Third-Person Limited – Kendra, then Dominic
By morning, Kendra had decided last night didn't count.
At all.
It was a non-event.
An emotional glitch.
A deleted scene.
She repeated that to herself as she stared at her reflection, eyes still a little puffy, hair exploding everywhere because she'd slept wild.
"Looks like you fought a hurricane," Sofia commented from the doorway, toothbrush in her mouth.
"I did," Kendra said. "It lost."
Sofia snorted and rinsed.
"You good?" she asked more quietly, drying her hands on a towel.
"I'm always good," Kendra said automatically.
They both paused at the lie.
Sofia tilted her head. "You know you don't have to say that to me," she said. "I was the one on the porch listening to you scream at him through the door, remember?"
Heat crawled up Kendra's neck. She looked away.
"I didn't scream," she muttered. "I… projected."
"Whatever makes you feel better, Beyoncé," Sofia said. She stepped closer, gently nudging Kendra toward the chair by the window. "Sit. I'll handle your hair before it stages a coup."
Kendra sat, letting Sofia separate curls with practiced hands.
They were quiet for a bit—just the sound of fingers sliding through damp hair, the soft snap of a scrunchie.
"You hate me right now?" Sofia asked eventually.
"Why would I hate you?" Kendra said.
"Because I let him come in," Sofia said. "Because he saw you like that."
Kendra twisted her mouth.
"I hate that he saw me like that," she said. "I don't hate you."
Sofia let out a breath she'd been holding.
"Okay, good," she said. "Because I like my life."
She tied off the ponytail, then leaned on the back of the chair, studying her face in the mirror.
"And… do you hate him more now?" she asked. "Or less?"
Kendra's throat tightened.
"I hate him the same," she said. "I just… hate other things more."
Sofia didn't push.
"Arms," she said instead, tapping Kendra's shoulders.
Kendra lifted her cast while Sofia guided her hoodie on.
By the time they were all downstairs grabbing breakfast, Kendra had her mask back in place.
Sarcasm?
Loaded.
Eye roll?
Ready.
Feelings?
Shoved so far down they might be in another time zone.
Front Steps
Dominic was waiting by the front gate.
Of course he was.
He always was now.
He straightened when he saw them coming down the walk—Kendra in her hoodie and leggings, girls orbiting around her, Sofia already complaining about a math quiz.
He couldn't stop himself from scanning her face.
Less red.
Less wrecked.
Still tired.
Still stubborn.
He took her bag without asking, the way he always did.
For a heartbeat, she considered yanking it back.
Then she remembered almost falling over it yesterday and didn't.
"Morning," he said.
"Don't," she replied.
The girls shared a look.
Sofia cleared her throat. "Everyone got lunch? Water bottles? Anger management?" she asked.
"Present," Erica said.
"Barely," Jeah added.
"Working on it," Kendra muttered.
They started down the sidewalk together, a loose, chaotic cluster.
It wasn't until they'd nearly reached the school that Kendra noticed something new.
Dominic wasn't walking half a step behind her like a guard.
He was matching her stride.
Side by side.
He kept a respectful distance—enough space that their shoulders didn't accidentally bump—but it still felt… closer.
She kicked at a pebble on the ground.
"So," she said casually, eyes on the pavement, "about yesterday."
His shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.
"Yeah?" he said.
"We're never talking about it again," she said. "Ever."
He glanced over.
Her jaw was set. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead. Every line of her body screamed do not push me.
Relief loosened something in his chest.
He'd been expecting a full ban.
Or worse—her telling him to stay away for good.
"Okay," he said. "We won't."
"Good," she said.
He waited a beat.
"But," he added, "if it ever happens again… I'll still pick up the bag."
She rolled her eyes, but there was no real heat in it.
"Fine," she muttered. "But if you tell anyone, I'll find a way to throw these casts at your head."
"Noted," he said.
School – New Normal
The first half of the day passed in a strange, uneasy calm.
Kendra was hyper-aware of everything she did.
Every time she needed help, she heard last night's words echo in her head.
I want to not hate myself for needing you.
She'd thrown that at him like a weapon.
He hadn't dodged.
He'd just… taken it.
Now, when he held the classroom door open, she still walked through with her chin up.
When he shifted her bag onto his other shoulder so it wouldn't bump her cast, she hissed, "You don't have to be that dramatic," but she didn't yank it away.
In English, Mr. Hayes handed her a printed copy of his notes without even asking.
"I emailed these," he said quietly as he passed. "But I know tech's been finicky. Hard copy, just in case."
"Thanks," she said.
Her voice didn't crack.
Progress.
At lunch, she hovered just inside the cafeteria doors again.
The noise felt like a wave.
She glanced at Dominic.
He caught the look.
