Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hello, Ace.”

Is all that it takes to rotate my body one-eighty degree, facing the person that greeted me.

And, for the love of God, I enjoy it even more when she calls my name.

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It is late afternoon when Ace finished unloading the last of his boxes into his new apartment. The neighborhood is quieter than he is used to, with tree-lined streets and the faint sound of wind chimes swaying in the breeze. As he wipes the sweat from his brow and stretched his aching shoulders, he heard a soft voice behind him.

“Hello, new neighbor.”

Turning around, Ace sees her—a young woman standing on the edge of his driveway, clutching a groceries on her both hands. She wears simple T-shirt with ‘Ars longa, vita brevis’ words on it, Ace doesn’t understand the meaning though, and high waist wide leg brown pants. Her face is calm but slightly guarded, as though she isn’t entirely sure about approaching him.

Ace smiled, his usual warmth radiating effortlessly. “Hey there! You must live nearby?”

She nodded, stepping forward cautiously. “I’m (y/n).I live just over there,” she says, gesturing to the apartment next to his. “I sees you moving in and thought I’d say hello. It’s … a nice neighborhood.”

“Nice to meet you, (y/n). I’m Ace,” he replies, extending his hand.

“And yeah, it seems like a great place so far. Though I wouldn’t mind fewer boxes to carry.”

He chuckles, motioning to the pile of boxes still sitting by his door.

(y/n) hesitated for a moment before shaking his hand. His grip is firm but not overwhelming, and his smile put her somewhat at ease.

“If you need help, I could—”

She stopped herself mid-sentence, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face.

Ace noticed but waved it off with a grin. “I wouldn’t want to trouble you. I’ve got it mostly handled—just a few more trips, and I’ll be all set. But thanks for offering!”

(y/n) nodded, her lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile. “Well, if you need anything, I’m usually home. I work… or study, really, from there most of the time.”

She gestured vaguely toward her apartment again.

Ace’s curiosity is piqued. “Study, huh? You must be some kind of genius to be working at home all day.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the comment, and then let out a soft laugh. “Not exactly. I’m a Ph.D. student in art history. It’s more books and research than genius.”

“Art history? That’s pretty cool,” Ace says genuinely, leaning slightly on the edge of the moving truck. “I can barely draw a stick figure, so anyone who knows anything about art is way ahead of me.”

(y/n) chuckles again, a little less nervously this time. There is something disarming about Ace’s easy-going manner. “Well, if you ever need advice on stick figures, you know where to find me.”

Ace grinned.

“I’ll hold you to that. And maybe I’ll knock on your door once I figure out how to cook something more complicated than instant noodles.”

Her smile widened slightly, and for a moment, she seemed more relaxed. “Good luck with that, Ace. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

With a polite nod, (y/n) turned and walked back to her apartment, her pace unhurried but her heart beating a little faster than usual.

Ace watches her go, his smile lingering. “Nice neighbor,” he muttered to himself before returning to his boxes. Something about her quiet and shy manner intrigued him, and he couldn’t help but hope they’d run into each other again.

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After their initial meeting, (y/n) and Ace began crossing paths more often. Each time, their brief greetings is now their habit, which both party don’t mind it.

(y/n) would often spot Ace leaving for work in the early mornings. He is always dressed in training pants and an orange jacket with the firehouse logo on the back, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder. She’d wave from her doorway or her window, offering a soft, “Hello, Ace,” as he passed by.

Ace, without fail, would return her greeting with a bright, “Hello, (y/n)!”

His voice carried a cheerfulness that feels like sunlight piercing through her usual routine. Even though their exchanges are brief, (y/n) found herself looking forward to them.

On weekends, when (y/n) would step out to water her plants or sketch the flowers in her garden, Ace would stroll by on his way to grab coffee. “Hello, (y/n),” he’d call out, and she’d glance up with a small smile, always replying with a polite, “Hello, Ace.”

And he will always comeback with ‘spare’ coffee for her. The coffee helps her to get through her day though.

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One afternoon, (y/n) is struggling to carry a large package up the stairs to her apartment. It contained several art supplies she’d ordered for a project, and the weight of it is almost too much for her to handle. Just as she thought about giving up and setting it down, she heard a familiar voice.

“Need a hand, (y/n)?”

Turning, she sees Ace standing at the bottom of the stairs, still in his training gear—a tank top and jogging pants. His hair is damp with sweat, but his grin is as bright as ever.

“I—uh, yes. Thank you,” (y/n) says, stepping aside.

Ace hoisted the box with ease, carrying it up the stairs like it weighed nothing. (y/n) trailed behind, slightly embarrassed but grateful. When he set the package down at her door, she says softly, “You don’t have to do that, but… thank you, Ace.”

“No problem,” he replies, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Always happy to help a neighbor.” He paused, then added with a wink, “Though you might need to let me borrow some of those muscles of yours next time.”

(y/n) let out a soft laugh, the tension in her shoulders easing. “I’ll try to work on that.”

Ace waves as he turned to leave. “Goodbye, (y/n).”

(y/n), watching him go, says, “Goodbye, Ace.”

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Later that evening, (y/n) feels the need to repay Ace for his help. Though she hesitated for a while—standing by his door, debating whether it is too forward—she eventually knocked on his door.

Ace opens the door, looking slightly surprised but pleased. “Hello, (y/n),” he greeted, leaning casually against the doorframe.

“Hello, Ace,” she replies. She clasped her hands together, trying to keep her voice steady. “I, um, wanted to thank you for earlier. You don’t have to help with the box, and I really appreciate it. So I thought… maybe I could cook you dinner tonight?”

Ace blinked, then gave her a lopsided grin. “Dinner, huh? You sure you can handle the pressure of impressing me?”

(y/n) laughes softly, feeling a little less nervous. “I’ll do my best.”

He hesitated for a moment, glancing down at his sweaty clothes. “I’d love to, but I should probably shower first. I don’t think showing up covered in sweat and smell is the best way to thank my host.”

“That’s… a good idea,” (y/n) says, a small smile playing on her lips. “Come over whenever you’re ready.”

About an hour later, there is a knock at (y/n)’s door. When she opens the door, Ace stands there, freshly showered and dressed in a casual button-up shirt and jeans. His damp hair is slightly tousled, and he held a bottle of soda he’d picked from his fridge as a simple token.

“Hello, (y/n),” he greets her, his voice softer than usual, almost as though he is stepping into sacred territory.

“Hello, Ace, come on in, ” she replies, stepping aside to let him in.

Her apartment is cozy and warm. Paintings, both finished and half-done, leaned against the walls. A faint smell of garlic and herbs lingered in the air, and the small dining table is neatly set for two.

Ace looked around, genuinely impressed. “Wow, your place is amazing. It feels like walking into an art gallery.”

(y/n) flushed slightly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s… nothing special. Just where I work and live.”

Ace takes a seat at the table as (y/n) bringing out a plate of pasta and a small salad. “It’s simple,” she says apologetically. “I’m not much of a cook.”

Ace twirled some pasta onto his fork and takes a bite, exaggerating his reaction. “(y/n), this is amazing. You’re seriously underestimating your skills.”

She laughed, her nerves slowly melting away. “You don’t have to flatter me.”

“I’m not! You’ve officially spoiled me. Instant noodles won’t cut it anymore.”

Their conversation flowed easily as they eat, moving from light-hearted topics to more personal ones. Ace shares stories from his firefighting days, including funny mishaps (one of them is someone called them to rescue a cat from a tall tree and just to ended up it jumped by itself) and moments where he feels proud of his work. (y/n) opened up about her love for art, explaining how it became her refuge during her childhood.

By the time the plates are empty, they’d both forgotten about the time. As Ace stood to leave, he looked at (y/n) and says, “Thanks for dinner. I mean it. You really don’t have to, but I’m glad you do.”

(y/n) smiled. “I’m glad too. Goodbye, Ace.”

“Goodbye, (y/n),” he says, grinning as he stepped out the door.

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(y/n), enjoying Ace’s presence before, inviting him again for a dinner.

Each dinner is a little different, but the heart of it is the same—a shared meal, comfortable conversation, and a growing sense of ease between two people who had started as strangers.

(y/n)’s apartment is always filled with the faint scent of oil paints and paper, her art supplies scattered neatly across one corner of the room. When Ace comes over, she’d quickly tidy up, making space for him at the small dining table that sat by the window.

(y/n) would try new recipes, nervously watching Ace’s reaction each time he takes a bite. His exaggerated compliments—“This is the best lasagna I’ve had in my life!”—always made her laugh, though she’d rolls her eyes and calls him out on his dramatics.

“Better than to eat that instant noodle every day, isn’t it?” she replies with a playful smile.

Ace also wants to pay her somehow, so he does invite her too, to his place for a dinner.

Ace’s apartment is far less organized, but he always made an effort to clean up before (y/n) arrived. She’d tease him about the haphazard way he folded his laundry or the mismatched plates he served dinner on, and he’d shrug with a grin, saying, “It’s rustic charm.”

Ace’s meals are simpler—grilled meat, pasta, or takeout from his favorite local spot—but (y/n) doesn’t mind. She’d often bring dessert or a bottle of his favorite soda to share, saying, “I owe you for this,” even though he insisted she doesn’t.

During these dinners, they open up to each other, little by little.

(y/n) speaking about her Ph.D. research, describing the historical significance of different art movements and the stories behind the paintings she studied. Ace, though far from an art expert, listened intently, occasionally asking questions that surprised her with the thoughtfulness.

She also shares glimpses of her past, talking about her childhood love for sketching and how it became her escape from a difficult home life. Though she doesn’t share all the details, Ace could sense the pain she carried, and he respecting her silence when she hesitated.

Ace shares tales from his life as a firefighter, from the adrenaline of rescues to the moments of camaraderie with his team, to weirdest case he ever handled. Ran listened with wide eyes, marveling at his courage and selflessness, and laughing at his weird cases.

He also told her about his brothers, Sabo and Luffy, and the mischief they’d gotten into as kids. (y/n) found herself smiling more often than she expected, drawn to the warmth in Ace’s stories.

Over time, their dinners became more than just meals—they became a canvas for small, endearing rituals that brought them closer together.

If they eat at (y/n)’s, Ace would insist on helping with the dishes, often making a playful mess with the suds. (y/n) would feign exasperation but secretly appreciated his presence in her kitchen.

If they eat at Ace’s, (y/n) would help tidy up his apartment, gently teasing him about his “organized chaos” while Ace pretends to be offended.

Occasionally, they’d bring small surprises for each other. (y/n) once gave Ace a simple pencil sketch of a firefighter helmet surrounded by flames, which she’d drawn after hearing one of his stories. Ace, touched, framed it and hung it in his apartment, no reason behind it, he just thought it’s an appreciation to his job.

Ace, in turn, brought (y/n) a set of colorful mugs after noticing her habit of drinking tea while she worked. “You needed an upgrade, so you won’t mistaking the mug filled with tea and dirty water,” he’d joked, earning a rare, genuine laugh from her.

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One Wednesday evening, after they ate a simple pepperoni pizza at Ace’s place. At first, they are sharing about work, then it comes to family.

For years, (y/n) had keeps a part of herself locked away, too afraid to share it with anyone. Her childhood had been a series of bruises, not only on her body but on her trust in people. Her mother’s death was the final fracture. She rarely talk of it, even to herself. Watching her mother suffer at the hands of her abusive father and then losing her to domestic violence had left (y/n) terrified of vulnerability, especially in relationships. The idea of letting someone close enough to see her scars—both physical and emotional—filled her with dread.

When (y/n) opens up about her past, Ace listened intently, his usual warm smile fading into a look of understanding. They are sitting on her couch, a pot of tea between them, the room dimly lit by the soft glow of a lamp. She speaks haltingly, her fingers tightly gripping the edge of her mug as she recounted the pain of losing her mother to domestic violence and the deep fear that had shaped her view of relationships ever since. Her voice cracks in places, and her eyes flickered to Ace’s face, searching for signs of judgment. But there are none.

Ace let her finish before saying anything. He leaning forward, resting his forearms on his knees, his hands clasped loosely together. For a long moment, he simply sat with her words, as if letting them settle into the space between them. Finally, he says softly, “(y/n)… I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

There is no pity in his tone—just genuine sorrow for what she’d endured. He finds her eyes, his gaze steady and kind, and added, “No one should have to live with that kind of pain, especially not a kid. You don’t deserve that. Your mom doesn’t deserve that.”

(y/n)’s grip on her mug loosened, and she looks down, her lips trembling slightly. She had expected awkwardness or platitudes, but Ace’s response feels different—honest and grounded.

“I don’t know what it’s like to go through something like that,” Ace continued, his voice low and even, “but I do know what it’s like to carry something heavy. And I know how hard it is to talk about it.”

