Third-Person Limited - Kendra, the Dominic
By Saturday, the girls had decided their new American personality required a movie night.
"Rom-com marathon," Erica declared, waving her phone like a flag. "We are going."
Kendra took one look at the poster on the screen—boy and girl back-to-back, pastel colors, heart-shaped font—and felt her soul leave her body.
"Absolutely not," she said.
"Oh, come on," Jeah groaned. "It's just one movie."
"I'd rather drink shampoo," Kendra replied.
"It's got good reviews," Jennie added hopefully. "They said it's funny."
"I don't care if Gabriel himself directed it," Kendra said. "I'm not spending my Saturday watching two people stare at each other and breathe heavily for two hours."
Sofia flopped down beside her on the couch. "You hate love that much?" she asked, amused.
"I don't hate love," Kendra corrected. "I hate watching people be idiots for love. Key difference."
"Translation: yes, she hates love," Erica said.
"Translation: yes, she's scared of love," Sofia chimed in.
Kendra shot them both a look. "Translation: yes, I will fight everyone in this room."
They laughed.
Sofia glanced over Kendra's shoulder. "Dom, you in?" she called.
Dominic, who had been pretending to be very interested in the snacks on the counter, looked up.
"For what?" he asked.
"Romantic comedy at the theater," Sophia said. "Girl's night plus one tall guy pack mule."
He made a face. "I'd rather drink shampoo," he said, echoing Kendra without thinking.
Kendra's lips twitched.
"Wow," Erica said. "Look at you two agreeing on things. Scary."
"Disgusting," Kendra said.
"Terrifying," Dominic agreed.
Sofia sighed dramatically. "Fine," she said. "The lovers of explosions may stay. The lovers of feelings will go."
"We're not—" Kendra started.
"Save it for your wedding speech, babe," Sofia said, already grabbing her bag.
In the end, all four girls went—Sofia leading the charge, promising to bring back detailed reports of slow-motion kissing.
Kendra saw them off at the door, cast resting against the frame.
"Don't die," she said.
"If there's a proposal in the movie, I might," Erica replied.
"Text if you need anything," Jennie added to Kendra. "Or if you change your mind and want us to smuggle you in after the trailers."
"Not happening," Kendra said.
They left in a burst of perfume, laughter, and half-shouted patois.
The house went quiet.
For the first time in weeks, it was just Kendra—
And Dominic.
He stood in the living room doorway like he wasn't sure if he was invited to exist.
"So," he said. "Now that the romance propaganda squad is gone…"
"Explosion time," Kendra finished.
He nodded once. "Explosion time."
They ended up on opposite ends of the couch, an action movie playing on the TV.
Kendra had insisted on putting a throw pillow between them "for safety reasons."
"What safety reasons?" he'd asked, amused.
"Yours," she'd said. "In case you start saying anything stupid."
He'd accepted that.
They watched quietly for a while, the TV flickering blue and orange.
On screen, cars flipped, glass shattered, someone dove away from a fireball in slow motion.
"See," Kendra said, tipping her head toward the TV. "No kissing. Just people nearly dying. Beautiful."
"You need therapy," he muttered.
"Can't afford it," she said. "You'll do."
He huffed out something like a laugh.
At one point, she tried to adjust her position and nearly knocked the bowl of popcorn off the coffee table with her cast. Dominic grabbed it at the last second.
"Reckless," he said. "This is sacred."
"Then move it before I break something important," she replied.
Halfway through the movie, she shifted again, wincing.
"You, okay?" he asked, eyes flicking to her face.
"Just stiff," she said. "If I sit too long, my whole body starts complaining."
"Do you want to pause?" he offered.
She hesitated.
Bath.
She hadn't had a proper soak in the tub since the cast went on. Just quick careful showers, hair over the sink, nothing that required too much balance.
The idea of hot water and quite sounded… heavenly.
"I'm going to take a bath," she decided. "Pause it. Don't finish it without me or I'll key your car."
"I don't doubt that" he said. "You want me to… help with the covers again?"
"I got it," she said quickly. "I'll wrap them. You stay here and bond with your explosions."
"You sure?" he asked.
"Yes, mother," she said.
He lifted his hands in surrender. "Alright. Holler if you need anything."
"I won't," she said automatically, already heading toward the stairs.
His wolf grumbled at her disappearing back.
He ignored it.
Mostly.
Upstairs – The Bath
The bathroom was already a little steamy by the time Kendra turned off the tap.
She'd managed the plastic cast covers on her own this time—teeth, knees, stubbornness. The tub was just deep enough to feel like she was being hugged by warmth.
