#coutdown

It had been a good day. No, it had been a normal day. And that, somehow, made it even better. Mark had the day off and the three of you spent it doing things that felt almost like before. Before the hospital visits, before the headaches, before time became something measured in pain and progress and things unspoken.

You pushed Ally’s stroller through the park while Mark walked beside you, one hand on the handlebar even though you didn’t need help, the other holding a melting vanilla cone that Ally kept eyeing like she was scheming her first taste of sugar.

“She’s planning something”, he whispered, pointing at her suspiciously squinted eyes.

“She’s two months old, Mark”.

“Exactly. Prime criminal mind development stage”.

You laughed, really laughed, and it felt good. Easy.

That night, after her bath and her bottle, he made her sleep, the kind of soft, slow routine he’d grown into like second skin. Rocking. Humming something under his breath that you didn’t recognize but was probably a half-remembered melody from his childhood. Then the quiet shuffle of feet as he placed her in the bassinet in the living room, her arms spread in that starfish way newborns always seem to land.

You watched him from the couch with your heart full in a way that both healed and ached.

Then he turned to you with the baby monitor in one hand. And with his free one, he held it out to you.

You blinked, confused. “What?”.

He didn’t answer right away, just tilted his head slightly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. There was something familiar in his eyes, something playful, something… him.

“You’re cleared, aren’t you?”, he said.

The words hit you like a spark. His tone wasn’t heavy or desperate. It was nearly teasing. That low, slightly cocky charm you hadn’t heard in weeks. Before everything got too heavy to carry and desire started feeling like a luxury you no longer had room for. You blinked again, heart skipping, lips parting. “Mark—”.

He stepped closer and added with a little grin, “I read the paper on the fridge. Eight-week checkup. Doc said your body’s good to go. And I’ve been trying really hard to be respectful…”..

You narrowed your eyes, smirking now, voice soft. “Respectful?”.

He shrugged, still holding out his hand. “But, respectfully, I’ve missed my wife”.

The word wife hit somewhere low in your belly. And suddenly, the exhaustion in your muscles didn’t matter. The stretch marks. The soft healing skin. The weeks of fear and guilt and distance. Because he was standing there, looking at you like you were still everything. Still his. Still wanted. Still you.

You reached for his hand, sliding your fingers into his, and he pulled you up gently. “I missed you too”, you whispered.

“Good”, he whispered warm against your ear.

And then, without warning, his hand slid down, his palm catching your ass in a firm, unapologetic squeeze that made you gasp and swat at him instinctively. “Mark!”.

But he just grinned that lopsided, boyish smirk you hadn’t seen in months. The one that used to drive you crazy in every hallway kiss, every stolen touch in the kitchen, every late-night laugh under shared sheets before the world got so heavy.

“Then get your sweet little ass in the bedroom”, he murmured, his mouth brushing just under your jaw, “before Ally wakes up and starts making demands again”.

You stared at him, stunned for a second. Not because of the words, but because of the man behind them. That cocky glint in his eye. The teasing lilt in his voice. The him you fell in love with. Even if it was just for tonight. Even if the pain returned tomorrow. Even if the world slipped sideways again after the next MRI or the next long shift. Right now — right here — Mark was himself. And you were you.

Laughing softly, you tugged on his hand and pulled him down the hallway with you. “Hurry”, you said over your shoulder.

Mark chuckled under his breath."Yes, ma’am”.

In the bedroom, your clothes came off too fast, way too fast. You both knew the window was small. The baby monitor on the nightstand was like a ticking clock, a reminder that any minute, your daughter could stir and end the moment before it ever really began.

Mark’s hands were rough, familiar and greedy in the way only someone who had waited could be. He kissed you like he’d been starving. Months of pressure, pain, fear, all of it burning off between your mouths.

When you reached for him, breathless and flushed, murmuring, “Let me be on top. You should rest—just let me”, he stilled for half a beat.

And then he huffed a soft, dark laugh, the kind that meant trouble. “Sweetheart”, he said, leaning close, lips brushing your ear as he pushed you gently back onto the mattress, “if you think I’m gonna lie back and let you do all the work the first time I get my hands on you again, you really have forgotten who married you”.

You opened your mouth to argue, but then he added, with a low, teasing growl: “Besides… you make better sounds when I’m on top”. Your breath hitched and heat rushed through you.

He settled between your legs, his shoulders bracketed yours, his lips grazing down your neck, over your collarbone.

You watched him roll on the condom with practiced ease, his jaw set, brows slightly drawn, like even now he was trying not to let you see how much he missed this. How much he needed you. But you could feel the tension in his body, the way his muscles tightened under your hands, how his jaw locked for just a second.

