Third-Person Limited – Kendra, then Dominic
By the time Wednesday rolled around, Kendra was done.
Not regular done.
Spiritually done.
Her arms ached. Her shoulders ached. Her brain ached. Even her patience had muscle soreness.
The doctor had called it "a normal part of the healing process."
She called it "pure disrespect."
Worst Day Yet
The day started badly when she dropped her toothbrush.
Not in a cute, clumsy way.
In a slow-motion, helpless way.
She'd finally managed to squeeze toothpaste onto the bristles by pinning the tube between her elbow and the counter and pressing with her cast. She'd just lifted the brush toward her mouth when the plastic slipped between her fingers.
It bounced off the sink and clattered into the trash bin.
"Of course," she muttered.
She stared at it.
This was the part where, before, she'd sigh, pick it up, rinse it, move on.
Now?
She couldn't reach the bottom of the bin properly without jamming her casts against the side. Even if she did, she wouldn't be able to grab the brush without dropping it again.
"Hey, Kendra, you nearly done in there?" Erica yelled through the door. "Some of us would like to not smell like death at school."
"Your face smells like death," Kendra shot back automatically.
She forced herself to breathe.
It was just a toothbrush.
Just one more thing she couldn't do.
"New brush!" she shouted, voice tight. "Someone toss one in my direction!"
Sofia burst in, flinging the door open without knocking, a spare toothbrush in hand.
"Do you mind?" Kendra demanded, jumping.
"You yelled like the building was on fire," Sofia said, already ripping the packaging open with her teeth. "Toothbrush emergency qualifies."
She set the new brush carefully in Kendra's fingers and, without comment, used her foot to push the trash bin closer, hooking the old brush up with the side of her shoe and kicking it further in.
"Teeth crisis: averted," Sofia said cheerfully. "You're welcome."
"This is stupid," Kendra muttered once she'd gone. "I'm stupid."
She scrubbed her teeth with more force than necessary, ignoring the way her wrists twinged.
The day only went downhill from there.
At school, the hallways were more crowded than usual. Some kind of fire drill had messed up the schedule, and everyone was out of sync. Bodies pressed closer. Backpacks swung wider.
Twice before first period, someone bumped into her hard enough to send a jolt up her arms.
"Sorry!" one freshman yelped.
Kendra gritted her teeth. "It's fine," she said.
It wasn't.
By mid-morning, her wrists felt like they were on fire.
Then came science.
Mr. Caldwell had a strict "no late entry" policy and loved pop quizzes with the passion of a man who had no hobbies.
Kendra walked in, a little out of breath from the extra time it took to get to class.
"I see you're still on island time, Miss Atchinson," he said dryly.
A few kids snickered.
"I move slower," she said evenly, lifting her casts slightly. "These aren't for decoration."
He sniffed. "Well, grab a quiz and take a seat."
In the past, Dominic might have said something.
He wasn't in this class.
No one else did, either.
She shuffled to her seat, dropped into it, and stared at the paper.
Her name line mocked her.
She tried wedging the pen between her fingers the way Dominic and Jennie had showed her. The cast made her grip weird and stiff. Her fingers cramped almost immediately.
The letters came out jagged, slanted, shaky.
She forced herself through three questions.
Each one sent a fresh burn up her arm.
Around her, pens scratched easily across paper.
Someone tapped their foot.
Someone chewed gum loudly.
Kendra blinked hard and swallowed.
By the time the bell rang, she'd answered maybe half the questions.
Her name still looked like a toddler's.
Mr. Caldwell walked up the aisle collecting papers.
He glanced at hers.
His eyebrows pinched. "You could've asked for a scribe," he said mildly. "You know we make accommodations."
She wanted to scream.
Instead, she said, "I got it," and pushed the quiz toward him with her elbow.
He took it, lips pressing together, and walked away.
At lunch, things didn't improve.
The line was long. The noise was loud. She was tired.
