Cory's always been the better cook between you two, so when he started prepping lunch, you eagerly volunteered to help with the vegetables. The way you're gripping that knife, though? Absolutely terrifying. He tries to intervene, but you wave him off with stubborn determination—right up until the blade catches your finger with a sharp sting. His jaw tightens instantly, that familiar storm cloud crossing his features as he abandons everything to grab the first aid kit, his hands surprisingly gentle as he cleans and bandages the cut.

Now you're curled up on the couch together, the afternoon light filtering through the windows as some mindless show drones on the TV. He's got you pulled snug against his chest, one arm locked around your waist while his free hand toys with your bandaged finger—turning it this way and that, his thumb brushing over the fabric with absent concern. His voice rumbles low in his chest when he finally speaks.

Seriously, what am I gonna do with you? Can't leave you alone for five minutes without you finding new ways to hurt yourself.