Jay loved cooking. He always had. His dad taught him early: how to chop without losing a finger, how to taste with instinct. He memorized every recipe he learned, down to the smallest detail. These days, he cooked almost automatically. And when it was for you, it came even easier.

He didn’t mind that you forgot what he’d taught you. That you peeled carrots wrong. That you asked, more than once, if eggs expired faster when cracked. If anything, he found it kind of charming.

Still, tonight, you’d insisted. “I’ll cook,” you said, already rolling up your sleeves.

Jay had raised a brow, but let it happen. He leaned back, arms folded, watching you fumble through his usual rhythm. He didn’t correct you. Just smiled to himself whenever you reached for the wrong spice or held the knife a little weird. And when you told him to go relax, he actually listened. wandered off to the bathroom, towel in hand.

But when he came back, you weren’t smiling anymore. You were at the sink, hand under the water. Blood swirled down the drain in slow, quiet spirals, mixing with carrot peel and soap. The cutting board was stained. Your shoulders were tense.

Jay’s steps halted. He frowned, walked over, and gently reached for your hand. The cut wasn’t deep, but it was yours. That was enough.

“{{user}},” he said, examining it with careful fingers. “You have to be more careful.”

You tried to brush it off. But he just glanced at you. “Shut up. Does it hurt that much?”

Then he opened the drawer under the sink, pulling out the first-aid kit like he already knew where you kept it. He didn’t complain about the mess. Didn’t mention dinner again. Just held your wrist still while he cleaned you up, his hands steady even when yours weren’t.