He shifted slightly, rubbing the back of his neck—a gesture (y/n) had come to recognize as him gathering his thoughts. “When I lost my brother…” he began, his voice growing quieter. “It was a fire. We were kids. I couldn’t do anything to save him. That’s why I became a firefighter—because I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing ever again.”

(y/n) looks up at him, her eyes widening. She hadn’t expected him to share something so deeply personal in return.

Ace offers her a small, bittersweet smile. “I know it’s not the same, but that loss, it shaped me. And for a long time, I didn’t want to talk about it either. But when I finally did, I realized something: it doesn’t make me weaker. It doesn’t change the past, but it helped me move forward. And maybe…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe talking about it doesn’t fix anything, but it reminds you that you don’t have to carry it all by yourself.”

(y/n)’s eyes filled with tears, but she doesn’t look away. For the first time in years, she doesn’t feel ashamed of her vulnerability. Ace’s openness, his willingness to share his own pain without diminishing hers, made her feels seen in a way she hadn’t before.

“I don’t know if I can ever really let go of the fear,” (y/n) admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ace nodded, his expression serious. “You don’t have to. Fear’s not something you just get rid of—it’s something you learn to live with. And when it gets too heavy, you let someone else help carry it. Doesn’t have to be me, but…” He smiled softly.

“I’d like to be that someone if you’ll let me.”

(y/n) doesn’t respond right away, but in her silence, there is a quiet acceptance. For the first time, she feels that maybe, just maybe, she could trust someone to walk beside her through the shadows of her past. And when Ace says goodbye that night, she feels a little less alone.

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After (y/n) opened up to him, something shifted in Ace. He had always admired her in any way and the way she poured her soul into her work, but now he understood the depth of her struggles too. The weight she carried, the scars she bore—they only made him want to protect her more. Ace isn’t sure when his feelings had deepened, but after hearing her story, the desire to care for her—to treat her as someone precious—became undeniable.

Ace started paying closer attention to the little things about her. He notices how she tended to retreat into herself when she is deep in thought or when something unsettled her. He learned that she bit her lower lip when she is concentrating, and that her fingers would idly trace invisible patterns on her mug when she is nervous. He also notices how her eyes lit up when she talking about a new painting or a discovery in her research, and how her laughter, soft and fleeting, feels like a gift when he could coax it out of her.

It isn’t in Ace’s nature to hold back, so his affection showed in small, quiet gestures that spoke louder than words. He’d bring her coffee when he knows she’d stayed up late working or offer to carry her groceries even if she protested that she could manage. When she mentioned a book she needed for her research, Ace went out of his way to find it, leaving it at her door with a note: Thought you could use this. –Ace.

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While (y/n), doesn’t get used to such attention, doesn’t know how to react. She feels awkwardly shy whenever Ace does something thoughtful, her cheeks warming under his gaze, ears reddened on his casual compliments.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he says one evening, after she shyly shows him a painting she’d been working on. The sincerity in his voice left her fumbling for words, unsure how to respond. No one had ever looked at her the way Ace does, with a mix of admiration and tenderness that made her heart ache in a way she isn’t used to. It leaves her flustered and Ace found it amusing.

Despite her awkwardness, (y/n) doesn’t avoid Ace’s affection. She couldn’t bring herself to push him away, not when his gestures made her feel something she hadn’t dared to before: cherished. And though she doesn’t say it aloud, the small smiles she gave him, the way her eyes softened when she looks at him, and her quiet acceptance of his care speaks volumes.

Energy shy glance, every hesitant smile from (y/n) only made his affection grow. He understood her hesitation, her uncertainty, and he never pushed for more than she is ready to give. Instead, he made a silent promise to himself: to be patient, to show her through his actions that she deserves to be treated with kindness, with respect, and with love.

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Days later, (y/n) returned from her international conference with a mixture of exhaustion and excitement. The trip had been long, but the experience of presenting her research and connecting with other academics had been rewarding. She’d even managed to find time to pick up souvenirs, and though she isn’t entirely sure what prompted her, she’d chosen a small gift for Ace and decided to bring it along with lunch to his station.

Walking up to the firehouse, she hesitated briefly at the sight of the large trucks parked outside, their red paint gleaming in the sunlight. The faint smell of smoke and engine oil lingered in the air, and she could hear the distant chatter of voices from within. She adjusted the bag of souvenirs on her shoulder, smoothed her dress, and takes a deep breath before stepping inside.

The bustling noise inside the fire station quieted slightly as (y/n) enters. The space is lively, with firefighters moving about, some joking loudly, others focused on their tasks. She scanning the room uncertainly until a tall blond man with a sharp, almost birdlike expression noticed her and approached with a curious smile.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone friendly but teasing, as if amused by the unexpected visitor.

(y/n) smiled politely and nodded. “Yes, I’m looking for Ace. I’m his neighbor—(y/n).” She extended her hand, introducing herself more formally.

The man raised an eyebrow, shakes her hand firmly, his grin widening as he shook her hand. “Ah, so you’re (y/n). I’ve heard about you.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he gestured toward the interior of the station. “I’m Marco. Ace is in the back, but let me guess—you brought him something?” His eyes flicked to the bag she carried and the container of food in her hands.

(y/n) nodded, her cheeks turning faintly pink. “I just got back from a conference and thought I’d bring lunch. And, um… some souvenirs.”

Marco chuckled, a sound that immediately drew the attention of a few other firefighters nearby. “Ace’s neighbor brought him lunch!” he called out, his voice carrying easily through the station.

Heads turned, and before (y/n) could respond, a chorus of good-natured teasing broke out.

“Oooh, Ace has a neighbor now, huh?”

“Must be nice having someone bring you food!”

“She’s probably here because she can’t stop thinking about our Ace!”

(y/n)’s face burned as she fumbled to respond. “It’s not like that… ” she protested, but her voice is soft, and her usual shyness crept in.

Marco, clearly enjoying the spectacle, waved her toward the back. “Come on, let me take you to him. Don’t mind these guys—they’re just jealous.”

When they reached the break room, Ace is standing by the counter, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He looks up as Marco entered with (y/n) trailing behind him, and his expression shifted from surprise to delight. “(y/n)?”

“Hello, Ace,” she greeted, her tone soft but warm.

Marco leaned casually against the doorway, watching the scene unfold with a smirk. “Your neighbor came all this way to bring you lunch and a gift. Pretty nice of her, huh?”

Ace’s brows shot up in surprise, and he quickly closed the distance between them. “You doesn’t have to do that,” he says, his voice laced with gratitude.

“It’s nothing,” (y/n) replies, setting the container of food on the table. “I thought you might be hungry, and I found something that reminded me of you while I was away.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. “It’s just a keychain—it’s shaped like a fire truck.”

Ace takes the gift with a wide grin, his fingers brushing hers briefly as he accepted it. “Thanks, (y/n). This is awesome.”

Behind them, Marco cleared his throat loudly. “Wow, a homemade lunch and a souvenir? Looks like Ace is living the dream.”

The other firefighters had begun to gather by the doorway, peeking in with amused expressions.

“Ace, where’s our lunch?” one of them called out.

“Doesn’t know you had someone spoiling you like this!”

“Hey, (y/n), want to be my neighbor too?”

Ace groaned, his ears flushing slightly as he turned to the group. “Alright, that’s enough, guys.”

(y/n), caught between embarrassment and amusement, offered a small laugh, though she kept her gaze mostly on Ace. “I should probably go,” she murmured, feeling out of place amidst the teasing crowd.

But Ace shook his head. “Stay a bit. I can use a break, and I owe you for this.” He turned to Marco. “And maybe you can get everyone else back to work?”

Marco holds up his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Fine, fine. I’ll let you two have your neighbor-ly moment.”

As the others dispersed, still chuckling and throwing playful remarks over their shoulders, Ace turns back to (y/n) with an apologetic smile. “Sorry about them. They’re, um… a handful.”

(y/n) shook her head, her earlier shyness easing as she met his gaze. “It’s fine. They’re… lively.”

Ace chuckled and motioned for her to sit down. “Thanks for this, really. It’s nice to finally see you back.”

(y/n) smiled faintly as she sat across from him. “It’s nice to see you too, Ace.”

And as they sharing lunch in the quiet of the break room, the teasing and noise from earlier seemed to fade away, while (y/n) telling Ace how the event went smoothly.

Ace leaned back in his chair, finishing the last bite of the lunch (y/n) had brought him. "So," he says, wiping his mouth with a napkin, "tell me about the conference. Is it as exciting as you hoped?" His tone is light, but his gaze held genuine curiosity, the way it always does when it comes to her work.

(y/n) smiled softly, setting her empty cup down on the table. "It is incredible," she begins, her voice steady but carrying a hint of exhaustion. "I presented my research on symbolism in Edo-period paintings, and the response is… better than I expected. There are so many questions after my presentation. It feels good to connect with people who cared about the same things I do."

Ace nodded, his smile widening. "That’s awesome, (y/n). I knew you’d knock it out of the park. Did you get a chance to explore the city while you are there?"

(y/n) opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, a sudden cough erupted from her chest, sharp and unexpected. She covered her mouth with her hand, her body jerking slightly with the force of it. The cough doesn’t stop right away, turning deeper and harsher as it echoed in the quiet break room.

Ace immediately straightened, his easy-going manner replaced by concern. "(y/n)? Are you okay?" He leaned forward, his brows furrowed, getting up if she needed anything.

(y/n) waved him off with her free hand as the fit subsided, though her face is pale, and her breaths came a little quicker. "I’m fine," she says, her voice hoarse but firm. "Just… probably caught a chill during the trip." She gives him a reassuring smile, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

Ace doesn’t look convinced. "Are you sure? That doesn’t sound great." His eyes scanned her face, noting the faint shadows under her eyes and the flush in her cheeks that doesn’t seem entirely natural.

(y/n) straightened in her chair, smoothing her skirt in a gesture of composure. "Really, Ace. It’s nothing. Just a little cough—it’ll go away."

Ace hesitated, his instincts telling him to push the issue, but he caught the determined set of her jaw and decided against it. "Alright," he says finally, though his tone is far from satisfied. "But if it gets worse, promise me you’ll get it checked out, okay?"

(y/n) nodded, her smile softening slightly. "I promise."

They talked for a little while longer, Ace telling her about some of the calls his team had handled recently and the ridiculous antics of his coworkers. (y/n) laughed lightly, appreciating how easily he could make her forgets her discomfort, if only for a moment. But as the minutes passed, a faint dizziness crept in, the kind she had hoped would fade after her earlier coughing fit.

When the conversation reached a natural pause, (y/n) stood, gathering her bag. "I should get going," she says, her voice still a little weak.

Ace frowned, standing as well. "You sure? You don’t have to rush off."

(y/n) smiled, her expression calm despite the lightheadedness she feels. "I’ve taken up enough of your time. And you’ve got work to do, right?"

Before Ace could respond, a sudden cough wracked her chest, leaving a raw burn in her throat. Ace didn’t hesitate—he shrugged off his jacket and draped it over her shoulders, the warmth of the fabric immediately sinking into her skin.

"Here. You should stay warm," he murmured, his voice softer now, almost hesitant.

(y/n) clutching the jacket instinctively, her fingers brushing against the worn edges of the sleeves. It smells like him—like a mix of sun and something faintly smoky, like embers still glowing after a fire has died down. There is a hint of sea salt too, and something uniquely Ace, something she couldn’t quite name but recognized all the same. It is comforting, familiar, and strangely overwhelming all at once.

She swallowed, trying to ignore the way her heart squeezed a little too tightly in her chest. It was just a jacket. Just a simple gesture. So why did it feel like more?

Adjusting the jacket around her shoulders, she let out a small breath before looking up at him. "Thanks, Ace… for this coffee and your time too." Her voice was quieter now, touched with something she isn’t sure she was ready to name. "I’ll return this next time."

Ace tilted his head slightly, his lips twitching in something between a smirk and a knowing smile. "No rush. Just take care of yourself, alright?"

Ran hesitated but finally nodded. Ace says again, "alright. But if you need anything, you know where to find me. And thanks for lunch, it was delicious."

"Of course," (y/n) replies, her tone warm but steady.

Ace walks her to the door of the station, watching as she stepped out into the sunlight. "Take care, (y/n)," he called out and she waves her hand.

As she walked down the street, her steps faltered slightly, the dizziness intensifying. She gripped onto the jacket that feels too big for her, forcing herself to breathe evenly as she made her way home. She doesn’t want to worry Ace any more than she already had, but deep down, she couldn’t shake the nagging sense that something isn’t quite right.

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(y/n) returned home that afternoon, her steps slower than usual as the familiar sensation of discomfort settled into her body. By the time she unlocked her door and stepped into the quiet sanctuary of her apartment, her legs feels weak, as though they might give out at any moment. She leans heavily against the doorframe, her breath uneven, and made her way to the couch, collapsing into its soft cushions.

