Third-Person Limited - Kendra, then Dominic
The doctor's office smelled like disinfectant and boredom.
Kendra hated both.
She sat on the exam table with her casts resting in her lap, the paper crinkling under her every shift. Sofia paced in a slow circle, glancing at every poster as if it were personally offensive.
"'Proper Spine Alignment,'" Sofia read off the wall. "They really printed a whole back on glossy paper."
"Spine's dramatic anyway," Kendra muttered. "It's just a stack of bones that gave up."
The door opened.
Dr. Meyers stepped in with a tablet and a tired smile. "Miss Atchinson," she said. "Good to see you vertical."
"Mostly," Kendra replied.
They went through the motions—questions about pain, sleep, school, baths (Kendra lied), and then the part she'd been waiting for:
The X-rays.
Dr. Meyers tapped the screen and angled it toward them.
"Good news first," she said. "The fractures are healing nicely. Plenty of new bone is forming. No complications."
"Nice," Sofia said. "We love functioning limbs."
"But," the doctor went on, "they're not fully solid yet. You're in about four weeks. You're going to need at least two more weeks in case. Maybe three, depending on how the next set of X-rays looks."
The words dropped like weights into the air.
Kendra's stomach sank.
"Two more weeks," she repeated, trying to keep her voice even.
"Minimum," Dr. Meyers confirmed gently. "I know it's frustrating. But taking them off too early is a bigger risk. You'd be more likely to re-fracture. Then we'd be starting all over again."
Kendra stared at the ghostly images of her own bones.
White lines were broken.
Cloudy shadows where they were knitting back together.
She knew the doctor was right.
He still wanted to punch something.
"With both arms," she said faintly.
Dr. Meyers must've read the look on her face, because she softened. "You're doing well," she added. "Your range of motion is better than I expected at this stage. Keep wiggling your fingers. Keep letting people help you."
Kendra's jaw tightened.
"I'm fine," she said.
Sofia gave her a look.
"I mean—" Kendra corrected, "I'm… managing."
"Good," the doctor said. "That's enough for now."
The car ride home was quiet.
Too quiet, considering Sofia was the one driving.
She picked at the radio, changing stations every thirty seconds until Kendra finally snapped, "Pick a song or fight the speaker."
Sofia left it on some mellow R&B track and drummed her fingers on the steering wheel.
"You want to talk about it?" she asked.
"Nope," Kendra said.
"Two more weeks isn't forever," Sofia tried.
"Two more weeks is fourteen days of not being able to tie my own shoes," Kendra said flatly. "Of needing help to get dressed. I asked someone to cut my food. Of watching him carry my bag like it's attached to him."
She didn't say his name.
She didn't have to.
Sofia sighed. "You're allowed to be upset," she said.
"I'm not upset," Kendra lied.
"Cool," Sofia said. "I'll tell your tear ducts that. They're confused."
Kendra glared out the window.
She wasn't crying.
Not yet.
She could feel it, though, sitting in her chest like a storm cloud.
When they walked into the house, the smell of something vaguely edible greeted them.
Kendra sniffed.
"Is that… food?" she asked suspiciously.
"It was supposed to be food," a familiar voice called from the kitchen. "Results may vary."
She and Sofia exchanged a look.
They followed the smell.
Dominic stood at the stove, sleeves shoved up, an apron tied around his waist.
An apron.
Pink.
With a cartoon cat on it.
Kendra blinked.
"I'm sorry," she said. "What timeline is this?"
"Maya dropped it off," he said, flicking his chin toward the apron. "Apparently, if I'm going to keep invading your kitchen, I need a uniform."
"I love her," Sofia said immediately.
"It was this or get oil all over my shirt," Dominic added. "So, make fun of the cat all you want; I'm protecting my wardrobe."
"You look like a daycare teacher," Kendra said.
"Thanks," he replied. "You look like you argued with a doctor and lost."
