Previously - Iris' POV

The last few days have been… a lot.

Not for me, technically. But watching Joe unravel in his quiet, stubborn way? That’s its own full-time job.

The man’s been half-functional since Emily left. He works, sure. Checks the boxes. The designs? Tight as ever. His brain? Sharp. But the edges are frayed. The jokes are thinner. The weight in his shoulders hasn’t left since the second she walked out that door.

I’m not blind. I’ve known Joe long enough to recognize the difference between stress and… this.

It started last year. After my mom passed. When I leaned on them — him and Emily — hard enough I thought I might break the whole system.

But they never cracked. They just… helped me get back on my feet.

It’s how Emily and I got close. Not out of pity. Out of survival. Out of knowing what it feels like to not be okay, and still have to function.

We still talk. A lot.

The last few nights, in between chasing lawyers and pushing contracts across Joe’s distracted desk, I’ve been FaceTiming Emily. It’s not some secret. It’s girl-talk. It’s keeping tabs. It’s love.

Mostly? It’s concern.

“He’s hanging on, barely,” I tell her two nights ago, my voice quiet as I sit cross-legged on my couch, a long day behind me.

Emily exhales into the camera, the Miami hotel’s cheap art print behind her. “Yeah. I hear it in his voice. But if I talk about it, he’ll just… stuff it down harder.”

“He’s trying to play it cool. But, his cool? It’s fake as shit right now.”

Emily sighs, rubbing her temple. “It’s killing me I’m not there.”

“I know,” I say softly. “But your job matters too.”

She nods, eyes glassy. “He gets that. But… I don’t have to like it.”

I snort. “None of us like it.”

The conversation drifts to other things after that—gossip, the latest con rumors, how badly I need new heels. But the undercurrent? It’s always there.

Joe. The ache he’s carrying. It's almost as heavy watching him try to shoulder it alone.

__________________________________________________________________________________________

The hotel room’s crazy nice, not as nice as Joe's suite.

I’m stretched out on the bed in leggings and an oversized t-shirt, laptop open, reviewing the last of the paperwork. I call Emily.

"How’s he holding up?" She asks.

I glance at the ceiling," Hanging in there. But he packed your blouse, so… take that as you will."

There’s a pause. Then...

"God, I miss him."

I smile, soft. My heart twists, but not from jealousy. Just… from watching two people try to be whole across the distance.

I try to reassure her, " I know, Em. But we’ll get him through this."

We hang up.

I close the laptop, stare out at the Miami skyline, glowing bright and stupid and full of people pretending their hearts aren’t breaking somewhere.

Tomorrow, the con starts.

But tonight? It’s just quiet. And the promise that no matter how bad it looks, we’ve got him.

Even when he’s too stubborn to see it.