"Fuck."
A sharp, stinging pain shot through my hand. I looked down—blood. Great. I'd cut my finger.
How long had it been since I last did this? And… how even now? Was it because of the way he asked my name? It had sounded… nice. Too nice. Or maybe… I'd just been scared.
Yeah, that was more likely. I hate it when people ask for my name.
I pressed my finger against my palm, trying not to flinch.
Ah… who am I kidding? It hurts like hell.
"You're bleeding," Minho said quickly, his voice tense. Concerned.
"No, really? I hadn't noticed," I shot back, sarcasm sharp.
"Now's not the time for jokes."
"Don't bother," I said, waving him off. "It's just a cut. I can handle it. Go get the first aid kit—there's a plaster in there somewhere."
He left. I ran my hand under cold water. The sting made me wince, but it washed the blood away.
When I turned off the tap, he was back—plaster in hand.
"Finally," I muttered, turning to face him.
He didn't answer. He just stood there, staring at the little plaster like it was a priceless gem.
"Done admiring it? If yes, give it to me," I said, extending my hand.
"Give me your injured hand. I'll put it on for you," he said, calm as ever.
I shook my head. "No need. It's just a cut. I can manage… like always."
He sighed softly. "You helped me with my bandage before. Consider this payback."
"Or," I teased, "you could just pay me instead."
He scowled. Wait… he's annoyed? Really? I'm the one bleeding here.
"I'll tell them to give you extra," he muttered.
"Extra money?" I leaned in, eyes sparkling.
He nodded.
I grinned and leaned closer. "Why didn't you say so earlier? I would've chopped off my whole arm for that."
He sighed again.
Finally, I handed him my finger. He pressed the plaster on gently, careful as if I were glass.
"Soheon."
I froze. He looked up at me, confusion written across his face.
"My name… Soheon," I said clearly.
He hummed, nodded, and finished taping the plaster.
"Done?" I asked.
"Yes," he said, letting go of my hand.
"Okay… then I'll get back to cooking."
"No. You're not," he said firmly.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You're hurt," he said simply.
"So what if I'm hurt? And how many times do I need to tell you—it's just a cut. Or did the accident affect your hearing too? Should we test it before it's too late?" I said, sarcasm dripping.
He stayed silent.
I muttered, "Right… cooking. I was going to cook…"
Then—
CRASH!
The sound of plates smashing against the floor made my heart stop.
I froze.