“Karen!!!”
“What!?” Her gaze snapped at him.
“Are you seriously not going to let her in?”
Karen glared at him, seeing his hand already on the knob. It was obvious he wasn’t waiting for her permission. “Don’t you fucking dar—”
Mathieu unlocked the door before Karen could finish her sentence.
Shit! Karen recoiled.
Annabelle stood there exactly as before, as if she had been paused in place. Dirt streaked her arms, her hair was tangled and clumped, and one side of her face was swelling into a deep violet bloom. The tear tracks had carved pale lines through the grime. She wasn’t sobbing loudly anymore, just small, exhausted breaths that sounded like something breaking in slow motion.
For three full seconds, no one spoke.
Karen blinked first. “This is… this is highly inappropriate timing.”
Annabelle stared at her.
Mathieu cleared his throat like he was about to greet dinner guests. “Hi. So. You’re… still here.”
Karen shot him a look. “What were you expecting? Teleportation?”
Annabelle swayed slightly on her feet.
Mathieu noticed before Karen did. “Okay. She’s about to faint.”
“I am aware she is vertically unstable,” Karen grumbled, already stepping closer to them at the door.
Annabelle stepped in carefully, like she was entering a museum she wasn’t allowed to touch.
The smell followed her.
Karen physically recoiled.
Mathieu tried very hard not to inhale. Failed. He coughed once. “You’ve, um… had a long day.”
Karen marched to the couch to immediately yank a folded sheet from the linen basket and spread it over the cushions with the precision of someone preparing a crime scene. “Sit. There. Directly on the sheet.”
Annabelle obeyed immediately, folding into herself on the very edge.
Mathieu stepped out of the living room briefly and came back with a blanket. A soft, large one. He hesitated only a second before draping it over her shoulders.
Karen made a strangled sound. “That better be yours.”
“She’s freezing, Karen. Have some sympathy.”
“She is dirty,” she cringed.
“She is human.”
“Exactly the problem,” Karen grumbled.
Annabelle’s lower lip trembled.
Mathieu then knelt in front of her. “Hey. It’s okay. You’re safe here. What hap—”
Karen lunged and grabbed his shoulder. “No.”
He blinked up at her. “No?”
“No. You cannot ask ‘what’s wrong.'”
“That is… generally how conversations function.” His expression was confused.
“If you ask what’s wrong, it implies concern. Concern implies involvement. Involvement implies responsibility. We do not want responsibility.”
Mathieu stared at her like she’d just explained gravity incorrectly. “Karen.”
“Mathieu, I am being practical.”
“You shut the door in her face.”
“That was reflex!” he defended.
“It was synchronized reflex,” she snapped. “Shared guilt.”
Annabelle sniffed loudly.
Mathieu lowered his gaze to the bruises on her limbs and blood leaking from the side of her mouth. “You’re bleeding.”
Karen groaned. “Do not narrate the injuries. That makes it real.”
Mathieu ignored Karen and proceeded to ask, “Did someone hurt you?”
Karen slapped a hand over his mouth. “Stop. Asking. Leading. Questions.”
His voice came out muffled. “Mmff?”
She leaned down to Annabelle instead, stiff as a statue trying to imitate empathy. “You are not dying, correct?”
Annabelle shook her head.
“Good,” Karen said quickly. “That is manageable.”
Mathieu gently removed Karen’s hand from his face. “You can’t interrogate her like she’s a lab specimen.”
“I am not interrogating. I am establishing parameters.”
Annabelle’s fingers tightened in the blanket. Her knuckles were scraped raw.
Mathieu noticed. His expression shifted from awkward to something quieter. “Did you walk here?”
She gave a small nod.
Karen froze. “From where?”
Another nod, but without words.
Mathieu inhaled slowly. “Okay. Okay.” He softened his tone. “You don’t have to explain everything. Just… are you safe to go back home?”
Annabelle’s entire body stiffened.
The silence answered for her.
Karen felt it too. And from the very pit of her devoid heart, that was the last thing she wanted to have to deal with.
She rubbed her forehead. “This is why we should not open doors at midnight.”
Mathieu looked at her. “Karen.”
She looked at Annabelle. At the bruises, the dirt, and even the way she was trying to make herself smaller on the sheet, careful not to touch anything.
Karen exhaled through her teeth. “You are not staying permanently.”
Annabelle’s head snapped up slightly, eyes wide.
“I did not say you were leaving tonight,” Karen corrected sharply. “I said not permanently. There is a difference.”
Mathieu almost smiled.
“Do not look triumphant,” Karen warned.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He then turned back to Annabelle gently. “We’ll figure it out. Okay? For tonight, you’re not going anywhere.”
Karen muttered under her breath, “I cannot believe this is happening in my living room.”
Annabelle finally spoke, her voice small and cracked. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Mathieu didn’t hesitate this time. “You came to the right place.”
“How the fuck did you even know this place!?”
“I—I followed you home after work—”
“You stalked me?!” Karen’s tone hitched slightly higher.
“Calm down, Karen, you’re frightening the poor girl.”
“You let a stalker into my home at midnight!”
“Well, so did Drogo for you, and now you got a job. So shut it!” Mathieu’s words were sharp, forcing Karen to hold her tongue with a snarl.
Karen closed her eyes briefly, like she was calculating how expensive compassion might be.
Then she pointed toward the hallway. “Bathroom. Now. Before my couch picks up your stench.”
And when Annabelle stood, wobbling again, Karen instinctively stepped closer to steady her.
Her expression twisted in revolt, but despite that, her hand remained on Annabelle’s back as she guided her forward.
Karen’s hand stayed at Annabelle’s back a second longer than necessary.
It was a stiff, reluctant contact, like she was touching something that might stain her permanently.
“Left,” Karen muttered as they reached the hallway. “The first door.”
Annabelle nodded and shuffled forward. The blanket slipped from one shoulder, and Karen instinctively pulled it back up again before she could stop herself. She grimaced at her own reflex.
The bathroom door clicked shut.
Silence.
Mathieu then exhaled first, running a hand through his hair. “You handled that… poorly.”
Karen turned slowly, arms folded across her chest. “Define poorly.”
“You accused a bruised child of stalking you.”
“She admitted to following me.”
Mathieu stared at her with a disbelieving expression. “You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” she replied coolly, “you continue to live with me.”
“Sometimes I can’t with you…” He pinched his forehead. “You saw the bruises.”
“Yeah. I am not blind.” Karen’s expression remained unimpressed.
“She said she had nowhere else to go.”
Her jaw tightened. “That is not our problem.”
Mathieu studied her for a moment, his expression shifting from frustration to something more observant. “You’re scared.”
Her head snapped up. “Excuse me?”
“You’re not disgusted by the little girl. You’re scared.”
A humorless laugh slipped from her lips. “Of what? Dirt?”
“Of what she represents. A teenage girl that ran away from home. Bruised and wounded. Just like yo—”
Karen held up her hand, interrupting his speech. “Do not attempt to psychoanalyze me in my own living room. I deal with that enough with Dr. Vetter. I don’t need yours as well.”
Both of them went quiet.
After a few seconds, Karen finally spoke again, quieter. “She cannot stay long.”
“I know. But we’ll figure it out. For now, let her settle down first.”
Karen frowned.
She had a bad feeling about this.