“I’ve got another in the kit,” I answer. “Don’t force it.”
She leans a little to pry it loose. The gutter shifts. I step in, one hand on the ladder, the other reaching to catch the bracket before it can fall. My knuckles clip the jagged edge of the downspout.
The sound is quick and ugly—metal splitting skin—and then I’m hissing through my teeth. Blood wells fast, bright against the gray metal. I curl my hand into a fist like that’ll be enough to stop it.
“I’m okay,” I mutter before she can get the words out. My jaw’s tight, though, and I know it shows. I’m used to chronic pain, the kind that lingers in the background like shitty weather, but I haven’t injured myself like this in years. Not with blood and rust biting into the cut.
Her eyes widen. “What happened?”
I step back, keep the ladder steady with my boot, and press my hand to my side. Blood’s already sliding down my wrist, a sharp streak of red blooming against the clean snow.
She scrambles down too fast, nearly slipping. “Oh my God, Wells. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean—did I—was it—”
“I said I’m fine. It was me. I wasn’t looking.”
“But you wouldn’t have—if I hadn’t leaned or—Jesus, that’s a lot of blood.”
“It looks worse than it is,” I say, though the sting tells me otherwise.
She ignores me, cradles my arm with surprising care, and gives a firm tug. “Come on. Inside. We’ll find a first aid kit.”
“I used the last of the gauze when I split my knuckle fixing the porch rail.”
“Then I’ll improvise. I’ve seenGrey’s Anatomy.”
I let her pull me back across the snow, one hand pressed tight to my chest, the other brushing the edge of her coat. The trail we leave behind is dotted in red.
The heat of the house hits like a wall. She doesn’t hesitate as she steers us straight to the kitchen. She knows the layout by heart, as if muscle memory has been guiding her through these rooms all along.
“I’m all right,” I say again, quieter now. The words don’t stick.
She tears through the drawers like a woman on a mission. I sink into a chair, letting the ache pulse. I almost tell her not to bother. I’ve scoured these cabinets before, and there’s never been a first aid kit here.
But then, tucked behind the flour tins, she finds one. A pale blue tin I’ve never seen, stocked with gauze, wipes, tape. She freezes for half a second, as if she can’t quite believe it, either, then shakes herself and brings it over.
The gauze trembles slightly in her hand. She’s rattled. Thinks this is her fault.
I’d like to blame her for everything that is, or has, or will go wrong on principle, but it’s hard to keep up the tough-guy act when she looks like that—cheeks flushed, brow drawn tight, heart sitting squarely in her hands. I don’t know what to do with that kind of sincerity.
“It’s really not bad,” I say again.
Blood streaks down to my elbow, bright against my skin, dripping onto the worn floorboards like punctuation. I flex my fingers, wince at the pull.
“Let me look.” Her fingers are steady when she takes my wrist, turning it toward the light. The cut runs jagged across my palm, sharp and raw. She presses an antiseptic wipe to it.
“Shit,” I bite out, jerking in the chair.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “This part’s the worst.”
My teeth grit. “It’s fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“And I generally don’t like repeating myself.”
She looks up at me then, gaze open and steady. I shift mine to the window instead, fix it on the snow collecting along the sill. Her hands work with practiced care—dab, wrap, anchor the tape smooth and clean.
If she sheds another tear over this, I might as well hand her the keys and call it a day.