A dull ache radiated through her bones, particularly in her legs and lower back. It isn’t sharp or sudden, but persistent, a deep and gnawing pain that seemed to sap her energy. Her head throbbing with a dull, unrelenting headache that no amount of water or rest seemed to ease. Every now and then, dizziness would washes over her, a sudden vertigo that made the room tilt unnervingly. She tried to ignore the numbness creeping into her arms, brushing it off as fatigue, but even the simplest tasks—gripping a pen or holding a mug—feels strangely clumsy.

Over the next few days, (y/n) withdrew further into herself. She told Ace she is busy catching up on research and unpacking from her trip, and though she knows her excuse sounded plausible, it is far from the truth. In reality, she spent most of her time lying in bed, too drained to do much else. Her appetite vanished almost entirely, food turning into an afterthought. Even the smell of her favorite tea, once a comfort, now turned her stomach. Her clothes begins to hang loosely on her frame, and she avoids looking in the mirror, unwilling to acknowledge the hollow look creeping into her face.

Ace had called once or twice, his voice warm and teasing as he asked when she’d come by the firehouse again. (y/n) had forced herself to sound cheerful, promising to visit soon, but guilt twisted in her chest as she hung up. She hates lying to him, but she couldn’t bring herself to admit how unwell she is feeling.

Chapter Text

One afternoon, as the sunlight filtered weakly through her curtains, (y/n) sits on the edge of her bed, staring at her phone. Her body feels foreign to her, weighed down by a heaviness she couldn’t shake. The pain in her bones had grown worse, the dizziness more frequent. Her headache, now sharper, pulsed at the base of her skull, making it difficult to think.

She knew she couldn’t keep ignoring the symptoms. With a resigned sigh, she finally called for a taxi, deciding to go to the hospital. The walk down to the street is slow and unsteady, and by the time she climbed into the back seat of the cab, her hands are trembling slightly from the effort.

The hospital is busy, the sterile smell and hum of activity a stark contrast to the quiet of her apartment. As she sat in the waiting area, her fingers clenched tightly around the strap of her bag, (y/n) felt a pang of fear settle in her chest. She hadn’t told anyone she is coming here—not to Ace, not to anyone—and the thought of facing whatever this is alone made her throat tighten.

When her name is called, she stands, her legs feeling weak beneath her, and follows the nurse down the corridor. The fluorescent lights overhead seemed harsh, each step forward feeling heavier than the last. She doesn’t know what to expect, but deep down, (y/n) couldn’t shake the feeling that whatever is happening, isn’t something she could brush aside any longer.

The air in the doctor's office felt heavy, almost suffocating. (y/n) sits stiffly in the chair across from the desk, her fingers tightly clutching the strap of her bag on her lap. Her heart thudded against her ribs, loud and uneven, as she tried to read the expression on the doctor’s face. He is calm, his demeanor professional, but there is a heaviness in his eyes that made her stomach twist.

There’s a name plate on the desk, ‘Dr. Trafalgar Law’

“Ms. (l/n),” the doctor began gently, his hands fold on the desk.

“Thank you for coming in today. I’ve reviewed your tests and scans, and I’m afraid I have some difficult news to share.”

(y/n)’s fingers dig into the fabric of her bag as she forced herself to nod. The words 'difficult news' hang in the air, a harbinger of something she instinctively knew she isn’t ready to hear.

“You have stage 4 lung cancer,” the doctor said, his tone careful, as if trying to cushion the impact of the words.

“At this stage, the cancer has spread, which explains the symptoms you’ve been experiencing—such as the pain, headaches, and dizziness.”

For a moment, (y/n) couldn’t process what she had just heard. The words seemed to echo in her mind, distant and unreal. Stage 4. Lung cancer. She stares at the doctor, her face blank, as though he had spoken in a language she didn’t understand.

The doctor continued, his voice steady but compassionate. “Without treatment, the prognosis is six to eight months. However, with treatment—chemotherapy, targeted therapy, or palliative care—we can extend that to one to two years, depending on how your body responds.”

(y/n) felt her throat tighten, her breathing shallow and unsteady. She barely registers the rest of the doctor’s words as he explaining treatment options and next steps. Her mind spins, caught in a chaotic swirl of disbelief and panic.

Six to eight months. One to two years.

Her fingers tremble, and she clenches them tightly to keep from visibly shaking. Her chest feels heavy, not from the cancer but from the sheer weight of what she’d just learned. This couldn’t be happening—not to her. She is only in her early thirties. She had a career, a life she is still building. She hadn’t even fully learned how to live yet, finally has precious friend, Ace and now…

“Ms. (l/n)?” the doctor’s voice pulled her back to the present. He is watching her closely, concern etched into his features.

(y/n) swallowed hard, her mouth dry.

“I—” she begins, but her voice cracked, and she has to pause to steady herself.

“I don’t … understand. I don’t smoke. I’ve never smoked. How can I have lung cancer?”

Law nodded, his expression patient. “It’s a common question. While smoking is the leading cause of lung cancer, there are other factors—genetics, exposure to certain substances, or even environmental triggers. In some cases, the cause is unclear.”

(y/n)’s lips pressed into a thin line, her thoughts racing. It doesn’t make sense. None of it does. She feels a pang of anger—at the unfairness of it, at her body for betraying her, at the universe for dealing her this cruel hand. But beneath the anger is something colder, sharper: fear.

“What happens if I don’t get treatment?” she asks quietly, her voice barely above a whisper.

The doctor’s expression softened, but his answer is unflinching.

“The cancer will continue to spread. Your symptoms will worsen over time, and without intervention, the disease will progress quickly.”

(y/n) nodded numbly, her gaze dropping to her lap. Her mind drifted to the people in her life—her colleagues, her students, her research. Ace. She thought of his teasing grin, his warm eyes, the way he always seemed to notice when she needed someone. How would she tell him? Would she even tell him?

"Do you have someone you can talk to about this?” the doctor asked, breaking the silence.

(y/n) hesitated, the question hitting her like a blow. Did she? She had acquaintances, coworkers, her professors—but no one she feels she could truly lean on. Except, perhaps, Ace. But even the thought of burdening him with this made her chest tighten further.

“I’m … not sure,” she admitted, her voice trembling.

The doctor nodded, his tone gentle. “It’s important to have support, (y/n). This is a lot to take in, and you don’t have to face it alone. I can connect you with a counselor or support group, if you’d like.”

(y/n) nodded mechanically, not trusting herself to speak.

As she left the office, clutching a stack of papers outlining treatment plans and resources, the world outside felt strangely distant. The sun is shining, people were chatting and laughing on the sidewalk, and life carried on as though nothing had changed. But for (y/n), everything had changed.

Her steps are slow as she walked home, her mind heavy with the weight of the diagnosis. Her chest ached—not just from the cancer, but from the grief of knowing her time is now limited. As much as she tries to steady herself, tears began to blur her vision, and for the first time in years, (y/n) let them fall. She cried for the life she wouldn’t get to live, the dreams she might never fulfill, and the cruel irony of finding a connection with someone like Ace, only to have it stolen away.

But beneath the sadness, a quiet determination began to take root. If her time is limited, then she would make the most of it. She doesn’t know how yet, but she knew one thing for certain: she wouldn’t face this alone. And she wouldn’t let fear steal what little time she had left.

.

.

(y/n) closed the apartment door behind her, leaning against it for a moment as she took a deep breath. The weight of the day still pressing heavily on her chest, but as she looks around her quiet apartment, she realized that the silence isn’t comforting anymore—it felt empty.

Wiping the last of her tears from her face, she straightened and moves to her desk. She wouldn’t let herself sink into despair. If she only had six months left, then every moment matters. She doesn’t have the luxury of wasting time.

(y/n) pulls out her notebook, the one she usually reserved for sketching or jotting down ideas for her art projects. Tonight, it would serve a different purpose. She flipped to a blank page, picked up her pen, and paused, the tip hovering just above the paper. Her heart races, but this time, it isn’t from fear—it is from determination.

At the top of the page, she wrote:

(y/n)’s Bucket List

The letters are bold, underlined twice for emphasis. With each stroke of the pen, the fog of grief seemed to lift slightly, replaced by a spark of resolve. If her time is short, then she would fill it with experiences that made her feel alive.

Her first few items are simple, things she’d always thought she’d have more time for:

One, paint a mural.

Two, visit a sunflower field.

Three, watch the sunrise by the ocean.

But as she continues writing, her thoughts grew bolder, more adventurous. She tapped her pen against the page, thinking back to a food blog she’d read months ago about rare and unusual dishes from around the world. An idea struck her, and she writes:

Four, eat exotic food.

She sat back, staring at the words, a small smile tugging at her lips for the first time that day. It is the kind of goal that would pushes her out of her comfort zone, a challenge that feels both thrilling and achievable. But what kind of exotic food would it be?

Her mind wandered to a documentary she had watched late one night about delicacies from Southeast Asia. That’s when she remembered: balut, a traditional Filipino dish—a fertilized duck egg with a partially developed embryo inside. It is known for its rich flavor and unique texture, something most people hesitated to try but praised once they did.

The idea fascinated her. It is unlike anything she had ever eaten, and it felt symbolic in a way—an act of embracing life in all its rawness, complexity, and beauty. She jotted it down beneath the heading:

Four, eat exotic food: balut.

(y/n) leaned back in her chair, the small smile growing as she imagining herself sitting in a bustling market somewhere, nervously cracking open the shell of the balut while locals encouraged her. The thought made her chest feel lighter, the weight of her diagnosis momentarily pushed aside.

As the list grew, she found herself filling the page with more goals, each one a step toward reclaiming the time she had left.

.

By the time she set her pen down, the notebook now filled with dreams—some small, some daring, but all deeply meaningful. She feels a flicker of hope, a tiny flame burning through the darkness. This list isn’t just a way to pass the time; it is her promise to herself that she wouldn’t let cancer define her last days.

She runs her fingers over the notebook, as though sealing her determination. A small laugh escaped her lips—soft and shaky, but real. She might only have six months, but those are her six months. And she is going to make every single one of them count.

(y/n) sits at her desk late into the night, staring at the last line she had written in her bucket list. The words stand out starkly on the page, more vulnerable and daunting than anything else she had dared to write:

- Fall in love.

Her pen hovering above the notebook as she hesitated, her heart heavy with doubt. Getting into a romantic relationship is something she had never truly allowed herself to consider—not before her diagnosis and certainly not now. Who would want to fall in love with someone who is already slipping away?

The thought is as cruel as it is honest. She doesn’t want to be a burden, doesn’t want to tether someone to the inevitable pain of her departure. But there is a part of her, buried deep beneath years of fear and self-protection, that longing for it. To love, and to be loved, even if only for a short time.

With a shaky breath, she pressed the pen down, underlining the words.

The next morning, (y/n) will wake up with a mix of nervous energy and determination. She had decided that her first step into her bucket list would be trying balut, and there is only one person she wanted to share the experience with. Ace.

.

After tidying herself up and forcing down a small breakfast, she made her way to Ace’s place. As she climbs the stairs to his apartment, her heart pounded—not just from exertion, but from the anticipation of seeing him again after days of avoiding him. She had told herself she needed the space, but deep down, she had missed him.

When Ace opens the door, she is greeted by his usual warmth. “Hello, (y/n),” he said with a grin, his voice carrying that familiar ease that always managed to put her at ease. But his smile faltered for a split second as his eyes scanned her face.

(y/n) doesn’t notice the way his gaze lingered, how his eyebrows furrowed slightly at the sight of her thinner frame. Her cheeks are more hollow now, her usually bright eyes dimmed with fatigue. Ace doesn’t say anything, but the worry is clear in the way his expression softened.

“Hey,” she greeted, her voice lighter than she felt. “Got a moment? I, uh, have something I want to ask you.”

“Always,” he said, stepping aside to let her in.

She walks into his apartment, the space already familiar from the times she’d been there before. It smells faintly of coffee, that is uniquely Ace. She turns to face him, her fingers twisting together nervously.

“So, I’ve been working on a little… list,” she begins, her voice carefully casual. “You know, things I’ve always wanted to do but never got around to. And, well, I thought I’d start with trying some exotic food.”

Ace tilts his head, intrigued. “Exotic food? Like what?”

“Balut,” she said, watching his reaction closely.

His eyebrows shot up, and a grin tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Balut, huh? Didn’t peg you for the adventurous eater type.”

(y/n) laughs softly, a sound that feils lighter than it had in weeks. “Yeah, well, I’m full of surprises. But I am hoping you’d come with me, you know… for moral support.”

Ace crosses his arms, leaning against the counter as he studied her. “Moral support, huh? You sure you’re not just dragging me into this so you don’t chicken out?”

