“Don’t move.”

He’s looking in my mouth again. Then my ears. Nose. Tipping my head back and forth, looking for anything that could be wrong.

The kettle screams from the stove. He grabs the handle and flinches away, wringing his hand that’s turned bright pink from the burn. The kettle is still screaming.

“Don’t —“ He tries to stop me from standing to help, and trips over the other chair. “I’m fine, I got it,” he says, getting up from the floor. But then he tries to reach for the kettle again with the same hand.

I catch his hand with mine.

“Slow down,” I say, but he doesn’t seem to hear me over the kettle’s whistling. “Just — hey! Let me do it.”

I move the kettle to the other burner with my hand wrapped in my shirt. It quiets down, the whistle fading out.

“You shouldn’t be standing,” he says, cheeks pink.

“I’m fine,” I insist.

“You fell down the stairs. Do you know how worried I was? You could’ve gotten badly hurt — you could have a concussion, or internal bleeding, or something! So just — just sit down, and I’ll go get the doctor, and —“

“I’m fine,” I say, a little firmer. “Just a little bruised. But you just burnt your hand. Come on, let’s get some water on it — that’s got to hurt, right?”

“I can’t even feel it,” he lies. I roll my eyes. When we move toward the sink, his hip bumps the mug he’d set out for me off the table and sends it crashing to the floor, scattering into a million little pieces over the hardwood.

The teabag has split open, spilling its guts on the shattered ceramic. He looks like he might cry.

“Hey,” I say softly. “It’s just a cup, ok? We’ll clean it up.”

“Everything’s just going wrong today,” he says, voice a little thick. “Why do I have to be so stupid?”

“Don’t say that,” I say. “None of this is your fault.”

“Yeah it is. I’m the one who bumped the cup, I’m the one who put the chair there and didn’t watch where I was going, I’m the one who forgot to fix the banister like you asked — if I’d just been more careful and didn’t forget things all the time—“

“Hey,” I say again. “Look at me. It’s not your fault I fell down the stairs, ok? I tripped over my own feet and didn’t even have time to grab the banister. So even if you had fixed it I still would’ve fell. You tripped on the chair, I tripped on the stairs. And you’re not stupid, you were worried about me and that made you forget to be careful. But nothing bad happened — it’s just a cup. We’ll be ok. Ok?”

He nods, sniffling.

“Ok. Good. Want to help me clean this up? And then we can both go to the doctor, if you want.”