7:00 AM.
Ethan is awake before his alarm. This is normal. What isn't normal is the reason why.
Usually, he wakes up early to check the Nikkei index or review overnight communications from the London office. Today, he wakes up because he needs to childproof his penthouse for a dying girl who refuses to act like she's dying.
He walks through the living room.
Sharp edges. The glass coffee table is a hazard.
Slip risks. The marble foyer is essentially an ice rink for someone with failing proprioception.
Lighting. Strobe effects trigger migraines. He needs to install dimmers.
He pulls out his phone.
Text to Marcus: Buy six area rugs. High pile, non-slip backing. And corner guards. Clear plastic ones, not the ugly foam.
Marcus (Reply): It is 7:02 AM on a Saturday. Are we baby-proofing? Did you adopt?
Ethan: Just get it done.
He pockets the phone and walks to the guest room door. It's slightly ajar.
He peeks in.
Violet is asleep, tangled in a duvet that cost more than her car. She looks peaceful. Her purple hair is splayed out across the white pillow like an spilled inkwell. She isn't humming. She isn't coughing. For a second, she looks perfectly, achingly healthy.
Ethan feels that familiar tightening in his chest—the crushing weight of the countdown clock.
88 Days. Give or take.
"I'm going to make them the best eighty-eight days in history," he whispers to the doorframe.
Step one of "The Perfect Summer" involves logistics. Specifically, retrieving Violet's essentials from her loft.
"I can just go by myself," Violet argues as they descend in the elevator to the garage. She's wearing sunglasses inside, hiding the fatigue around her eyes.
"Negative," Ethan says, hitting the button for the lobby. "You faint when you stand up too fast. Carrying boxes is not in your current scope of capabilities."
"You sound like my boss. Wait, you are technically a boss. You sound like a boss."
"I am a logistics expert. I am optimizing your move."
"Optimizing." She shakes her head. "Ethan, my roommate is going to eat you alive. I just want to warn you. Lily is... protective."
"I can handle a roommate," Ethan says dismissively. "I've negotiated with hostile takeovers and SEC auditors."
Violet pats his arm. "Oh, honey. You have no idea."
The loft is above "Knead & Feed," a bakery that smells violently of yeast and cinnamon. The stairs are steep, narrow, and poorly lit. Ethan notes three code violations before they reach the second floor.
Violet unlocks the door.
The apartment is an explosion of color. Canvases lean against every wall. Tapestries cover the windows. It smells like turpentine, dried flowers, and burnt toast.
"I'm home!" Violet calls out.
A figure emerges from the kitchen.
Lily Chen is shorter than Violet, dressed in black combat boots and a t-shirt that says BITE ME. She's holding a serrated bread knife.
She looks at Violet. Then she looks at Ethan. Then she looks at the expensive watch on Ethan's wrist, his tailored coat, and the proprietary way he's hovering near Violet's elbow.
Lily narrows her eyes.
"Who is the suit?" she asks. "And why is he standing in my splash zone?"
"Lily, put down the knife," Violet says, kicking off her sneakers. "This is Ethan. The... guy."
"The guy," Lily repeats. She steps forward, brandishing the bread knife like a saber. "The guy you met three days ago? The guy who stalks you at fountains?"
"I don't stalk," Ethan interjects calmly. "I facilitate."
Lily snorts. "Facilitate what? A kidnapping?" She turns to Violet. "Vi, seriously. He looks like he owns a yacht and hunts people for sport on a private island."
"He doesn't own a yacht," Violet says. "Yet. And he's... helping."
"Helping with what?"
Violet hesitates.
The silence stretches. This is the crux. In the last loop, Lily didn't know until the end. She was a perimeter obstacle.
Ethan decides to change the variable.
"I'm helping her move in with me," Ethan says.
Lily drops the knife. It clatters onto the hardwood floor.
"Excuse me?" Her voice goes dangerously quiet. "You met Tuesday. It is Saturday. You are moving in with a stranger? Vi, did you join a cult? Blink twice if you need an extraction."
"It's not a cult, Lil," Violet says softly. She walks over to her roommate. She reaches out, taking Lily's hands. "It's... complication."
"What kind of complication makes you move out of our home?" Lily demands, eyes glistening with sudden hurt. "Did I forget to pay the electric bill again? I swore I'd fix it."
"No. You're the best roommate in the world."
Violet takes a deep breath. She looks at Ethan for support. Ethan nods. Tell her. Efficiency requires truth.
"The headaches are back," Violet says.
Lily freezes. Her toughness evaporates instantly. "The migraine thing? From the accident?"
"Not migraines," Violet whispers. "The other thing. The thing Dr. Wells warned about."
The air leaves the room.
Lily stares at her best friend. "The 'C' word? You said you were clear. You said the scans were stable."
"I lied," Violet admits. Her voice breaks. "I lied because you were studying for your midterms and I didn't want you to fail."
"You idiot," Lily chokes out. Tears spill over her cheeks instantly. "You absolute moron."
