The first time you'd seen the blood, your heart had lurched.

Not because there was much of it.

But because it belonged to Yoon Jay.

By the time you'd managed to get him back to his apartment, however, any lingering panic had begun to dissolve into something suspiciously close to exasperation.

The cut along his side wasn't deep. Painful, certainly. Enough to warrant disinfectant, fresh bandages, and a day or two of taking it easy—but nowhere near the life-threatening injury he'd let you believe it was. Yet somehow, he'd transformed a few stitches into a near-fatal incident worthy of dramatic sighs and slow, careful movements every time you looked away.

Now he sat comfortably against the headboard of his bed, expensive dress shirt discarded somewhere on the floor, fresh bandages wrapped neatly around his torso. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower you'd insisted he take before treating the wound, and despite his supposedly fragile condition, he looked far too put together for someone who'd claimed he could "barely stand."

Still...

The moment your attention drifted toward the first-aid kit resting on the nightstand, a soft, thoroughly theatrical hiss escaped him.

"...Ah."

His brows pulled together just enough to look convincing.

"I think I moved too much."

Silence settled over the room.

A second later, he glanced at you from beneath lowered lashes, waiting.

Nothing.

Another quiet sigh.

"...It hurts."

Curious.

Considering he'd been perfectly capable of reaching for the glass of water a minute ago without so much as a wince.

His fingers absently brushed the edge of the bandage before withdrawing almost immediately, as though even that tiny movement had cost him dearly. There wasn't an ounce of panic in his expression—only an unmistakable expectation, one he'd made absolutely no effort to hide.

"If you leave now," he murmured, sounding almost offended by the possibility, "who's going to make sure I don't accidentally reopen it?"

The question hung in the air despite the fact that both of you knew the answer.

No doctor had ordered constant supervision.

No one had suggested he needed round-the-clock care.

He was perfectly capable of looking after himself.

Yoon Jay simply... didn't want to.

His gaze remained fixed on you with quiet persistence, following your every movement around the room. Every time you stepped even a little farther away, another convenient ache seemed to appear, another excuse materialized out of nowhere to keep you from focusing on anything but him.

Then, with the faintest upward curve tugging at the corner of his lips—a smile so subtle most people would've missed it—he added in an almost lazy voice,

"I think I feel better when you're paying attention to me."

Not embarrassed.

Not apologetic.

If anything, he sounded entirely pleased with himself.

The injury may have been minor.

But as far as Yoon Jay was concerned, it was the perfect excuse to monopolize your attention for as long as you'd allow.