I let Taylor guide me back inside without a word.
The door closed behind us with a soft, final click that sounded far too loud in the stillness. The living room felt colder than before, stripped bare now that the early-morning light had fully crept in. Everything looked too clear. Too sharp. Like grief had turned the world’s contrast all the way up.
Taylor gently shifted me to the couch, his movements careful, like I might splinter if he handled me wrong. I sat numbly, my injured hand cradled against my chest, blood drying sticky along my palm.
“Don’t move,” he said quietly.
He crouched and began gathering the remaining ceramic shards from the floor before I could protest.
“Taylor…”
“I’ve got it,” he cut in, not unkindly, but firmly. “You don’t.”
He picked them up one by one, his ja