"Courtyard?" he asked, low enough that only she heard.
He didn't say it like a suggestion.
Didn't say it like an order.
Just… an option.
A choice.
Normally, she'd say no on principle.
Today, her wrists throbbed; her head ached; the thought of another dropped fork made her want to scream.
"Yeah," she said. "Courtyard."
They grabbed food to go—his hands balancing both trays easily—and slipped out the side door.
It was quieter outside.
The courtyard wasn't empty; a few kids sat on low walls or under trees, but there was space.
Air.
She exhaled slowly as they sat on the wide stone steps, trays between them.
"This is better," she admitted.
"Less screaming," he agreed. "And you're less likely to assault your food."
"Hey," she said. "My food deserved it."
He almost smiled.
She ate more than she had the day before.
He noticed.
He didn't say anything.
Dominic – Miss Hall's Question
Later that day, Dominic got cornered.
Not by Karina.
Not by his friends.
By Miss Hall.
Joint Service had just ended. Kendra had already left to meet Sofia at the gate. He was collecting stray papers from the table when Miss Hall shut the filing cabinet with a soft thud and turned to him.
"Dominic," she said. "You got a minute?"
He swallowed. "Sure."
She perched on the edge of her desk, arms folded loosely.
"You've been… different lately," she said. "Less chaos. More… showing up."
He bristled automatically. "Is that a problem?"
"Not at all," she said. "Frankly, I wish you'd discovered this side of yourself sooner. But I do worry when any of my students seem to be carrying too much."
He looked away.
"I'm not—" he started.
"Don't give me the 'I'm fine' speech," she cut in. "I've heard it from six generations of seniors. Never true once."
He huffed.
She watched him for a moment.
"You care about her," she said, not asking. "Kendra."
His jaw tightened.
"She's my responsibility," he said carefully. "I hurt her. I'm fixing it."
"I didn't ask what you owe her," Miss Hall said. "I asked if you care."
Silence stretched.
His wolf paced.
"Yes," he said finally. "I do."
Miss Hall nodded, as if that confirmed something she'd suspected for weeks.
"And are you helping because your father told you to," she asked, "or because you want to?"
He didn't answer right away.
At first, it had been mostly orders.
His father's voice.
The principal's demand.
Guilt.
Shame.
But now…
"I wanted to leave at first," he admitted quietly. "At the hospital. At that first office meeting. I wanted to run."
"But you didn't," she said.
"No," he said. "And now, if they told me I could stop helping…"
His throat worked.
"I don't think I would," he finished.
Miss Hall's eyes softened.
"That's good," she said. "And dangerous."
He frowned. "What does that mean?"
"It means you're close enough to get hurt," she said. "And close enough to hurt her again if you're not careful."
He flinched.
"I'm trying," he said. "Not to screw up."
"I see that," she said. "Just remember: helping isn't about making yourself feel better. It's about making her life easier. Sometimes that means stepping up. Sometimes it means backing off when she needs space."
He nodded slowly.
"And if at any point," she added, "she says 'I don't want this,' you listen. Even if it kills you to walk away."
He thought of Kendra's voice from the night before.
I want to not hate myself for needing you.
He thought of her saying, that morning, We're never talking about it again.
"I hear you," he said.
"Good," Miss Hall replied. "Now get out of my office. I have emails to ignore."
He smiled despite himself.
"Yes, ma'am," he said.
Evening – House Again
That night, homework was weirdly… peaceful.
The living room felt less like a battlefield and more like a base camp.
Books were spread out on the coffee table.
Kendra sat on the couch, legs crossed, casts resting on a pillow. Her laptop balanced on a stack of textbooks. Sofia sprawled on the floor, highlighter in her hand, feet constantly kicking something. Jennie had her notes open, quietly explaining something about history to Jeah.
Dominic sat in the armchair, typing as Kendra dictated an answer for their shared English assignment.
"Okay," she said, thinking aloud. "So the main character doesn't know where she belongs, right? She doesn't fit where she came from, and she doesn't fit where she ended up."
"Relatable," Sofia said around a mouthful of chips.
"Swallow before you contribute," Kendra told her.
Dominic's fingers flew across the keys.
"She keeps trying on different versions of herself," Kendra continued. "Good daughter, rebel, friend, whatever. But nothing feels… honest."
"So what does?" he asked quietly, glancing up.
Kendra looked at the ceiling, searching for words.
"When she stops trying to be what everybody expects," she said slowly, "and just starts being… messy. Real. She's still confused, but at least she's confused as herself, not as somebody's fantasy."
Sofia let out a low whistle. "Bars," she said.
Dominic typed it exactly as she said it, minus the "bars."
"You're good at this," he commented.
"What, being confused?" Kendra said dryly.