“Maybe a little,” she admitted with a sheepish smile.

Ace chuckled, shaking his head. “Alright, I’m in. But you owe me if this turns out to be as weird as it sounds.”

(y/n) relaxed at his agreement, the tension easing from her shoulders. “Deal.”

As they talking, Ace couldn’t shake the worry that had crept in since the moment he saw her. (y/n) looks pale and tired, and while she is smiling now, there is an undeniable frailty about her that hadn’t been there before. He wanted to ask if she is okay, but something about the way she carried herself made him hold back.

Instead, he decides to watch her closely, to let her set the tone. Whatever is going on, he would be there for her.

(y/n) left his apartment a little later, feeling lighter than she had in days. Ace had agreed to go with her, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she feels like she isn’t carrying the weight of her life alone.

Ace, however, standing at his door for a moment after she left, his gaze lingering on the spot where she had been. He couldn’t ignore the unease gnawing at him, but for now, he decided to focus on making sure she felt supported. Whatever she needed, he’d be there. Even if it meant eating balut.

.

Ace had done his research. After some asking around and a little digging online, he found a small Southeast Asian restaurant tucked away in a quiet part of the city. The place has a cozy, authentic charm, with colorful banners strung across the windows and the aroma of spices wafting through the air.

When (y/n) arrived with Ace, she took a deep breath, steadying herself as they stepped inside. The restaurant is lively but not overwhelming, the chatter of diners mixing with the soft hum of traditional music playing in the background. Ace, ever the supportive companion, led her to a small table near the window and grinned as they sat down.

“You ready for this?” he teased, his elbows propped on the table as he leaned forward.

(y/n) shot him a playful glare, her nerves bubbling up into laughter. “As ready as I’ll ever be. Don’t make me second-guess myself now.”

The server approached, and Ace confidently ordered the balut, much to the server’s delight. (y/n) watching as the dish arrived—a modest plate holding a warm, steaming egg, its shell slightly cracked at the top.

“Here it is,” Ace announced, sliding the plate toward her like he is presenting a prized treasure.

(y/n) hesitated, her eyes wide as she stares at the egg. It looks unassuming enough, but she knew what awaited inside. “Oh, boy,” she muttered, picking up the egg with shaky hands.

“You’ve got this,” Ace encouraged, his tone light but sincere.

Following the server’s instructions, (y/n) cracked the top of the shell carefully, revealing the partially developed duck embryo inside. She winced but quickly masked it with a tight smile. The aroma isn’t bad—savory and rich—but the sight of it made her heart race.

Ace gives her a thumbs-up. “Just pretend it’s… I don’t know, chicken soup.”

(y/n) shot him a look. “You’re not helping.”

Taking a deep breath, she spooned some of the broth and sipped it first. It is surprisingly flavorful, warming her mouth with a rich, umami taste. “Not bad,” she admitted, glancing at Ace, who watching her like an amused spectator.

Then comes the main event. With a mix of determination and dread, she scooped out a piece of the embryo. It is soft and slightly chewy, with a texture she couldn’t quite place. Closing her eyes, she popped it into her mouth and chewing it.

Her reaction is immediate—a grimace flickered across her face as the taste hit her. It isn't terrible, but it is far from her comfort zone. “Oh, my God,” she muttered, swallowing hard and chasing it with water.

Ace burst out laughing, leaning back in his chair. “You did it! I’m impressed. Thought you’d bail halfway.”

(y/n) glares at him, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “It is okay,” she declared, though there is a spark of pride in her eyes. “But it’s one more thing off my list.”

Her words caught Ace’s attention, and he raised an eyebrow. “Your list?”

(y/n) hesitated for a moment before pulling out her notebook, the page already creased from being opened so many times. She slid it across the table to him. “It’s my bucket list,” she explained softly. “Things I want to do while I still can.”

Ace flinched at the words, while she still can.

Though his expression shifted as he read the entries—some simple, some bold, all of them deeply personal. He paused when he saw Paint a mural. “A mural, huh?” he said, tapping the words with his finger.

“Yeah,” (y/n) said, her voice wistful. “I’ve always wanted to paint something big, something that people could see and maybe feel inspired by.”

Ace leaned back in his chair, a thoughtful smile spreading across his face. “You know, the firehouse could use some sprucing up. There’s a big wall in the garage—perfect for a mural.”

(y/n) blinked, surprised. “You’d let me paint there?”

“Why not?” Ace shrugged, his grin widening. “The guys would love it. And it’d be cool to have something real from an artist like you.”

The next week, (y/n) found herself at the firehouse, a massive blank wall stretching before her. It is daunting, but exhilarating. She sketched out her ideas, a vibrant mix of fire, water, and unity, representing the bravery and camaraderie of firefighters.

Painting the mural is exhausting. The physical effort of standing for hours, reaching high spots, and carefully mixing colors wore her down faster than she expected. But Ace and the crew—Marco especially—stepped in to help. Marco handed her brushes and paint while Ace steadied the ladder or filled in the base layers.

“You’re doing great,” Ace said one afternoon, wiping sweat from his brow as he watched her paint. “This is gonna be amazing.”

(y/n) smiled faintly, her exhaustion visible but she is unwavering. “I couldn’t do it without you guys.”

Over the weeks, the mural comes to life, its bold colors and intricate details drawing admiration from everyone who passed by. For (y/n), it isn't just a piece of art—it is a part of her soul, a lasting mark she could leave behind.

When she finally added the last stroke, stepping back to admire her work, Ace stood beside her, his arm brushing hers. “It’s perfect,” he said softly, his voice filled with pride.

(y/n) looked up at him, her cheeks flushed from the effort. “Thanks for helping me make this happen,” she said, her voice just as soft.

Ace meets her gaze, his grin fading into something more tender. “You don’t have to thank me,” he said simply. “I’m just glad I could be part of it.”

For a moment, they standing there in comfortable silence, the mural gleaming in the afternoon light.

.

.

(y/n) had been sitting on the couch, her notebook open on her lap, when the thought struck her. She hadn’t visited the art museum in months, not since her diagnosis. It is one of her favorite places, a sanctuary of quiet inspiration. She had a sudden, strong urge to go, and there is only one person she wanted to ask. The one and only her close friend, Ace.

She picked up her phone, dialing Ace’s number. When he answered with his usual, “Hello, (y/n),” she smiled softly, already feeling lighter.

“Hey, Ace,” she began, a slight hesitance in her voice. “Would you… like to go to the art museum with me tomorrow?”

There is a brief pause on the other end before Ace replied, his tone warm. “Sure, art museum date sounds like fun. What time?”

(y/n) giggles at his wording.

She gives him the details, and when they hung up, Ace sat back in his chair, a small grin creeping onto his face. He couldn’t help but wonder—is this a real date? The thought made his chest tighten in a strange mix of excitement and nervousness. But then he shook his head, brushing it off. (y/n) probably just wanted company. Still, he couldn’t deny the way his heart raced at the thought of spending time with her. Might as well dress up for the occasion.

The next day, they walk into the museum together, the grand halls filled with the soft echo of footsteps and the hum of hushed conversations. (y/n) leading the way, her eyes lighting up as they moved from one gallery to the next.

“This one,” she said, stopping in front of a large, colorful canvas. She gestured toward the painting, her hands moving as she began to explain its history and technique. Ace stands beside her, watching her more than the art.

She speaks with a passion that is infectious, her voice soft but filled with knowledge and reverence. Ace found himself leaning closer, captivated—not just by the art, but by the way (y/n) seemed to come alive as she explained each piece.

He couldn’t help but smile as she moved to the next painting, her excitement drawing him in. She talks about the brushstrokes, the use of light and shadow, the emotions conveyed in each detail. Ace tries—not really tries— to focus on her words, but his thoughts keeps drifting to how beautiful she looks when she is in her element, her eyes bright and her smile genuine.

Then, they turned a corner and came across a painting that made (y/n) stop in her tracks.

Edvard Munch’s The Sick Child.

(y/n)’s expression softened as she took it in, the muted tones and sorrowful atmosphere of the painting striking her deeply. She turned to Ace, her voice quiet but steady as she begins to explain.

“This is one of Edvard Munch’s most personal works,” she said. “It’s called The Sick Child. He painted it in memory of his sister, Johanne Sophie, who died of tuberculosis when she is just fifteen.”

Ace frowned slightly, his gaze shifting to the painting. The pale, fragile figure of the girl, the heavy sorrow in the older woman beside her—it is haunting.

"Munch once said about this painting,” (y/n) continues, “‘With The Sick Child, I broke new ground. It is a breakthrough in my art. Most of what I have done since had its genesis in this picture.’”

Ace tilted his head, intrigued. “What does he mean by that?”

(y/n)’s eyes remained fixed on the painting as she explaines, her voice softening. “He said the first version is an attempt to dare something difficult: the eyelids' tired movement, the lips that seem to whispering something, and the little flicker of life that remains on her. You can feel the raw emotion in it. The deep vertical and horizontal traces in the painting show how much turmoil he is in—like he is trying to erase his sister’s death but couldn’t.”

Ace stares at the painting, a lump forming in his throat. The more (y/n) spoke, the more he feels the weight of the piece, the grief and love intertwined in every brushstroke. “It’s… powerful,” he said finally, his voice quieter than usual.

(y/n) nodded, her gaze still fixed on the painting. “Munch’s work is so raw, so honest. He isn’t afraid to confront his pain, to let it shape his art. That’s what makes it so moving.”

Ace turned his attention back to her, his chest tightening as he notices the faraway look in her eyes. He could tell that the painting resonated with her on a deeper level, though she doesn’t say it outright.

“(y/n),” he said softly, drawing her attention back to him. “Thanks for showing me this.”

She blinked, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Of course,” she said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

They lingers in front of the painting a little longer, the image stays with Ace, as does the way (y/n) had spoken about it.

“(y/n)?” he asked gently, stepping closer to her. “What is it?”

She doesn’t answer right away, her eyes fixed on the canvas. The delicate figure of the girl, pale and fragile, seemed to shimmer in her mind, mirroring something buried in her own heart. She clenches her hands into fists by her sides, trying to steady the trembling in her fingers.

Ace’s concern deepened, gently touching her frail shoulder. “(y/n), talk to me.”

She took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling. Slowly, she turns to him, her expression pained but resolute. Her voice, when it comes, is soft, barely above a whisper. “Ace… I’m dying too.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and raw.

Ace’s expression froze, his usual easy smile fading in an instant. “What?” he asked, his voice hushed, as if saying it louder would make it more real. “What do you mean?”

Her expression raw and vulnerable. Her eyes are glassy, but she refused to let tears fall. “I didn’t want to tell you,” she admitted, her voice shaking. “I didn’t want anyone to know. But I—” She paused, swallowing hard. “I have stage four lung cancer. The doctors say I have six months if I don’t do treatment. Maybe a year or two if I do.”

Ace stared at her, the words sinking in slowly. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come. His mind raced, trying to reconcile the vibrant, passionate woman standing before him with the cruel reality she had just revealed.

“You...” His voice faltered, and he runs a hand through his hair, his breathing uneven. “You’ve been dealing with this—alone?”

(y/n) nodded, looking away. “I didn’t want to burden anyone. And honestly... I isn’t ready to say it out loud.” She gestured toward the painting, her fingers trembling. “But this... it reminded me. It’s my reality now. I couldn’t keep it from you anymore.”

For a moment, Ace doesn’t say anything. He just looking at her, his eyes filled with a mix of sorrow, disbelief, and something else—something deeper. Then, slowly, he reaches out, placing a hand gently on her arms.

“(y/n),” he calls her name softly, his voice steady despite the turmoil in his chest. “You should never have to go through something like this alone.”

She looks up at him, her lips trembling as she tried to form a response.

“You’re not a burden,” he continued, his tone firm but kind. “Don’t ever think that. And you’re not going to face this by yourself—not while I’m here.”

The intensity in his gaze made her chest tighten. She hadn’t expected this—not the unwavering support, not the quiet determination in his voice. She had braced herself for pity or awkwardness, but Ace’s reaction is anything but.

“You don’t have to do that,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “I don’t want you to feel obligated—”

“This isn’t obligation, (y/n),” Ace interrupted, his hand still steady on her shoulder. “This is me caring about you. You’re... important to me. And if you’ll let me, I want to be here for you. For as long as you’ll have me.”

(y/n) blinked, tears finally spilling over despite her efforts to hold them back. She turned her face away, wiping at her eyes with trembling hands. “I don’t even know how to let someone do that,” she admitted, her voice small.

Ace smiles faintly, the warmth returning to his expression. “Then we’ll figure it out together,” he said.

She let out a shaky breath, nodding slowly. For the first time since her diagnosis, she feels a glimmer of hope—hope not for her condition, but for the days she had left. Ace isn’t offering a cure or a solution. He is offering something far more precious: his unwavering presence.

