The next morning, I lay in my hospital bed like a discarded thing, sheets tangled around my legs, staring at the ceiling tiles until the patterns blurred into nothing.
The IV line tugged at my arm with every shallow breath, a reminder that even machines were more reliable than me. Everything felt like nothing. The world outside—people laughing, loving, living—meant zero to me now. It was all just noise, distant and mocking. Pain throbbed everywhere: in my chest from the tumor's relentless grip, in my head from the pounding music I could still hear echoing, in my heart from the endless string of rejections that made me feel invisible, unwanted, unworthy.
I didn't belong here. Not in this bed, not in this body, not in this life. How unlucky was I? Born into a world that had already taken so much—my father vanishing when I was just a kid, leaving without a word or a backward glance; my mother, Dorthe Silverstone, the woman who'd once braided my hair and whispered stories of better days, now locked away in prison for crimes I could barely comprehend. And now this: a tumor strangling my heart, stealing my last chance at something human, something real. I couldn't even fulfill the most basic need—to be touched, to be desired, to lose myself in someone else's warmth. What kind of fate was this? Death started to feel like the only kindness left. Maybe it would finally wipe it all away: the ache of abandonment, the sting of isolation, the physical torment eating me from the inside. No more pain. Just… nothing.
The door opened quietly.
Dr. Kieran Voss stepped in.
He was impossibly gorgeous in the harsh hospital light—tall, lean, his white coat hanging perfectly on his athletic frame. Straight dark hair fell forward over one eyebrow as he glanced at the chart in his hand, then pushed it back with a quick, habitual motion. Those deep, almost black eyes lifted to meet mine, steady and unreadable as always. His face was serious, composed, professional to the point of being impenetrable. I could never tell if he pitied me or simply observed me like a puzzle he was still solving. But those eyes… they held something kinder than his voice ever allowed. A quiet empathy that made my chest tighten in ways the tumor never could.
He moved to the bedside, calm and methodical, checking the monitor, then my pulse with cool fingers. His touch was clinical, precise—yet it lingered a second longer than necessary today.
"Where were you last night?" he asked, voice low and even, almost cold.
I froze. The nurse must have told him. My cheeks burned.
He didn't look away. "Your friends took you somewhere. Your oxygen saturation dropped to 88% this morning. Your heart rate's been erratic since you returned. Your condition has worsened."
I swallowed. "I… um…"
His dark eyes narrowed slightly—not anger, just quiet intensity. "You went to a club, didn't you?"
The question felt really intense . I nodded, mortified, staring at the blanket.
"Did you drink alcohol?"
"No," I said immediately, voice small. "I didn't. I swear."
He exhaled through his nose, professional mask still firmly in place. "I understand the impulse. But in your state, places like that are dangerous. Loud noise, crowds, physical exertion, dehydration… I'm trying to keep you stable for as long as possible. If everything goes as planned, you might have a few more days—maybe weeks."
"I don't want to," I whispered.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
For the first time in the month he'd been treating me, I saw a crack in that unbreakable composure. His jaw tightened. His eyes flickered—something raw flashed behind them, gone in an instant.
He stayed silent for several long seconds.
Then, quietly: "Your friends came to me. They asked… if a patient with advanced cardiac angiosarcoma could safely have sex."
_____
FLASHBACK
Dr. Kieran Voss sat alone in his office after rounds, the desk lamp casting long shadows across Blossom's latest echo report. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. He was reviewing her ventricular function when a tentative knock broke the silence—three quick taps, almost apologetic.
"Come in," he said, voice level and cool.
The door opened slowly. Blossom's four friends slipped inside like they were trespassing. Camila led, cheeks already flushed; Isabella hovered behind her, twisting her fingers; Ayla kept her eyes on the floor; Aveline lingered near the door as if ready to bolt.
They stood awkwardly in front of his desk, no one sitting.
Camila cleared her throat. "Dr. Voss… hi. We, um… we have a question. A hypothetical one. Can you please answer it? "
He set the report down, dark eyes lifting to meet theirs. "About?"
Isabella took a shaky breath, voice barely above a whisper. "About… sex. Like… could someone with advanced cardiac angiosarcoma… safely have sex? You know, actual intercourse. Penetration. Orgasms. That kind of thing."
The word landed like a dropped instrument in the sterile room. Kieran's composure didn't crack outwardly, but his eyes widened a fraction—shock flickering behind the calm. He stared at them, searching each face in turn, trying to read the intent.
