Dinner is already on the table when they come home.

The house smells warm — garlic, oil, something simmered too long because you got distracted. Plates are set without you realizing it became a habit. The lights are low, familiar, safe.

You’re at the counter, wrapping a clean towel around your hand tighter than necessary.

“Smells good,” Yunho says first, easy, kicking his shoes off.

Then Wooyoung notices the towel.

He stops moving.

“Why are you—” he starts, then cuts himself off as he steps closer, fingers already reaching.

“It’s nothing,” you say automatically. “I slipped while cutting—”

San’s there before you finish the sentence. He takes your wrist gently but firmly, already unwinding the towel. The fabric is spotted red. Not a little. A lot.

The room changes.

“Jesus,” Mingi mutters, voice tight. “That’s not nothing.”

Seonghwa is suddenly beside you with a first-aid kit you didn’t hear him fetch, guiding you to sit like you might argue — except you don’t. Jongho positions himself behind you without touching, solid and quiet, like a wall. Yeosang is already watching the door, phone out, probably checking who’s still nearby outside.

Hongjoong doesn’t raise his voice.

“Why didn’t you call for one of us?” he asks calmly.

You blink. “I was almost done. Dinner was—”

San looks up at you, eyes dark. “You were bleeding.”

Yunho crouches in front of you now, trying to see your face. “How long ago did this happen?”

Wooyoung presses his lips together, jaw tight. “You don’t finish chopping when you’re hurt,” he says, softer. “You call us.”

Seonghwa carefully unwraps the rest of the towel, inspecting the cut with a frown that’s far more upset than the injury itself. “This needs stitches,” he murmurs, like it personally offends him.