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Andrew was always careful when handling any sort of tool. In fact, he's always delicate in whatever it is he's doing. He may be clumsy at times, but only when doing something new, or when he doesn’t have his glasses on him. He was usually proud of his attention to detail.
Thus, he was quite surprised once he felt a poke on his finger while in the middle of a task most mundane - he was just getting himself a slice of bread, something he's done since he could handle a knife. Sure, he's cut himself before on accident, but now he thought he was old enough to know better.
He tried to remain calm to not alert you, knowing you were dwelling in the nearby room. The last thing he needed was to make you worry, much less make you see him like this, with all his apparent inability to grasp a basic tool.
He hurriedly cast the blade on the cutting board below, immediately regretting the hiss he produced with the pain. He held his hand, noticing the wound of his trembling digit as it wept bright red, the bead following the curve of his palm as it stained his fair skin.
He looked around, trying to work out where he could clean it off. A towel wouldn't do, blood doesn't wash out easily...he pat himself down with his good hand, realizing he left his trusty handkerchief somewhere, likely in the bedroom. The sink... will have to do.
He opened the tap hurriedly, chilling water gushing out at his hand as he bit his lip. It stung like hell and the now-pinkish water only splattered to the sides of the silver bowl instead of going down to the drain, making a bigger mess. He regretted everything and started to splash the droplets away, in a manner that proved much too noisy.
With all this mess you had to be alerted at some point. You emerge from the door, confused at the commotion, seeing a panicked Andrew look over his shoulder as one of his rolled-up sleeves slid down, unpleasantly wetting its edges in the sink.
"What's going on?" You approach, placing a hand on his hunched back, the ringing of water against the metal being your only answer.
You look at his hands, being met with a messy sight. As it was left above the water, the wound only began leaking anew, establishing a wider path, aided by the slick of the water. His hands were held up helplessly, trembling with tension and the unpleasant stinging.
“What happened?!” You gasped, grabbing his wrist gently and bringing it up to your face as you saw a streak of crimson collect in the groove between two fingers. "Andrew, c’mon, let's patch you up..." You look at him, but he only shrugs your hold off.
"I can do it myself." His tone was rigid but regretful.
"But you're bleeding all over! Doesn’t it hurt?”
"I will figure it out." he turned away from you, approaching a cupboard that held miscellaneous utilities.
"Please, let me help you" You beg, following him to his side. “What’s wrong? Why won’t you let me help?” You ask helplessly.
“It’s alright! I don’t need your help, it’s not a big deal!” He spat his words, whipping his head to you. Taken aback by his sudden tone, you switch your own voice to one much softer.
“Andrew, please, let’s calm down. Is something bothering you? You know you can always talk to me, right?” You coo while reaching for your own handkerchief, wetting the fabric under the tap and folding it to a neater point.
You reach out, keeping your hand open for Andrew to place his on it. You look at him, seeing he was staring at you the entire time. He adverts his gaze quickly. He huffs, visibly pondering things.
“Do you want to talk about it?” He takes his time, but soon enough he slowly lets you take hold of his still-bleeding hand, holding onto the palm as you dab the wet tissue on the trail of blood. He hisses the closer you get to his wound, so you avoid touching it directly.
“I want to be able to fix it myself.”
“It’s alright to ask for help, you know that, right? I will never mind helping you, Andrew.”
“It’s not that. I shouldn’t have gotten hurt in the first place.”
“And why’s that?”
“I should know better. I’m an adult, I'm old enough to not get hurt cutting bread.” You pause. You look up at Andrew, whose gaze is averted, head downturned in a shameful way.
“Oh, love…” You put the tissue down. His wound already sealed, there was no urgency in patching it. You move his arm to the side, allowing you to freely hug him. “This kind of thing doesn’t come with age. You’ll always be just as likely to accidentally hurt yourself, that’s just how it is with sharp things. I don’t like that you got hurt either, but it’s only because I don’t want to see you hurt in general. It’s not your fault, so please don’t blame yourself.” You explain, smoothing a hand on his back.
Andrew inhales sharply, grabbing your shoulder with one hand and burrowing his face in your neck. “But…”
“No, Andrew. There are no buts. It even happens to me from time to time. Just promise me you’ll be careful.”
“Okay…”
“Here…” You detach from him, grabbing his wrist again. You pick a bandaid of appropriate size, peeling the foil on the back and tucking the adhesive wings around the length of his finger.
“Wait, can you maybe…kiss it better?” Andrew asks shyly. He likes to act tough, but deep inside, he’s always going to be his emotional self.
You chuckle. “Of course!” You gently plant a kiss on the middle of the bandaid, then on his cheek. He flashes a close-eyed smile.