ceiling, plaster raining down. “NOBODY MOVE!” he screamed, his voice cracking.

Mark spotted Julia. She was alone, frozen near a display of summer dresses, her face a mask of white terror. The bravado, the cruelty, all gone. She was just a kid, petrified. The gunman was between her and the main aisle, effectively cutting her off, his gaze sweeping wildly before settling on her. He took a step towards her, raising the rifle.

“JULIA!” Kate shrieked, her voice raw with terror. She started to run towards her daughter, heedless of the danger. Something snapped in Mark. There was no thought, no hesitation, just pure, unadulterated instinct. The years of insults, the feeling of being inadequate, the quiet agony of his dying marriage, it all burned away in the face of this immediate, horrifying threat. Kate was trying to get to Julia, but the gunman was closer to Julia, and his attention was fixed on the girl. Mark moved. He wasn’t an athlete. He was Mark, the “fatty,” the “wimp.” But at that moment, he was a blur. He launched himself towards Julia, covering the distance in a desperate sprint. The gunman saw Kate, then saw Mark charging. He swiveled the rifle.

“NO!” Julia screamed, a high-pitched wail of pure terror. The world narrowed to that single point: Julia’s terrified face, the black maw of the rifle barrel.

BANG!

An ungodly pain ripped through Mark’s side, like a white-hot poker. He grunted, stumbling, but his momentum carried him forward. He reached Julia just as the bullet meant for her slammed into his body. He twisted, putting himself fully between her and the gunman, absorbing the impact, shielding her small frame with his own. He heard her cry out, a choked, horrified sound. Mark hit the floor hard beside her, the wind knocked out of him, but the adrenaline was a fire in his veins. He could feel the warm stickiness of blood spreading across his shirt. Julia was staring at him, her eyes wide with a horror he’d never seen before, not even when she was spewing her worst insults. Then, an incredible, almost inhuman surge of will coursed through him. He wasn’t done. He couldn’t be. Ignoring the searing agony, Mark pushed himself up. His vision swam. He was bleeding badly. But he saw the gunman, momentarily surprised, perhaps, by this unexpected intervention, fumbling slightly as he tried to re-aim.

“Mark!?” Kate screamed from somewhere behind him, her voice laced with disbelief and anguish. Mark staggered forward, towards the gunman. Each step was a fresh wave of agony.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

More bullets tore into him. One in the shoulder, spinning him slightly. Another in his leg, making it buckle. He could feel his life force draining, his strength ebbing, but he kept moving. One foot in front of the other. The image of Kate’s face, her terror, Julia’s small, pale face, they fueled him. He was a dead man walking, but he was still walking. The gunman looked almost spooked by this bleeding, relentless figure coming at him. He raised the rifle for a final, kill shot, his eyes wide with a deranged focus.

Mark was almost on him. With the last ounce of strength in his failing body, with every bit of love he had for Kate, with a primal need to protect, he lunged. He didn’t have a weapon. He only had himself. He threw a punch, a desperate, clumsy haymaker, fueled by sheer will. Mark’s fist connected with the gunman’s jaw. There was a sickening crunch. The gunman’s eyes rolled back, and he crumpled to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, the rifle clattering beside him. Silence. A ringing, deafening silence, punctuated by distant sirens and the whimpering of terrified shoppers.

Mark swayed, then fell. Hard. The cold tile of the department store floor pressed against his cheek. The pain was immense now, a tidal wave threatening to drown him. He could feel the blood pooling beneath him, warm and sticky. So much blood. This is it, then, he thought, a strange calmness settling over him. At least ... at least it was for something. His life, which had felt so worthless, so pathetic, had bought a few precious seconds. Had saved Julia. Maybe, just maybe, Kate would be okay. Images flashed behind his eyelids, vivid and sweet. Kate, laughing, on their first date, her eyes sparkling. The warmth of her body pressed against his in the early morning light. Their first kiss, tentative then deepening, a promise of everything he’d ever wanted. The small, silly arguments that ended in laughter and making up. The quiet nights, just holding her. Her scent. Her smile. The happy moments. He clung to them as the darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. He was so tired. The pain was fading now, replaced by a heavy, drifting sensation. Then, through the fog, a voice. Frantic, broken.

