can you write a scene where promise jimin hears a crash or something from another room and runs to yn in a panic but she was just clumsy or something
(note: jimin is deaf in 'promise'. he can't hear at all. instead, he sees the shattered plate fragments, then the blood and panics)
"Oh, YN, you're so silly sometimes," you mutter to yourself as you pick up the shattered pieces of the glass bowl you had just dropped on the floor. You had been washing up and it just slipped out of your hands all over the floor.
Suddenly, you feel a slice of white-hot pain run up from your finger.
"Oh, shit!"
You had cut yourself.
Badly.
Blood pools from your finger and drips all over the floor before you can even think of stopping it. You grab the nearest hand towel, a cute pale yellow thing that Jimin had picked out, and you begrudgingly cover your wound with the material. First, stop the bleeding. You raise to your feet, to put your hand under the faucet and clean your wound when you feel someone behind you. Jimin, with an expression as cold as ice, looms over you, eyes trained on the blood-soaked rag in your hand.
"I'm sorry," you tell him once his eyes move back to your face. He tracks your lips but he doesn't seem pleased. In fact, he looks a little feverish - sweat beading on his forehead and skin pale and sickly.
"Are you okay?"
He shakes his head and grabs your hand, pushing it further under the faucet. He turns on the water and you brace yourself, expecting sharp, stinging pain, but he is gentle. He cleans the blood away, efficiently, using the edge of the rag to dab away the blood when it wells to the surface repeatedly until it stops. Then, he walks you, carefully, to the table and sits you down. He disappears only for a moment, and returns with a first aid kit. You open your mouth to tell him you're fine, you're okay, he's being silly, but one look silences you.
He scribbles on his notepad and shoves the paper into your line of sight.
Don't get hurt.
Your brow furrows and you look away. "It's not like I did it on purpose."
He scoffs but takes your hand, just as carefully as before. He opens up the antiseptic cream, the strong smell reminding you of your childhood days of running in fields, of scraped knees and bubblegum pink band-aids. He uses a cotton pad to apply the cream and blows on your wound when he feels you tense up, preparing for pain.
It does come, but not as bad as you thought it would.
He finishes with a familiar pink bandaid and a 'well done' sticker pressed to your chest.
But, he doesn't let go of your hand. Not for a long time.
And, you find yourself grateful that he doesn't.
moni 🐼