She eased herself in, careful with her balance.
The heat sank into her muscles, pulling the tension out of her shoulders in slow, melting waves.
"Oh, yes," she muttered, leaning back against the tub. "This is the only good thing America has given me so far."
She closed her eyes and let herself drift, listening to the faint, muffled movie sounds from downstairs and the quiet hum of the pipes.
For a while, she forgot about her wrists.
Forgot about school.
Forgot about rumors, whispers, stairs, zippers.
Just… floated.
Eventually, the water cooled.
She sighed and sat up slowly, skin wrinkled, cast covers slick.
"Alright," she told herself. "Graceful exit. No stupidity."
She pushed her back against the tub for leverage and swung one leg over the rim, foot finding the bath mat.
The mat was slightly damp from earlier splash.
She didn't see that part.
Her heel landed.
Slid.
Her balance wobbled.
Automatically, she reached for the wall—
Her wrists screamed when the cast hit tile.
"Shit—"
Her foot slipped completely.
She tipped sideways, lost all momentum, and dropped back into the tub in a messy splash, one leg still awkwardly half over the edge.
The back of her shoulder hit the side.
Her hip smacked the porcelain.
Her head narrowly missed the faucet.
Water sloshed everywhere—over the tub, onto the floor, soaking the mat.
Pain flared sharp across her shoulder and down her side.
"Ow," she groaned through clenched teeth. "Oh, come on."
She tried to push herself upright.
Her fingers slipped uselessly on the wet sides.
Her casts banged against the tub again, sending a white-hot bolt of pain up both forearms.
She sucked in a breath through her teeth, biting back a yell.
"Not this," she muttered, half-laugh, half-cry. "Anything but a bath fail. This is how people die on those old lady commercials."
She tried to move her leg back into the tub.
It caught on the edge.
She ended up in a worse position—twisted, off-balance, water creeping higher.
"Great," she muttered. "Stuck. Again."
She debated her options.
Option A: keep struggling, possibly drown like an idiot.
Option B: scream for help.
Option C: accept that ghosts were real and ask them to drag her out of the tub.
Her chest tightened.
The house was quiet.
The girls weren't home.
There was only one other person in the building.
Her pride reared up immediately.
No. Absolutely not. He'd already seen her crying on the floor once. She was not adding "found her flailing in the bath" to his memory bank.
She braced her heel against the slippery tub and tried one more time to shove herself upright.
Pain shot down both arms so sharp it made her vision swim.
A choked sound escaped before she could swallow it.
That's when she heard it:
Heavy footsteps on the stairs.
"Kendra?" Dominic's voice, sharper than usual. "You okay?"
Her heart jumped.
She opened her mouth to lie.
Then another wave of pain rolled through and wrung the lie right out of her.
"No," she croaked. "Not… really."
His footsteps stopped just outside the bathroom.
There was a rustle, like he'd almost grabbed the doorknob before thinking better of it.
"I heard a fall," he said through the door, voice tight. "And water. Are you hurt?"
"Just my pride," she muttered. "And possibly everything else."
"Kendra," he said, more urgent now. "Talk to me."
She squeezed her eyes shut.
"Slipped trying to get out," she admitted. "Fell back in. I'm… stuck."
Silence.
She could picture him on the other side of the door, hand hovering, jaw clenched, every instinct screaming at him to break it down.
"I can go get Sofia," he said quickly. "Call her, have her come back."
"Sofia's twenty minutes away," Kendra snapped. "By the time she gets here, I'll have become a cautionary tale on a medical billboard."
He let out a shaky breath that sounded like he'd been holding it since the thud.
"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'm right outside. What do you want me to do?"
The question hung in the steam between them.
It shouldn't have made her throat tight.
It did.
"Door's locked," she said.
"I can pick it," he replied immediately.
"Of course you can," she muttered. "How many doors have you broken into, exactly?"
"A respectable number," he said. "But I'm not opening it unless you say so."
Her cheeks flamed, even though he couldn't see her.
She looked down at herself.
The water had cooled a little, but there were still plenty of bubbles. The high sides of the tub and the curtain—half-drawn again when she'd fallen—hid most of her from view even from the doorway.
But letting him in here?
Letting him see her like this—soaked, stuck, vulnerable, half-submerged?
That was a new level of trust.
Or insanity.
Or both.
Another pulse of pain dug into her shoulder.
Her fingers were starting to tingle funny from being pressed against the slick surface.
This was not sustainable.
She swallowed hard.
"Dominic," she said, voice low and steady. "Come in."