"Why are you asking this?" His tone stayed even, but there was a new edge to it—quiet, probing.
" Is it about Miss Blossom?"
Camila rushed forward, words tumbling in a nervous rush. "No, no, It's not about her! We were just curious! We just wanted to know. Could you please tell us? Please,,,,,, suppose someone in that situation really wanted to feel it. Like, really wanted to have sex... Hypothetically. Is it possible without their heart just… stopping mid-thrust?"
Doctor Kieran was feeling slightly awkward from their questions cause this was the first time he had heard such blunt words.
Ayla winced at the bluntness but nodded. "Yeah. Or even oral? Fingers? Anything? We just want to know the risks. Heart rate spikes, bleeding from the tumor, arrhythmia… is there any safe way?"
Isabella added, voice small and dramatic, "We read online that some terminal patients do it.."
Kieran remained perfectly still, hands flat on the desk. His dark eyes moved slowly from one flushed face to the next—assessing, calculating. The awkwardness in the room was palpable; the girls shifted, cheeks burning, while he sat like stone, processing the rawness of the question.
After a long silence he spoke, voice low and measured. "Any sexual activity—penetrative, oral, manual—carries significant risk. Increased heart rate, blood pressure surges, Valsalva maneuver during orgasm… all could trigger ventricular tachycardia, rupture of the tumor vessels, or massive hemoptysis. Even gentle stimulation could provoke arrhythmia in her current state."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. "But if the patient is hemodynamically stable, if activity is extremely low-intensity, short-duration, supine position, continuous monitoring… in theory, very limited intimacy might be tolerable. With immediate cessation at any sign of distress."
Camila leaned forward, shy but desperate. "So… she could maybe get eaten out? Or ride slowly? Or just… be touched until she comes?"
Kieran's jaw tightened imperceptibly. "Possibly. But the risk is never zero. And emotional stress could exacerbate it just as much as physical."
They stared at him with their worried gazes.
He kept his sharp gaze on them for another long moment—four young women standing there, vulnerable and earnest in their awkwardness, asking something no medical textbook prepared him for.
Finally he exhaled. "If this is truly about Blossom—and not hypothetical—tell her to speak to me directly. I won't discuss it through proxies."
The girls nodded quickly, murmuring overlapping thank-yous, faces scarlet. They backed out in a clumsy rush, the door clicking shut behind them.
Kieran remained motionless, staring at the empty space they'd left, the raw words still hanging in the air.
_____
"Your friends came to me. They asked… if a patient with advanced cardiac angiosarcoma could safely have sex."
My face flamed.
He continued, voice steady. "Why are they asking me that? Are you planning to have sex with someone? Or… did you already?"
I couldn't answer. My throat closed up completely. The shyness overwhelmed me, tears pricking my eyes.
"Hey," he said, firmer but not unkind. "I'm your doctor. You must tell me everything. It's for your health."
I forced myself to meet those eyes. His face was handsome, emotionless, professional—as if asking about sex with a dying patient was as routine as checking blood pressure.
"I didn't," I whispered. "I wanted to. But… no one wanted to have sex with me."
He stared at me. A long beat. Then he cleared his throat, looked down at the chart, and switched back to clinical mode.
"Your diuretic dose needs adjustment. We'll increase the morphine tonight if pain spikes again. Try to rest—"
That was it. Back to professional.
But it broke me.
I started crying—deep, wrenching sobs that shook my whole body, making my chest burn like fire. Tears streamed down my face, hot and endless.
"I don't even have a boyfriend," I choked out between gasps. "I never had one. I was always too shy for that. Too awkward. Too tired from the symptoms I thought were nothing. And now… now I watch my friends so happy with their boyfriends—laughing, touching, sharing everything. Knowing they can have that intimacy, that closeness, whenever they want. But me? I can't. And I'm just going to die a virgin, without even once feeling it. It feels so painful! Like I don't even deserve to know how it truly feels to be close to a man—a living, breathing man—physically and emotionally. To feel wanted, desired, connected in that raw, human way. Why me? Why is this my life?"
The sobs grew harder, my hands clutching the sheets like they could anchor me.
