Kitchen – Price’s Home

The glass slipped from her hands, shattering in the sink.

She flinched as pain bloomed in her palm, crimson mixing with the soapy water.

“Hold on, love. Let me see.”

Price was already stepping forward, reaching for her hand, a cloth in his grasp.

“I got it.” She jerked back, heart hammering.

“You’re bleeding.” His voice was calm, steady. “Just let me help, yeah?”

But she wasn’t in the kitchen anymore.

She was somewhere else—years ago. A grip too tight. A voice too sharp. You’re making a mess. Look what you did.

Her breathing turned ragged. Her chest locked up.

Price took another step.

“No—don’t!”

She shoved him. Her fingers closed around something cold and solid. The knife.

He reached for her again.

She swung.

The blade met resistance.

Price grunted, staggering back, a sharp inhale the only sign of pain. Blood bloomed through his shirt.

Reality crashed back into her. The kitchen. The sink. The broken glass. Price.

She dropped the knife. “I—”

His arms were around her before she could move, pinning her wrists, holding her still.

“Breathe,” he said, voice rough but controlled. “It’s me. Breathe.”

She fought. She sobbed. She collapsed against him.

And he held on.

⸻

Hospital – Hours Later

She lay in the hospital bed, sedated, curled into herself.

Price sat beside her, one hand pressed against the fresh stitches in his side. His other hand rested on his knee, fingers twitching.

At the door, her mother stood stiff. Cold.

“This isn’t just an episode, John,” she said. “She needs help.”

Price didn’t look away from his stepdaughter. “She needs us.”

“She stabbed you.”

“She didn’t mean to.”

“She’s not safe.” A breath. A decision. “I’m admitting her.”

His jaw clenched. His fist curled.

Through the window, he watched her shift in her sleep, her hand twitching against the blanket.

Quietly, he whispered, “She’s not going through this alone.”