You leave work with the rising sun, and head straight over to Trant's place. You're exhausted, but you're desperate to see him, desperate to check that's he's okay.

Trant looks as tired as you feel when he opens the door. "Hey Jean. How was the night shift?"

You shake your head. "Fine," you say. "How are you?"

"Also fine," Trant says, giving you a weak smile. "As much as I can be, anyway."

You hang up your jacket and then go over to hug him. He leans against you and lets out a small sigh. It's nice to feel him in your arms again.

"You came straight from work, yes? Have you eaten yet?"

"Me and Judit ordered take out at four a.m. I guess that's breakfast," you say. "But don't let me stop you."

"I'm not feeling very hungry," Trant says, and you follow him into the living room and sit down on the couch with him.

"Did you get to speak to your doctor?"

"No, it's still early. I'll try to call her later."

"Oh. Yeah," you say, and rub your aching head. "Working nights always confuses the fuck out of me."

Trant puts a hand on your arm. "I'm glad you're here. The apartment feels empty without Mikael, although in the circumstances perhaps it is a good thing that he isn't here."

"Why?"

"I'm not sure I could put on a happy face for him right now."

"Why not just be honest with him?"

"He's young, Jean. I don't want him to worry. And I don't want his mother to worry."

You think of Trant hugging his ex-wife yesterday, and how Mikael had asked you if his dad was going to be okay. "I think they already worry. You shouldn't lie to him."

"It's not lying."

"But you're also not telling him the truth."

"I don't even know what the truth is myself yet. There is no point overloading him with information about possibilities that might never happen."

"So you're just going to say nothing to him?"

"For now, yes."

You look at Trant. He doesn't look like he is going to back down on this matter. You need to make him understand. "But what if you said nothing and then died suddenly? Wouldn't that be the worst thing, if you just died? He wouldn't get to say goodbye, and he'd know that you could have told him and didn't."

Trant is quiet and doesn't look in your direction for some time. You wonder if what you said came out wrong. You're very tired. But you had to try to make him understand.

"He's your son, Trant!"

Trant takes a breath in, then lets it out. He looks up at you in a very deliberate way. "Yes, he is my son. And I will decide what is best for him."

You feel a deep, long forgotten anger rising up inside of you. "I can't believe you'd say that. And I thought you were a good father."

He stares at you, uncomprehending. "What?"

"He's gonna fucking hate you for this, Trant. Don't say I didn't warn you."

Trant looks like he is going to say something, but then he swallows and looks away. "I don't think you really mean this, Jean."

And again he's making excuses for you. It'd be so easy to just agree with him and forget the whole thing. But you'd be letting him win, letting him believe he's acting like a good father when you know otherwise. "I do mean it. You're not listening to me!"

Trant sighs. "I am listening to you, I just don't think-" He's cut off by the doorbell. "That's odd, I'm not expecting anyone. I'd better go and see who that is."

You fold your arms and stare at the wall as Trant goes to the door. He probably wasn't going to listen to you anyway. Why would he care about your opinion? Nobody else does.

Trant returns to stand in the doorway. "It's Donna. I completely forgot that we arranged for her to come over and do some cleaning today."

"Convenient," you say before you can stop yourself. You stand up. "Looks like this is my cue to leave."

"You don't have to leave, I'd rather you stayed."

"I shouldn't have even come here."

"Jean-"

There is a knock on the door.

"Your friend is here," you say.

Trant goes to the door and greets Donna cheerfully. "Jean is here again," he says as he invites her in.

"Oh, hi," Donna says, regarding your warily. You might have been forced to accept that not everyone hates you, but she sure does.

"I was just leaving," you say.

"Jean, you don't have to leave just yet. Stay for a while. We can all have some tea."

"I don't have time," you say, walking past them both and grabbing your coat. You take Trant's MC keys out of your pocket and throw them to him. He tries to catch them but misses. You turn around and leave without saying goodbye.

You're not sure if you're more angry at yourself or at him. But you are sure that you had to get out of there. Maybe you were wasting your time with that conversation. One thing that you have learned is that sometimes people will not listen to you no matter how much sense you're making. It's happened so many times, with your family, with Harry. No matter how many times you repeated yourself, they didn't care. Oh no, they always know best.

You thought Trant was different. You actually thought he was too smart to argue against reason like that. It makes you think of the times when Harry would say or do something awful and you'd feel shitty for standing up for yourself or you'd feel like a coward for letting it slide. Was what Trant said really that bad? Or is this you making excuses for him? You're disgusted with yourself for drawing a parallel between him and Harry, but for some godforsaken reason he made you feel that same mixture of anger and powerlessness.

