End Game

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Nate

I spent the entire morning in the hospital waiting room, staring at the dull grey linoleum floor as the hum of fluorescent lights pressed down on me. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and burnt coffee from the vending machine nearby, and every time the intercom crackled overhead, my chest tightened. It's been forty-eight hours since Lucas was admitted to intensive care. The doctors say his myotonic dystrophy is attacking his body in ways none of us were prepared for. The latest blow—a sudden seizure—came without warning, leaving him unconscious and the rest of us helpless.

My foster brother. My best friend.

At just twelve years old, Lucas has endured more than most people do in a lifetime. We both have. Yet he's always been the one to crack jokes, to laugh at the symptoms, to find the sliver of light in the dark. He carried it for me more than for himself, as if he knew I couldn't bear to see him unwell. But now? The fear that this seizure has changed everything gnaws at me, heavy and relentless.

The moment replays in my mind like a loop I can't shut off. I had just walked into my moms' kitchen, still shrugging off my jacket, when we started talking about Thanksgiving plans. Lucas was laughing, mid-story, when suddenly his body locked, his eyes wide with terror—and then he dropped. One second, everything was fine. The next, I was gripping my phone with shaking hands, yelling at the 911 dispatcher to hurry. My sisters' cries echoed in my ears, and my moms clung to each other, fighting not to break down before the ambulance arrived.

The doctors speak carefully, gently, but underneath their words is a truth I can't unhear: myotonic dystrophy has no cure. They can manage symptoms, maybe slow the inevitable, but Lucas will always carry this weight. And so will we.

Before I left, I hugged both my moms and promised to come back later that night. Our Thanksgiving this year won't be around a crowded table—it'll be in a hospital room, waiting on test results.

From there, I drove straight to The Study to pick up Aurora.

Between Crystal—my birth mom—hounding me for money and Lucas fighting for his life, Aurora has been the one thing that's managed to cut through the noise. A distraction. A friend. Maybe something more, though I can't name it.

It's strange. I've never been the type to let people in. Most only get the surface—my jokes, my easy grin, the parts of me that don't cost anything to show. Safer that way. Easier. But with Aurora, it's different. She gets past the walls without even trying.

Half an hour later, I pull up outside The Study. The November air seeps cold through the window glass, and the dashboard clock ticks forward as my palms sweat against the steering wheel. It's just dinner—cooking dinner, technically—but the thought knots my stomach all the same.

Cooking Thanksgiving with someone I'd sworn I couldn't stand feels almost hypocritical, yet she's managed to slip beneath my defenses. We're not cozying up for a date—she still has William, and I've got Isla lingering in the background. We're making food for my family, nothing more. But it's not the holiday I imagined. Then again, nothing about my life has ever been traditional.

Through the glass doors, I spot her. Auburn hair loose around her shoulders, her stride easy and sure. She doesn't see me at first, weaving through the crowd with her apron stuffed in her bag, but when her eyes land on me, she smiles. And just like that, the heaviness I've been carrying all day quiets for a beat.

I sit up straighter, unlock the passenger door, and wait as she walks toward me, her presence shifting something in me I can't quite name.

"Hey," I say as she opens the door, and just like that, the heaviness of the day eases, just a little.