It had been nearly six months. Six long, exhausting, aching months. And you could see it, the effort it took for him to not rush, to not lose himself too fast.

You grinned up at him, smug and breathless, brushing your fingertips across the back of his neck. “You look like you’re doing math”, you teased. “Trying not to embarrass yourself?”.

His eyes narrowed just slightly, and the corner of his mouth curved into something dangerous. “Oh, sweetheart”, he said. “If you think I’m the one who’s going to break first…”. He eased in a little, just enough to make your breath catch.

“Mark—”, you gasped, already losing the thread of your comeback.

He smirked. “Thought so”.

And then he pressed forward, slow, deliberate, all the way, and every teasing thought you had vanished in a white-hot rush. Your back arched instinctively. A moan broke from your throat, louder than you meant it to, and way too honest.

Mark paused, just barely, his smirk deepening as he looked down at you, pleased in the most insufferable way. “There she is”, he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “Fuuck, I missed that sound”.

You wrapped your legs around him without thinking, your fingers gripping his shoulders like maybe you could anchor yourself there. And then he started to move. Slow at first, steady and deep, like he had all the time in the world even though you both knew you didn’t.

“You’re holding back”, you whispered against his jaw, voice already breathless.

“You’re already falling apart, and you think I’m holding back?”.

You shot him a glare that didn’t land, not with your head tilted back, your body arching into his. “I’m not falling apart”, you muttered, even though your nails were already digging into his back.

“Oh no?”, he murmured, pace just slightly deeper now, his lips brushing over your throat. “Then what’s with the little noise you just made, huh?”.

You bit your lip, because yeah, he definitely heard it. That sound you couldn’t help when he hit just the right spot. You shoved lightly at his shoulder. “God, I forgot how smug you get”.

He grinned, looking absolutely unrepentant. “You forgot? That’s rude. Especially when I’m the one doing all the work here”.

You huffed out a laugh that cracked halfway into a moan when he moved just right again, perfectly timed. His body was still familiar, even after all this time. Like it remembered you, even when his mind had been buried under pain and pressure. “Okay, okay”, you gasped. “You win”.

Mark leaned down, breath hot at your ear. “I always do”.

“Because I let you—”.

He rolled his hips again, and you broke off, the end of your sentence dissolving into a sharp gasp that made his grin stretch even wider. “Just like that baby”, he whispered, kissing the corner of your mouth. “That’s what I’ve been missing”.

Your back arched more. Every inch of him felt like home and yet still overwhelming after so long apart. “Mark”, you whispered, voice catching in your throat. “Don’t stop”.

“Wasn’t planning on it”, he murmured, his voice low and rough, but full of something that hadn’t been there for months, ease. “Not when I’ve got you like this”.

He moved again, deeper now, like he wanted you to feel it, all of it. Like he wanted to burn this into memory, in case the next flare of pain or exhaustion stole it away again. And maybe you did too.

You closed your eyes, breath shaky, clinging to the rhythm he gave you. Your legs tightened around his waist, your whole body rising to meet him with every movement. “Mark—”, you gasped.

He leaned in, kissing the corner of your mouth, his lips brushing gently along your cheek. “Say it again”, he whispered. “My name. The way you used to”. And then, softer, almost like it hurt: “The way you haven’t in weeks”.

Your chest ached with love. With guilt. With everything. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pressing your forehead against his. “Mark”.

He moved again and your body responded with a tremble you couldn’t hide.

“Yeah”, he breathed, eyes falling closed. “That’s it”.

You kissed him then, slow and deep, and he kissed you back like he needed it, not just the heat, but the closeness. The reminder that he was still wanted, still yours… still himself.

After a few perfect, dizzy minutes of having you the way he used to, he felt that slow, blooming ache behind his right eye. It started small, like a dull pressure at his temple. Then it pulsed, once, sharp.

But he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. Because nothing was stealing this from him. Not tonight. Not when he had you wrapped around him, gasping his name like it still meant safety. Not when your eyes were locked on his like you were seeing him again, really seeing him, not the pain, not the diagnosis, not the man with too many pills on the nightstand. Just Mark. Just yours.

He gritted his teeth, kept moving, a little slower now, letting the rhythm carry him. He didn’t want to scare you. Didn’t want you to notice the way his breath stuttered or the tiny tremble in his forearm where he held himself above you.

You did notice, though. Your eyes flicked up to his, concern peeking through the haze of want. “Babe?”, you whispered, hand sliding to the back of his neck. “Hey… you okay?”.