Dominic took her tray without asking and loaded it up while she stood slightly to the side, trying to roll her shoulders and ease the ache.
"Chicken, rice, veggies, fries," he said, sliding items onto the tray.
"Why are you narrating?" she snapped.
"To make sure you don't accuse me of sabotaging your lunch," he replied evenly. "You want juice or water?"
"Water," she said shortly.
He added it, then glanced back toward her friends' table. "You want to eat outside?" he asked quietly.
Kendra blinked.
"What?"
"It's loud in here," he said. "You're wincing every time someone drops a tray. I can carry your food; we can sit on the steps by the courtyard. Less of a circus."
She hated that he noticed.
She hated that he wasn't wrong.
"No," she said. "I'm not hiding."
His jaw clenched. "Okay," he said. "Table it is."
They wove through the maze of kids and trays. One kid cut too close; the tray tipped. A spoon slid off and clattered to the floor.
"Leave it," she muttered when Dominic stooped to grab it. "Just—leave it."
He straightened. "I'll get another one."
"I said leave it," she hissed.
He did.
By the time they reached the table and he set the tray down, she'd lost her appetite.
She forced herself to eat anyway.
Her hand cramped around the fork again.
At one point, her fingers spasmed and the fork fell, clattering against the plate and skidding off onto the floor.
A few kids at nearby tables looked over.
"Five-second rule?" Sofia offered weakly.
Kendra stared at the fork.
Dominic started to stand. "I got it—"
"Don't touch it," she snapped.
He froze.
She picked the fork up with her cast instead, gripping the metal between plaster and palm. It dug into her skin.
She plunked it back on the tray, hands shaking.
"I'm done," she said, pushing her chair back.
"You barely ate," Jennie said softly.
"Then maybe I'm barely hungry," Kendra muttered.
She stood up so fast, her chair scraped.
"I'm going to the library," she said. "At least books don't stare at me."
No one stopped her.
Even Dominic didn't follow.
He just watched her walk away, jaw tight, wolf pacing in his head like it wanted to tear something apart.
The final straw came after school.
Joint Service.
Miss Hall had them in the office again, this time sorting a huge box of donated supplies—folders, pencils, notebooks, different stacks for different grades.
"We've got a parents' night next week," she said. "These packets will make me look organized."
"You mean us," Kendra muttered.
"You're my chaos gremlins," Miss Hall said fondly. "I could not do this without you."
Normally, that would've made Kendra smile.
Today, it slid right off her.
Dominic sat at the table with the box, waiting for Miss Hall's instructions. Kendra stood by the counter, feeling like a poorly programmed robot.
"Okay," Miss Hall said. "Kendra, you call out what's what; Dominic, you pack. Team effort. Easy day."
Easy.
Sure.
At first, it went fine.
"Third-grade folder," Kendra said.
"Got it," Dominic replied, sliding it into a stack.
"High school supply list."
"Here."
They fell into a rhythm again.
But every time she shifted the papers, her wrists complained. The cast edges rubbed against tender skin. The ache that had been simmering all day turned sharp.
At one point, a folder slipped from her arm and fluttered to the floor.
She watched it land, right side up, mocking her.
"Leave it," she muttered.
"I'll grab it," Dominic said, already half out of his chair.
"I said leave it," she snapped, louder than she meant to.
Miss Hall's eyes flicked up from her computer.
Dominic slowly sat back down.
The folder stayed on the floor.
Mocking her.
Her chest felt tight.
Her eyes burned.
Absolutely not, she thought. She wasn't going to cry in the office. She wasn't.
"Hey," Miss Hall said gently. "You two okay?"
"Fine," Kendra said, voice too bright. "Just peachy."
"We're good," Dominic added, though he clearly didn't believe himself.
Miss Hall studied them for a moment, then sighed. "Alright," she said. "I'm calling it. You've both helped a ton these last few weeks. Go home early today. I'll finish this."
"You sure?" Dominic asked.
"Yes," Miss Hall said firmly. "Before one of you combusts from exhaustion. Pack it up."
