The pain hit like a sucker punch to the diaphragm. One moment Iris was laughing at Luke's impression of their cranky neighbor, the next she was doubled over their kitchen table, fingernails carving half-moons into the woodgrain. White static filled her vision as a metallic tang flooded her mouth—iron and salt, the taste of something unraveling inside her.
"Iris?" Luke's voice came from very far away, muffled as if underwater. His chair screeched across the floor as he moved, but her body had become a prison of agony, every nerve ending screaming. Strong hands gripped her shoulders, warm and familiar, yet they couldn't anchor her against the storm raging beneath her ribs. "Hey—hey, look at me."
She forced her eyes open to find his face inches from hers, his usual golden complexion gone ashen. The playful crinkles around his eyes had been replaced by deep grooves of panic. His fingers trembled against her collarbones, his breath coming in short bursts that ghosted across her cheek. She wanted to reassure him, to smooth away the fear etching lines into his forehead, but another wave of pain stole her voice.
"I'm fine," she lied, swallowing another wave of nausea. The kitchen clock ticked loudly behind him—4:37 PM. She'd been counting the hours since her last painkiller, trying to stretch the dosage, rationing them like borrowed time. "Just... stood up too fast."
Luke's jaw worked silently. His gaze dropped to where her hand clutched at her abdomen, the knuckles bleached white from pressure. When he looked back up, his dark eyes held a terrifying understanding. "You're not fine." The words came out strangled. "You're not fucking fine, Iris."
The dam broke then. A shudder wracked her body as the pain crested, drawing a whimper from her lips before she could stop it. Luke made a wounded noise in response, his arms circling her waist as he lifted her effortlessly from the chair. Every movement sent fresh knives through her pelvis, but she bit her lip bloody to keep from crying out.
"Bedroom," she managed through clenched teeth. "Top drawer... red pills."
Luke carried her with the fragility of someone handling spun glass, his breathing ragged against her hair. She could feel his heart hammering through his shirt where her cheek pressed against his chest—too fast, too frantic. The five steps to their bedroom stretched into an eternity, each one measured in the increasing dampness of her borrowed shirt—sweat or blood, she wasn't sure. The scent of it, coppery and thick, clung to the air between them.
When he laid her on the mattress, his hands lingered, smoothing back her damp curls with a tenderness that made her want to weep. "I'm getting your pills," he said, voice thick. "Then we're calling Dr. Cho."
Iris grabbed his wrist as he turned, her grip weaker than she intended. "No hospitals." The plea came out sharper than intended. "Not yet."
His face did something complicated then—anger and grief and helpless love twisting his features before he schooled them into careful neutrality. The drawer rattled as he yanked it open, the pill bottle clattering against wood. When he returned with water and medication, his hands were steady but his eyes betrayed him—darting between her face and the red stains now blooming on the sheets beneath her like ink in water.
"Luke," she whispered as the pills stuck in her dry throat. His name was both apology and plea, a single syllable holding everything she couldn't say. The mattress dipped as he gathered her into his lap, his broad hands spanning her back as she curled into him. His warmth seeped into her, but it wasn't enough to chase away the cold creeping into her bones.
Outside, the city continued its indifferent hum—cars honking, children laughing on the sidewalk below, a dog barking in the distance. Life marching on while hers slipped through their fingers like sand. Luke pressed his lips to her temple, his exhale shuddering. "I can't lose you," he murmured, so quiet she almost didn't catch it.
And that—the raw fear in his voice—was worse than the pain.