Till Death Do Us Part

Chapter 4

Emily wandered through the house, her small footsteps soft against the plush carpet. She was visiting with her mother, who'd gotten caught up in a conversation downstairs with Mrs. Navarro, and the curiosity she'd tried to suppress finally bubbled over. Her fingers skimmed over walls and doorframes as she explored, each hallway a new adventure. When she pushed open a half-closed door and stepped inside, she paused.

The room was dimly lit, and sitting by the window was a boy-older than her, but not by much. He was perched with his back against the wall, one knee drawn up, his head tipped back with eyes closed, but his hands... They were clenched, knuckles scraped and raw, like he'd been in a fight. A thin line of blood traced down from the corner of his lip, and another cut marked his cheek. Her little heart twisted with worry at the sight, and without thinking, she took a few cautious steps closer.

At the sound of her footfall, his eyes snapped open, narrowing on her with an intensity that made her small frame stiffen. His storm-gray gaze, shadowed with anger and something else she didn't understand, locked onto her like she'd done something wrong by just standing there.

"What are you doing here?" he growled, his voice low and rough, sending a chill down her spine. His shoulders were hunched, defensively curling inward, but his gaze bore into her, guarded and cold.

Emily swallowed, but her worry outweighed her fear. "I... I got lost," she stammered, standing her ground despite the coldness in his eyes. "Y..you're hurt."

His gaze didn't soften, not in the slightest. He looked her up and down, taking in her tiny stature, her frilly socks, her wide, innocent eyes. "I'm fine," he muttered with a dismissive glare, as if that would end the conversation. He turned his head away, but the faintest twitch in his jaw betrayed his discomfort.

She frowned, her brow knitting together in that stubborn way her mother always said made her look older. "You don't look fine." She took a step closer, her gaze fixed on his hands. "It looks like it hurts..."

A ghost of a smirk pulled at his lips, though his eyes were sharp. "And what would you know about it?" he shot back, his voice laced with impatience. He made a dismissive gesture, clearly expecting her to leave. "You're what-six? Go run back to your mother."

She flushed but didn't budge, her little face set in determined kindness. "I'm seven and a half," she corrected, a tiny hint of pride slipping through. "And I know enough. I have a first aid kit in my backpack."

He gave her an incredulous look, his brows furrowing as if she were speaking another language. But to his surprise, she didn't wait for his approval. She slung her little pack off her shoulders, her fingers working the zipper open, and began rifling through the contents with quiet purpose. Finally, she pulled out a small, pink Band-Aid box, her eyes shining with unwavering resolve.

He scoffed, looking away. "You're wasting your time."

She tilted her head, studying him with a mix of pity and something kinder. She took a step closer, her expression softening as she gazed at his knuckles, red and raw. "Please?" she asked, her voice small, yet carrying a warmth that seemed to reach even him.

He stayed silent, his gaze hardening as if testing her patience. But something in her eyes-the softness, the concern that didn't fit his cold, guarded world-made him hesitate. He grumbled something under his breath, but didn't push her away.

Taking this as permission, she knelt beside him, her hands delicate and light as she dabbed ointment over his knuckles, her little fingers brushing carefully against his bruised skin. Each touch was gentle, her brow furrowed in concentration as if his scraped knuckles were the most important thing in the world.