You thought the walk would calm you down, but all that happens is that exhaustion hits you before you even get half way home. You regret the snap decision you made to throw the keys back at him. The thought of him bending down to pick them up off the floor makes you feel bad. He's sick. Really sick. And here you are being an asshole to him. Great fucking job.

The sun comes out before you get back home. It always seems to be the way that fate conspires to make it a beautiful day when you're in a bad mood and working night shift and really you wish it would be overcast and stormy so at least you'd have a chance to sleep.

As it is, you don't sleep much. You try to think about absolutely anything else, but your mind won't let you stop thinking about Trant. Namely, the sad way he looked at you, the way he refused to listen to what you had to say. You were only trying to stop him from making a huge mistake with Mikael. Trant wouldn't understand. How could he? Unless he'd been in that position himself, he couldn't. He doesn't know how devastating it could be, how Mikael could end up sad and resentful towards him forever.

You know exactly what's going on, and if Trant died you'd still find it hard to cope. Trant refusing to give Mikael a warning just seems cruel.

It's unfair. It's all so fucking unfair. You guess it's too much to ask for you to have a normal relationship and be happy for once in your goddamned life. You and Trant have only just got together and now he's getting worse and he's tired and struggling all the time. Is it too much to ask that he'd make some miraculous recovery? Who are you kidding, things like that don't happen in your life. It's like some fucked up god is laughing at you, giving you what you want and ruining it. You're doing your best for Trant, but is it good enough?

You two never had a chance. Maybe you should just break up with him before it all goes wrong anyway. But the thought of walking away from him makes you feel so guilty. How could you live with yourself? You're a horrible person for even thinking about it.

You're so tired of always having to be the tough one, the one who has to always pick up the pieces and isn't supposed to complain. And you can't even talk about it, you're stuck with the thoughts going round and round in your head.

After hours of broken sleep, you decide to get up and find some painkillers. On top of everything, your head is pounding. You have some time before you need to go back to work, but it's difficult to find the motivation to do anything. You tell yourself you should leave Trant alone, he probably doesn't want to see or hear from you right now. But that doesn't stop you from thinking about him. You wish you hadn't brought up such a difficult conversation topic. Instead you could have tried to comfort him and left on good terms.

Maybe, just maybe it doesn't have to be like this. You've had disagreements before and he hasn't cut you out of his life for good, he hasn't even suggested such a thing. Maybe you overreacted. Trant is the best thing that has ever happened to you. The thought of losing him through your own stupidity is unbearable. You decide to go and see him again. There has to be some way you can make this right.

It starts to rain as you walk over there. Of course it does. You consider going back to get an umbrella, but decide against it. You're more than a little damp when you arrive at Trant's place. You feel like you should ring the buzzer, but then you remember the way he reacted last time you did. You're probably making a big thing out of nothing and he'll be happy to see you. Just act normally, you tell yourself. Why does it have to feel so awkward? You let yourself in and take the elevator up.

Trant looks surprised to see you, but gives you a smile. "Oh, Jean, you're back."

You consider apologising, offering some sort of explanation, asking if you're even welcome here, but what you say is, "Yeah."

"You're wet, take your coat off, I'll get you a towel."

"It's fine, don't worry about it," you say, and you brush your hair back with a hand and realise how wet it is.

Trant goes and gets you a towel anyway, and you rub your hair with it. Soft music is coming from the living room, and you can see books piled up on the coffee table.

"I've been reading about relaxation methods," he explains.

"What's with the… noise?" you ask. You can't bring yourself to call it music out loud.

Trant lets out a chuckle. "It's a soundscape to aid in meditation," he says. "Want to try it with me?"

"I don't really think that's my kind of thing," you say, but he already has his hands on your shoulders, squeezing your muscles.

"It might do you good. You're so tense, Jean."

You allow him to take your hand and take you to sit with him on the couch.

"Contrary to popular belief, the idea is not to empty your mind entirely, that is often a fruitless endeavour. Instead, allow your thoughts to come and go freely without dwelling on any in particular. It might help to close your eyes. Breathe slowly and deeply, let your breath follow the rhythm of the soundscape."

He continues to hold your hand gently in his own as he speaks, and you find yourself concentrating on the feeling of his hand wrapped around yours more than anything else. You let your eyes fall closed and try to slow your breathing. The sounds from the record are stupid and distracting. But you appreciate Trant being here, despite everything, trying to help himself, trying to help you.

Eventually the needle reaches the centre of the record, and the whirring sound it makes is actually an improvement.