“Mark! Oh God, Mark, no! No, no, don’t die! Please, Mark, don’t leave me! Don’t die!”

Kate, he could hear her, her voice raw with an emotion he hadn’t heard in so long. Was it ... love? Or just pity for the fool who’d thrown his life away? At least, he thought, a faint, ghostly smile touching his lips, at least she’s here. At least she said my name.

“Mark! Mark, no! Don’t you dare! Don’t you leave me!” Kate choked out, her voice raw with a pain that mirrored his own. “No, no, Mark, please ... stay with me ... I love you ... God, I love you...”

She loves me? The thought was a tiny, flickering candle in the encroaching darkness. Even now? Maybe ... maybe a little. He saw Julia standing a few feet away, her face ashen, her eyes huge and unblinking, fixed on him. The usual sneer was gone, replaced by a stunned, horrified disbelief. In her eyes, for the first time, he saw not hatred, but a dawning, terrible understanding. It was enough. The pain was fading now, replaced by a cold numbness. The sounds of the store, Kate’s desperate pleas, Julia’s quiet terror, all began to recede, as if he were sinking into deep water. He tried to smile at Kate one last time, to tell her it was okay. But the words wouldn’t come. He closed his eyes. Maybe, just maybe, in those last few seconds, he wasn’t just the placeholder.

The first sensation was a relentless, rhythmic beeping, an electronic heartbeat trying to coax his own into a steady tempo. It was an annoying, persistent sound, drilling into the fog that clung to his consciousness. Then came the pain – a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once, a heavy blanket woven with threads of fire. Mark groaned, a sound like rust scraping against metal, and tried to shift. Bad idea. A sharper, more insistent agony lanced through his chest, his arms, his legs. He was pinned, trapped not just by the pain but by something else ... tubes? Wires?

His eyelids felt like lead shutters. With a monumental effort, he managed to crack them open. Blurry shapes swam into focus, slowly coalescing into the sterile, impersonal landscape of a hospital room. Pale green walls, a utilitarian bedside table, the glint of stainless steel. An IV bag hung like a strange, transparent fruit, it’s clear liquid dripping methodically into a tube snaking towards his arm. Wires trailed from his chest to a monitor beside the bed, the source of that damned beeping.

He was alive. The thought hit him with the force of a physical blow. After ... after all that. The gunshots. The impact. The searing pain. He remembered the screams, Julia’s terrified face, Kate’s anguished cry. He remembered running, the world tilting, the explosions in his body. He’d thought, this is it. At least it meant something. He’d been so sure, so resigned.

“Even the grim reaper didn’t want me,” he rasped, his throat dry and raw. A bitter chuckle tried to escape but died as a cough.

His gaze drifted around the empty room. Empty. No Kate. No Julia. A cold dread, more chilling than the antiseptic air, began to seep into him, eclipsing even the physical pain. Why wouldn’t they be here? His last clear memory, before the darkness swallowed him, was Kate’s voice, desperate, pleading. “No, no, don’t die, Mark! I love you, Mark!” Had he imagined it? A dying man’s wishful thinking? The thought was a fresh stab wound to his already battered spirit.

Maybe Julia had been right all along. Maybe Kate had finally seen him for what he was a placeholder, an ugly, fat man she’d settled for. Maybe this whole ordeal, his supposed heroism, was just an inconvenient delay to her finally leaving him. The insecurities, the ones he’d fought so hard to suppress with Kate’s love, came roaring back, stronger than ever. He was a fool. A pathetic, love-starved fool who’d dared to dream of a life he didn’t deserve. He closed his eyes, a single, hot tear escaping and tracing a path down his temple into the stiff hospital pillow. Better to have died, he thought, than to face this slow, agonizing confirmation of his deepest fears.

The click of the door latch startled Mark. He forced his eyes open again, bracing himself for a nurse, for more prodding and poking. But it wasn’t a nurse, Julia stood framed in the doorway, her usual defiant posture gone, replaced by a hesitation he’d never seen in her before. Her eyes, usually sharp with disdain or teenage boredom, were wide, almost unseeing for a moment as they scanned the room, then landed on him. They widened further, a flicker of ... something ... surprise? Shock? Relief? He couldn’t decipher it.

