Elena's POV
I wake up reaching for my husband, but my hand finds only cold sheets.
Daniel's side of the bed is empty. Again. It's been empty every night for two years—ever since the accident turned him into someone who can't stand to be near me.
No, that's not fair. The accident didn't do that. The accident broke his spine. He chose to sleep in the guest room. He chose to stop touching me. He chose to treat me like a stranger who happens to live in his house.
I stare at the ceiling and count my heartbeats. One. Two. Three. Twenty-seven years old and I'm counting heartbeats because it's better than counting the days since my husband last kissed me.
Seven hundred and thirty days. Two years exactly.
Today is our anniversary.
I wonder if he remembers. Probably not. Daniel doesn't remember much about us anymore. Just the physical therapy schedule, the medical bills, and the endless doctors' appointments that fill our calendar like tombstones marking the death of our marriage.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. For one stupid second, my heart jumps. Maybe it's Daniel. Maybe he remembered. Maybe—
It's my mother. Happy Anniversary, sweetie! Seven years! Give Daniel a big kiss from me!
Seven years married. Two years dead.
I throw off the covers and head downstairs. The house is too big, too quiet, too empty. We bought it when Daniel was still whole—when he was a photographer who climbed mountains and ran marathons. When he looked at me like I was something precious instead of something broken that he's stuck with.
The kitchen smells like coffee. Daniel must be up already, probably in his home office pretending to work. He does that a lot now. Pretends. Pretends he's fine. Pretends we're fine. Pretends he doesn't see me dying a little more each day.
I'm pouring coffee when I hear the wheelchair. My stomach tightens. Every morning, it's the same awkward dance. Him avoiding my eyes. Me pretending my heart isn't breaking.
"Morning," Daniel says, wheeling past me to grab a mug.
"Morning." I wait. Maybe he'll say it. Maybe today—
"I have a video call at nine," he says instead. "Can you make sure the office door is closed? The construction noise from next door has been loud."
That's it. That's all I get. Not "happy anniversary." Not "I love you." Just a request to close a door.
"Sure," I whisper.
He wheels away without another word.
I stand there holding my coffee mug so tight my knuckles turn white. This is my life now. This is my marriage. Two people living in the same house but existing on different planets.
I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to shake Daniel and ask him when he stopped seeing me as his wife and started seeing me as just... the help.
But I don't. Because good wives don't complain. Good wives understand. Good wives sacrifice their own needs for their husband's comfort.
I've been a good wife for two years. And I'm so tired of being good.
The doorbell rings, making me jump. Coffee sloshes over the rim of my mug, burning my hand. I curse under my breath and set it down, sucking on my burned finger as I head to the front door.
Through the glass, I see two men on my porch.
My breath catches.
Adrian Chen and Marcus DeVille. Daniel's best friends. The two men who've been coming every Friday for the past two years to help with Daniel's physical therapy and keep him company.
The two men I've been having very inappropriate thoughts about lately.
I open the door, trying to calm my racing heart. "Hey. You're early. Daniel said you weren't coming until this afternoon."
Adrian smiles, and something warm unfolds in my chest. He has the kindest eyes—dark and gentle, the kind of eyes that actually see you. "Change of plans. We thought we'd surprise you both."
"It's your anniversary, right?" Marcus adds. His voice is rough, like gravel, and it does things to my stomach that a married woman's stomach shouldn't do. "Figured you could use some help celebrating."
My throat tightens. They remembered. Daniel's best friends remembered our anniversary, but my own husband didn't.
"That's... really sweet." I step back to let them in. "Daniel's in his office. He's got a call at nine, but—"
"Actually," Adrian interrupts gently, "we wanted to talk to you first. Alone."
My heart stutters. "Me? Why?"
Marcus and Adrian exchange a look. There's something heavy in it. Something that makes my skin prickle with awareness.
"Can we sit down?" Marcus asks. "This is... it's important."
I lead them to the living room on shaking legs. They sit on the couch. I sink into the armchair across from them, my mind spinning. What could they possibly need to talk to me about? Alone?
Adrian leans forward, his doctor face firmly in place—the one he uses when delivering bad news. "Elena, we need to tell you something. About Daniel."
My blood runs cold. "Is he sick? Did something happen? The doctors said he was stable—"
"He's not sick," Marcus cuts in. "But he's... struggling. More than you know."
"We know he's been distant," Adrian continues carefully. "Cold. We know the marriage has been hard since the accident."
I stiffen. Heat floods my face. "Did Daniel send you to talk to me? Because if he has something to say, he can say it himself—"
"He didn't send us," Marcus says firmly. "He doesn't know we're here. But Elena, we can't watch this anymore. We can't watch you both destroy yourselves."
Tears burn my eyes. "I'm not destroying anything. I'm trying to hold us together—"
"By disappearing?" Adrian's voice is soft but it cuts like a knife. "By pretending you don't have needs? Elena, you're twenty-seven years old. You're beautiful, vibrant, alive. And you're dying in this house."
The tears spill over. I cover my face with my hands, shame burning through me. They see it. They see how pathetic I am. How desperate.
"We want to help," Marcus says quietly.
I laugh bitterly. "Help? How? You can't fix my husband. You can't make him want me again. You can't—"
"What if we could?" Adrian interrupts.
I look up sharply. "What?"
The two men exchange another loaded glance. Then Marcus speaks, his voice low and intense:
"What if we told you Daniel sent us here two weeks ago with a proposal? One he's too afraid to tell you himself?"
My heart pounds so hard I feel dizzy. "What kind of proposal?"
Adrian takes a deep breath. "He wants to give you permission. To be with us. Physically. Intimately. He knows he can't give you what you need anymore. So he's asking us to give it to you instead."
The world stops spinning.
I stare at them, certain I've misheard. Certain this is some kind of cruel joke.
"He wants to... share me?" My voice doesn't sound like my own. "With you?"
"If you want it," Marcus says, his gray eyes burning into mine. "Only if you want it."
"This is insane," I whisper. "This is—"
The office door slams open down the hall.
"Elena?" Daniel's voice echoes through the house. "Did someone arrive? I heard the doorbell."
I freeze, my eyes locked on Adrian and Marcus. They sit perfectly still, waiting.
Daniel's wheelchair rolls closer. Any second now, he'll wheel into the living room. He'll see his best friends sitting with his wife. He'll see my tear-stained face.
And then what? Do I tell him what they just said? Do I demand to know if it's true?
Do I admit that a shameful, desperate part of me wants it to be true?
"Elena?" Daniel calls again, closer now.
Marcus leans forward, his voice barely a whisper: "Before he gets here, you need to know something else."
"What?" I breathe.
His next words shatter everything:
"This wasn't just Daniel's idea. We asked him first. Because we've both been in love with you since the day we met you. And watching you fade away has been killing us."
The wheelchair sounds right outside the living room door.
I can't breathe. Can't think. Can't—
"There you are," Daniel says, wheeling into the room.
He stops when he sees us. Sees my face. Sees the tension thick enough to choke on.
For a long moment, nobody speaks.
Then Daniel's eyes meet mine, and I see something I haven't seen in two years:
Fear.
"They told you," he whispers. "Didn't they?"