Snapping out of bed at the loud sound from the living area, he ran out the bedroom door. “Catie?”

A chill wind had him jerking his attention to the open balcony doors. And there she was, on the floor a foot inside the apartment, her legs splayed out just wrong and one hand pressed against the sideboard that had held a vase of smoky blue glass. That vase now lay shattered on the plush gray carpet.

The amount of noise it had made as it fell told him it must’ve hit either the wall or the sideboard on the way down—or maybe the noise had been caused by the sideboard itself slamming into the wall, but he didn’t care about either of the stupid things. He cared about Catie.

Crossing the distance between them in a heartbeat, he went to kneel down, do what he could to help, but she snapped, “Don’t! Go away!”

Frustration burned in his veins, but he didn’t snap back. He’d caught the hint of wetness in her eyes, knew he had to deal with this right or it would hurt her. So he got up and, after closing the balcony doors, picked up one of the heavy dining table chairs and brought it over to set it on her other side. “Here, princess. I’ll grab the dustpan to collect the big shards; then we can vacuum up the rest.”

He deliberately kept his back to her as he walked to the kitchen. He’d spotted the dustpan under the kitchen sink earlier that weekend but spent at least a minute opening and closing cupboard doors as if searching for it. By the time he finally “found it,” Catie was seated on the chair, one leg bent at the knee, the other stretched out in front of her, her party dress a golden shine.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Her voice wobbled.

“How bad is it?” he asked as he began to pick up the shards like he’d said he would. His muscles strained at his skin, his abdomen clenched against the urge to pick her up and hold her tight.

“I don’t know!” It came out a yell. “Shit! I’ve walked in and out those doors a thousand times. Why the fuck did I trip today?”

“Er, because you’re human?” No matter the painful pounding of his heart, he knew better than to offer her sympathy. She’d murder him for that. “Did you damage the prosthesis?” Though she hadn’t yet changed out of her dress, she had taken off her skins, and he couldn’t see any obvious damage—to the rods or her body. But he knew she was in pain and it was taking everything he had not to react.