You open your eyes. "Why do you have so many books on relaxation and shit?" you ask. You're surprised anyone could manage to fill one book on that topic.

"A long time ago I went through a bad time and I was willing to try anything to get through it."

"Oh, the divorce?

Trant looks surprised. "No," he says. "That was quite a bad time, yes, but not as bad as… that one."

You raise your eyebrows at him. Something tells you he wants to tell you.

"I'm not ashamed to say this, but in my youth I was addicted to pyrholidon."

You laugh. "Oh, you're not joking," you say. "Fucking hell, Trant, you're a dark horse. What else do I not know about you?"

Trant smirks. "With three decades of adult life under my belt, I would imagine, quite a lot."

"Wait, three decades?"

He nods. "I'm forty-seven. I thought I'd mentioned my age before."

You look at him. Really look at him. "Shit, you look good for your age."

He smiles. "Thank you."

"Meanwhile, I've aged like crap."

"I wouldn't say that, Jean," he says, smiling at you. He reaches out and touches your face. A shiver runs down your spine as he strokes his fingers across your cheek.

"Anyway, back up. Pyrholidon?"

Trant nods. "It helped me with my studies, and socially. I'm naturally an introvert, and a bit of a worrier, so I was vulnerable to its, ah, charms. I soon fell into the habit of taking it daily."

"So you must've been one of those sunglasses indoors types?"

"Tragically, yes," he says, shaking his head. "I had a very public breakdown after missing a dose, and that was when I knew I needed to break the habit."

"So you really just replaced it with meditation?" you say.

"No. That was something I tried alongside other things, but the things that really helped me were talking about my problems, and exercise. That was when I got into Lo Manthang stick fighting in a big way. But of course I am not well enough for that right now, so it is time to explore other avenues once again."

"And is it working?"

Trant sighs. You can tell he wants to say no. "It is too soon to tell. These things can take time to have an effect. We must keep up our practise until then."

"If it helps, I'll do it with you," you say, although you can't help but feel like it's rather stupid. But holding hands and not having to talk for a while isn't unpleasant. At least you can't say anything fucking stupid.

He takes your hand again and squeezes it.

Trant hasn't mentioned your disagreement, but you feel like you should say something. You swallow. "Sorry about what I said earlier."

He takes his hand away from yours and clasps his hands in his lap. "It did make me think. You have a point, but you don't understand how complicated it can be to be a father-"

"Yeah, but I know what it's like to be a son."

Trant catches your eye, and you look away. He doesn't even need to say anything. You take a breath. Maybe it's okay to tell him. "When I was twelve, my father died. He'd been ill for some time, it turned out. Our mother just decided not to tell us, I guess. All I knew was that he sometimes didn't go to work and money was even tighter than usual."

"Oh Jean, I'm so sorry."

You shake your head, and a hollow laugh escapes your mouth. "Don't be. He was an asshole," you say. "Still, I wish I'd known before it fucking happened."

You sit and stare at the wall for some time. You haven't told anyone about that before. Talking about your childhood just isn't something you do.

When you turn to Trant, he's hunched over with a hand over his mouth. "What if I die and leave him all alone?" he says, trying to hold back tears.

You put an arm around him and he leans on you. You don't think you would cope without him either, but you keep that to yourself. That's only going to make him feel worse.

Trant sniffs and wipes his eyes. "I need to figure out what to tell Mikael, and his mother too. I just need some time to process it myself."

"I shouldn't have pressured you," you say, rubbing his arm.

"And I should have thought about how this affects you too. This is difficult for both of us."

You pull him closer. "I wanna help you, but I'm just really shit at this," you say, resting your head against his.

"I appreciate you trying," he says. "And I want you to know you can always talk to me, about anything. But I also think it would be beneficial for you to have someone else to talk to."

You shake your head. "Nobody at the precinct can manage to have a serious conversation for more than two minutes."

"How about Judit? Her husband has progressive exhaustion disorder and narcolepsy, so she would be able to relate."

You frown. "How do you know that? I've worked with Judit longer than you have."

"I asked her."

"You… just asked?"

"Yes?"

"Wow. She doesn't seem to like talking about her husband. I thought it would be rude to ask."

"She didn't seem to think so. Anyway, that reminds me, I said I was going to find a therapist for you to speak to."

"It's fine, you've had a lot to deal with. It's not important."

"It is. I'll make a few phone calls."

"Great," you say, but really you're hoping he'll forget again. You agreed to this, but the thought of what it might involve makes you uncomfortable.

