MELODY
...

I rush to pick up the glass shards, my heart pounding in my chest. My hands tremble as they dart for the larger pieces, desperate to clean up the mess before me. Or maybe I'm too scared to just stand there and process her words.

Steph takes a step back, her expression a mix of shock and frustration, her voice sharp when she finally speaks.

"Careful! You're going to hurt yourself. Let me help you with that," she says quickly, her tone walking a tightrope between scolding and concern.

I barely hear her, too focused on fixing the disaster I've just caused. The broken glass glints under the kitchen light, mocking me, and my fingers move faster than they should, grabbing at the jagged edges.

It happens in a flash-a sharp, searing pain that shoots through my hand. I freeze, my breath hitching as an involuntary "Ouch!" escapes me.

Steph's gasp cuts through the air. "I told you to be careful! What the fuck, Mel?"

Her frustration is palpable, but there's something else layered underneath-fear, maybe. She steps closer, pushing past her own irritation as she grabs my hand, forcing me to stop.

Her fingers are warm and firm. She tilts my hand toward the light, inspecting the damage with an intensity that makes me feel small and foolish.

Blood wells up from two small but angry cuts, one on my palm and the other on my middle finger. The crimson stands out starkly against my pale skin, and I can see the shift in Steph's expression-the frustration melting into worry, her lips pressing into a tight line.

"Jesus," she mutters under her breath, snatching a towel from the counter. She presses it firmly against my palm, her movements quick but careful. The pressure stings, and I wince, but she doesn't ease up.

But a second later, the white towel turns crimson.

"Shit, it won't stop bleeding," she mutters, her voice tinged with rising panic. She glances at me, her blue eyes searching. "Do you have a first aid kit?"

I nod, though my head feels heavy, like it's moving through molasses.

"Where is it?"

I open my mouth to answer, but my mind blanks. It's stupid-I know it's somewhere in this house, but my brain is too scrambled to find the memory. I stare at her helplessly, my pulse thundering in my ears.

"Mel," Steph says, her voice firmer now, a controlled urgency threading through her words. Her brows furrow, and her grip on my hand tightens just slightly. "Where is it?"

I shake my head.

"Can you use your words please?"

I swallow.

"I-I don't know," I stammer, the words tumbling out as my face flushes with embarrassment.

She exhales sharply, a frustrated groan spilling out as she glances around the room. "How do you not know? This is your house!"

I snap back almost immediately. "Well, it's not like I was planning on getting cut today, was I!"

The second the words leave my mouth, I regret them. Her gaze snaps to mine, the corners of her mouth tightening, but she doesn't respond right away. The silence stretches for a beat, tension hanging heavy between us.

Finally, Steph lets out a heavy breath, shaking her head as she glances down at my hand.

She keeps pressing the towel against my cuts, her thumb brushing against the uninjured skin of my wrist slightly.

"Fine," she grunts. "Just... stay here and don't move. Try not to bleed all over the place.

Before I can argue, she storms out of the kitchen.

The towel is already soaked through with blood, and I wince as I shift my grip, trying to apply pressure the way she did. My hand aches, a dull, throbbing pain radiating from the cuts, and I can't help but feel like an idiot for not listening to her in the first place.

Finally alone, I exhale shakily, cradling my injured hand. The pain is sharp and unrelenting, but it's nothing compared to the chaos swirling in my head.

Steph likes me? A lot? So much it fuckin' annoys her?

And here I thought I was the one drowning in this shit.

When Steph returns, she's empty-handed at first, scanning the room like she's trying to piece together a puzzle. Then her gaze lands on the cabinet under the sink. She crouches, pulls it open, and triumphantly retrieves the first aid kit.

I watch her as she sets it down on the counter and starts rummaging through it. Her movements are quick, but there's an edge to her that wasn't there before.

"I'm sorry," I mumble, my voice barely audible.

She doesn't look up, doesn't say a word, just pulls out a bottle of antiseptic and some bandages. Her silence makes my stomach churn.

When she finally turns back to me, she grabs my hand with a gentleness that surprises me. Carefully, she cleans the wounds, the antiseptic stinging so badly I wince. Her grip tightens slightly, as if to steady me--or maybe herself.

Once the cuts are clean, she wraps a bandage around my hand with practiced precision. At the end, she ties it off with a tiny bow, and I catch myself almost smiling at the absurdity of it.

"How can you be so careless?" she snaps suddenly, her eyes blazing as she looks up at me. "Do you want every part of your body to stop working?"

I'm taken aback.

"Uh, chill," I bite back, the sting in my hand fueling my bitterness. "It was an accident."

"Yeah, because people totally pick up shards of glass with their bare hands. Why would we need a broom, after all?"

"Steph-"

Before I can finish, she storms out of the kitchen, again! Leaving me standing there like an idiot with a bandaged hand and a pit in my stomach.

I stare at the doorway, my mind racing.

Okay, maybe she's overreacting. I admit I was impulsive, but I didn't mean for this to happen.

But why the hell is she so pissed?

The thought gnaws at me as I sink onto one of the barstools, cradling my hand. It's not just anger; there's something else, something I can't quite figure out.

But this is the first time I've ever seen her upset. I don't know what to do.

Do I go after her or stay away?