Her smile vanished.
Sofia cleared her throat. "On that note," she said, backing away, "I'm going to go drop off these forms in your room. You two… enjoy the food ritual."
Traitor, Kendra thought at her.
Out loud, she said nothing.
Dominic turned off the burner and grabbed a pair of oven mitts.
"You hungry?" he asked.
"No," she said.
Her stomach growled loudly.
He didn't comment.
He pulled a baking dish out of the oven—something cheesy and baked, though she couldn't tell if it was pasta or potatoes, and honestly didn't care.
"Doctor said?" he asked gently.
She sank onto one of the kitchen stools, her cast resting on the table.
"Bone's healing," she recited. "No complications. Great progress. Very proud. Gold star patient. But…"
"But," he echoed.
"But I get to keep these things," she slapped the plastic gently against the table, "for two, maybe three more weeks."
He set the dish down, the oven muffling the thud.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly.
She laughed.
Short.
Sharp.
"Why?" she demanded. "You didn't put a vote in at the doctor. 'Actually, Dr. Meyers, could we keep her broken a little longer?'"
He winced.
"Fair," he said.
Something inside her cracked a little more.
"Do you know what it's like?" she asked suddenly. "Waking up every day and planning your whole life around what you can't do?"
He didn't answer.
She kept going.
"Can't tie my shoes. I can't carry my bag. I can't do my hair. Can't cook without risking another accident. Can't even storm dramatically out of a room without someone asking if I need help with the door."
Her voice shook.
She hated that.
"And the worst part?" she added. "I'm getting used to it. I'm getting used to asking.To needing. To you, just being there. And I hate that even more."
His fingers curled around the edge of the counter.
"Kendra," he started.
She barreled on.
"I hate that every time I think about life without these"—she lifted her arms, the casts heavy— "I'm also thinking about what happens when you stop showing up at my door. At my locker. At my stupid bathroom door."
Her chest rose and fell quickly.
"Two more weeks," she said bitterly. "Two more weeks of this. I don't know whether to be grateful or terrified."
Silence fell.
He studied her face.
Her anger didn't scare him.
The vulnerability underneath it did.
"Do you really think," he asked slowly, "that the day those casts come off, I'm just going to disappear?"
Her throat worked.
"Yes," she said, because it was easier than hope.
His jaw tightened.
He stepped around the counter, wiping his hands on the cat apron, and stopped a few feet in front of her.
"Look at me," he said softly.
She didn't want to.
But she did.
Their eyes met.
"I have done a lot of stupid things in my life," he said. "Hurting you was top five."
"Only top five?" she muttered.
He almost smiled.
"But choosing to help you—really help you—every day since?" he went on. "That wasn't stupid. That was the first thing that's made any sense in a long time."
She swallowed hard.
He took another small step closer.
"You keep saying this ends when your casts come off," he said. "Like my obligation has an expiration date. Like I punched a loyalty card and I'm almost done."
"That's what this is," she snapped. "Isn't it? Guilt community service. Get the girl through her healing arc, then move on."
"No," he said, voice firm.
She flinched at the force of it.
"No," he repeated, softer. "That's what it was at the beginning. That's not what it is now."
Her heart thudded.
"Then what is it?" she whispered.
He stared at her.
Mate, his wolf hissed.
Everything, the bond hummed.
He couldn't tell her that.
So, he stepped as close as he dared, hands still at his sides, and chose the only truth he could share without breaking every rule his father had drilled into him.
"It's you," he said.
Her breath caught.
"What does that even mean?" she demanded, trying to pull sarcasm back like a shield and finding it heavier than usual.
"It means," he said, "that even if you woke up tomorrow with perfect wrists and more hands than an octopus, I'd still care what happens to you. I still want to be there. I'd still want to argue about movies and carry your bag and make bad pasta in your kitchen."
"That's not bad pasta?" she said weakly.
"Unconfirmed," he replied.