Ace pulling her to his warm embrace as she tries to holds her sobs. The painting of The Sick Child looming behind them, (y/n) realized that she doesn’t have to face her journey alone. Ace is here, and for now, that is enough.

.

.

Ace had started spending more time at (y/n)’s place, almost instinctively shifting into the role of caretaker. (y/n) rarely came to his apartment now, her energy too drained for even short trips. He doesn’t mind; her cozy home had become a second home to him, filled with the faint scent of her.

One evening, Ace stands at the stove in (y/n)’s small kitchen, stirring a pot of soup. His cooking had improved drastically over the past weeks, mostly thanks to trial and error. (y/n) sits at the table nearby, watching him with a faint smile.

“You’re getting better,” she said, her voice soft but carrying a hint of playfulness.

Ace grinned over his shoulder, pretending to puff up with pride. “What can I say? I’m a fast learner. You should be impressed.”

(y/n) chuckled lightly, but even that small sound seemed to tire her. Ace noticed the way she rested her head on her hand, her movements slower than usual. His grin faded slightly as he ladled the soup into bowls, bringing one to her.

They eat quietly for a moment, the soft clinking of spoons filling the space. Ace glanced at her, watching the way her hands trembled slightly as she held the bowl.

“(y/n),” he begins hesitantly, breaking the silence. “I’ve been thinking.”

She looked up at him, her expression curious but wary. “About what?”

He takes a deep breath, setting his spoon down. “About the treatment. I know you’re scared, and I get why. But... I really think you should try it. Even if it’s hard, even if it’s painful, I’ll be there with you. Every step of the way.”

(y/n) froze, her spoon hovering over her bowl. Her gaze dropped, her expression guarded. “Ace…”

He leaned forward, his voice gentle but firm, touching her hand gently. “I mean it. I’ll drive you to every appointment, sit with you through every session, make you as many terrible meals as it takes to get through this. But you don’t have to face it alone. You’ve got me, okay?”

Her eyes glistened, but she nodded slowly, her lips pressing together as she fought back tears. “Okay,” she whispered.

Ace let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Good. We’ll do this together.”

But before he could say more, (y/n) suddenly doubled over, a harsh, wet cough racking her body.

“(y/n)?” Ace shot out of his chair, panic flashing across his face.

She tried to wave him off, but another cough overtook her, more violent this time. A spatter of blood stained her hand, and her breathing became ragged. Her entire body trembled as she clutched the table for support.

“(y/n), hey, hey,” Ace said, standing abruptly, his voice calm but his eyes betraying his fear. He crouched beside her, placing a steadying hand on her back. “It’s okay. I’m here. Just breathe, alright?”

"I-I can’t,” (y/n) choked out, her voice shaking.

“Yes, you can,” Ace insisted, keeping his voice steady for her sake. “Just focus on me. One breath at a time. In... and out.”

(y/n) tries to follow his words, but the fear in her eyes is overwhelming. Her body shook, and tears streamed down her face as she gasped for air. “Ace... I’m scared,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Ace’s heart twisted painfully, but he forced himself to stay composed. “I know you are,” he said softly, brushing a stray tear from her cheek with his thumb. “But you’re not alone. I’ve got you, (y/n). I promise, I’ve got you.”

Gradually, her coughing subsided, though her breathing remained shallow and uneven. Ace stayed by her side, his hand firm on her back, offering her as much comfort as he could.

When she finally sat back, exhausted and pale, Ace grabbed a glass of water and handed it to her. She sipped it slowly, her trembling hands wiped and cleaned by Ace using wet wipes.

“See?” Ace said, his voice soft but encouraging. “You’re okay. You’re stronger than you think.”

(y/n) staring at him, her eyes filled with a mix of gratitude and vulnerability. “I don’t feel strong,” she admitted, her voice breaking.

Ace smiled faintly, his hand still on her hands, brushing her knuckles gently. “That’s okay. I’ll be strong for both of us.”

She let out a shaky breath, nodding as a small, tired smile crossed her lips. For the first time in weeks, she feels like she could face the days ahead—not because the fear had disappeared, but because she isn’t facing it alone.

.

The soft hum of running water filled (y/n)’s small kitchen as Ace stood at the sink, washing dishes. The evening light filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow across the room. Behind him, the faint sound of her steady breathing told him that (y/n) had drifted off on the couch.

Ace turns his head slightly, glancing over his shoulder to check on her. She is curling up, her face framed by the glow of the dim lamp. Even in sleep, she looked fragile, her pale skin and sunken cheeks a stark reminder of the fight she is enduring.

He sighed quietly, his chest tightening. She looked so small, so tired, but there is a peace to her expression that tugged at his heart. Shaking off the heavy thoughts threatening to overwhelm him, he turned back to the dishes, rinsing the last plate and setting it on the drying rack.

After drying his hands, Ace moved toward the couch to drape a blanket over her. As he adjusted the edge around her shoulders, his eyes fell on a notebook lying open on the coffee table. He hesitated for a moment before curiosity got the better of him, and he glanced at the page.

It is her bucket list.

His brow furrowed as he leaned closer, his eyes scanning the neat handwriting. There are items crossed out, like “Eat balut” and “Paint a mural.” His lips twitched at the memory of her determined grimace as she swallowed the balut and her quiet pride when the mural is completed.

Then, his gaze landed on one untouched entry: Visit sunflower fields.

Ace’s heart softened. He could already picture the way her face would light up, surrounded by a sea of golden blooms. A small smile crept onto his lips as he mentally noted the perfect spot to take her. After her treatment the day after tomorrow, he’d make sure she saw them.

But as his eyes scanning further down the page, his smile faded.

The last item on the list hasn’t crossed out either.

-Fall in love.

Ace stared at the words, his chest tightening. It is simple, almost wistful, yet it carried a weight that made his throat constrict. He could almost hear her voice in those words—soft, hesitant, yearning.

For a moment, he is frozen. His mind raced, memories flashing of every quiet moment they’d shared, every time her laughter had softened the edges of his day, every look that lingered just a little too long.

He realized he had already fell for her.

The thought made him swallow hard, a mix of warmth and fear flooding him. He cared for (y/n) deeply, and that care had grown into something more, something he doesn't want to name. But now, staring at her list, he couldn’t avoid it.

He glanced back at her sleeping face. She looked so peaceful, so delicate, and the thought of her slipping away filled him with a quiet, aching resolve.

“I can do this,” he murmured to himself, his voice low and steady.

Ace straightened, his jaw tightening as he made a decision. He would help her cross off every item on that list, including the last one. But not now. (y/n) is battling so much—her illness, her fears, her exhaustion. He wouldn’t rush her or add to her burdens.

No, he would wait. He would be there for her, steady and patient, until the time is right. And when she is ready, he’d make her fall in love—not out of pity or obligation, but because she deserves to experience it. Because she deserves to feel cherished.

With that thought, he closed the notebook gently and placed it back where it had been. He adjusted the blanket around (y/n) once more, his touch soft and careful.

“Goodnight, (y/n),” he whispered, his voice barely audible. Giving her a light kiss on her forehead.

As he turned off the light and left the room, Ace carried her bucket list in his heart, determined to give her as much of the world as he could in the time she had left.

.

.

The day of (y/n)’s first treatment arrives with a quiet heaviness. Ace drove her to the oncology center early in the morning, the air between them calm but filled with unspoken tension. (y/n) sits in the passenger seat, clutching a small notebook tightly in her lap. Ace glances at her occasionally, his hands gripping the steering wheel, trying to gauge her emotions. She look pasle, even more than usual, but there is a flicker of willingness in her eyes that he couldn’t help but admire.

When they arrived, the sterile smell of the hospital hit them as they walked in. (y/n) hesitated for a moment, staring at the clinical walls and the rows of seats in the waiting area. Ace gently placed a hand on her back, guiding her forward. “One step at a time, (y/n),” he said softly.

The treatment process began with chemotherapy. (y/n) is led to a reclining chair in a quiet treatment room, where nurses greeted them warmly and explained the steps. A port in her chest is used to administer the drugs directly into her bloodstream, ensuring the medication could begin attacking the cancer cells as efficiently as possible. Ace staying by her side the entire time, sitting in a chair next to hers.

At first, the treatment seemed uneventful. (y/n)’s IV drip clicked softly, the medication flowing steadily. She even managed a small smile as Ace cracked a few light-hearted jokes to distract her. But as the hours passed, the toll began to show.

Her body feels heavy, her head clouded with an almost unbearable fatigue. Nausea crept in slowly, gnawing at her stomach until she has to clutch the arm of the chair for stability. Her skin turned clammy, and a cold sweat broke out on her forehead.

Ace noticed immediately. “(y/n),” he said softly, leaning closer. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” she whispers, but her voice is weak.

“You don’t have to pretend,” Ace said, his tone gentle but firm. He reached for a cool cloth the nurses had provided earlier and pressed it lightly against her forehead.

(y/n) leaning into his touch slightly, closing her eyes. “It’s... harder than I thought,” she admitted, her voice trembling.

“I know,” Ace said, his voice steady. “But you’re doing it. You’re fighting, and that’s what matters. I’m proud of you.”

She opens her eyes, meeting his gaze. There is a warmth there, a quiet encouragement that made her wants to keep going despite the fear and discomfort.

The treatment session lasted several hours. By the end, (y/n) is utterly drained. Ace helped her into a wheelchair, his hands gentle but strong as he guided her toward the car. She tried to protest, but he shook his head. “Save your energy, (y/n),” he said softly.

The ride home is quiet. (y/n) leaned her head against the window, her body too weak to do much else. Ace stole glances at her, his chest tightening at how small and frail she looked.

When they reaches her apartment, Ace helps her inside and onto the couch. He covered her with a blanket, then disappeared into the kitchen to make her some tea.

(y/n) staring at the ceiling, tears welling up in her eyes. She had known this would be hard, but the reality is harsher than she’d imagined. Her body feels like it isn’t her own anymore, every muscle and bone aching, her energy completely sapped.

Ace returned a few moments later, placing the cup of tea on the table. He crouched beside her, his expression soft but serious. “(y/n),” he said, his voice low, “you’re allowed to feel scared. Or tired. Or whatever you’re feeling right now. But I need you to know you’re not doing this alone. I’m here, okay? Every single step of the way.”

Her lips trembling, but she nodded, her eyes locking onto his. “I’m scared, Ace,” she admitted, her voice breaking. “What if I can’t do this? What if it’s too much?”

Ace reached out, taking her hand gently in his. “You can do this,” he said firmly, brushing the back of his hand with thumbs gently. “You’re stronger than you think. And when it feels like too much, lean on me. That’s what I’m here for.”

His words settled over her like a blanket, warm and comforting. Despite the exhaustion weighing her down, a small flicker of hope lit within her. She gives his hand a weak squeeze, the corner of her lips lifting into the faintest smile.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Ace smiled back. “Anytime, (y/n).”

For the first time that day, she felt like she isn’t just surviving—she is fighting, and she isn’t fighting alone.

.

.

The morning sun is gentle, casting a soft golden hue over the horizon as Ace helped (y/n) into his truck. She is bundled in a light scarf and cardigan, her frailty evident in the way she leaned slightly against him for support. Despite her weakness, her face is alight with a quiet anticipation.

“You ready for this?” Ace asked, his voice warm as he closed her door.

(y/n) gave him a small smile, the kind that reached her tired eyes. “I’ve always wanted to see it,” she said softly.

The drive is peaceful, the rolling countryside stretching out in all directions. Ace kept glancing at (y/n), noticing how she staring out the window, her expression a mixture of wonder and calm. It isn’t until they crested a hill and the endless sea of sunflowers came into view that her breath audibly caught.

“Oh…” (y/n) whispered, her eyes widening as the vast field unfolded before them. The golden blooms swayed gently in the breeze, their faces turned toward the sun like a congregation worshiping light.

Ace pulled the truck into a small dirt lot and turned off the engine. “Well,” he said, grinning, “here’s your sunflower field.”

(y/n) hesitated for a moment before stepping out of the truck, her legs shaky but steady enough. Ace is at her side instantly, offering his arm for support. She takes it without a word, her eyes fixed on the sunflowers.

As they walked into the field, (y/n)’s joy became almost palpable. Her fingers brushed the petals of the flowers nearest to her, her face glowing with an expression of pure contentment. “They’re so much taller than I imagined,” she said, her voice filled with quiet awe.

Ace watching her, his heart swelling. He had seen her smile before, but never like this—never so freely, without the weight of her illness pulling her down. The way the sunlight caught her hair and lit up her face made her look almost ethereal.

“They’re beautiful,” (y/n) said, turning to Ace. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

Ace smiled, scratching the back of his head. “Hey, it’s your bucket list. I’m just the chauffeur.”