He kept staring at my face, dark eyes unblinking. He'd been treating me for the past month—the previous doctor had been reassigned—and in that time, I'd seen glimpses of his kindness: the way he explained every test result patiently, the extra minutes he spent reviewing my pain logs, the quiet way he advocated for me to go home when possible. He had a deep soft corner for me in his heart, I knew it now—because he was a very nice person beneath that reserved exterior.
"And the time keeps running out," I continued, voice breaking. "I don't have anyone with me. Not a lover. Not my dad—he just left me when I was a kid, vanished like I didn't matter. Not my mom—you know her, don't you? Dorthe Silverstone! She's in prison! Locked away for years, leaving me to face all this alone. Oh god, what fate was I born with? To bear all this pain? The pain of abandonment, of loss, of this body turning against me… it's too much. I can't…"
Tears came to Kieran's cold face then—glistening in those dark eyes, not falling, but hovering there like unshed rain. His jaw clenched, and for a second, the professional mask slipped entirely.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice rough and low, like the words were carved from his own pain. "I'm sorry I couldn't save you."
The words sounded like they hurt him as much as they hurt me.
"It's okay, Doctor," I sobbed. "Please… just remember me once I'm gone."
He stared at my face, silent for another long beat. Then, quietly: "Don't cry anymore. You will worsen your health."
But I couldn't stop. The tears kept coming, wave after wave, my whole body trembling with the force of it.
He hesitated—his hand hovering in the air for a split second—then reached out and took mine.
His palm was warm, strong, enveloping my cold fingers completely.
It was the first time he'd held my hand like this—not for a pulse check, not for an IV adjustment.
Intimate. Consoling. His thumb rested lightly on the back of my hand, a steady pressure that grounded me.
"Don't cry, okay?" he murmured, voice softer than I'd ever heard it, still serious but laced with quiet care.
"You will be alright. God always has a better plan for us. Even though you must leave this earth… you will surely reach a world much more beautiful. A place without pain, without loss. Where every hurt you've carried fades into light. You won't be alone there. You'll be free."
I was shocked. He believed in an afterlife? This reserved, scientific man, who dealt in facts and scans and survival rates—I hadn't imagined it.
I hadn't expected that from him—from the serious, reserved cardio-oncologist who spoke in measured sentences and never joked.
His words wrapped around me like a gentle embrace, his dark eyes locked on mine, glistening still, pulling me into their depth.
His other hand lifted slowly, tentatively, and settled on my head—patting it in slow, careful strokes, fingers threading lightly through my hair.
It was such a vulnerable gesture, so unlike him, that my sobs hitched. I leaned into his touch without thinking, my forehead brushing his palm, feeling the warmth of his skin against my tear-streaked face.
In that moment, with his hand holding mine and the other cradling my head, the room felt smaller, warmer.
My vulnerability laid bare—sobbing, broken, desperate—and his caring response made it feel almost romantic.
Not in a rushed, passionate way, but in the quiet intimacy of two people sharing pain.
He didn't pull away, didn't retreat to professionalism just yet.
Instead, he stayed there, close enough that I could smell the faint clean scent of his cologne, his dark hair falling slightly over his eyebrow as he leaned in a fraction more.
"You are not unlucky," he added softly, his thumb tracing a small, soothing circle on my hand. "You are brave. You've faced more than most ever will. But don't worry. Death isn't pain. It's the end of both pain and pleasure. All the pain will be gone… you'll know peace. Eternal peace.. "
I clung to his hand, my fingers tightening around his, drawing strength from the solid warmth.
Then he said something I couldn't expect,
" You're a truly beautiful girl, you are angelic—no one has the ability not to fall for you,,,, I will try my best to make you feel better,,,,, "
I was shocked,,,, like really shocked,,, more than I have ever been but—
for those few seconds, the pain felt shared, lighter. His touch, his words—they made me feel seen, not as a patient, but as a woman still alive, still feeling.
The door opened abruptly.
The nurse stepped in, froze at the sight—Dr. Voss's hand on my head, the other holding mine, his posture softer than she'd ever seen.
"Doctor… room 121 needs you," she said, startled.
He straightened immediately, professional mask snapping back into place. He released my hand—slowly, reluctantly—and stepped back.
"Continue the current morphine infusion," he told her, voice even again. "Increase to 2 mg/hour if breakthrough pain occurs. I'll review the labs in an hour."
He gave me one last look—dark eyes holding mine for a long second—then turned and left.
The nurse stared after him, then at me.
I lay there, hands tightly wrapped , heart fluttering in a way it never did before .