He didn't move.
For a second, she thought maybe he hadn't heard.
Then:
"Are you sure?" he asked.
The fact that he double-checked—
That he didn't just take her first crack in the armor and kick the door down—
Loosened something in her.
"Yes," she said. "I'm sure. Careful, though. Floor's wet."
He made a sound that might've been a humorless laugh.
"Of course it is," he muttered.
She heard the faint scrape of metal as he picked the lock.
The doorknob turned.
The door opened just a few inches.
He stepped inside without looking directly at the tub, tense shoulders, head turned toward the wall.
"Kendra?" he asked, eyes on the tile.
"Here," she said. "In the drowning area."
He risked a glance.
She was half-sitting, half-sliding in the tub, one leg bent awkwardly, the other still catching on the edge, water up to her chest. Bubbles and the shower curtain provided more coverage than a swimsuit.
Her hair clung damply to her neck and shoulders.
The cast covers glistened like sad plastic armor.
He dragged his gaze up immediately to her face and kept it there like it was glued.
"Okay," he said, voice rough. "Okay. We can fix this."
"You said that last time and I ended up in casts," she reminded him.
"Fair," he said. "This time, I'll try not to break anything."
"Appreciated," she said.
He moved slowly across the flooded floor, bracing himself with a hand on the wall so he wouldn't slip.
Water soaked his socks instantly.
He didn't seem to notice.
"Where does it hurt?" he asked.
"Shoulder. Hip. Pride," she said. "My wrists don't like me pushing on anything."
"Got it," he said. "Okay, we're going to do this in one smooth move."
"If you say, 'on three,' I'm firing you," she warned.
He huffed a snort. "No counting," he agreed. "Can you swing this leg back into the tub if I hold you steady?"
She twisted a little and winced. "Probably. Maybe. I don't know."
"Alright," he said. "New plan. I'm going to give you something solid to hold onto that isn't the wall."
He turned sideways, stepping closer to the tub, and extended his forearm toward her, muscles tight.
"Wrap your arm around mine," he said. "Not your hand—your cast. Use it like a hook."
She eyed his arm.
It was solid. Warm. Familiar, in a weird way.
"And if we both go down?" she asked.
"We'll sue the bathmat company together," he said. "Come on."
Carefully, she lifted one heavy cast and hooked it around his forearm, bracing the inside against his wrist. He angled his arm so she couldn't slip off, planting his feet wider for balance.
She grabbed the side of the tub with her elbow on the other side, avoiding her hand.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," she said. "Do it anyway."
He tightened his grip.
"Use your legs," he said. "I've got your upper body."
She pushed her heel against the tub floor, using his arm like a railing.
He pulled gently, guiding her upright.
For a second, her foot slipped again.
His other hand shot out, catching her just below the shoulder—not bare skin, just the edge of the plastic cover and wet hoodie.
"Got you," he said quickly.
She froze, heart pounding.
Their faces were closer than they'd been since the day in the cafeteria.
Water dripped from her chin.
One of his curls stuck damply to his forehead from the steam.
"Don't let go," she muttered.
"I'm not," he said.
Together, they shifted her weight until both feet were flat on the bottom of the tub.
"Okay," he said, breathing a little harder. "Step one: no more drowning."
"Ha ha," she said.
"Step two," he continued, "we get you out of here without you reenacting the slip."
He glanced at the floor outside the tub.
Still wet.
He kicked the bathmat closer with his heel, trying to soak up some of the water.
"Alright," he said. "We're going to do a weird shuffle thing. I'll step back. You keep holding onto me and turn so you're facing out. Then I'll help lift you over the edge."
"This sounds like a trust exercise," she said.
"It is," he said. "With higher stakes and less supervision."
"Great."
They moved slowly.
He backed up a fraction; she pivoted, gripping his arm like a lifeline, until she was facing him, back to the far end of the tub.
He reached with his free hand and grabbed a big towel off the rack, shaking it out one-handed.
"Okay," he said. "I'm going to hold this up like a curtain while we do the exit. That way, if I slip and die, at least my last sight won't get me arrested."
She snorted. "You're an idiot."
"Yet you keep letting me in your house," he replied.
He wrapped the towel around her front as best he could while still letting her hold his arm, shielding most of her from his view and the open doorway.
"Alright," he said. "On not-three—"
She glared.
He corrected himself. "On 'now,' you step up with your good leg. I'll take the weight and lift enough for you to clear the edge."
"And if I fall?" she asked.
"Then I fall with you," he said simply. "Ready?"
She nodded, jaw clenched.
