Byler Oneshots

It is been so long since I uploaded oneshot here, I have been busy writing my other byler story
(Right Person, Wrong Time).
But here is a new oneshot, hope you enjoy it!

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Will's POV:

It's been four months since I was diagnosed with cancer.

Stage three. Not the best news you can get at twenty-eight.

Some days I feel okay, others—I don't even recognize my own body. The truth is, I don't know how much time I have left. Maybe months. Maybe less. But I've stopped asking those questions.

Now, I just want to spend the rest of it with the people I love. And right now, that's Mike.

Mike—my boyfriend of over two years. We've been living together for one year. In this tiny apartment that smells like coffee in the morning and his cologne at night. It's home. Because he's here.

He's the kindest man I've ever known. Gentle. Generous. Stubborn as hell. He never complains, never raises his voice.

But ever since the diagnosis, something in him has changed. Not outwardly—no, he tries to hide it. Tries to smile like he used to. But I can see it in the way he breathes when he thinks I'm asleep. In the way his hands tremble when he thinks I'm not looking.

It's already 10 PM. He's not home yet.

He works two jobs now. Just to afford the medications—ones that, if I'm being honest, aren't doing much anymore. I've told him that. Begged him, even. But he won't listen.

He's still fighting, even when I'm ready to let go.

I pick up my phone and text him:

"What are you doing?"

He always finishes work by eight. Latest, nine. But never this late.

My stomach tightens. I stare at the little chat bubble, waiting.

A minute passes.

Then another.

Finally, the screen lights up.

"On my way to you."

I exhale a breath I didn't realize I was holding, and send him a heart emoji. It's stupid, but I hope he feels it. That tiny, pixel-shaped heart.

Dinner's on the table—well, the takeout he likes. I set two plates anyway. It's our thing now: breakfast and dinner, always together. No matter how tired we are. No matter how broken I feel.

I wait.

Not just for food. Not just for him to open the door.

I wait because every second with him is something I want to remember. Because one day soon, there might be a night where he walks in and I'm no longer here to say "welcome back."

But tonight isn't that night.

Tonight, I'll look at him like I always do.

And I'll say, "You're late."

And he'll smile that crooked smile.

And I'll pretend—for just a little while longer—that time isn't running out.

I hear the door click open.

I get up, heart lifting a little, and head toward him.

"Hey," he says, bending to untie his shoes.

"Hey," I answer softly.

He steps closer, and before I can think, my hand finds the back of his neck, pulling him down for a quick kiss. But the moment our lips part, the faint sting of alcohol hits my senses.