She pulls Violet into a crushing hug. They rock back and forth, clinging to each other in the center of the messy, colorful room.
Ethan stands by the door, feeling like an intruder. He checks his watch to stop from fidgeting. 11:14 AM.
This is grief. Real-time, messy, inefficient grief.
He watches them, and he feels a stab of envy. Violet has people who love her this much. Who will bleed when she bleeds.
After a long minute, Lily pulls back. She wipes her face aggressively with the back of her hand, smearing mascara.
She turns on Ethan.
"And you?" she barks. "Where do you fit in? Are you a doctor?"
"No," Ethan says. "I'm the funding."
Lily flinches. "Wow. Okay. Transactional. I hate it."
"He's not just funding," Violet defends, wiping her own eyes. "He... he makes the fear quieter. He knows, Lily. And he wants to help me live the next few months, not just survive them."
Lily studies him. She looks at his shoes (too shiny), his posture (too stiff), and his eyes (too intense).
She walks up to him until she's invading his personal space. She smells like sourdough and aggression.
"Listen to me, Mr. Moneybags," she hisses. "I don't care how many zeros are in your bank account. Violet is the best thing that ever happened to this tragic dump of a world. If you hurt her? If you treat her like a project or a charity case or a disposable toy?"
She pokes him hard in the chest.
"I know where you sleep. And I have very sharp knives."
Ethan doesn't flinch. He looks her dead in the eye.
"Understood," he says. "If I fail her, you won't have to hurt me. I'll do it myself."
Lily blinks. She sees the raw, unpolished honesty in his gaze.
"Okay," she says, stepping back. "Okay. Weird answer. But I'll accept it."
She turns back to Violet. "So. We packing? I'm keeping the velvet sofa. That was non-negotiable anyway."
Moving Violet out takes two hours.
It's mostly clothes, art supplies, and plants. So many plants.
Ethan carries a fiddle-leaf fig down three flights of stairs while Lily heckles his form.
"Bend the knees, corporate! Use that pilates core!"
By the time the trunk of the Audi is full, Ethan is sweating through his shirt.
Violet sits on the bumper, swinging her legs. She looks tired—a gray pallor under her skin—but happy.
"You guys play nice," she says. "It's disturbing."
"I don't play nice," Lily says, leaning against the car door. "I assess threats. He is currently assessed as 'Low Threat, High Utility'."
"I'll put that on my LinkedIn," Ethan mutters.
Lily grabs Violet's hand. "Hey. Serious second. You call me every day. If you get scared, you call. If he snores, you call. If you just want to listen to me complain about customers, you call."
"I promise," Violet says.
They hug one last time.
As Ethan drives away, Violet watches the bakery disappear in the side mirror. She doesn't cry, but she touches the glass like she's saying goodbye to a timeline she's leaving behind.
"She's intense," Ethan comments.
"She's family," Violet says. "Found family is the strongest kind. The bond is voluntary."
Ethan grips the steering wheel. Voluntary bond.
"What about Eleanor?" he asks.
Violet stiffens.
"Step two," she sighs. "The sister."
They don't go back to the penthouse immediately. Violet requests a "neutral location" for The Call.
They park at the pier. It's windy, smelling of salt and funnel cake.
Violet sits on the hood of his Audi. Ethan stands in front of her, shielding her from the wind with his body again. It's becoming his permanent stance—human shield against the elements.
She holds her phone like it's a grenade.
"I can't tell her," Violet says. "Ethan, I can't. She's eighteen. She just got accepted to Stanford. If I tell her I'm dying, she won't go. She'll defer. She'll stay here and watch me rot, and it will ruin her freshman year. It will ruin her life."
"It won't ruin her life," Ethan argues logically. "It will change it. But she deserves the truth. Information asymmetry is unfair."
"I don't care about fair!" Violet snaps. "I care about her. She's fragile, Ethan. After our parents died... she stopped speaking for a year. I got her back. I put her back together. I am not going to break her again."
She looks at him, pleading.
"I need you to help me lie."
Ethan closes his eyes. This goes against every strategic instinct he has. Lying introduces complexity. Complexity introduces failure points.
"What's the lie?" he asks heavily.
"I'm taking a gap year," she improvises. "A sabbatical. Traveling Europe with my rich, eccentric boyfriend."
"Eccentric?"
"You collect rare watches and quote probability statistics. The shoe fits."
"And where are we allegedly going?"
"Paris. Rome. Places with good light." She grabs his hand. "Please. Just for the summer. Let her go to orientation happy. Let her start her life. When it gets... bad... toward the end... I'll tell her. But give me the summer."
Ethan looks at her desperation. He realizes something: Violet isn't fighting for her life anymore. She accepted the prognosis. She's fighting for everyone else's peace.
It's noble. It's stupid. It's incredibly beautiful.
"Fine," Ethan says. "We're going to Europe."
Violet exhales. "Thank you."
She hits the video call button.
Eleanor answers on the first ring. The screen fills with a younger version of Violet—same sharp chin, but with dark hair and normal brown eyes. She's in a dorm room, posters on the wall.