"Now," he said.
She stepped.
He lifted.
For a heartbeat, she felt weightless again—this time on purpose.
Her foot found the mat.
It squelched but held.
They repeated the movement with the other leg, him supporting more of her weight than she wanted to admit.
Then, suddenly, she was out.
Two feet on the mat.
Two casts balanced awkwardly.
One towel wrapped around her.
Zero dignity left.
"Okay," he said, voice a little breathless. "We made it. Are you still vertical?"
"Barely," she said, knees wobbling.
"Lean on the counter," he instructed gently.
She shuffled sideways until her hip touched the sink. He stepped back, still holding the towel up for a second like a shield, then turned his back to her.
"Are you… decent enough for me to leave?" he asked the wall.
She exhaled, some of the adrenaline slowly draining.
"Yeah," she said. "You're safe. Go rescue your socks before they drown."
He glanced down.
His jeans were soaked from mid-calf down. His socks made a squishing sound when he shifted.
He hadn't noticed.
Now he grimaced. "Gross," he muttered.
She laughed.
It surprised them both.
"Thank you," she added before she could chicken out. "For… you know. Not letting me become bath soup."
He looked back over his shoulder, just enough to meet her eyes.
"Anytime," he said.
She rolled her eyes. "Let's not make it a regular thing."
"Agreed," he said.
He stepped out of the bathroom carefully, pulling the door mostly closed behind him.
"I'll, uh, find a mop," he called. "So, you don't die on the way out."
"Already did that," she shouted back. "Rewind."
He huffed a faint laugh and disappeared down the hall.
Downstairs – After
By the time Kendra made it back downstairs—dressed in fresh clothes, hair in a loose bun, casts free of plastic—Dominic had turned off the movie.
He'd also found an old towel and sacrificed it to the upstairs hallway.
His socks were off, jeans rolled up a bit at the bottom, feet bare.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs.
"You look like a traumatized lifeguard," she said.
He looked over from the couch.
"You look like you lost a fight with a tub," he replied.
"I did," she said. "It won on points."
He watched her walk the rest of the way in, eyes subtly checking her footing.
"How bad?" he asked. "Shoulder, hip?"
"Bruised," she said. "Nothing broken. Again. I'm starting to think my bones are made of rubber."
"Don't test that," he muttered.
She sank gingerly onto the other end of the couch, lowering herself with a grunt.
He watched her carefully.
"You know," she said after a moment, "most people would've kicked down the door without asking."
"Most people aren't scared of you," he said.
"You're scared of me?" she asked, half-teasing.
"A little," he admitted.
She blinked.
"Good," she said finally.
He shook his head.
"You did good, though," she added, almost under her breath. "With the asking. And the towel shield. And… everything."
"Trying not to get cancelled," he said lightly.
"Trying not to get murdered," she corrected.
"Also, that," he agreed.
A comfortable silence settled between them, softer than the one after her breakdown.
They were both still buzzing from the adrenaline, but in a weirdly calm way.
On the TV, the paused image of a mid-explosion still glared at them.
He picked up the remote.
"You want to keep watching?" he asked.
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "Feels appropriate."
He hit play.
As the movie resumed—cars flipping, glass flying—Kendra let her head tip back against the cushion.
She was tired.
Her shoulder throbbed.
Her wrists ached, as always.
But she was clean, dry, and not stuck.
And the boy who had once knocked her off balance on purpose had just walked into a bathroom for her, eyes high, hands careful, and walked back out just as shaken as she was.
That had to mean something.
She wasn't ready to name what.
She wasn't ready to talk about it.
But for now, she let herself exist in this strange, small, shared space.
On one side of the couch, her.
On the other side, him.
In the middle, a throw pillow and a movie full of explosions.
And underneath it all, something new.
Not forgiveness.
Not yet.
But trust, maybe.
The kind that let her say, without choking on the words, when the credits finally rolled and he stood to leave,
"Hey, Dom?"
He paused, halfway to the door.
"Yeah?" he asked.
"If I ever drown in, like, three inches of bath water," she said, "you better lie at my funeral."
He snorted. "What do you want me to say?"
"That you weren't there," she said. "And I died doing something heroic. Like fighting a bear. Or wrestling a shark."
"In a bathtub," he said.
"In a bathtub," she confirmed.
He smiled, small but real.
"Deal," he said.
He left after that, the door closing gently behind him.
Kendra sat in the quiet house, cast heavy in her lap, and admitted something to herself she hadn't before.
She didn't hate that he'd been the one outside the door.
And that was, frankly, terrifying.