His lips brushed over yours, a little too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—fine”.

He wasn’t lying. Not really. Because in this moment, pain or not, he was okay. More than okay.

You looked up at him, flushed and breathless, and you knew. Maybe not the full scale of the pain yet, but enough to understand that it had started. That flicker in his eyes, that half-second stall in his rhythm, the slight unevenness in his breathing. It was there. But you didn’t press. You didn’t “mommy” him, like he used to tease when you hovered too close. Not now. Not here. Because sex was his thing. The one place where his strength wasn’t questioned, where his body still obeyed him, where he was just Mark, not a man unraveling. Just your husband. Your partner. Your equal.

So you nodded gently, still holding onto him and whispered, “Okay”.

But he felt the shift in you. How your body, only seconds ago straining toward that edge, pulsing tight around him, had stilled. Not completely. But enough. Enough for him to feel the change. His brow furrowed. “You stopped”.

You hesitated. “I—”, you started, but his hips had already stilled, his eyes searching yours in the dark.

“Baby…”, he said softly, not frustrated… ashamed. “You were right there”.

“Mark—”.

His voice dropped. “I made you worry. Again”.

You touched his cheek, guiding his gaze back to yours. “You didn’t make me do anything”.

“But you stopped”, he said again, more to himself this time. “You felt me slipping, and you—”.

“I didn’t stop wanting you”, you cut in firm but gentle. “I just felt you. That’s different”.

He swallowed hard and for a moment, you could see it all trying to crash in on him again. You saw it building in his face, the shame. That creeping voice in his head that told him he wasn’t enough anymore. That he was slipping. That he couldn’t even love you properly without something getting in the way.

And you knew, God, you knew, if you didn’t cut it off right there, it would crush the last little piece of him he was trying so hard to hold onto. So you did what you always did with Mark: you reached him.

You tilted your head up, caught his eyes in the low lamplight, and said, calm but deadly serious, “I swear, if you stop right now… if you stop fucking me the way I deserve after carrying your daughter and pushing her out into the world…?”. You let it hang just a beat, letting him see the glint of challenge and love in your eye.

He blinked, startled. His brows lifted just slightly, the guilt cracking at the edges, giving way to something else. You didn’t give him room to spiral. You didn’t give him space to wallow. You just lifted your hips a little, pulled him in closer, and added in a murmur: “You fucking owe me, Meachum”.

And just like that, the pressure in his face shifted. Mark’s breath hitched in his throat, but this time it wasn’t from pain. It was from you, from the way you looked up at him, defiant and loving and entirely his. From the way you never let him fall too far before yanking him right back where he belonged.

A flicker of the man you first fell in love with, the sharp-witted and impossibly confident one, flashed through his tired eyes. He exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching into the shadow of a grin, that same old cocky look that used to come out right before he flipped you over and made you forget what day it was.

He leaned in close, his forehead brushing yours, his voice dropping to a low, teasing rasp that vibrated against your chest. “Well, if I owe you”, he murmured, lips barely grazing your cheek, “then I guess I better pay you right”. And then lower, with his mouth at your ear: “Better make sure you feel it for days”.

The grin you shot him was half affection, half challenge and completely on fire. And that was all he needed. He moved with purpose now. Mark didn’t just touch you, he read you. And even with the flickers of pain at the edges, even with the exhaustion that never fully let go, he focused. On you. On this. On giving you everything he still had.

Your breath hitched again as he adjusted the angle just slightly, like muscle memory was guiding him home. You gripped his shoulders, but he didn’t let you stay there long.

“Oh no”, he murmured. “Don’t go quiet on me now”.

You let out a breathy laugh that dissolved quickly into a moan, the kind that slipped out before you could stop it. He grinned at that, his lips brushing over your collarbone like a reward. “You were talking a lot earlier”, he teased. “Where’d all that mouth go now?”.

You tried to glare. It melted immediately into a sigh as he rolled his hips again, slow but precise. And just like that, you were right back on the edge, your body forgetting the worry, the weight, the fear, and remembering only him. “Mark—”, you gasped, trying to keep your thoughts straight, but he kissed the words right out of your mouth.

“That’s it”, he whispered. “I’ve got you”.

And he did. Completely.

You didn’t stand a chance, not when he moved like that. Not when he knew exactly what your body needed, even before you did. All the worry, all the waiting, all the weight, it unraveled in seconds under him. Your breath caught, your body tightened, and then you broke, the release tearing through you so hard it felt like something inside had finally let go.

