Summary: It is a small injury. But to Zeno, anything that harms you is unacceptable.
It happens so quickly you barely register it.
One moment, you are in the kitchen, reaching for something just a little too far back on the shelf.
Next, your grip slips.
Glass shatters and soon, pain follows.
“Ah-” you hiss, instinctively pulling your hand back as a thin line of red runs across your palm.
It is not deep nor is it serious, just enough to sting. You are already reaching for a towel, more annoyed than anything else, when you hear it. You turn your head just as Zeno appears in the doorway, his presence immediate, overwhelming, like he has materialised out of the air itself. And you almost have a feeling that he did, given how far he was only seconds ago.
His eyes land on your hand and everything else disappears.
“What happened?” he asks, more demands but you choose to ignore the sharp edge.
“It’s nothing,” you say quickly, already putting a tissue on your palm. “I just-”
“Show me.” it was not a question.
You hesitate for half a second before sighing and giving him your hand.
“It’s just a cut, Zeno, I'll be fine.”
He is in front of you before you finish the sentence, his hand closes around your wrist, not rough, but firm enough that you cannot pull away even if you wanted to.
“You are bleeding.”
“…Yes, that tends to happen with cuts.”
Zeno does not react to your tone, he is too busy assessing the situation.
“How long ago?”
“About thirty seconds ago.”
“Cause?”
“A glass broke. It’s not a crime scene.”
“It is if it compromised you.”
You stare at him for a moment, caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Zeno.”
He finally looks up at you.
“What?”
“It’s tiny.”
His grip tightens slightly.
“That is irrelevant.”
You barely have time to protest before he is already moving, he guides, or rather pulls, you toward the counter, clearing space with quick, efficient motions.
“Sit.”
“I’m fine.”
“Sit.”
There it is again, that tone, you know better than to argue. You sigh, but comply, hopping up onto the edge of the counter as he disappears for exactly three seconds before returning with what looks like an entire medical kit.
“Zeno, this is excessive.”
“It is appropriate.”
“For a paper cut?”
“It is not a paper cut.”
“It’s basically a paper cut.”
His jaw tightens slightly as he takes your hand again, far more carefully this time.
“Do not minimise injury.”
“You’re overreacting,” you whisper.
“No,” he replies immediately. “I am reacting correctly.”
“Why does this bother you so much?”
For a moment, he does not answer, his focus remains on your hand as he cleans the cut, his touch careful despite the tension in his posture.
“Because it should not have happened.”
“Zeno, it was an accident.”
“Then the environment was flawed.”
“You’re going to redesign the kitchen over this, aren’t you?”
“If necessary.”
“I was joking.”
“I was not.”
You shake your head, but you cannot stop the small smile that forms on your lips.
“You’re impossible.”
“I am thorough.”
“You’re dramatic.”
“I am correct.”
His grip on your hand changes slightly, as he finishes wrapping it.
“There,” he says.
You glance down at the neat bandage, then back at him.
“All that for this.”
“All that, because it is you.”
“It doesn’t even hurt that much,” you admit.
Zeno’s gaze moves back to your face.
“It did.”
“Past tense.”
“It was unacceptable then. It is still unacceptable now.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him more carefully.
“You really mean that.”
“Yes.”
Something in your chest tightens, not uncomfortable, just… warm.
“You know,” you say softly, “most people would’ve just handed me a plaster and moved on.”
“I am not most people.”
“No,” you agree quietly. “You’re not.”
You slide off the counter before he can stop you, your uninjured hand resting lightly against his arm.
“I’m okay,” you reassure him.
Zeno’s gaze drops briefly to your bandaged hand, then back to your eyes.
“I will monitor it.”
You laugh softly. “You’re going to monitor me?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“As long as necessary.”
You shake your head, stepping just a little closer.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is efficient.”
You smile, softer now, your fingers curling lightly against his sleeve.
“It’s sweet.”
Zeno pauses.
That, more than anything else you have said, seems to catch him off guard.
“…Sweet,” he repeats.
“Yes.”
Carefully, like you are testing something, you lean in, your forehead almost brushing his.
“I’m fine,” you whisper, Zeno’s hand lifts, resting against your wrist, avoiding the bandage.
“I will make sure you remain that way.”
You cannot help it, you smile because for all his intensity, all his precision, all his inability to treat anything involving you as minor… There is something undeniably comforting in it.
Something steady and certain.
And as his thumb brushes lightly against your skin, you realise you do not mind his overreaction. Not when it means you are the thing he refuses to risk.