Kendra didn't argue.
She practically bolted.
Breakdown
By the time she got home, the thin thread holding her together had frayed completely.
The girls were scattered—Erica still at cheer practice, Jeah and Jennie in their rooms, Sofia across the street dropping off something for a neighbor.
The house was quiet.
Too quiet.
Kendra kicked her shoes off by the door, then shuffled toward the living room.
Her bag slipped off her shoulder on the way and thumped onto the floor.
She stared at it.
Her homework was in there.
Her water bottle. Her charger. The book she'd been reading at lunch before everything had gone sideways.
She needed it.
She also couldn't pick it up.
Not easily.
Not without contorting herself and using her feet or knees like some kind of circus act.
Her chest tightened.
"Not today," she whispered. "Come on. Not today."
She tried anyway.
She knelt slowly, casts held stiffly out in front of her, and tried to use her forearms to drag the bag closer.
The strap slipped.
Pain flared.
Her wrists screamed.
"Move," she hissed at the bag, eyes blurring. "Just move—"
It didn't.
She tried again.
And again.
Each attempt hurt more.
Each failure made her feel smaller.
She sat back on her heels, breath coming too fast.
The living room spun slightly.
"This is stupid," she said out loud, voice shaking. "It's just a bag. Just get up. You've had worse days. You've—"
Her throat closed.
Something hot slid down her cheeks.
She swiped at it automatically—
And her casts bumped her own face.
It hurt.
That was it.
Her breath hitched.
A ragged sound tore itself from her chest, half laugh, half sob.
She clamped her lips shut to smother it.
It didn't work.
More tears came, fast and angry, blurring everything.
"This is so stupid," she gasped at no one. "It's just a stupid bag—"
She tried to stand up and her foot slipped on the strap.
She caught herself with one knee.
Pain shot up both legs and arms at once.
She dropped onto the floor beside her backpack and finally, after three weeks of swallowing everything, she let go.
Sobs hit her hard, shaking her shoulders, bending her chest around the weight of it.
Frustration. Pain. Embarrassment. Exhaustion. All the "I'm fine"s she'd said piled up and collapsed on top of her.
"I hate this," she choked. "I hate this, I hate this, I hate this—"
She hated the casts.
She hated the stairs.
She hated that toothbrushes and zippers and bathroom doors and backpacks were beating her.
She hated that she was far from home and her dad and everyone who knew her before all this.
She hated that the one person who had caused this was now the one who understood it best.
Somewhere, a door opened.
She didn't hear it.
She was too busy trying to swallow her own breathing.
"Kendra?"
His voice was soft.
Closer than it should've been.
Her head snapped up.
Dominic stood in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, eyes wide.
Sofia hovered behind him, looking guilty and worried.
"I—" Sofia started. "He texted he was on his way. I thought— I didn't know you were—"
Kendra scrubbed at her face clumsily with her shoulder, anger slamming back into place on top of the grief.
"Don't," she snapped hoarsely. "Don't pity-look at me. Get out."
Sofia took a cautious step forward. "Kendra—"
"I said get out!" she yelled.
Sofia flinched.
"Okay," she said softly. "I'll be right outside if you need me, yeah?"
She slipped back toward the porch, closing the front door behind her with a quiet click.
That left Dominic.
Still in the doorway.
Still staring.
She glared at him through fresh tears.
"You happy?" she demanded. "You get to see the show? Big bad Kendra crying over a backpack? This entertaining enough for you?"
He didn't say anything.
He walked in.
Slowly.
Carefully, like she might bolt.
He stopped a few feet away, eyes dropping to the bag and then back to her.
"Do you want help?" he asked quietly.
"No," she snapped. "I want my hands back. I want my life back. I want my wrists to stop feeling like someone set them on fire. I want people to stop calling me brave for existing. I want my dad. I want my old school. I want to not hate myself for needing you."
The last sentence ripped out of her before she could stop it.
Her eyes widened.
