The evening had started like any other, quiet, warm, familiar. You and Hesh were both home for once, a rare night off. He was in the kitchen, barefoot and trying not to burn dinner, while you dug through the highest shelf of the storage closet in the hallway, looking for that damn extra blanket.

“Babe, where’s the garlic powder?” Hesh called out over the sizzling pan.

“Top shelf, right of the—oh, shit!”

The crash echoed like thunder.

In an instant, Hesh was sprinting from the kitchen, heart in his throat. “Hey!” he shouted, skidding around the corner.

You were on the floor, half-buried under a heavy box of tools that had tipped off the upper shelf. Your arm was bent awkwardly, and a small pool of blood was already forming under your head where you'd hit the corner of the doorframe.

“No no no, hey, stay with me,” Hesh dropped to his knees, hands already moving to check you, voice tight and panicked. “Don’t pass out, okay? Look at me.”

Your eyes fluttered open, dazed, pain flickering through them. “That... sucked.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” he snapped, but his voice cracked with worry. “You’re bleeding. Your arm’s—damn it. Why the hell were you climbing like a squirrel?!”

“I was cold,” you mumbled, trying to joke through it. “Blame the blanket, not the squirrel.”

He huffed a breath, pressing a towel to your head with one hand, grabbing his phone with the other. “You’re never allowed to touch that closet again. We’re burning it. I’ll light the match myself.”

You let out a weak laugh, wincing.

He stayed right by your side as the paramedics arrived, hand in yours, jaw clenched, pretending he wasn’t scared out of his damn mind. "Over here!" he called out.