He shook his head. "Putting feelings into words."
"Yeah, well," she said, looking away, "feelings don't weigh ten pounds like these casts, so that's a start."
The girls drifted in and out of the conversation—Erica came in late from practice, flopped on the floor, and complained about sore muscles; someone argued passionately about the best Jamaican snack; Sofia nearly knocked over a soda reaching for her notes.
At one point, Kendra shifted on the couch and bumped her left cast against the edge of the table.
Pain flared, sharp and sudden.
She sucked in a breath and froze.
Dominic's head snapped up.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Fine," she said automatically, jaw tight.
He watched her for a beat.
Drop it, she thought at him.
Miraculously, he did.
He didn't fuss.
Didn't hover.
He just moved one of the pillows closer with his foot.
"Prop them higher," he said. "Less pressure."
She made a face, but nudged the pillow with her cast until it was under her forearms.
It did help.
She hated that.
"Thanks," she grumbled.
"You're welcome," he said.
Later, after the others had drifted off to showers and their rooms, Kendra and Dominic found themselves alone in the living room.
The TV muttered quietly to itself—some cooking show Sofia liked.
Kendra stared at the leftover mess on the table.
Books. Empty plates. A half-finished packet. A notebook sliding slowly toward the edge.
She frowned at it.
Dominic reached out and nudged it back to safety without thinking.
"You're going to become an unpaid maid at this rate," she said.
"I've seen your side of the room," he replied. "I'm not applying for that job."
She snorted.
A comfortable-ish silence settled.
"Tomorrow," she said abruptly, "I have a doctor's appointment."
He sat up a little straighter. "For your wrists?"
"No, for my attitude," she said. "Yes, for my wrists, genius."
He rolled his eyes. "What time?"
"After school," she said. "Some program lady is taking us. To check if everything's healing right."
He nodded slowly.
"They say anything about the timeline?" he asked. "For the casts."
She shrugged as best she could.
"They said six to eight weeks," she said. "We're at week four-ish. So we'll see. Maybe they'll say, 'Congrats, you almost have bones again.' Maybe they'll say, 'Surprise, we're keeping you like this forever.'"
She said it like a joke.
It didn't quite land.
He looked at her hands.
At the drawings and messages covering the white plaster.
At the strain around her eyes that never fully went away.
"I hope they say you're healing fast," he said. "For what it's worth."
She kicked at his ankle lightly with her socked foot.
"Careful," she said. "You start sounding too nice and I won't recognize you."
"Then I'll insult your hair for balance," he replied.
"You wouldn't dare. My hair is blessed and anointed."
He smirked.
She smiled.
Just a little.
The moment stretched.
"Hey," she said suddenly, more serious. "About earlier. At lunch. And yesterday. And… everything."
He lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah?"
"You're still on probation," she said. "In my head. You haven't… fixed… anything. You're not forgiven. I'm not forgetting."
He swallowed. "I know."
"But," she added, staring at the ceiling, "you're… not making it worse."
He blinked.
"Is that your version of a compliment?" he asked.
"Take it or leave it," she said.
"I'll take it," he said.
She glanced at him.
"You don't have to stay forever, you know," she insisted. "After the casts are off. I won't… expect this."
He looked at her for a long time.
"That's not a decision I plan on making today," he said honestly.
Her chest did that stupid shifting thing again.
"Well," she said, "let's get through tomorrow first. One traumatizing appointment at a time."
"Deal," he replied.
That night, as she lay in bed, arms elevated, Kendra stared at the faint crack in the ceiling and thought about timelines.
Four weeks down.
Two to four left.
She thought about life after the cast.
About being able to button her own clothes, pick up her own bag, open her own doors.
About not needing anyone.
About not needing him.
Some stubborn, independent part of her ached for that.
Another, quieter part of her wondered what it would feel like to walk through the halls and not see him waiting by every classroom door.
She flipped that thought over and locked it in a mental box.
Too early.
Too messy.
Too dangerous.
"Hands first," she told herself. "Feelings never."
Sleep pulled her down slowly.
Across town, Dominic lay awake, staring at the same kind of ceiling, wondering the opposite.
What would it look like when she didn't need him to pick up bags or open doors?
Would she still let him walk beside her?
Would she still let him help at all?
The mate bond hummed quietly, a constant reminder that as far as his wolf was concerned, the answer was simple.
Always.
But humans were more complicated.
He sighed and rolled onto his side.
"Don't screw it up," he whispered again to the dark.
This time, he wasn't talking about her bones.
He was talking about the fragile, grudging almost trust that had started to grow in the space between them.
Tomorrow, they'd find out how well her wrists were healing.
Sooner or later, they'd both have to figure out if what they were building was temporary—
Or at the start of something neither of them felt ready to name.