His did too.
They stared at each other, both a little stunned.
She looked away first, tears spilling over again.
"Just—go away," she whispered. "Please. I can't do this in front of you. I can't. I'll never hear the end of it in your stupid rich boy friend group. 'Remember when the exchange girl cried over her bag?'"
He sat down.
Not next to her.
Not touching.
Just near.
On the floor, across from her, cross-legged like they were kids in kindergarten.
"I'm not telling anyone," he said. "They don't get to have this."
She let out a wet laugh. "Oh, great. I feel so much better."
He nodded once, like he accepted the hit.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Didn't talk.
Just breathed.
The quiet in the room settled around them like a blanket.
When he finally spoke again, his voice was different. Lower. Gentler.
"Kendra," he said. "I'm going to pick up your bag. That's all. Okay?"
She didn't answer.
He reached out slowly.
His fingers closed around the strap. He pulled it closer, set it upright.
The simple movement she'd been trying to do for the last five minutes took him two seconds.
Her throat tightened again.
"See?" she said bitterly. "Easy. Everyone else in the world can do it. Just not me."
"That's not true," he said.
"Oh, right, I forgot," she said, sarcasm returning in self-defense. "I'm brave. I'm inspiring. I'm—"
"You're exhausted," he cut in quietly. "And hurting. And trying to pretend you're not."
She fell silent.
He looked at her for a long moment.
Her cheeks were wet. Her eyes were red. Her braid was half coming out, curls frizzing around her face from stress and earlier humidity.
She looked more breakable than he'd ever seen her.
And he'd seen her hit the ground.
Twice.
"I'm sorry I saw you like this," he said. "I know you didn't want that."
She let out a breath that sounded like it hurt. "Congratulations," she said. "You finally got something you didn't want too."
He almost smiled at that.
Almost.
He scooted closer.
Not close enough to crowd her.
Close enough to reach if she let him.
"Kendra," he said softly. "Can I… help you up?"
She hesitated.
Her legs had gone stiff from kneeling. Her wrists throbbed in time with her heartbeat. She wasn't actually sure she could get up without falling over.
But letting him touch her now felt like admitting something she wasn't ready to admit.
"Don't drag me," she muttered. "Don't yank."
"I won't," he said.
He held out his arm, not his hand.
Slow. Visible.
She glared at it.
Then, reluctantly, hooked her cast around his forearm.
He braced himself.
"Ready?" he asked.
"No," she said.
He pulled gently.
She pushed with her knees, and between them, she got upright.
Her legs wobbled.
His other hand hovered by her elbow, not quite touching.
"Okay?" he asked.
She scoffed. "Define okay."
He nodded, accepting that as an answer.
She shuffled backward until her calves hit the couch.
He nudged the bag aside with one foot and then, without asking, bent to pick it up.
He set it carefully on the coffee table.
"You know," she said thickly, "there was a time when I didn't need help picking up my own stuff."
He sat down on the edge of the armchair, still facing her.
"I know," he said. "And there'll be a time again when you won't. This…" He nodded toward her cast. "…is temporary. It feels bigger than it is because it's everywhere right now. That doesn't mean it's forever."
She sank onto the couch, breathing hard.
Her face felt hot and tight from crying; the skin under her eyes already stung like it was going to puff.
She hated that he saw that.
But she couldn't stop it.
Her voice came out small when she asked, "What if I'm not as strong as everyone thinks I am?"
He stared at her.
His own chest ached.
He could feel it through the bond—her fear, her anger, her shame. It rolled through him like a wave and settled in his ribs.
"You don't have to be," he said. "Not all the time."
She snorted. "Says the golden boy who never cracks."
His mouth twisted. "You didn't know me before," he said quietly. "Before you got here."
"Yeah, and?" she said.
"And I've cracked more in the last three weeks than I have in years," he said. "Mostly because of you."
She blinked.
That pulled her attention back.
"You are saying I'm stressful?" she muttered.