Her lips twitched.
His shoulders eased a fraction.
"This isn't about obligation anymore," he said. "It's not about my dad. It's not about the program. It's not even about the fall. It's about the fact that somewhere between you punching my friend and threatening to haunt me alive, you became… important."
The room seemed to get smaller.
Warmer.
Louder and quieter at the same time.
"People like you," she said softly, "don't say things like that to people like me."
His eyebrows drew together. "People like me?" he repeated.
She gestured vaguely at him with her cast. "You know. School royalty. Strongest whatever. Girls tripping over themselves for you. People who look like you don't…" She faltered, cheeks burning. "You don't end up in kitchens with girls like me, apologizing for things you don't have to apologize for anymore."
He looked at her for a long time.
When he spoke, his voice was careful.
"People like me," he said, "have been idiots for a very long time, then."
Her laugh came out broken. "You really think this is about you being an idiot?"
"It's at least half about me being an idiot," he said. "The other half is about you refusing to see what literally every other person in this town can see."
"And what's that?" she challenged, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her fingertips.
"That you're impossible to ignore," he said. "And impossible to forget. And impossible to not—"
He stopped himself just in time.
The word hung unsaid between them.
Her fingers tingled.
Somewhere outside, a car drove past.
The world kept going.
In the kitchen, time slowed.
He stepped closer.
There was barely a foot of space between them now.
He still hadn't touched her.
"Why are you saying this?" she whispered. "Why now?"
"Because you're waiting for an ending," he said. "And I'm trying to tell you… I don't want one."
Her chest felt too small for her lungs.
She could feel every inch of him without him touching her.
The heat of his body.
The rise and fall of his breathing.
The way his eyes kept flicking to her mouth and then guiltily back to her eyes.
Her cast suddenly felt like anchors, shields, and excuses all at once.
"This is stupid," she said hoarsely.
"Probably," he agreed.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth.
Don't, she told herself.
Don't be that girl. Don't be a cliché. Don't—
"Dom," she said, and the nickname slipped out like it had been waiting for permission.
He inhaled sharply.
"Kendra," he replied.
Her heart stuttered.
There were a thousand reasons not to do what she did next.
She had casts.
She had issues.
She had zero practice at this.
She hated romance.
She didn't trust him.
Not fully.
Not yet.
But she trusted this:
The way he'd said you matter with his hands and not just his mouth.
The way he'd carried her bag and her embarrassment and her stubbornness without dropping any of them.
The way he'd stood outside the bathroom door and waited for her to tell him to come in.
The way he was standing was now close enough to catch her if she fell again, far enough to let her decide.
Her brain screamed.
Her body moved first.
She leaned forward.
It wasn't smooth.
Her balance wobbled, casts tugging at her center of gravity.
He saw her coming and froze, eyes wide, like he was afraid to scare her off.
Her forehead bumped his chin.
"Ow," she muttered.
"Sorry," he said automatically.
"Your face is sharp," she grumbled.
"Noted," he whispered.
She tilted her head, adjusted, and this time—
Their mouths met.
Just barely.
Just a brush.
Light.
Soft.
Awkward.
Electric.
It was nothing like the movies.
There was no swelling music, no spinning camera, no perfect angle.
Her nose smushed a little against his.
He inhaled like he'd been punched.
His hand jerked up instinctively, then stopped, hovering near her waist, fingers spread like he was afraid to touch her without permission.
Her heart hammered against her ribs.
His lips were warm.
Tentative.
Careful in a way, nothing about him ever was with anyone else.
She pulled back a fraction of an inch, eyes still closed.
For a heartbeat, neither of them breathed.
Then he whispered, voice broken and reverent and terrified all at once,
"Can I…?"
The question shivered between them.
She opened her eyes.
He looked wrecked.
Not in a bad way.
In a changed way.
Like something fundamental had shifted, and he was still checking to see if the world had noticed.
