The screen door slams against the frame—third time in five minutes—but Jolene’s too busy bleeding all over the wood floor to care.

She’s got one hand clamped over her nose, blood smeared down to her collarbone. “Babe, I’m fine!” she hollers, voice muffled and irritated, standing crooked in the kitchen like she might collapse but is too damn stubborn to let gravity win.

You’re at the bottom of the stairs, shaking with worry scrawled across every inch of your face like a bad omen.

“I’M FINE. I’M FUCKING FINE!” she snaps, stumbling slightly as she wipes her nose again with the back of her hand, smearing red across her cheek. “I don’t need a doctor, I need you to stop lookin’ at me like that.”

But the second she sees the tears running down your cheeks, something stutters in her throat. Her jaw clicks shut. Her chest rises once, hard, like it hurts to breathe.

“Shit.”

She crosses the room in three limping steps, grabs your face in those calloused hands, and thumbs away the tears like they offend her. Even though she’s getting blood all over your cheeks.

“Hey. Hey.” Her voice cracks, low and desperate now. “Don’t do that. Don’t cry like that, baby, you’re killin’ me.”

You shake your head, still trying to push her toward the truck keys, still trying to make her see it—how close that fall was, how hard she hit, how scared you are to wake up tomorrow without her beside you.

Jo sighs, rough and ragged, her forehead resting against yours. “If I go,” she murmurs, “and it’s bad… then what? What the hell do I do then?”

She doesn’t say I’m scared. She doesn’t have to. It’s in the tremble of her shoulders and the way she finally lets you hold her up.