The ocean is loud.
Ethan stands on the balcony of the rental house, a modern glass box perched precariously on the cliffs of Big Sur. Below, the Pacific crashes against the rocks with a violence that feels personal. Gray water, white foam, jagged black stone.
It's inefficient energy. Millions of kilowatts of power, wasted on eroding rock.
"Stop frowning at the ocean," a voice says from behind him. "It won't reorganize itself for you."
Ethan turns.
Violet is wrapped in a thick wool blanket, holding two steaming mugs. She looks small against the vast backdrop of the cloudy sky. Her violet hair is messy, whipped by the sea breeze, and she's wearing his grey cashmere sweater again.
"I wasn't frowning," Ethan lies, taking the mug she offers. "I was analyzing the tide patterns."
"Nerd." She leans against the railing, keeping a careful distance from the drop. She stares at the horizon. "It's endless, isn't it? Makes you feel insignificant."
"Insignificant isn't a useful metric," Ethan says, standing beside her. He shields her from the wind with his body. "We exist. That's significant enough."
"Maybe."
They've been here for two days. A weekend getaway to escape the city, the board meetings, and the persistent cough that Violet insists is just "seasonal allergies."
It's been perfect. They cooked pasta that turned into glue, drank cheap wine by the expensive fire pit, and spent hours just talking.
But there's a tension.
It's tight, like a violin string wound a turning too far.
Ethan sips his coffee. It's bitter. "Violet."
"Mmm?"
"Who is Adrian?"
The question hangs in the salt air, heavier than the fog rolling in off the water.
Violet goes perfectly still. The mug in her hands stops halfway to her mouth. She doesn't look at him. Her eyes are fixed on a distant point where the grey sea meets the grey sky.
"Where did you hear that name?" Her voice is flat. Void of its usual melodic hum.
"You said it in your sleep," Ethan admits. "Last week. You sounded... sad."
She finally turns. Her expression is unreadable. Usually, she's an open book—eyes flashing with amusement or annoyance. Now, the heterochromatic irises are guarded. The gold looks dull.
"He was... someone I knew," she says carefully.
"An ex?"
"In a way." She looks back at the water. Her grip on the mug tightens until her knuckles are white. "He died. Five years ago. In the accident I told you about."
Ethan feels a sharp pang in his chest. A mixture of jealousy and shame. Jealous of a ghost? That's illogical.
"I'm sorry," he says softly. "You don't have to talk about it."
"He saved me," she says. The words come out fast, like she needs to expel them before they choke her. "I was... in a bad place. I was reckless. And he paid the price."
She turns to Ethan. Her eyes are wet.
"That's why I can't look at the deep water, Ethan. Or the bridges. Because he's gone, and I'm still here. And it doesn't make sense."
Ethan sets his mug on the railing. He reaches out, cupping her face in his hands. Her skin is freezing.
"You're here because you're supposed to be," he says firmly. "Whatever happened, it's in the past. You're here. With me."
"Am I?" she whispers.
"Yes." He thumbs a tear from her cheek. "I'm not going anywhere, Violet. I have a five-year plan, and step one through ten is you."
She lets out a wet laugh. "You put me in a spreadsheet?"
"I put you in the 'Critical Assets' column."
She leans into his touch, closing her eyes. "You're crazy. You know that, right? I'm messy. I'm broken. I come with baggage you can't check at the airport."
"I like baggage. It implies travel."
She sighs—a long, shuddering exhale that seems to deflate her whole frame.
"Ethan?"
"Yeah."
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"Don't try to be him," she says fiercely. Her eyes snap open, burning into his. "Don't try to be the hero. Heroes die. I don't want a hero. I want you."
The intensity in her voice startles him. It's panic. Pure, unadulterated panic.
"I plan on living a very long, very boring life," Ethan assures her. "Statistically, my life expectancy is eighty-two. You're stuck with me for sixty years."
"Sixty years," she repeats. The words sound like a foreign language to her.
"Minimum."
She forces a smile. It doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Okay. Sixty years. Let's go walk on the beach. Before the rain starts."
The beach is a strip of black volcanic sand. It's deserted.
They walk near the water line, avoiding the incoming foam. Ethan finds a piece of driftwood shaped like a question mark. Violet finds a smooth white stone and puts it in her pocket.
"A keeper," she decides. "It remembers the ocean."
She walks ahead of him, camera raised. Click, click, click. She documents everything. The driftwood. The cliffs. The moody sky.
She turns the lens on him.
"Stop," Ethan protests, holding up a hand. "I haven't shaved."
"Rugged," she calls out. "I like it. Makes you look less like a tax auditor."
She snaps the picture.
Suddenly, she stumbles.
It's subtle. Her foot catches on nothing in the sand. She pitches forward.
