A drop of blood fell from your fingertip as you reached for a wooden spoon, catching Shawn's eye as he sauntered over to where you stood at the kitchen counter.

"Hey, let me have a look," he spoke, grabbing your hand and turning it over. A small cut graced your index fingertip, mildly bleeding as he pulled you to the sink and put the cold water on.

"Shawn, I didn't even feel it," you said, hoping he would calm down as he was a whole new shade of pale.

"Nope, c'mon," he grunted as he put his hands on your hips and propped you up on the counter beside the sink. He gently guided your hand into the cold stream, leading it to feel numb as it practically froze.

"Shawn, I'm fine! Just a bandaid, please," you pressed, trying your best to distract him from the tiny volume of blood coming out of your finger.

"Okay, fine. Don't move," he said firmly, earning a laugh from you as he darted into the washroom and quickly emerged with a bandaid and the tube of polysporin.

"Oh my god," you shook your head, holding your hand out for him as he squeezed a dab of ointment out of the tube and proceeded to expertly wrap your finger with not one, but two bandaids.
He crossed the kitchen and pulled two round glasses from the cupboard, retrieving a bottle of red from the liquor cabinet and earning a questioning look from you.

"I think we both need a drink after that," he said quietly, eyes wild.

"Oh my god. Shawn, nothing even happened," you laughed, shaking your head as he brought you a glass of wine and gently brought your bandaged finger to his soft lips.