I dropped my keys into the bowl by the door harder than I meant to. The metal hit ceramic with a loud crack that made us both flinch. Something in my hip twinged at the twist. I swallowed the sound that wanted to come out.
She straightened slowly, the smile slipping a notch as she took me in more closely. Her brows pinched, worry lighting up behind her eyes before I could dodge it.
“You okay?” she asked. “You look?—”
“Long day,” I cut in, already angling my body past the table toward the living room. “I’m going to sit down.”
The tightness in my voice was evident, even to my own ears.
A chair scraped behind me. Her footsteps followed, light and stubborn. By the time I lowered myself onto the couch, she was there, arms folded around herself like she was resisting the urge to reach for me.
“Wes,” she said quietly. “Talk to me. Did something happen at the site?”
The question made my skin crawl.
The upstairs landing flashed behind my eyes—plywood, hands under my arms, the murmur ofHe shouldn’t be up there. Shame rose like heat, thick and suffocating. Her concern felt less like a hand offered and more like a spotlight pinned between my shoulder blades.
I latched onto irritation because it was easier to hold than fear.
“Not everything is a crisis I need to unpack with you, Clara.” The sentence snapped out before I could soften it.
Her head jerked back a fraction, like I’d reached out and physically pushed her. Hurt flared across her face, quick and unguarded, before something cooler slid in to cover it.
“Wow,” she said, a brittle little laugh escaping as she raised her palms. “Okay. I didn’t realize asking if you’re okay was micromanaging now.”
Guilt punched hard in my gut. The right move would have been to back up, to apologize, to tell her the truth instead of bleeding all over her with half of it.
“I’m tired,” I ground out, staring at some point over her shoulder because looking her in the eye felt dangerous. “That’s it. You don’t have to fix it.”
The second the words were out, I wanted them back.
You fucking asshole. She isn’t your triage nurse. She isn’t the enemy.
Her mouth pressed into a hard line. Color climbed her throat, high and hot, like anger was the only thing holding back something worse.
“I wasn’t trying to fix it,” she said, voice too even to be anything but forced. “I was trying to be your person for thirty goddamn seconds.”
That one landed square in the center of my chest.
My leg pulsed in time with my heartbeat. I shoved my fingers against the aching muscle above the socket like pressure on the pain would stall out all of it.
“I’m going to ice my leg,” I said, doubling down because running away was the only thing I seemed to be good at. “I’ll be fine.”
Her eyes went shiny for a heartbeat, then cleared in that eerie way I’d seen once before—on a front porch with a dress bag over her shoulder and a life unraveling behind her.
“Right,” she said coolly. “Great. I’ll get out of your way, then.”
She turned on her heel and walked back to the table, spine straight, shoulders tight. The slight tremor in her hands as she picked up a stack of photos was the only tell she hadn’t gone completely numb.
The room felt colder just from the space she put between us.
I sank back into the couch cushions like my bones had turned to lead, staring at the blank TV screen, listening to the soft, careful sounds of her stacking books instead of the easy, looping hum we’d had the last few days.
My leg hurt. My ego hurt worse.
I dragged a hand over my face. The crack I’d just put in us felt small on the surface.
Deep down, it was already starting to split wide open and bleed.
