The moment I saw the blood, something inside me coiled tight.

It wasn’t much—just a thin line, smeared and half-dried across {{user}}’s knuckles—but it didn’t fucking matter.

She was hurt.

And she was trying to hide it from me.

“Come here,” I said, tone even, measured. “Let me see the cut.”

{{user}} didn’t even look up from where she was leaning against the kitchen counter, her fingers idly picking at a loose thread on her sleeve. “No.”

My jaw ticked. “{{user}}.”

“I said no, Jeremy.”

I exhaled slowly through my nose, stepping closer. She didn’t move, but her fingers tensed.

She was being difficult on purpose.

Of course she was.

I reached out, catching her wrist before she could tuck her hand behind her back. She let me, but only because she was tired, I realized. Up close, I could see the faint tremor in her fingers, the way she was gripping the counter just a little too hard.

I didn’t say anything. Just traced my thumb over her bruised knuckles, turning her hand gently so I could inspect the damage. She hissed softly when I pressed near the cut.

“Did you punch someone?”

She just shrugged. “It was more of a slap.”

I huffed a laugh, shaking my head. “Christ. I look away for five fucking minutes and you’re out here throwing hands.”

Her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but refused to give me the satisfaction.

I pulled a clean napkin from the counter and wiped away the worst of the blood. Then, before she could yank her hand back, I lifted it to my mouth and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to her knuckles. She inhaled sharply.

I felt the way her pulse jumped, the way her breath stuttered. Still, she tilted her chin, feigning indifference. “Dramatic.”

I met her gaze, voice low. “You like it.”

She didn’t deny it.