He felt you tighten around him. Felt you fall apart in his arms. And it undid him. He groaned against your skin, hips stuttering and then he was gone too. The pain, the pressure, the ever-present weight in his head… gone, drowned out by the rush of relief and warmth and you.

For a few long seconds, everything was still. Just hearts pounding. Breath mingling. Bodies shaking.

He collapsed onto his forearms, careful not to crush you, forehead pressing into your shoulder. You held him close with your fingers in his hair and your legs still trembling.

A few minutes later, Mark had just peeled off the condom and tossed it discreetly when the faintest sound cracked the stillness. A tiny wince from the baby monitor on the nightstand, followed by a rustle from the living room bassinet. Ally. Of course. Her timing was impeccable.

You groaned softly and sat up, still catching your breath, every part of you aching in the best and worst ways. But before your feet even hit the floor, Mark was already moving, tugging on a pair of boxerbriefs. “I’ve got her”, he said, voice still a little wrecked, but laced with ease. Then, more teasingly, as he glanced back over his shoulder at you: “I’m sure you can’t walk just yet”.

You let out a short, helpless laugh, because damn, he was right. Your legs were still jelly, your thighs burning, your body humming from the aftershocks. All of it made worse by the smug little half-smile on his face as he disappeared through the doorway.

“I hate you”, you called after him, breathless and still warm with affection.

“Yeah, yeah”, he called back quietly. “You say that every time I do my job right”.

You fell back onto the bed with a soft thud, pillow beneath your head, a grin you couldn’t fight pulling at your lips.

-

You sat beside Mark, Ally in your lap bundled up in soft yellow, her tiny fists curled beneath her chin. Her eyes kept drifting between sleep and soft wonder, her head lolling against your chest.

Mark hadn’t spoken much on the way here. Not because he was shutting down, but because this one mattered. This wasn’t just another checkup. Another scan. Another prescription. This appointment might buy him time. Might be the difference between managing symptoms and actually living.

The trial was small. And new. High-risk, but promising. A cutting-edge drug therapy that had shown progress in patients like him. Slowing tumor activity, keeping it from growing further. It wouldn’t cure it. Wouldn’t take the pain. But if it worked, it could pause the decline.

It could give him years. Years to raise his daughter. To kiss you goodnight without wondering how many nights he had left. To live.

You could feel the energy coming off him in waves in his restless legs, clenched hands and his jaw working against the anxiety building behind his eyes.

Ally stirred and let out a tiny whine. You bounced her gently, soft “shhh” sounds in her ear. Mark glanced over and his gaze softened instantly. Even now, especially now, she calmed him.

You reached over and slid your hand into his. He held it tightly. Neither of you said it out loud, but you both knew. This was it. The moment you either got to hope again… Or had to grieve the future all over.

A nurse stepped into the doorway and called his name. Mark stood and exhaled slow. Then glanced at you. “You coming?”. You nodded and stood beside him with Ally still tucked safe in your arms.

Inside the doctor’s office, Dr. Weber glanced between you both, then leaned forward. He didn’t stretch out the suspense. He was the type who understood there was no use dancing around life-or-death things. “You’re a candidate, Mark”.

For a second, Mark didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even breathe. You reached for his hand again. This time, it was trembling.

“The board cleared you this morning”, the doctor continued. “You’ve met the criteria, and we think you’re strong enough to tolerate the initial phase”.

Mark’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t speak.

“There’s no guarantee”, Weber added a bit softer now. “The drug is still early in trials. We’ve seen slowed tumor growth in some patients, but not all. Side effects are unpredictable… some deal with manageable fatigue or nausea, others experience intense migraines, brain fog, even temporary memory loss”.

You felt Mark flinch slightly at that. Still, he nodded.

“Statistically”, the doctor continued, “the risk is high. It may not help. It may even make some symptoms worse before anything gets better. But if it works…”.

He didn’t have to finish that sentence. Because “if it works” meant time. Maybe not decades. But enough. Long enough to see Ally crawl. Say her first word. Start kindergarten. Long enough to take more late-night walks with you, argue over baby socks in the laundry, let his hand rest on your lower back while you brush your teeth. Long enough to live.

Mark exhaled finally, a long, unsteady breath like he’d been holding it for weeks. “Okay”, he said quietly. “I’ll do it”.

The doctor nodded once. “We’ll monitor you closely. First dose begins next week”.

As he went over the initial schedule, risks, consent forms, all the routine things that had become anything but routine in your lives, Mark’s hand stayed tightly wrapped in yours. And you could see the flicker of something in his eyes. Not peace, not yet. But something close. Hope.

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A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

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Part 4

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