She looked ... wrecked. Her hair was a mess, tumbling around her shoulders without its usual careful styling. There were dark circles under her blue eyes, smudges of mascara that told of recent, and probably copious, tears. Her clothes were rumpled, the same ones from the store, he realized with a jolt.

Mark braced himself. Was she here to deliver the final blow? To tell him Kate had packed her bags? To mock his scarred, broken body? He wouldn’t put it past her. The thought sent a fresh wave of weariness through him. He just didn’t have the strength to fight her, or anyone, anymore. But Julia didn’t speak. She just stood there, her knuckles white. Then, slowly, as if wading through thick water, she moved towards his bed. She pulled the visitor’s chair closer, the scrape of its legs on the linoleum floor unnaturally loud in the charged silence, and sat down. The silence stretched, taut and heavy, filled only by the rhythmic beeping of the monitor and Mark’s labored breathing. He could feel the tension radiating from her, a palpable force. He watched her, waiting. He saw her swallow, her gaze fixed somewhere on the blanket covering his chest.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke, her voice low, raspy, barely a whisper. “Why?” Mark blinked, confused. His mind was still fuzzy.

She lifted her head then, and he saw the raw, red-rimmed devastation in her eyes. “Why did you do it?” she asked, her voice cracking. “Why did you save me?” Mark stared at her, the question hanging in the air. He hadn’t expected that. Not that.

“After ... after everything,” she continued, a tremor in her voice now. “All the things I said. How I treated you. Fatty. Wimp. Pussy.” Each word was a self-inflicted lash. “I told you Mom was just using you. I ... I was horrible. I didn’t deserve it. You should have let him...” Her voice broke completely, and she choked back a sob, her shoulders shaking.

Mark watched her, a strange mix of emotions churning within him. Confusion, yes, but also a dawning understanding. He thought for a moment, the effort making his head pound. What could he say? The truth, he supposed. It was all he had left. “Julia,” he began, his voice still rough, “even though ... even though you never liked me ... I never hated you.” He paused, gathering his strength. “All my life ... I never really felt loved before. Not really. No family, not like ... like a real family.” He looked away, a flicker of the old pain, the loneliness, in his eyes. “Your mom ... Kate ... she was the first person whoever made me feel ... like I mattered. Like I was worth loving.”

Mark met Julia’s gaze again, trying to convey the simple, stark truth of it. “So, no, I never hated you. You’re her daughter. Part of her.” A wry, pained smile touched his lips. “You always said I was out of her league. That she was too beautiful, too good for someone like me.” He took a ragged breath. “And you know what? Lately, I’ve ... I’ve been thinking you were right. That all this, me and Kate ... it was just a fantasy. A bubble. And it’s burst now.” He felt the familiar ache of his insecurities, but this time, there was a strange sense of acceptance alongside it.

“I wouldn’t blame her if she ... if she doesn’t want anything to do with me anymore. She’s free. You both are.” Julia stared at him, tears streaming freely down her face now, silent, heartbreaking rivers. She didn’t try to wipe them away. The raw honesty in his voice, the profound sadness, the utter lack of recrimination, it was like a physical blow, shattering the last of her defenses.

“Oh, God, Mark,” she finally whispered, her voice thick with unshed sobs. “No. No, that’s not ... I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She leaned forward, her hands gripping the bed rail, her head bowed. “For everything. For how I treated you. For being such a ... such a bitch. I was so wrong. So cruel.”

Mark was stunned. Julia? Apologizing? Showing this kind of raw emotion? It was disorienting. He’d never seen her like this, never imagined she was capable of it. He felt a flicker of something warm, something unexpected, pierce through his despair. She cried for a while, deep, wracking sobs that shook her small frame. Mark just watched, unsure what to do, what to say. He was too weak to reach out, even if he’d known how to comfort her. Eventually, her sobs subsided into ragged breaths. She fumbled in her bag for a tissue, wiped her eyes and nose, and took a shaky breath, composing herself.

When Julia looked at him again, there was a new resolve in her tear-stained face. “Mark,” she said, her voice still wobbly but firmer now. “Mom ... Mom’s here. In the hospital.”