"Vi! Did you get the mail? I got the roommate assignment!"
"Ellie! Hi!" Violet puts on a performance worthy of an Oscar. Her voice pitches up, bright and sunny. "That's amazing! Tell me everything!"
Ethan watches as Violet constructs a fake reality in real-time. She laughs. She teases. She introduces Ethan as her "mystery man" (Ethan waves awkwardly and tries not to look like he's judging the lie).
"We're going to travel," Violet lies smoothly. "Ethan has business in Zurich and Florence. I'm tagging along to paint."
"Zurich!" Eleanor squeals. "Bring me chocolate!"
"Tons," Ethan promises, leaning into the frame. "We'll mail you a crate."
The call lasts ten minutes. When it ends, Violet drops the phone on her lap and slumps forward, burying her face in her hands. She is shaking.
"That was exhausting," she whispers.
"You're a good sister," Ethan says, rubbing her back.
"I'm a liar."
"Sometimes love requires redaction."
She looks up at him. "Redaction. You make lying sound corporate."
"I'm trying to make you feel better."
"It's working. A little."
She shivers. "Take me home, Jeeves. I need a nap. The lying depleted my battery."
Back at the penthouse, the transformation has begun.
The rugs Marcus ordered haven't arrived yet, but there are flowers everywhere. Ethan has already moved the glass coffee table into storage.
Violet walks in, carrying her duffel bag. She looks around the empty space where the table used to be.
"Did you get robbed?"
"Childproofing," Ethan says. "Knee preservation protocol."
She smiles, but it's weak. She walks to the massive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city.
"Ethan," she says.
"Yes?"
"I don't want to just sit here."
"You won't. We have the bucket list."
He walks to the wall where he has taped a large piece of poster board. It's blank.
He uncaps a Sharpie.
"Project: Perfect Summer," he announces. "Let's populate the data set. What do you want to do? No budget restrictions. No geographical limits (except altitudes that mess with intracranial pressure)."
Violet walks over. She takes the pen.
She stares at the blank white space.
"I don't know," she admits small. "Now that I can do anything... I can't think of anything."
"Start small," Ethan suggests. "Food?"
She writes: 1. Eat the most expensive gelato in the city.
She thinks again.
2. Paint a mural legally.
3. Learn to waltz.
"Waltz?" Ethan asks.
"It's romantic," she says. "And you have to hold me up, so I won't fall."
Ethan swallows hard. "Done. I'll hire an instructor."
"No," she says. "Just us. YouTube and clumsy feet."
She keeps writing.
4. Go to a drive-in movie in the Mustang.
5. Steal a traffic cone (don't ask).
6. See something bioluminescent.
"Bioluminescent?"
"Fireflies," she says. "Or those caves in New Zealand with the glow worms. I want to see light in the dark. Living light."
"New Zealand is a long flight," Ethan says, calculating the medical risk.
"We can find something closer," she compromises. "There's a bay in Puerto Rico. Or we can just... stick glow stars on the ceiling."
Ethan looks at her list. It's so simple. Gelato. Dancing. Traffic cones.
She doesn't want the world. She just wants the parts of it she missed while she was busy surviving.
"I'll give you all of it," Ethan says.
He takes the pen. Under #6, he writes:
7. Find a miracle.
Violet looks at him. "Ethan."
"I know," he says. "We agreed. No hospitals. But I'm keeping that one on the list. Just in case."
She sighs, leaning her head on his shoulder.
"You're stubborn."
"I'm determined."
"Hey," she whispers.
"Yeah?"
"Can we do the waltz one? Like... now?"
"Now?"
"There's no time like the present. Isn't that what the mindfulness apps say?"
Ethan takes her hand.
"Music," he says. "Alexa, play 'Danse Macabre' by Saint-Saëns. No, wait. That's too morbid. Play... something warm."
Playing 'La Vie En Rose'.
The classic trumpet intro fills the quiet apartment.
Ethan places his hand on her waist. She places her hand on his shoulder. She feels fragile—like holding a dried flower that might crumble if he squeezes too hard.
They sway. It's not a waltz, really. It's just shuffling in a circle on an expensive rug.
Violet rests her forehead against his chest.
"Ethan," she mumbles into his shirt.
"Mmm?"
"Why are you so good to me? We barely know each other."
Ethan rests his chin on her purple hair. He closes his eyes. He sees the flash of the car crash. He feels her blood on his hands. He hears the silence of the hospital room from another life.
"Because," he whispers. "I think I've been waiting for you my whole life. And I was late."
"You're not late," she says. "You're right on time. 3:47 PM."
She looks up.
"Kiss me, Shiny Shoes. Before I get dizzy."
Ethan kisses her.
It's slow. Deliberate. He tries to pour every ounce of his strength, his life force, his borrowed time into her. He wants to be the anchor that keeps her tethered to the earth.
But even as they kiss, surrounded by the beautiful view and the soft music, Ethan can hear it.
The ticking clock.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Summer has begun. But winter is coming.