He huffed a breath that might've been a laugh. "You're… a lot," he said. "But that's not what I meant."
He leaned forward slightly, forearms on his knees.
"I'm not good at this," he said. "At… talking about anything real. But I'm trying. For you."
She looked at him, searching.
His expression was open in a way she wasn't used to. No smirk. No guard. Just tired honesty.
It made something in her chest shift painfully.
"I don't want you to feel trapped by this," she said suddenly. "By me. By what you did. I don't want you helping because you feel guilty and not because you actually… want to."
The last word slipped out before she could stop it.
He inhaled.
"I do feel guilty," he said. "I should. I grabbed you. You fell. You got hurt. That's real. That's never going away."
She flinched.
"But" he added, "I'm not here just because of that anymore."
Silence.
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.
"Then why?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Because you're my mate, he thought.
Because every time you hurt, it feels like my bones are the ones breaking.
Because I can't be here.
He couldn't say any of that.
So, he settled for the truth he could say.
"Because I care what happens to you," he said simply. "Because I don't like watching you struggle with things no one should have to do alone. Because… you matter to me now. Whether you want to or not."
Her breath caught.
He saw it.
She looked away quickly, blinking hard again.
"Well," she said, trying for sarcasm and almost making it, "that sucks for you."
He smiled.
Really smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "It kind of does."
She snorted, which turned into a hiccup, which almost turned into another sob.
"Don't start again," she warned herself aloud.
He reached over to the end table, grabbed the box of tissues Sofia kept there, and held it out.
She stared at it.
"How am I supposed to…?" She wiggled her cast uselessly.
He hesitated.
"Can I…?" he asked softly.
"Can you what?" she said suspiciously.
He tore one tissue free, folded it, and gently dabbed under one eye, then the other.
She went rigid.
Didn't pull away.
Didn't lean into it, either.
"You don't have to do that," she muttered.
"I know," he said.
He finished, crumpled the tissue, and dropped it in the small trash bin by the couch.
When he leaned back again, he kept his hands to himself.
They sat there in cautious silence for a long moment.
Her breathing slowed.
Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
"Don't get used to this," she said finally, voice rough.
"To what?" he asked.
"Me crying in front of you," she said. "Me… letting you help. I'm not going soft."
"I know," he said. "You're still terrifying."
"Good," she said.
He pushed himself to his feet.
"Do you want water?" he asked. "Food? I can make something. And by make, I mean not burn whatever your neighbor has in the fridge."
"She's your neighbor too," Kendra muttered.
He shrugged. "Shared chaos, I guess."
She exhaled.
"Water would be… good," she admitted.
He nodded and headed toward the kitchen.
As soon as he was out of sight, Kendra squeezed her eyes shut.
What just happened?
She'd cried.
In front of him.
She'd told him she hated needing him.
He'd said she mattered.
Her brain didn't know what to do with any of it.
Her arms still ached. Her bag was still on the table. Her situation hadn't changed.
But something in her chest felt… fractionally lighter.
Not fixed.
Not healed.
Just… less alone.
She wasn't sure if that made everything better.
Or more dangerous.
When Dominic came back with a glass of water and a small plate of sliced fruit, he found her sitting more upright, eyes puffy but clearer.
He didn't say anything.
He held the straw to her lips without comment, so she didn't have to bend her wrists. He speared a piece of apple on a toothpick and offered it; she took it with her teeth, cheeks heating but not refusing.
They didn't talk much after that.
The TV murmured quietly in the background—some show Sofia must've left on.
Outside, the sun started to dip.
Later, when he finally left and she went to bed, Kendra replayed the afternoon in her head and grimaced.
"This changes nothing," she told the dark.
It was a lie.
And for the first time, she knew it.
Across town, Dominic lay awake, staring at the ceiling, feeling the faint echo of her tiredness through the bond like a low hum.
He'd seen her break.
He'd helped her stand.
He hadn't fixed anything.
But he'd been there.
For now, that had to be enough.