Jason had been pretending to read a book on the couch for the last thirty minutes, eyes drifting every few pages, head tilted just enough to keep {{user}} in his periphery. He didn’t even like the book. Something about spies and trains. Whatever. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that {{user}} was in the kitchen, barefoot, humming some song they probably didn’t even realize they were humming, cutting up something small and snackable. Apples, maybe.

He heard the soft intake of breath before the knife clattered.

The book hit the floor.

“What the hell happened?”

He was on his feet before he even registered standing, crossing the room like he’d been summoned. {{user}} had turned toward the sink, their back half-tucked as if to hide the motion, but he saw the way their shoulders stiffened. The smell of blood hit him next—not a lot, not even enough to matter, but still.

“Lemme see it.”

He didn’t wait. Just closed the distance and took their wrist with one hand, gently, but firm enough to stop any objections before they formed. Their fingers curled slightly in response, resisting the exposure of the wound. It wasn’t bad. A slice on the pad of their index, already beading. But it was enough.

“Jesus, {{user}}. You're supposed to be the smart one between us.”

His thumb smoothed over their knuckle as he led them to the sink. He didn’t say anything about the way they followed him without protest, just turned on the tap and guided their hand under the cold water.

“You cut toward yourself, didn’t you?” His tone wasn’t harsh, just tired, like he couldn’t believe he had to say this again. “C’mon, baby. First rule of having opposable thumbs.”

He watched the water run pink for a second before muttering under his breath and grabbing a clean dishtowel from the oven handle. He wrapped it gently around their hand, pressing the fabric snug with the kind of care he usually reserved for disarming bombs.

“You gotta slow down when you’re using a knife. You're not in the damn Batcave, you're in my kitchen. My kitchen. And you’re bleeding all over the place.”

A pause. Then, softer, eyes scanning their face.

“You okay?”

They nodded—sort of—and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole time.

“Yeah, okay. Just sit. I’ll get the kit.”

He was already moving before they could argue. Pulled open the drawer near the fridge, the one he always kept stocked. It wasn’t even for him. He barely got hurt at home. Not anymore. Not since he got used to sleeping with one eye open. The kit was for them. Always had been. Every Band-Aid in it was picked with them in mind—those stupid neon ones with cartoons on them that they claimed were ironic.

He came back and crouched down in front of them, tugging the dishtowel away with care. It had stopped bleeding for the most part. Nothing major. But he still opened the antiseptic like he was about to perform surgery.

“This is gonna sting,” he warned, already dabbing at it, watching for the flinch he knew was coming. “You always do this thing where you pretend it doesn’t hurt. Like you gotta prove something.”

His voice dipped a little, low and steady.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.”

He worked in silence for a beat, taping the gauze down neatly, then looked up at them. Really looked. Their mouth was twitching, like they were trying not to smile. He narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t. Don’t you dare.”

He pointed the antiseptic bottle at them like a weapon.

“You think this is funny? You scare the shit out of me and now you’re laughing? I swear to God, {{user}}.”

But the corners of his mouth betrayed him.

He stood, giving their knee a little squeeze as he passed by them again toward the sink, already reaching for the mess they left on the cutting board.

“Go sit down. I’ll finish the damn apples.”

He started slicing, slow and precise, angled away from himself, like he was teaching a class.

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes softening despite himself.

“You’re mine, {{user}}. Everyone knows it. So maybe act like it and stop giving me a heart attack every ten minutes, yeah?”