That was before I was shipped to the End Stage Ward, here on Whidbey Island. The hospital was one of only four in North America that was designed for dealing with the Aegrus virus. Which really only meant it was set up to help people die at a rapid, pain-filled pace.

Really, people died from the virus so fast it wasn’t a surprise that beds opened up at the rate they did. I’d only had to wait in the lockdown ward in Virginia Mason Hospital for a little less than a week.

So now, either someone saw me in person or they didn’t talk to me at all. There weren’t very many people who would take the chance of stepping into an End Stage Ward and take the risk of catching the deadly virus. Besides, they all knew the outcome. We humans all did.

Roger laughed again, but there was a birdlike twitter to it that made me cringe. His nerves were showing again. I let out a sigh. How was it that I was the one in bed dying, fading away at a pace the doctors didn’t understand and couldn’t stop, yet he was the one who needed handling with kid gloves? My lips curled up at the edges; he was my sensitive guy. The artistic one who wore his heart on his sleeve. Which was part of the reason I fell for him in the first place: the way he’d spoken with such passion, defending his beliefs. Then there were his romantic gestures, the over-the-top dates, the candles, the flowers, and the complete wooing.

I was the business-minded one; I was the grounded one. I’d built my bakery on the back of hard work and the school of hard knocks. Developing my own recipes so I stood out in the midst of all the cafés around me had taken years. Trying new combinations of ingredients, tweaking them, learning from my mistakes; every burn, every late night was worth it.

Roger, on the other hand, could make the same mistake ten times and still insist he’d get it right the next time. Stubborn fool. I smiled, my heart aching with the thought of not seeing him ever make another mistake.

“Rog, sit with me.”

“No, I can’t. I can’t stay.”

With effort, I lifted my hand up to him. “Please, just hold my hand. Even through the suit . . . it’s better than nothing at all.”

He fidgeted, then twisted to look at the closed door. A face popped up in the window, and the woman waved her hands in a shooing motion. Long blond hair and brilliant red lipstick were all I saw before she was gone. Maybe she was one of the new nurses? They didn’t like me to have many visitors. The chance of infection was too great among other humans. Which is why they sent us all to this facility on Whidbey Island to keep us contained. Or as my roommate called it, the Super Duper Hospital.

Supes were immune to the Aegrus virus. At worst, they got the sniffles. With humans, though . . . we weren’t so lucky. It killed within weeks, sucking the life out of the body at a lightning pace.

“You sit with your wife,” the woman in the bed next to me spit out. She was a little younger than me, twenty-five years old and on the same deathbed as me, if a bit further along.

“Dahlia, don’t pressure him.” I rolled so I could look her in the eyes. We didn’t need mirrors in our ward; the disease stripped us all down the same way. Dahlia had been a redhead, according to her. Now there wasn’t a single hair on her scalp, eyebrows, or eyelids. Several of her teeth had fallen out, and she had only a single fingernail left. Her body was wasted to the point of being a mere skeleton with skin stretched taut over the bony edges, like a macabre attempt at a tent by some tiny little devils who’d set up a home inside her.

Her sunken green eyes stared into mine. “You’re dying. Least he could do is man up, find his balls, and hold your hand.”

Roger grunted as if she’d punched him in the gut.

A tentative hand wrapped around my fingers. I smiled as I turned. “Roger. You’re so brave. I know how much this scares you.”

His fingers tightened on mine until they were squashed together in a rather intense embrace. I didn’t say anything, though. At least he was holding my hand.

Through the barrier of the mask, I could see that sweat clearly dripped down the sides of his face. “We talked about what I would do. With the money your dad’s parents left you, and what I should do with my career.” The words tumbled out of him in a rush. “I’ve made some decisions.”

“I don’t think there’s a rush, Rog.” I tried to squeeze his hand. “I mean . . . you have your whole life ahead of you. We both know that snap decisions aren’t your forte. Take your time.”

He reached to the back of his head protection as if to scratch at his neck. “I’m going to sell your grandparents’ house. Your mom and dad are going to buy it back from me. At a good price, mind you.”

I stared up at him, a slow curl of horror starting in the pit of my stomach. The house was worth over two million dollars; there was no way my parents could afford that. “You’re selling the house . . . to my . . . parents? Why?”

Apparently he didn’t pick up on the nuances of my question. “Yeah, it’s great. They’re actually paying me over market value to keep it in the family, not that your mom wanted to. I’m going to put that money in with the life insurance money after you die, and start up a new business. I even have a business partner lined up.”

My hold on his hand slipped, and I dropped my fingers to the bed. Whatever heat I’d imagined through the suit from his touch was gone.

“What kind of business?” There was no way he could run a business. I’d tried to get him to help in the bakery, and he’d bungled even the simplest tasks. He couldn’t even man the cash register without fouling the entire day’s transactions, a position I normally hired a teenager to do.