"Still on probation," she murmured.
His mouth twitched.
"Understood," he said.
She swallowed.
"But…" she added, throat tight, "yeah."
His hand settled, very lightly, at her waist.
His thumb brushed the hem of her hoodie like he was memorizing it.
He leaned down this time.
Slow.
Visible.
She met him halfway.
Their second kiss fit better.
Still soft.
Still cautious.
But less accidental.
His lips moved against Her's gently, asking more than taking.
She kissed back, clumsy, honest, and terrifying.
Her cast bumped into his chest.
He didn't flinch.
If anything, he leaned in closer, careful not to jostle them.
For the first time in weeks, she didn't feel broken.
She felt… anchored.
Like gravity had finally picked a direction, and it was him.
When they pulled apart, it was gradual.
Like neither of them was entirely sure where the kiss ended, and the rest of the world began.
Her eyes stayed closed for a second longer.
When she opened them, he was already watching her.
"Do not," she said, voice shaky but firm, "make a joke right now."
His mouth opened.
Closed.
"Okay," he said. "No jokes."
Silence stretched, thick and fragile.
"Also, do not," she added, "tell anyone."
His chest rose and fell. "I wouldn't," he said. "This is… not for them."
"Good," she said. "Because if @GarrisonTea posts about this, I'm moving back to Jamaica."
His eyebrows shot up. "You think I'd kiss you for clout?" he asked, genuinely offended.
Heat flooded her cheeks. "I didn't say—"
"I know why I kissed you," he said quietly. "I just don't have permission to say it out loud yet."
Her heart did a stupid flip.
"Don't push it," she muttered.
He smiled.
Small.
Soft.
Real.
"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.
They stood there, too close and not close enough, both suddenly aware of the cheesy, slightly burned smell of the oven dish cooling on the counter.
Kendra cleared her throat.
"So," she said. "Either we pretend this didn't happen, or we… figure out what it is."
He nodded slowly.
"I vote for figuring it out," he said.
"Later," she said quickly. "After my bones aren't wrapped in plaster and my brain isn't busy screaming."
"Later," he agreed.
She took a careful step back.
The space between them felt weird.
Too big.
Too small.
Too loud.
She looked anywhere but his face.
"My lips feel weird," she blurted.
He huffed a laugh. "Mine too," he admitted.
"Don't get used to it," she said.
"Too late," he replied softly.
She shot him a look.
He raised his hands in surrender.
The front door burst open.
"We're home and emotionally damaged!" Erica yelled from the hallway. "The movie was terrible and amazing!"
"Everyone was kissing!" Sofia added. "You would've hated it, Kendra."
Kendra's entire body went rigid.
Dominic stepped back so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet.
They exchanged one last look—full of panic and something new—then scrambled.
He moved toward the sink, grabbing a random cup like he'd always been there, doing something totally innocent and not life-changing.
She pivoted toward the oven, nearly braining herself with her own cast in the process.
The girls poured into the kitchen in a tangle of chatter and complaints.
"Dom made food," Sofia announced. "We nourished your boy while we were gone."
"He is not my boy," Kendra said automatically.
Dominic, by the sink, glanced over.
Her cheeks flamed.
No one noticed.
Not yet.
As the girls crowded around the dish, arguing over whether it was lasagna or some other carb-based miracle, Dominic caught Kendra's eye one more time.
He mouthed, later.
Her heart skipped.
She didn't nod.
She didn't smile.
She just held his gaze for a second, then looked away before anyone could connect the dots.
So this was what trouble felt like.
Not the kind that landed you in detention or on a plane to another country.
The kind that tasted like warmth and risk and scared laughter.
The kind that started with a fall—
And ended, for now, with a kiss, she was absolutely one hundred percent not thinking about as she sat at the table, trying to pretend everything was the same.
(It wasn't.)
And for the first time in a long time, the idea of an ending didn't feel inevitable.
It felt… negotiable.