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Three days had stretched into what felt like an eternity since Chris's last encounter with Lovette. He could grasp the rationale behind her absence – reuniting with her friends was important, after all – but his longing for her presence had only intensified. In the labyrinth of emotions he found himself navigating, he was certain of one thing: this was all new to him, this intense feeling that seemed to stretch his heartstrings.
Now, they stood in his kitchen, a space he had seen her occupy before, yet it felt different today. She looked beautiful, draped in his 'FRESH LOVE' sweatshirt, and the sight of her brought a faint smile to his lips. A small offering was extended – a brownie crafted by his mother's hands.
She accepted it with gratitude, her attention momentarily diverted by her phone. The first bite landed, and then another, before everything unravelled in an instant. The taste seemed to betray her, a moment of savoured delight contorted into instant rejection as the brownie was expelled from her mouth.
"There's no way they're that bad." Chris said, confusion mixed with his jest lacing his voice. His hand reached instinctively for a brownie, his own chuckle underscored with playful disbelief.
But then her reaction hit him like a freight train. Her eyes were saucers of alarm, mouth agape in sheer shock. "Are there peanuts in there?" she uttered, an undertone of urgency in her voice.
His heart dropped like a stone in his chest, realization dawning. "They're peanut butter brownies," he responded, a pang of dread crawling up his spine.
And then her body convulsed, her hands clutching at her throat as though grappling with an invisible assailant. It was a terrifying dance with something he couldn't see, a nightmare unfurling before his very eyes. Panic rippled through him, a torrent of helplessness and fear.
Lovette's face contorted in agony, and her eyes, wide with terror, darted around the room as though searching for an escape from her torment. She struggled to breathe, her gasps for air coming in frantic, wheezing bursts. Her body shivered violently as the allergy's venom coursed through her veins, and her limbs went limp as if all strength had been drained from her.
"You're allergic?" The words fell from his lips, laced with terror. Time seemed to freeze, the reality of the situation smashing into him like a tidal wave. He was on his feet, his chair scraping backward as he lunged toward her.
"Where's your EpiPen?" he demanded, a desperate urgency in his voice as he scanned their surroundings for a lifeline.
She shakes her head, her voice strained and wavering, "Didn't bring it." The admission hung between them, a heavy confession that bordered on recklessness.
Bile rose in his throat as he comprehended the severity of the situation. Her body writhed with an invisible enemy, and it was a nightmare unfolding right before his eyes.
His mind raced, thoughts colliding and dissipating like vapour in his turmoil. He wanted to act, to do something, anything, but his brain felt mired in a fog of terror. His gaze clung to her, his heart hammering in his chest, the seconds stretching into an agonizing eternity.
Chris's eyes darted around the kitchen, frantic fingers tugging at his hair in distress. The air grew thick with desperation, and a chilling realization struck him: he had no medical training, no experience with situations like this.
"Call an ambulance," she rasped, her voice emerging in the midst of chaos. And in that moment, her voice crystallized his purpose. His fingers shook as he fumbled for his phone, his hands finding a tremulous steadiness as he dialled the digits that could bridge the gap between her and safety. The operator's voice was distant, a lifeline to guide him as he relayed their location and the urgency of their situation.
It was a test of time, a brutal waiting game where every second was too long, every heartbeat too loud. But he stood rooted, his hand tightly clenching the phone, his gaze unwavering as he watched over her, his fear transforming into a fierce determination to ensure that she would be okay.
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Chris found himself all too familiar with the sterile, antiseptic scent of the emergency room. The wait in the uncomfortable plastic chairs weighed on him, his fingers twitching with nervous energy as he fiddled with his hands. Levi and Maeve were there too, summoned by his call when they entered the ambulance. The hope had been simple: the EpiPen administered, an immediate recovery, and a smooth sail from there. But as minutes stretched into uncertainty, Lovette's lack of response to the EpiPen's dose began to escalate his fear rather than soothe it.
And then it came, like a blade slicing through the air, Layla's cutting accent searing through his thoughts. The one who already held no fondness for him was adding fuel to the fire. He could almost feel the weight of her disapproval, the sharpness of her criticism burrowing beneath his skin.
"What type of boyfriend doesn't know his girlfriend is deathly allergic to peanuts?" Her words lashed out, the sharpness of her anger creating an invisible barrier that seemed to encase him. He could practically sense her eyes drilling into him, her disdain for him radiating like a tangible force.
Imani, the voice of reason, tried to intervene, to bridge the gap. But Layla's frustration seemed to drown out any attempt at reconciliation. "Layla—" Imani's voice carried a weariness, a plea for understanding.
Yet Layla was relentless, her gaze sweeping past him, as if he was inconsequential, unworthy of her acknowledgment. "It's fucking ridiculous. The last time she had peanuts she almost died." The venom in her words left no room for misunderstanding.
Eli's throat-clearing seemed almost like a lifeline, an attempt to dissipate the growing tension. "Layla, let's go find a vending machine. I think we're gonna be here a while."
Their silent exchange communicated volumes, a non-verbal pact that only solidified the isolation Chris felt. Imani excused herself, her determination to be with Lovette overriding any conflict.
With their departure, the air grew more breathable, but the emotional residue remained. Mateo, left beside him, offered comfort in the form of his presence. Chris watched him carefully, apprehensive of the criticism that seemed to have seeped into every corner of his mind.
"You alright? Layla can be a bit protective." Mateo's concern reached him, a gentle gesture amidst the turmoil.
"I'm just the world's shittest boyfriend," Chris muttered, the weight of his inadequacy heavy on his tongue.