Ethan is there instantly. His reflexes are sharper these days—he's been watching her. Waiting for the glitch.
He catches her arm, steadying her.
"Got you," he says.
Violet doesn't answer. She's staring at her feet. Her breathing is rapid.
"Violet?"
She looks up.
Blood is dripping from her nose.
A single, stark red drop falls onto the white "keeper" stone she's clutching in her hand. Then another. And another.
"Oh," she says faintly. She touches her upper lip, looking at the crimson on her fingers with confused detachment. "That's... messy."
"Head back," Ethan orders, panic flaring in his gut. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket (he always carries one now, she cries at movies too often). He presses it to her nose. "Lean forward. Pinch the bridge. Don't swallow it."
"I ruined the stone," she mumbles.
"Screw the stone." Ethan's voice is harsh with fear. "This is the third time this week, Violet."
"Dry air," she wheezes.
"We are standing next to an ocean. The air is ninety percent moisture." Ethan grabs her shoulders. She's trembling. "No more excuses. We are going to Dr. Wells. Tomorrow."
Violet pulls away, stumbling back. She holds the bloody handkerchief to her face.
"No," she says.
"Violet—"
"I already went!" she screams.
The sound tears out of her throat, raw and painful. It silences the crashing waves.
Ethan freezes. "What?"
Violet lowers the cloth. Her nose is still bleeding sluggishly, smeared across her pale skin like war paint. Tears are streaming down her cheeks, mixing with the blood.
"I already went," she sobs. "Two months ago. Before I met you."
Ethan feels the world tilt on its axis. The cold wind bites through his jacket.
"And?" he asks. The word is barely a whisper.
Violet sinks down onto the black sand. She draws her knees to her chest, curling into a small ball of misery.
"Glioblastoma," she says. "Grade four."
Ethan knows the word. He reads everything. He knows medical terminology. He knows what that word means.
Aggressive. Incurable. Terminal.
"No," Ethan says. It's a denial of reality. A rejection of the data. "That's... the error rate on those diagnoses is—"
"It's in the brain stem, Ethan," she whispers into her knees. "They can't operate. Chemo barely slows it down. It's just... a timer."
Ethan stares at her.
The beach, the ocean, the cliffs—it all dissolves into white noise.
Grade four.
Timer.
"How long?" he asks. His voice sounds like it belongs to someone else. A robot. A ghost.
Violet looks up. Her eyes—those beautiful, impossible, mismatched eyes—are full of infinite apology.
"Six months," she says. "Maybe less."
She chokes on a sob.
"I have... maybe three left. Four if I'm lucky."
Ethan stands there.
He calculates.
Sixty years, he promised her. Sixty years.
And she has twelve weeks.
"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks. He feels sick. Betrayed. "Why did you let me... why did you let me plan?"
"Because I wanted a normal life!" she cries, standing up on shaky legs. She throws the bloody stone into the surf. "I wanted someone to look at me and not see a dying girl. I wanted someone to ask me out for coffee without looking for an expiration date!"
She walks toward him, grabbing his coat lapels.
"And then you happened," she says fiercely. "Mr. Efficiency. Mr. Five-Year-Plan. You weren't supposed to happen. I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you."
"But you did," Ethan says. He's numb. Completely numb.
"Yes. I did." She rests her bloody forehead against his chest. "And I'm so sorry, Ethan. I am so, so sorry."
Ethan wraps his arms around her. Not to comfort her. To hold her together. To hold himself together.
He looks out at the ocean. The waves keep crashing. The sun is starting to set, turning the grey sky into a bruise of purple and black.
There is no logic here. No solution. No leverage to apply.
He is the smartest man in almost every room he walks into. He can fix companies. He can fix broken systems.
He cannot fix this.
"We'll get a second opinion," he says. He hates how hollow it sounds.
Violet doesn't argue. She just cries quietly into his shirt.
"We'll try experimental trials. Switzerland. Tokyo. I have contacts."
"Ethan..."
"We will fight this." He tightens his grip until it must hurt her, but he can't let go. "Do you hear me? This isn't efficient. It's not acceptable."
She looks up at him. The sunset reflects in her gold eye, extinguishing the light in the amber one.
"Just take me home," she whispers. "Please."
Ethan nods.
He picks her up. He carries her across the black sand, past the driftwood question mark, up the stairs to the glass house on the cliff.
She feels lighter than she did two months ago.
He hadn't noticed.
He notices everything, but he hadn't noticed that she was fading right in his arms.
As he carries her, Violet starts to hum. It's that same tune. Nervous. Sad. But now it sounds like a lullaby for a funeral.
Mmm-hmm.
Ethan holds her. And for the first time in his life, he is terrified.