Page 71 of At First Dance
We fall into step. She keeps her arms folded, like she’s holding something inside in place. I keep my hands loose at my sides so I don’t reach for her too soon. The boards complain under our weight. A moth pings the porch light. We don’t say anything until the screen door sighs us into the kitchen.
“Sink,” I say, dragging a chair out with my boot. “First aid’s in the drawer.”
She perches, one knee bent, the other leg extended. Up close, the scrape looks worse—angry and embedded with finegrit. I set the kit on the table, wash my hands at the sink, then glance back. “Can I?”
She uncrosses her arms and nods. “Yeah.”
I kneel. The kitchen smells like smoke and dish soap and her. “This’ll sting.”
“When has that ever stopped me?”
I wet a clean cloth and start slow, swiping away ash and dirt in careful arcs. She flinches once, breath catching. My fingers are steady on either side of her knee until the reflex passes. Her skin is warm under the pads of my thumbs. My awareness of that is a problem I pretend I don’t have.
“You didn’t have to come,” I say, keeping my eyes on the scrape.
“I know.” Her voice softens. “I did anyway.”
“You scared me.” The words slip out before I can dress it up.
“Why?” she challenges, not unkind.
Because you’re mine to worry aboutlives right behind my teeth, too loud, too soon. I take the safer road. “Because people panic near fire. You didn’t. Still doesn’t mean I liked seeing you that close.”
After a beat, she murmurs, “I grew up around people who expected me to be strong. Even when I wasn’t.”
I dab again, gentler. “You were smart out there.” I meet her eyes briefly, enough for the truth. “And brave.”
Something eases in her shoulders. “You’re not used to people showing up for you, are you?”
I look back down and reach for the saline. “Not like that.”
The spray makes her hiss. I lean in and blow cool air across the sting without thinking. Her hand curls into the edge of the chair. Mine tightens—briefly—on her calf.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“Don’t be.” Her voice is just above a whisper.
I pat the skin dry, swipe a thin line of antibiotic ointment, then smooth a large bandage over the worst of it, palm lingering a second longer than medically necessary. The air goes thick and careful. The kitchen clock ticks too loud.
“All patched,” I say, voice a notch lower.
She tips her head, studying me like I’m a map she’s finally learning to trust. “Thank you.”
“Thankyou,Ivy.”
Her mouth pulls into a small, tired smile. “You’ll return the favor when I inevitably do something else reckless?”
“Already did.” I nod toward the counter. “Water’s there. Sit a minute.”
She reaches for the glass, our fingers skimming. It’s nothing—barely contact—but heat pricks up my arm like I stuck my hand too close to the burner. She feels it too. I see it in the way her breath stalls.
“Ivy,” I say, because saying her name buys me a second to pick the right truth, “I’m not good at this part.”
“What part?” She holds my gaze.
“The part where I want to wrap you in bubble wrap and also stand back and let you be exactly who you are.” I scrub a hand over my jaw. “I’m trying to get it right.”
Her lips part. The kitchen gets smaller. “You’re doing fine.”
