Conduction

The chemotherapy port sat beneath her collarbone like a second heartbeat, a metallic bump under pale skin that Marcus traced with reverent fingers. Three rounds in, and Elena had stopped flinching at his touch there.

"You need to eat," Marcus said, pushing a bowl across the kitchen counter. Wilted spinach with garlic, a concession to her oncologist's demands. "And don't forget your vitamin D supplement."

Elena stared at the green mush. Last night's lightning storm had fractured their sleep, each flash illuminating the face of the man who'd promised in sickness and in health, who now measured their life in pill organizers and infusion appointments. She'd watched him pace the hallway at 3 AM, his silhouette ghostly against the thunder.

"My hair's coming out in clumps," she said instead of answering. "I found a handful on your pillow this morning."

Marcus's face crumpled — just for a second, before he rearranged it into something stoic and broken. He'd always loved her hair, thick and dark and impossible to tame. Now cancer was doing what chemistry couldn't.

"I'll shave it off tomorrow," she said. Her voice sounded distant, like someone else was speaking. "Before it looks like I'm molting."

The lightning flashed again — a memory this time, not weather. Their wedding day, eight years ago. She'd worn it down, wild and free. He'd cried during vows, which still made her laugh.

"Elena." His voice cracked. "I don't care about the hair. I care about you staying alive."

"Do you?" The question escaped before she could weigh it. "Because sometimes I think you love the idea of the wife who survives, not the woman who might not."

Silence stretched between them, charged and terrible. Then Marcus took the bowl of spinach and dumped it in the trash. He took her face in his hands, his palms trembling.

"I love you," he said, "even if this kills you. Especially if this kills you. You're my person."

Elena finally cried. Something in her chest loosened, like lightning striking dry ground and starting a fire that burned away all the pretense.

"Tomorrow," she said, "you'll shave my head."

"Tomorrow," he promised. "And I'll make you spinach every goddamn day until we're eighty."

Outside, the rain began to fall.