Mark’s heart lurched. “What? Why? Was she hurt? I thought ... I thought she was clear of him.” He tried to push himself up, a surge of adrenaline momentarily overriding the pain, but a fresh agony shot through his torso, and he fell back with a gasp, his hands instinctively going to his bandaged chest. The movement sent the monitor into a more frantic beeping.

“Easy, Mark, easy!” Julia said, her hand darting out as if to steady him, then retracting. “She wasn’t shot. She’s ... she’s sick.”

“Sick?” He frowned. “What do you mean, sick? A cold? The flu?”

Julia shook her head, her eyes glistening again. “No. It’s ... it’s why she’s been so distant lately. Why she seemed ... off.” She took a deep breath. “Mark, Mom has cancer. She found out a few months ago. She didn’t know how to tell you. She didn’t want to burden you, especially with ... with how I was.”

The words hit Mark like a physical shock, harder than any bullet. Cancer. Kate. His beautiful, vibrant Kate. The room seemed to tilt. The beeping of the monitor faded into a dull roar in his ears. Distant? He’d thought it was him. That she was bored, regretting their life, missing James. He’d thought ... He cursed himself, a wave of shame and guilt washing over him. He’d been so wrapped up in his own insecurities, his own fears, he hadn’t seen her pain, her fear.

“Cancer?” he whispered, the word alien and horrifying on his tongue. “Where ... where is she? Is she ... is she okay?” The urgency in his voice was palpable, his own injuries momentarily forgotten.

“She’s okay for now,” Julia said, her voice gentle. “She’s in another room. She collapsed when ... when they brought you in. The shock, the stress ... and she’s weak. They sedated her. She’s resting.” She paused, then added, a touch of bitterness in her voice, “My dad ... he hasn’t even called. Hasn’t visited. Not once. That’s when I really knew. What a complete, selfish asshole he is. And what an incredible, selfless man you are.” Julia looked at Mark, her eyes filled with a depth of emotion he’d never seen there before, respect, remorse, and something akin to awe.

“Mark, I ... I am so, so sorry. Forgive me. Please. I see it now. I see your love for her. For ... for us.” Mark just stared at her, his mind reeling. Kate had cancer. Kate loved him enough to try and shield him from it. Julia ... Julia was asking for his forgiveness. It was too much to process. He felt the sting of tears in his own eyes, tears of shock, of fear for Kate, of a strange, fragile hope.

“Mr. Henderson?” A nurse said softly, checking his IV drip. “I’m Head Nurse Miller. I just wanted to come by personally.” She paused, her professional demeanor softening, her expression turning unexpectedly serious. “I was at the store yesterday. With my daughter.” Her voice wavered, just for a second, and a shadow passed over her eyes. “What you did ... Well, I don’t really have the words. My little girl was near that aisle ... He was moving towards us.” She took a shaky breath. “You’re a hero, Mr. Henderson. A genuine hero. You saved a lot of lives in that store, including, I truly believe, ours. We ... we owe you everything.”

Mark, still groggy from the lingering effects of painkillers and a fitful night, could only manage a weak, “Just ... did what anyone would.” The words felt inadequate, reflexive. But her praise, the raw sincerity in her voice, the gratitude shining in her eyes, it was a small, unexpected balm to his battered spirit, a counterpoint to years of feeling inadequate, unseen.

Suddenly the door opened and Kate entered. She was pale, so terribly pale, and looked even more fragile than the day before. An IV pole glinted beside her, a stark metallic companion, and Julia was on her other side, a steadying presence, her arm linked through her mother’s. But Kate’s eyes, those incredible green eyes he’d fallen in love with across a crowded bar, were fixed on him, luminous with a mixture of profound relief, lingering pain, and an overwhelming, fierce love that made his breath catch in his throat and his heart ache with a bittersweet fullness.

“Mark,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, raspy, as Julia gently helped her into the worn visitor’s chair pulled close beside his bed.

“Kate.” His own voice was thick with unshed tears, with a depth of emotion he rarely allowed to surface. He wanted to reach for her, to pull her close, to feel the familiar curve of her body against his, but his arms, heavily bandaged and protesting with every minor shift, were a frustrating barrier. They just looked at each other for a long, breathless moment, a universe of unspoken words, regrets, fears, and reassurances passing between them. Tears welled in Kate’s eyes, large and glistening, before spilling over and tracing shimmering paths down her too-thin cheeks.