It turns out neither of you have eaten anything all day, so you agree to share a can of soup. A depression meal if ever you saw one. You know you can manage all right without eating, but you don't want to encourage Trant to fall into that habit too.

The canned soup isn't great, but you force yourself to eat it. You notice Trant puts his spoon down before he gets to the bottom of his bowl.

"When do you need to leave?" he asks you.

You look at your watch. "Oh shit. Soon." You shake your head. "I thought we'd have more time together."

Trant smiles. "I'll miss you too, Jean," he says, reaching over to take your hand across the table.

You suddenly feel a weight in your chest at the thought of leaving him. Again you think about skipping your shift. But you can't. You were late yesterday, you can't be late again.

You press your lips against Trant's hand then let it go. His eyes crinkle at the sides as he smiles wider.

"I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?" you say.

He nods, still smiling. "The MC keys are on the hook, if you want to take it," he says.

"Uh, thanks," you say, going to get them, feeling guilty again for throwing them at him. Instead of apologising again, you pull him into a hug. He holds you tightly and kisses you on the cheek. You reluctantly let go of him and you say your goodbyes.

"Aren't you impressed I'm on time today?" you say as you sit down opposite Judit. Around you, the rest of your colleagues are grabbing their coats and leaving, lucky bastards.

She looks up at you and seems to be assessing whether or not you can take a joke today. The assessment clearly came back inconclusive as she settles for a slightly sarcastic, "Well done."

You go and make the first round of coffees, as you lost count of the number Judit made for you last night.

"Sorry I kept you waiting for me last night," you say, placing the cup down on her desk. You search for the words to explain, eventually settling on, "I was with Trant."

"I thought you might have been," she says, taking a sip of coffee. "Is he…"

"What do doctors know? Fuck all. He's been waiting goddamned weeks for results and they still don't fucking know."

Judit sighs. "I know how upsetting and frustrating that can be," she says.

"Your husband?"

She nods. "It took years and years for him to get a diagnosis. And the pills they give him don't do much good. He's struggled all his life to keep a job, and even I used to get annoyed with him for getting fired, especially when the kids were very young. But it's really not his fault. Not that any employer would understand that."

The phone rings, and you take it. You try to concentrate on the caller, but you keep thinking about Judit and her family's struggles. How life just isn't fair. You thought her husband was just lazy and unhelpful, but it turns out you were wrong. Maybe he feels just as hopeless as Trant does about his situation. Fuck, life is not fair.

You take notes on the caller's long and rambling story about their concerns, and stop abruptly when you realise this is some middle class racist complaining about their immigrant neighbours. You wrap up the call as quickly and politely as you can manage.

In between calls, you and Judit talk about your experiences caring for someone who's sick. Judit has been doing this for far longer than you, and she's clearly so tired and sad when she talks about certain things that have become normal in her household. But it also really comes across how much she and her husband love each other.

"It's so good to talk to someone who understands," Judit says. "Obviously I can't say much around the precinct, and my married friends, their husbands are able-bodied, well except for Claudine, but her husband has hearing loss and that's not the same. Oh, and Olive's husband who lost three fingers in an accident, but that really doesn't affect him as much as you might imagine."

You sip on your cold coffee and say nothing. All this talk of women and their husbands. You wonder if Judit has mentally filed you and Trant away in the same category. You think about making a joke about it, but then decide not to risk it.

Judit is quiet for a few minutes too. "This might be a silly question, but I have to ask, are you and Trant- no, sorry, I shouldn't have asked. If you were, I'd keep it to myself... obviously, if you wanted me to."

Your heart is racing. You're afraid the truth is written all over your face. All you need to do is laugh and say of course not, and that'll be the end of it. But you can't. It feels insulting to Trant to deny that you love him. And it feels insulting to Judit too, after your heart to heart. But you can't risk the chance of the information getting out. It could ruin both of your lives.

You pick up your coffee cup. "Want another one?" you ask.

"Yes," she says, and you suppose that diversionary tactic was an answer in itself. You'll let Judit draw whatever conclusion she likes from that. You hope that you're right that she has enough respect for you that she won't bring it up again.

Your hands shake as you put the cups down and begin the process of making coffee. So far you've managed to keep your personal life and your work life entirely separate, despite their inescapable overlaps. You don't know how that might change if and when Trant returns to work. It'll probably be harder to hide. But as much as that scares you, it's a better problem to have, you tell yourself. Those assholes will get bored of calling you slurs after a while, and anyway who gives a fuck if Trant is alive and well? You force yourself to concentrate on making coffee before you start crying again.