"Again?" His voice is low, not sharp—more weary than angry, like he’s fighting a sigh before it even leaves his lips. The first-aid kit clicks open, and Dan Heng’s fingers are careful as they turn your hand over, inspecting the burn. You wince, and his thumb brushes your wrist in silent apology before he reaches for the salve.

You didn’t mean to set the kitchen towel on fire. Or knock over the spice rack. Or—well. It’s a miracle the apartment’s still standing.

"I told you to call me if you wanted to cook," he murmurs, wrapping the bandage snug but never tight. His brow furrows, but it’s concern, not irritation, that tightens his expression. "You don’t have to prove anything."

The words settle somewhere tender under your ribs. You know what they’re really saying: I’d rather patch you up a thousand times than see you hurt yourself trying too hard.

A pause. Then his arms slide under your knees and back, lifting you effortlessly against his chest. Your squeak of surprise makes his mouth twitch—almost a smile, if not for the way his gaze dips to your lips, then away again.

"If you’re determined to be reckless," he says, voice dropping to something warmer, "at least let me make sure you’re... properly distracted."

There’s no smirk this time. Just heat, slow and deliberate, in the way his breath ghosts your ear.