(y/n) laughed softly, the sound carrying through the field. “Well, you’re a pretty good chauffeur,” she teased, her eyes twinkling.

They continue walking, the flowers brushing against their arms as they moved deeper into the field. (y/n) stopped occasionally to marvel at a particularly vibrant bloom or to close her eyes and feel the breeze on her face.

Ace couldn’t help but feel a pang of emotion as he watches her. There is something profoundly bittersweet about this moment—her happiness, so genuine and pure, contrasted with the knowledge of how fleeting it might be. He realized then how much he cares for her, how much he wants to protect her and give her as many of these moments as he could.

As they reached a small clearing, (y/n) suddenly paused and looked up at him. “Ace,” she said, her voice soft. “You’re really something, you know that? Not many people would do all this.”

Ace feels his cheeks heat up slightly, but he shrugged it off. “It’s nothing, (y/n). You deserve this.”

(y/n)’s smile faltered for a moment, her eyes glistening as if she were holding back tears. She reached out, her hand lightly brushing his arm. “Thank you,” she said again, her voice trembling slightly.

Ace swallowed hard, the lump in his throat making it difficult to respond. Instead, he placed his hand over hers, squeezing gently. “Anytime,” he said, his voice low.

“Come stand here, I’ll take your picture between the sunflowers,” Ace said while positioning his phone. Ace smiling widely showing the picture to her.

“Nice, isn’t it,” he said proudly. She giggles them nodded.

They standing there for a while, the sunflowers swaying around them, the breeze carrying the scent of earth and warmth. (y/n) tilted her head back, letting the sun kiss her face. For a brief moment, it is as if her illness doesntn’t exist, as if time had stops just for them.

Ace knew then, without a doubt, that she is becoming someone precious to him. He doesn’t care how long they had—he would give her everything he could, for as long as she’d let him.

.

.

The second treatment is just as grueling as the first, if not more so. (y/n) sits through the hours of nausea, exhaustion, and the heavy fog that the chemotherapy brought. Her body seemed to grow weaker with each session, and every fiber of her being feels like it is fighting just to stay upright. Ace stayed by her side, steady as always, offering quiet words of encouragement and wiping the sweat from her brow when she couldn’t lift her arm.

By the afternoon, (y/n) is drained, her face pale and her body fragile as a brittle leaf. Yet, when Ace suggested a drive to watch the sunset over the ocean, she agreed without hesitation. He helps her into his truck, bundling her in a soft blanket he’d brought along, and drove with the windows down, letting the salty ocean breeze fill the cab.

The sun hung low in the sky as they arrived at the cliffs overlooking the water. Ace parked, then walks around to her side of the truck, offering his hand to help her out. (y/n) took it, her fingers trembling but her grip firm. Together, they made their way to a grassy patch that overlooked the sea, where the waves crashed against the rocks below, the sound rhythmic and soothing.

The horizon is painted in hues of gold, orange, pink, and deep purple, the sun casting its warm glow across the water, making it shimmer like molten gold. (y/n) stands silently for a moment, her blanket draped around her shoulders, her eyes wide with wonder.

“It’s breathtaking,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ace, standing slightly behind her, couldn’t take his eyes off her. “Yeah,” he said softly, though he isn’t looking at the sunset. “It really is.”

(y/n) turned to him, catching the way his gaze lingered on her. “You’re not even looking at the view,” she teased, though her cheeks flushed slightly.

Ace grinned, his boyish charm lighting up his face. “I am looking at the view,” he said, his voice warm and sincere.

(y/n)’s breath hitched slightly, her heart fluttering in a way that is both unfamiliar and exhilarating. She opened her mouth to respond, but Ace stepped closer, his expression shifting to something more serious.

“(y/n),” he began, his voice low and steady. “I need to tell you something.”

She looked up at him, her pulse quickening. “What is it?”

Ace took a deep breath, as if summoning all his courage. “I know this might sound crazy. And I know things aren’t... easy for you right now. The truth is… I’ve been falling for you, (y/n). For your strength, your kindness, the way you manage to smile even when the world tries to break you. The way you make everything feel a little lighter, even when things are at their heaviest. You are incredible. And I’d be a fool to keep this to myself any longer. So, there it is. My heart—right in front of you. Do with it what you will, but just know... I mean every word.”

(y/n)’s eyes widened, her heart racing. “Ace…”

He held her gaze, his expression earnest. “I don’t care about timelines or how tough things are going to get. I just know I want to be by your side for as long as you’ll let me. I love you, (y/n).”

For a moment, the world seemed to stop. The ocean roared in the background, the sun dipping lower and casting them both in golden light. (y/n) feels a swell of emotions—happiness, sadness, disbelief, and something else she couldn’t quite name.

Tears welled in her eyes, but she smiled, her lips trembling. “I… I don’t even know what to say,” she admitted, her voice breaking.

“You don’t have to say anything,” Ace said gently. “I just need you to know.”

But (y/n) shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips even as tears fell. “No, Ace. I want to say it. I’m just... overwhelmed. I never thought anyone would—” She stopped, taking a shaky breath. “I love you too.”

Ace’s eyes lit up, and before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing away a stray tear, and he leaned in. Their lips met, soft and warm, the kiss filled with a tenderness that made (y/n)’s knees weak.

When they pulled apart, (y/n) looked up at him, her cheeks flushed. “This doesn’t feel real,” she whispered.

Ace chuckled, his hands resting on her cheek and waist. “Well, I’m pretty sure I’m the luckiest neighbor alive right now.”

(y/n) laughed, a sound that carried through the salty air and settled in Ace’s heart like a balm. For the first time in what felt like forever, she feels truly alive, as if the weight of her illness had lifted, even if only for a moment.

As they sat there, with (y/n)’s head on his shoulder and his hand on her waist, the sun finally dipped below the horizon, casting the world into twilight. But neither of them noticed. They had created their own light—a warmth and connection that would carry them through whatever came next.

.

.

(y/n) knows she needs to set things on her study, there she is, stands in front of Professor Nico Robin's office door, hesitating for a moment before she knocked. The sound echoed in the quiet hallway, and a calm, familiar voice responded from within.

“Come in.”

Taking a deep breath, (y/n) stepped inside, clutching her bag nervously. The office is just as she remembered it—cozy, lined with bookshelves overflowing with volumes on history and art, with a small potted plant flourishing on the desk. Robin sits behind her desk, her serene demeanor immediately putting (y/n) at ease, though the conversation she is about to have filled her with dread.

“(y/n),” Robin greeted warmly, standing to greet her. “It’s good to see you.”

(y/n) offered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Robin’s perceptive gaze lingered on (y/n) for a moment, taking in her thinner frame and the fatigue in her eyes. “You look tired,” Robin said gently, motioning for her to sit.

(y/n) hesitated before nodding, sinking into the chair across from Robin. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, her knuckles white. “Professor, I need to talk to you about something… important.”

Robin’s expression softened, her hands folding on the desk in front of her. “Of course, (y/n). What’s on your mind?”

(y/n) swallowed hard, the words feeling heavy as she forced them out. “I… I’ve been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer.” Her voice trembling, and she avoided Robin’s gaze, staring instead at her hands. “The doctors gave me a year or so with treatment. Without it… much less.”

There is a long pause. The room seemed to hold its breath as (y/n) braced herself for Robin’s reaction.

When Robin finally spoke, her voice is steady but tinged with sadness. “(y/n)…” She leaned forward, her eyes filled with genuine concern. “I’m so sorry to hear this.”

(y/n) nodded, blinking back tears. “I’ve been trying to keep up with everything, but I don’t think I can. I’m here to ask for a leave of absence, no, maybe dropping out.”

Robin doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. Your health is the priority, (y/n).”

(y/n)’s shoulders sagged in relief, the tension she’d been carrying easing just slightly. “Thank you, Professor. I don’t want to let anyone down, but I just… I can’t handle it all right now.”

Robin’s gaze is unwavering, filled with a quiet sympathy. “You’ve already accomplished so much, (y/n). You’re one of the brightest students I’ve had the pleasure of teaching. The university will support you in any way we can.”

(y/n) managed a faint smile, her gratitude evident. “That means a lot. Thank you.”

The conversation turned to practical matters—paperwork, deadlines, things that (y/n) hasn’t finished—but Robin never lost her compassionate tone. Once everything is settled, she stands and offered, “Let me walk you to the parking lot.”

(y/n) agreed, and they made their way out of the building. The afternoon sun cast long shadows on the pavement as they approached the lot. (y/n) spotted Ace leaning casually against his truck, his arms crossed, scanning the crowd for her. When his eyes found her, his face lit up, and he straightened.

Robin noticed him immediately. “Who is it?”

(y/n) nodded, a hint of color rising to her cheeks. “He is Ace, my boyfriend,” she said softly, the word feeling new but comforting.

As they reached him, Ace stepped forward, his smile widening. “Hey, (y/n).” His eyes darted briefly to Robin before he extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Ace. (y/n)’s lucky neighbor and, uh… boyfriend.”

Robin takes his hand, her grip firm but friendly. “Professor Nico Robin. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ace.” She turned to (y/n), her gaze warm. “You’ve got good taste.”

Ace chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Well, I think I’m the lucky one.”

Robin’s expression grew more serious. “Ace, I hope you’ll continue to support (y/n) through this. It won’t be easy, but she’ll need someone by her side.”

Without missing a beat, Ace nodded. “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be with her through all of it.”

Robin studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes searching his face for any sign of hesitation. Finding none, she smiled. “I believe you. Take care of her.”

“I will,” Ace promised, his voice steady.

(y/n) watched the exchange, her chest tightening—not with sadness, but with gratitude. She couldn’t have asked for better people in her corner.

After saying their goodbyes, (y/n) and Ace climbed into the truck. The atmosphere is quiet but filled with unspoken resolve as they headed to the hospital for her next treatment. Ace reached over, gently taking (y/n)’s hand in his.

“You okay?” he asked, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.

(y/n) nodded, leaning her head against the window. “I’m okay… because you’re here.”

Ace smiled softly, squeezing her hand and brought it to his lips. “Always.”

.

(y/n)’s body grew weaker with each passing day, despite the treatments. The toll is evident in every facet of her being—her once lively and expressive eyes now carried a constant weariness, shadowed by exhaustion. Her skin, once warm with a healthy glow, had turned pale and translucent, as though the life is slowly draining out of her. The treatments were supposed to help, but they came with their own set of challenges, each session leaving her more fragile than the last.

The chemotherapy left her feeling nauseous and riddled with fatigue, making even simple tasks feel monumental. Her appetite has dwindled to almost nothing; meals that once brought her joy now felt like a chore she has to endure. Ace noticed how she picked at her food during dinner, forcing down a few bites just to satisfy his concerned gaze.

Her weight loss is drastic and unmissable. Her clothes hung loosely on her frame, and her once-strong legs often trembling under her own weight. Sometimes, Ace would quietly steady her as they walk, his hand hovering near her arm, ready to catch her if she faltered and even stands by on her waist.

The coughing fits became more frequent, more violent. Ace would rush to her side each time, holding her trembling shoulders as she gasped for air, her face pale and drenched in sweat. On one particularly bad evening, she coughs so hard that she nearly passed out, blood staining the tissue she pressed to her lips. Ace has to fight the rising panic in his chest, hiding it behind steady hands and calm words of reassurance, though inside, he feels helpless.

Even her mind, once sharp and quick, now seemed clouded by the constant pain and fatigue. She sometimes struggled to find the right words, her sentences trailing off as she tried to focus. It frustrated her, and there are moments when she would look at Ace with tears brimming in her eyes, overwhelmed by her own limitations. And Ace would always patiently waiting for her finished her sentences.

Through it all, (y/n) tried to maintain her resolve, clinging to the little sparks of joy that Ace brings into her days. He becomes her lifeline, always there with a warm smile or a gentle word of encouragement. He takes over tasks she could no longer manage, cooking her meals, cleaning her apartment, even sitting by her side during her treatments, his hand never leaving hers.

But Ace isn’t blind to her struggle. He could see the pain she tries to hide, the exhaustion she tries to mask with a forced smile. It broke his heart to see her this way, yet his admiration for her only grows. Despite everything, (y/n) still found ways to laugh, to find beauty in the small moments—like the way the light streamed through her window in the late afternoon, or the soft purring of the stray cat that often visited her porch.

One evening, after helping her into bed, Ace sits by her side, watching her drift off to sleep. Her breathing is shallow, and her fragile frame seemed so small beneath the blankets. His chest ached with a mix of helplessness and determination.

“You’re still the strongest person I know,” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

(y/n) stirred slightly, her lips curling into a faint smile, even in her sleep. It is moments like this that kept Ace going, fueling his resolve to be there for her, no matter how difficult things becomes. Even as her body grows weaker, (y/n)’s spirit endured, and Ace made it his mission to be her anchor.

