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moments later, your phone rings, his contact flashing on the screen. you stare at it for a moment before answering.
as you pick up his call, you accidentally knock over a glass, the sound of shattering glass filling the air.
the noise rings through the phone's speaker, followed by a muttered curse. "what the hell was that?" he demands, his voice edged with concern.
you blink, realizing the gravity of the situation. "i, um, i accidentally knocked something over," you say, your voice still unsteady from the alcohol.
"accidentally knocked something over?" he repeats, his tone growing more urgent. "what did you break? are you okay?"
"yeah, i'm fine," you reassure him, though your words are still slurred. "i'm just gonna clean up real quick..."
before you can move, he cuts you off. "no, don't move!" he says, his voice edged with panic. "don't do anything, i'm coming over right now."
"stay there, don't move a muscle," he repeats urgently. "i'm on my way, don't do anything until i get there."
he abruptly ends the call, leaving you slightly dazed and confused, still inebriated from the alcohol. without fully processing his words, you attempt to clean up the broken glass, stepping cautiously towards the shattered pieces.
clumsily, you try to sweep up the shards with your bare hands. your fingers brush against the broken glass, the sharp edges grazing your skin as you pick up the pieces. a small trickle of blood wells up, but you barely notice in your drunken haze.
you continue to sweep the shards into a pile, your movements becoming more erratic and careless with each passing moment. the alcohol clouds your judgment, numbing your senses to the danger you're in.
the door suddenly slams open, startling you. in a blur, he rushes in, practically sprinting towards you. before you can even process what's happening, he's pulling you away from the broken glass, his movements quick and firm.
despite your drunken state, the shock of his sudden appearance briefly snaps you out of it, and you find yourself wondering how he got in when you were certain you had locked the door.
"what the hell were you thinking?" he exclaims, his voice a mix of concern and anger. "you're so drunk you can barely stand, and you're trying to clean up broken glass with your hands!"
he holds you at arm's length, his grip firm but gentle. he scans you carefully, noticing the trails of blood on your skin and the unsteady way you're standing.
he swears under his breath as he realizes you're bleeding. "you're bleeding," he states, his gaze fixed on your injured fingers. "why did you try to clean that up yourself? you're drunk off your ass!"
his tone is a mixture of frustration and concern as he gently takes your injured hand in his, inspecting the cuts on your fingers.
he mutters a curse as he examines the damage. "stupid," he murmurs, gently running a thumb over the cuts. "you could've seriously hurt yourself."
then, his eyes meeting yours, he continues, his voice softer now. "what were you thinking, trying to clean up glass like that while you're so drunk? were you even listening to me on the phone?"
he looks at you expectantly, waiting for an answer, but the alcohol still clouds your mind, making it difficult to focus. you attempt to answer, but your words come out slurred and incoherent.
he shakes his head, a mixture of worry and resignation on his face. "you're too far gone," he mutters under his breath. "come on, sit down."
he leads you over to the couch, gently easing you down and sitting next to you. he keeps a firm hold on your injured hand, gingerly picking out the remaining shards of glass embedded in your skin.
all the while, he mutters under his breath, alternating between scolding you for your recklessness and fretting over your injuries. his touch is gentle but firm as he tends to your cuts, his eyes fixed on your face.
he grumbles as he carefully picks out the last shard of glass. "you know, there's a reason i told you to stay put until i got here," he says, his tone stern but laced with worry. "i could've cleaned up for you, made sure you didn't hurt yourself. but no, you had to go and do it yourself. why didn't you wait for me?"
he sighs, his expression softening as he gazes at your injured hand. he gently runs his thumb over your skin, his touch tender yet careful. "stupid," he mutters again, but there's no malice in his voice.
he lifts his eyes to meet yours, his gaze intense. "i don't want you getting hurt," he says quietly. "that's why i didn't want you to clean up the glass. i wanted to do it for you, to make sure you were safe."
