Blood on the Doorstep

She flinches at your voice, pulling her injured hand against her chest as if to hide it. A thin line of blood traces down her wrist, disappearing into the sleeve of her dress. "I—I'm so sorry. The piano—there's a splinter, I think. I slammed the fallboard down because I couldn't get the chord right, and my nail—it just... snapped." Her voice wavers, breath shallow. She finally looks up at you, eyes glassy, bottom lip caught between her teeth. "I don't want to bother you. I just... I couldn't stop shaking long enough to find my first aid kit."

She hesitates at the threshold, her bare toes curling against the hallway carpet. Her free hand comes up to touch the doorframe, as if steadying herself. "Are you sure? It's late, and I—I haven't really talked to anyone in days. I might be a little... overwhelmed." She steps inside, but only just past the door, hugging herself with her good arm. The bleeding hand hangs at her side now, droplets landing on your floor. "Your place smells warm. Like coffee and paper. It's nice."

She obeys quietly, sinking onto the edge of your couch as if she might break it. Her knees press together, hands resting on her lap—the injured one palm-up, trembling. "It's not deep. I think." She watches you gather supplies, her gaze tracking your every move. When you kneel in front of her, she holds her breath. Her fingers twitch as you take her wrist. "Your hands are warm. I forgot what that felt like."

A soft, embarrassed laugh escapes her, and she looks down at her lap. Her pulse flutters visibly under the thin skin of her wrist. "Since this morning. I was trying to finish a piece I started weeks ago, but every time I play it, it comes out wrong. Like it's stuck inside me and I can't let it out." She winces as you dab at the cut, but doesn't pull away. Instead, her other hand reaches out, hovering near your shoulder before dropping back to her thigh. "I'm Maya, by the way. I should have said that first. I'm sorry."

Her eyes lift to yours, surprised by the question. A faint blush spreads across her cheeks, making her look even more fragile. "It's... something I wrote. It doesn't have a name yet. I thought if I could just get the notes right, I'd know what to call it." She swallows, watching you wrap the bandage around her finger. The pressure makes her breath hitch. "But maybe it's not about the notes. Maybe it's about who I'm writing it for." Her voice drops to almost nothing. "I've been so alone in there."

At your words, her whole body stills. The hand you're bandaging goes slack in your grip, and the other one finally lands on your shoulder—light, tentative, as if testing if you're real. "I don't... I don't know how to do this. Be with someone, I mean. I forget the steps." Her thumb brushes once, feather-soft, against the collar of your shirt. She watches the motion as if it belongs to someone else. "Can you show me?" Her voice cracks on the last word, and she leans in, just slightly—close enough for you to smell the faint scent of rosin and rain on her skin.

She lets out a shaky exhale, her forehead dropping to rest against yours. Her eyes close, lashes dark against her pale cheeks. The hand on your shoulder slides up, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of your neck. "I'm trembling. I can't make it stop." Her lips part, a breath away from yours. The bandaged hand comes up to rest against your chest, palm flat over your heartbeat. "Is this okay? Tell me if it's too much. I'll stop. I'll—" She doesn't finish. Instead, she presses her mouth to yours—soft, hesitant, tasting of salt and something sweet, as if she's been crying for hours and this is the first relief she's found.

A small, desperate sound escapes her throat as she deepens the kiss, her fingers tightening in your hair. Her body leans into yours, weight finally yielding, and you feel the shudder that runs through her from shoulder to hip. "I want—" She breaks the kiss, gasping, forehead pressed to your cheek. "I want to feel something other than the hollow. Just for tonight." Her hand slides from your chest down to your waist, gripping the fabric of your shirt. She pulls you closer, her knees parting to make room for you, and her breath comes in uneven little huffs against your ear. "Touch me. Please. I've been so cold."

She whimpers at your words, her hips shifting restlessly against the couch cushion. Her hands find the hem of her own dress, pulling it up slowly, revealing the pale skin of her thighs. "I don't want to think anymore. Just make me forget." She reaches for your hand, guiding it to her thigh, her skin goosebumped and soft. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide, and her voice is a raw whisper. "I've been waiting for someone to see me. To really see me. And now you're here, and I'm so scared you'll leave." She presses your palm flat against her thigh, holding it there, her heartbeat thrumming under your touch. "Don't leave tonight."