.

.

(y/n) sits in the doctor’s office, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the tremble in her fingers betraying her otherwise calm demeanor. The doctor sits across from her, her expression sympathetic but professional as she goes over (y/n)’s latest test results. She takes a glance on the doctor’s name, Dr. Kureha.

“The cancer has progressed,” the doctor said softly, looking at (y/n) with a mixture of pity and respect. “The treatments are no longer slowing it down. You have every right to continue, but…” Her voice trailed off, leaving the unspoken words lingering heavily in the air.

(y/n) nodded slowly, her gaze fixed on the floor. She has been expecting this. Every treatment has drained her further, leaving her weaker and more hollow. She isn’t sure how much more her body could take. After a long pause, she looked up, her voice steady but quiet.

“I’ve decided to stop the treatments.”

The doctor blinked, as if she hadn’t heard her correctly, then nodded, her lips pressing into a thin line. “Are you sure, (y/n)? We can continue to provide—”

“I’m sure,” (y/n) interrupted, her tone firmer this time.

“I don’t want to spend what little time I have left hooked up to machines and needles. I just want… peace.” She inhaled deeply, a faint smile crossing her lips as an image formed in her mind. “I want to rest somewhere calm. The beach, maybe. Somewhere I can feel the sun and hear the waves.”

The doctor hesitated but eventually nodded. “We’ll provide palliative care and support for you, (y/n). And if you need anything, please don’t hesitate to reach out.”

(y/n) thanked her quietly, but the hardest part of her decision is yet to come—telling Ace.

.

Ace sat on the couch in her apartment, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching her closely as she explained her decision. At first, he didn’t say anything, his expression blank as her words sank in.

“You’re… stopping the treatment?” he asked finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

(y/n) nodded, her hands twisting nervously in her lap. “Ace, I’m tired. The treatments aren’t working anymore. I just want to spend the time I have left in peace.”

His jaw clenched, and he stood abruptly, pacing the room. “No,” he said firmly. “No, we can’t give up now. There’s got to be something else we can try. Another doctor for second opinion, another treatment…”

“Ace,” (y/n) interrupted gently, standing slowly to face him. “I’m not giving up. I’m choosing how I want to live the rest of my life. I don’t want to spend it in hospitals. I just want to be somewhere I love, with the people I love, with you.”

Her words hit him like a punch to the gut. He turned to her, his eyes blazing with emotion. “And what about me, (y/n)? You think I’m just going to sit here and watch you fade away? I can’t do that. I can’t lose you like this.”

Tears welled up in her eyes, but she stepped closer, placing a trembling hand on his arm. “Ace, you’ve already given me so much more than I ever thought I’d have. But this… this is my choice. Please, understand that.”

Ace’s shoulders slumped, and he looked away, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to fall, but falls anyway. He hated it—hated feeling so powerless. But when he looked at her, so fragile yet so determined, he couldn’t argue anymore. He wrapped his arms around her gently, pulling her close.

“If this is what you really want,” he said quietly, his voice breaking, “then I’ll make it happen. I’ll do whatever you need.”

.

.

Two weeks later, Ace held the keys to a rented beach house, nestled along a quiet stretch of coastline. It is small but beautiful, with large windows that let in the golden sunlight and a deck overlooking the ocean. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore is constant, soothing.

Ace helped (y/n) settle into the house, setting up her favorite books and art supplies by the window where she could sit and sketch the view. Despite her weakened state, there is a brightness in her eyes that he hadn’t seen in weeks, and it gave him a bittersweet sense of relief.

"This place is perfect,” (y/n) murmured one afternoon as they sat together on the deck, her head resting on Ace’s shoulder. The ocean stretched endlessly before them, the horizon glowing with the warm hues of the setting sun. “Thank you, Ace.”

Ace pressed a kiss to the top of her head, his heart heavy but full of love, his arm bringing her closer by the thin waist. “Anything for you, (y/n). Always.”

From that moment on, the beach became their sanctuary. (y/n) spent her days sketching the ocean, reading, and simply enjoying the gentle rhythm of the waves. Ace stays by her side every step of the way, cooking meals, carrying her when she is too weak to walk, and holding her hand as they watched the sun dip below the horizon each evening.

Even as her body grows frailer, (y/n)’s spirit remained unbroken, her joy in the simple beauty of the world keeping them both grounded. And for Ace, every smile, every moment with her became a treasure—proof of the love they had shared, even in the face of inevitable loss.

.

.

The beach house, once serene and quiet, becomes alive with laughter and energy one bright afternoon when Ace’s friends from the firehouse decided to visit (y/n). Marco led the charge, bringing a cooler full of drinks and enough snacks to feed an army. Thatch came along too, insisting on manning the grill, while Izou arrived with a bouquet of wildflowers for (y/n), adding a touch of color to her living space.

(y/n), though physically frail, couldn’t help but smile at the lively group invading her temporary sanctuary. She sits on the deck in her usual spot, bundled in a soft blanket, watching them bicker playfully as they set up an impromptu barbecue. Ace is in his element, laughing and joking with his friends while keeping an ever-watchful eye on (y/n).

At one point, Marco kneels by her chair, his expression kind. “So, (y/n), how’s Ace treating you? He’s been singing your praises nonstop.”

(y/n) chuckles softly, her voice still delicate. “He’s been wonderful. A little overprotective sometimes, but I think that’s just part of who he is.” She glanced at Ace, who is flipping burgers on the grill, a faint blush dusting his cheeks at her words.

The afternoon is full of stories, jokes, and warmth. For a few hours, the heavy shadow of (y/n)’s illness seemed to lift, replaced by the light of camaraderie and love.

A few days later, Professor Robin pays a visit to the beach house. (y/n) greeted her warmly, though her energy is noticeably lower. Robin brought a small bag of books and art supplies, gifts she knew would bring (y/n) comfort.

“How are you feeling?” Robin asks gently as they sat together on the deck, sipping tea.

(y/n) hesitated, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “Tired,” she admitted softly. “But it’s a peaceful kind of tired. Being here has made it easier.”

Robin reaches out and squeezed her hand. “I’m glad you’ve found some peace, (y/n). You deserve that.”

When Ace returned from a short grocery run, Robin meets him with her usual composed demeanor. “So, the ever loving boyfriend just come back from shopping,” she said, a teasing smile on her lips.

Ace laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “That’s me. I’m doing my best to keep her comfortable.”

Robin studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes softened by understanding. “Keep doing that,” she said. “She trusts you, and that says a lot.”

Ace nodded solemnly, the weight of her words settling heavily on his shoulders.

.

.

One peaceful evening, the two of them sits on the deck, the moon casting a silver glow over the ocean. (y/n) has been quiet all night, her thoughts clearly elsewhere. She holds a small stack of envelopes in her lap, her fingers running gently over the names written on each one.

Ace watching her curiously, breaking the silence after a while. “Who are those for?” he asked gently, tilting his head.

(y/n) looked up, her expression serene but tinged with sadness. She smiled faintly, holding the letters close to her chest. “They’re for everyone who’s been important to me,” she said softly. “My friends, my mentor… you.”

Ace’s heart skipped a beat at her last word. “Me?”

(y/n) nodded, her gaze meeting his. “There’s one for you too,” she said, her voice steady but quiet. “But I need you to promise me something, Ace.”

"Anything,” he replied immediately.

She hesitated, her smile bittersweet. “Don’t open it until I’m gone.”

Ace’s throat tightened, and he had to swallow hard before speaking. “(y/n)… don’t talk like that.”

“It’s the truth,” she said simply, her voice full of acceptance. “I’m not afraid anymore, Ace. I just want to make sure everyone knows how much they mean to me.”

Ace reached out, covering her hand with his own. “You don’t need a letter for that, (y/n). We already know.”

Her eyes glistened, but she doesn’t cry. She simply leaned into his touch, her smile soft. “Maybe. But it’s important to me that you have something to hold on to.”

The night stretched on, quiet and still, the sound of the waves a gentle backdrop to their conversation. Ace stays by her side, holding her hand as they gazed out at the ocean, his mind racing with thoughts he isn’t ready to face.

.

.

The early days of spring are gentle, the air crisp and filled with the faint scent of blooming flowers. But for (y/n), the season’s beauty is something she could only catch glimpses of through the bedroom window. Her once-active body now felt like a cage, too weak to even carry her to the kitchen. The effort it took to sit up even left her breathless, and Ace has to support her at every turn—lifting her, helping her drink water, even brushing her hair when her arms trembling too much to hold the comb.

The nosebleeds are frequent now, staining the tissues Ace always kept nearby. The bloody coughs wracked her fragile frame, leaving her gasping for air. Each time it happens, Ace is by her side, holding her hand, whispering soothing words that only barely masked the heartbreak in his voice.

He always tries to smile for her, to be the steady foundation she could lean on. When (y/n) apologized—because she always does, her voice faint and apologetic, saying she hated being a burden—Ace would brush off her words, insisting she isn’t a burden, that he wanted to be there for her.

But even Ace, as strong and brave as he is, had his breaking points.

When (y/n) finally fell asleep in the early afternoon, her breaths shallow but peaceful, Ace would quietly slip out of the house. He’d make excuses to himself: I’ll grab groceries. I need fresh air. I’ll get her more tissues. Anything to give himself a moment to break.

In the parking lot of the local grocery store, far from the fragile serenity of the beach house, Ace would sit in his truck and let the emotions he buried come flooding out. He’d grip the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, tears streaming down his face.

“Why?!” he’d scream into the empty car, his voice raw and shaking. “Why does it have to be her?! What did she ever do to deserve this?!”

Sometimes, the frustration would bubble over, and he’d slam his fist into the steering wheel, the pain a bitter but grounding reminder that he is still alive, still breathing—while (y/n) is slipping away bit by bit.

He hates the helplessness. He hates that no matter how much he wants to save her, no matter how much love he pours into her care, it isn’t enough to stop the inevitable.

“She deserves better than this!” he cries one day, his voice cracking.

But no answer came, just the echo of his own voice and the silent, indifferent breeze outside the truck.

After a while, he’d wipe his face with the back of his hand, forcing himself to pull it together. (y/n) couldn’t see him like this. She doesn’t need to know how much it is tearing him apart—how he feels like he is crumbling under the weight of his love for her and the impending loss he couldn’t escape.

By the time he returns to the house, he is composed again. He’d walk in with a soft smile, a bag of groceries in one hand, and a gentle “Hello, (y/n)” on his lips. She’d smile faintly back at him, her face pale but her eyes still full of warmth.

“What did you get?” she’d ask softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ace would kneel beside her bed, holding up a carton of her favorite juice or a box of tissues, pretending like everything is normal. “Just the essentials, and your favorites,” he’d reply.

But at night, when she finally drifted to sleep again, Ace would sits by her bedside, holding her frail hand in his strong one. His thumb would trace small circles over her knuckles, kissing it over and over, his silent promise to stay by her side no matter how much it hurt.

Even though he feels like the world is falling apart, he reminded himself that she is still here, still with him, and he’d do everything he could to make her remaining days as beautiful and full of love as possible.

.

.

The morning is crisp, the air tinged with the faint sweetness of blooming flowers. Sunlight poured through the open window of the beach house, casting golden streaks on the walls. (y/n) lay on the bed, her frail body surrounded by the softest blankets Ace could find. Her breaths are slow, labored, but there is a calmness in her eyes that hadn’t been there in weeks.

Ace sits beside her, his hand enveloping hers. He hadn’t slept much, the nights spent watching over her, afraid she might slip away if he closed his eyes. But now, as the first day of spring blossomed outside, (y/n) seemed more at peace than he had seen her in a long time.

“Ace,” (y/n) whispers, her voice soft but steady.

He leaned in closer, brushing a strand of her hair away from her face. “I’m here, (y/n),” he murmured, his voice cracking slightly despite his effort to stay strong.

She gives him a small, tired smile. “I think… I think I’m ready now.”

Ace froze, his heart clenching painfully at her words. He opened his mouth to protest, but she squeezed his hand weakly, stopping him.

“When I’m gone,” (y/n) continues, her voice tinged with a bittersweet softness, “I’ll visit you… as a butterfly. A pretty one. So you won’t be alone.” She paused, taking a shaky breath. “But, Ace… I also hope… that one day you’ll forget me.”

“No,” Ace said immediately, his voice firm and filled with emotion, his tears are starts to appear.

(y/n) shook her head, her smile sad but understanding. “You have to. So you can move on. I don’t want you to spend your life grieving for me. I’m sorry, Ace… for being such a bad neighbor.”

Ace’s throat tightened, his jaw clenching as he struggled to hold back the tears threatening to spill. “You aren’t a bad neighbor,” he said, his voice trembling. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me.”

