STEPHANIE
...

I storm out of the kitchen before I say something I’ll regret. My hands are shaking, and my heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear myself think.

I stomp into the living room, but it doesn’t help; the tension in my chest refuses to go away.

Why does she have to be so reckless?

I flop onto the couch, rubbing my face with both hands. The image of her wincing in pain as those glass shards bit into her skin is burned into my brain. I’m furious, but it’s not just because she got hurt.

It’s because I care.

And that terrifies the fuck out of me.

I exhale slowly, trying to calm myself down. My gaze drifts toward the kitchen doorway, but I don’t move.

She probably thinks I’m mad at her—and, okay, maybe I am a little. But more than that, I’m mad at myself for losing my cool.

I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that.

It’s just... seeing her bleed, seeing her so careless with herself, it hit something inside me. I'm supposed to be taking care of her!

I lean back against the couch and close my eyes, but the memory of her standing there with that stupidly guilty look on her face refuses to leave me alone.

“I think I like you.”

My words echo in echo in my head, and my heart does that annoying fluttery thing it’s been doing all day. How do I come back from that? How can I sit here and act normal after that bombshell I dropped on her?

Maybe if we had kissed, the moment would have melted into another, but now? Wow!

My chest tightens again, but this time it’s not from anger. It’s something softer, something warmer—and I hate it.

Fuck, this is so messy.

I glance at the clock. It hasn’t even been five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. I know I should go back in there, check on her, make sure she’s okay. But the thought of facing her right now is almost too much.

What if I say something else that sounds just as stupid as: I like you, so fucking much it annoys me.

I grab a throw pillow and press it against my face, groaning into the fabric. I really would rather scream.

After another moment of internal debating, I finally push myself off the couch. Avoiding her forever isn’t an option, no matter how much I want it to be.

When I step back into the kitchen, she’s sitting at the counter, staring at her bandaged hand like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

Her head snaps up when she hears me, her eyes wide like she wasn't expecting me. Maybe I should go back.

“Hey,” I say, my voice softer than I expected.

“Hey,” she echoes, her tone cautious.

For a few seconds, neither of us says anything. The silence is heavy and awkward.

“I... uh, I didn’t mean to make you mad,” she says finally, her voice low.

I shake my head, leaning against the doorframe. “I’m not mad.”

She raises an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“Okay, fine,” I admit, crossing my arms. “Maybe I was a little mad. But not at you. Not exactly.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she mutters, looking down at her hand again.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I just... I hate seeing you get hurt, Mel. And Jeremiah trusts me to take care of you. I feel like I'm failing him. Does that make sense?”

For a moment, she looks like she doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sorry,” she says after a beat. “I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted to clean up the mess before you had to.”

I step closer, the frustration in my chest softening into something else. “I don’t care about the mess, Mel. I care about you.”

Her gaze snaps to mine, and I realize too late how much weight those words carry.

Crap.

Before I can backtrack or explain, she gives me this look—this soft, vulnerable look that makes my heart do that stupid fluttery thing again.

“You care about me?” she asks, her voice only a whisper.

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry. “Yeah. Of course, I do.”

She doesn’t say anything right away, just stares at me like she’s trying to figure me out. And then, to my surprise, she smiles.

It’s not her usual teasing grin or the mischievous smirk I’m used to. It’s genuine and it completely disarms me.

“Thanks,” she says simply.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

The silence between us isn’t as heavy but it's charged nonetheless.

“Your hand,” I say finally, gesturing toward the bandage. “Does it still hurt?”

She shrugs. “A little. But it’s not too bad.”

“Good,” I say, relieved. “Next time, though, maybe let me handle the broken glass, okay?”

She laughs softly. “Deal. If there will be a next time.”

We fall into a more comfortable silence after that, and I find myself leaning against the counter across from her.

For a moment, everything feels normal again. Like we’re back to the easy, natural rhythm we had before tonight got so complicated.

But then I remember what I said to her. The fucking confession that’s been replaying in my head nonstop.

I glance at her, trying to gauge whether I should bring it up or let it go. Is she thinking about it too?

“Mel,” I start.

She looks up at me.

“About what I said earlier...”

Her cheeks flush, and she looks away, fiddling with the edge of her bandage.

“You don’t have to say anything about it. I know it was probably weird or—”

“It wasn’t weird,” she interrupts, surprising me.

I blink, her gaze snaps back to mine.

“It wasn’t weird,” she repeats, voice quieter this time. “It just... caught me off guard.”

“Oh,” I mutter.

She sucks in some air.

“I don’t really know what to say, Steph. But I don’t want you to think I’m ignoring it or pretending it didn’t happen.”

I nod. “Okay.”

Her response is not much but I'm glad that's out of the way now.

We lapse into silence again.

“Do you regret saying it?” she asks finally.

My eyes widen slightly, and I shake my head. “No, I don’t.”

I catch the faint smile on her lips and my stomach drops.

“Good,” she says softly.

I hold her gaze for a moment and return the smile.

"Do you..."

She shakes her head even if I haven't finished my statement.

"We should watch TV."

I nod.

Fair enough.