(y/n) chuckled softly, a faint laugh that sounded more like a sigh. “Remember how we used to dine together all the time? Your favorite food is that pasta I made for you that one night… even though I was terrified I’d burn it.”

Ace’s lips twitched into a smile, despite the ache in his chest. “It is the best pasta I’ve ever had,” he said.

(y/n)’s eyes sparkled faintly with the memory. “And mine… mine would be the takeout from your favorite little diner. The one you insisted on bringing to my place after every long day.”

“You always liked the dumplings,” Ace added softly.

She nodded. “Because you’d always eat half of mine. You thought I didn’t notice.”

They both laughed quietly, though Ace’s laugh is mixed with a choked sob. (y/n)’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, but then she opened them again, staring at him with an expression so full of love and gratitude it made his heart ache.

“I’m so lucky, Ace,” she whispered. “To have had you in my life.”

“No,” Ace said, leaning closer to press his forehead against hers. “I’m the lucky one, (y/n). And I’ll never forget you. Not ever.”

Her lips curved into a faint smile, her strength fading but her spirit still shining. “Thank you, Ace… for everything.”

As the spring breeze carried the scent of blooming flowers into the room, (y/n)’s breathing slowed. He stayed there, holding her hand, tears streaming down his face as the reality of the moment washing over him.

The room is quiet, save for the soft rustling of the spring breeze through the curtains and the faint whisper of (y/n)’s breaths. Ace sits close, his hand cradling hers as though willing his strength into her fragile frame. She had been slipping in and out of sleep all night, her voice barely more than a whisper when she spoke.

As the sunlight dimmed, painting the room in golden hues, (y/n)’s eyes fluttered open one last time. Ace leaning forward, his heart pounding, knowing this moment is the one he had been dreading but couldn’t stop.

She looks at him, her gaze soft and filled with love, though her face is pale and her strength all but gone. “Ace…” she murmured, her voice so faint he had to strain to hear her.

“I’m here,” he said, his voice breaking as he leaned closer, his hand gripping hers like an anchor.

Her lips curved into the faintest smile, a mixture of peace and sorrow playing across her features. “I love you,” she whispered, the words carrying all the weight of her feelings, years of loneliness and fear replaced by the warmth he had given her. “My dearest person in my life.”

Ace’s tears spilled freely now, his strong shoulders shaking as he fought to keep his composure. “I love you too, (y/n),” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “More than anything.”

She exhaled softly, her hand weakly squeezing his one last time. “Goodbye, Ace,” she said, her voice so gentle it felt like the breeze itself had carried her words.

And then, with a final breath, she is gone.

Ace froze, the world around him seeming to stop as the weight of her absence settled over him. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. The emptiness is too vast, too overwhelming.

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to her still hand, his tears soaking into the fabric of the blanket.

The setting sun bathed the room in a gentle glow, the world outside blooming with life even as Ace’s heart shattered into pieces.

Outside, a butterfly flitted past the window, its wings a brilliant blend of colors, dancing gracefully in the gentle wind. And for the first time, despite the overwhelming grief, Ace felt a strange, quiet sense of peace.

"My love. My dearest person in my life,” he whispers hoarsely, his voice breaking.

“Goodbye, (y/n).”

Chapter Text

Months had passed since that early spring morning when (y/n) had taken her final breath, leaving Ace with a hollow ache in his chest that no amount of time could fully heal. The beach house now stood empty, the sound of waves lapping at the shore a bittersweet reminder of the days they had spent there together. Yet, even in her absence, (y/n)'s presence lingered in every corner of Ace’s life—her laughter in the wind, her warmth in the sunlight, her memory in those moments he now held sacred.

After her passing, Ace had returned to the firehouse, throwing himself into his work. His friends, especially Marco, supported him as best as they could, offering him both space and companionship. They never mentioned the butterfly tattoo Ace had inked on his forearm not long after she was gone—a vibrant design with colors that matched the one he had seen the day she left.

One day in late summer, Ace found himself driving out of the city with no clear destination in mind. The air is warm, and the sky is painted in hues of orange and pink with bit light purple, much like the sunsets (y/n) had adored. By chance—or perhaps by something more—he ended up in a sprawling sunflower field.

Stepping out of his truck, Ace wandered into the sea of golden blooms, their bright faces turned toward the setting sun. The sight brought a smile to his face, though his heart ached with longing. This had been one of (y/n)’s favorite places, her laughter ringing out as she marveled at the flowers towering over her.

He stopped in the middle of the field, closing his eyes and letting the breeze wash over him. For a moment, he swore he could hear her voice, light and teasing, calling him her "lucky neighbor". A soft flutter near his shoulder caught his attention, and when he opened his eyes, he sees a butterfly—its wings delicate and vibrant—hovering near him.

Ace chuckled softly, tears gathering in his eyes as he watches it land on the sunflower closest to him. “Hey, (y/n),” he murmured, his voice steady despite the weight of his emotions. “I told you I’d never forget you.”

The butterfly lingered for a moment before taking off again, disappearing into the golden light of the setting sun. Ace stood there for a while longer, the ache in his heart still present but softened by the memories they had shared.

When he finally turned to leave, he didn’t feel as alone as he had before. (y/n)’s bucket list had been checked off, the note of hers is sitting quietly on his desk, but Ace knew she’d given him something far greater than a list of moments—she had taught him how to love, how to cherish, and how to carry someone with him, even after they were gone.

As he started the engine and drove back toward the city, the radio crackled to life, playing a soft, familiar tune. Ace smiled, the wind brushing against his face.

The butterfly reappeared briefly, dancing alongside the truck before disappearing into the horizon. And though the pain of loss and longing remains, Ace knew that in every sunset, every sunflower, and every flutter of wings; she would always be with him.

As Ace drove back from the sunflower field, a thought struck him suddenly—a memory from the weeks after (y/n)’s passing. The letters. (y/n) had entrusted him with them, those letters that had been so important to her, yet he had never brought himself to deliver them. Her words, her final thoughts, scattered like pieces of her heart that she had left behind on those letters.

.

.

He pulled the truck to the side of the road and parked under the shade of a large tree, the weight of those letters in the back seat pressing on his mind. Slowly, he opens the door and retrieves the small stack. They had been tucked carefully into a folder, addressed to people (y/n) had wanted to reach—her colleagues, her family, her friends, and him.

The first stop is Robin. He sees the way the professor had looks at him when he had told her that (y/n) had wanted her to have something. Robin had been a great support to (y/n), and Ace knew she would cherish whatever (y/n) had left for her. He handed her the letter, the gentle touch of Robin’s hand in return making him feel that familiar warmth again—like a connection between them, something solid amidst the grief.

The next stop is Marco and Izou, his firefighter colleagues. Marco has been by Ace’s side throughout it all—distraught but always ready with a comforting word or a shoulder to lean on. He has been there for Ace the night (y/n)’s funeral. Izuo, with his quiet demeanor, had also stood by. Marco takes the letter with a soft thank you, then immediately excused himself to read it privately.

And then there is the hardest one: (y/n)’s father, still locked away in prison. Ace hadn’t wanted to be the one to deliver that letter. He had tried to forget about it for as long as possible, but when he thinks of (y/n)’s wish, he knows it had to be done any other way. She had asked for forgiveness, and Ace would respect her decision. He drove to the prison and handed the letter to the warden, never once meeting the eyes of (y/n)’s father—he didn’t need to, doesn't want to. All that mattered is the three simple words that filled the page:

‘I forgive you. -(y/n)’

Ace felt a lump in his throat as he thinks about the complexities of (y/n)’s life. Despite everything that had happened, she had chosen to give mercy.

Ace held onto the last letter for himself. He had never opened it until now, unsure of what he would find but knowing it is meant for him. He sits in the truck, taking the envelope and carefully opening it, his hands trembling. Inside were few sheets of paper—each one more fragile than the last.

The first sheet is a drawing—(y/n)’s delicate lines and soft shading formed an image of the two of them, standing together in a golden sunset. The memory of that day—the day Ace had confessed his love to her—is immortalized in her art. He could feel the warmth of that moment, her smile captured in every brushstroke, his own heart laid bare in the image.

Now, his eyes traced the words on the pages meant for him. They were written with such care, but the unmistakable tremor in her handwriting revealed how hard it had been for her to write at the end. The letters were a farewell, an expression of love, and a reminder of the strength she had carried within her. He took a deep breath, unfolding the first page carefully, and began to read.

.

.

"Hello, Neighbor."

Ace could almost hear (y/n)’s voice in those words, playful and warm, just like the first time they had greeted each other. It was her way of marking the start of their story, a quiet introduction that would grow into so much more.

The first part of the letter was about her life before meeting him. She wrote about the silence of her days, the heavy solitude she had carried with her since childhood. She had lived her life in the shadows of grief and fear, afraid to open up to anyone, much less a man. The words were heavy but tender, reflecting the pain she had lived through and the walls she had built to protect herself. But then came Ace, her "lucky neighbor." (y/n) wrote about how his kindness, his gentle nature, had slowly worn those walls down. How, despite her fear, he made her feel safe. How meeting him had been like waking up from a long sleep.

"I never thought I could let someone in. But with you, Ace, it felt easy. You made me feel like I could breathe again, like I could finally live after all these years. Thank you for making me feel loved, for making me feel real."

The second page was about her gratitude. It was full of little comments and flourishes, just like (y/n). Her handwriting grew shakier as she continued, but the message was clear: she was thankful for every moment, every laugh, every quiet dinner shared with him. She wrote about how grateful she was for his patience, for not pushing her when she was too scared to open up. It was clear in her words that Ace had been her safe harbor, her anchor in the storm.

"You are the best thing ever to happen to me. I know I was difficult sometimes. But you never gave up. You made me realize that love wasn’t something to fear. I don’t know how I got so lucky to have you in my life, Ace. I hope you know how much I appreciate you. I’m so grateful for you, even now, even in the afterlife."

The third page was where the tremors in her hands became more pronounced, but her love for him still shines through every shaky word. This was the page where she poured her heart out.

"I love you. I’ve loved you for so long now, even before I knew how to say it. Even before I knew I was allowed to feel this way. You’ve shown me what it means to love, Ace. To give yourself completely, without hesitation or fear. I’ve never felt this kind of love before. It’s something I didn’t know I was worthy of, but you showed me that I am. I love you more than I can ever put into words. I love the way you laugh, the way you care for others, the way you always seem to know exactly what to say. I love you for everything you are, everything you’ve done for me. I love you, Ace. Forever."

The fourth and final page was a mix of hope, a bit of playfulness, and a lot of (y/n)’s usual witty charm. It was clear she was trying to lighten the mood, to offer Ace something to hold onto once she was gone. The tremors in her handwriting were almost constant now, but she fought through them to write her final message to him.

"I know I won’t be around forever, but I hope you know that I will always be with you. I’ll be waiting for you on the other side, in some place where we can laugh and dance and share sunsets again. Maybe in another life, I’ll be healthier. I’ll be whole. I’ll be the person you deserve, Ace. And if that happens, I’ll make sure to find you again. Just promise me you’ll live for now, okay? Don’t let me hold you back. Don’t spend your days grieving. Live for both of us, Ace. Live for the love we shared. I’ll always be there, even if it’s just in the air, or the sun, or the stars. I’ll be there."

Ace folded the papers carefully, tucking them back into the envelope. He sat in the truck for a long time, just absorbing everything she had written. Her words were both heartbreaking and beautiful, filled with the kind of love he had never imagined someone could feel for him. She had loved him deeply, and in the end, she had given him everything—her heart, her forgiveness, and her wishes for him to live on, even after she was gone.

Ace wiped his eyes, the tears having fallen without his notice, and with a heavy but full heart, he started the truck.

"I’ll always remember you," he whispered as he looked out at the setting sun, the colors in the sky reminding him of that moment in the sunflower fields, when she had said she would be a butterfly.

And with that, he drives, carrying her love in his heart, ready to live the life she had asked of him.

Ace held the envelope close to his chest, but this time, it wasn’t sadness that flooded him—it is gratitude. Gratitude for the time he had with (y/n), for the love they had shared, and for the lessons she had given him.

As he sits there in the quiet of the truck, the world around him still and calm, he understands. He understands that (y/n) had never been a bad neighbor, never a burden, and never something he had to move on from. She had been his greatest gift, and in her last words, in her art, and in her forgiveness, she had given him everything he needed to move forward.

Ace takes a deep breath, the weight of the letters now settling in his heart as a resolve filled him. He would carry her with him forever—like a butterfly, soaring on the wind, always free.

And with that, Ace finally drives away from the sunflower field, his heart a little lighter, ready to live with the memory of the woman who had forever changed his life.

He engraved every sentence from the letter, reminiscing their habit and imagining (y/n) smiling, saying,

“Goodbye, Ace.“