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"Come on," Adrien said finally, his tone softer now. "Before the food gets cold."
He pivoted and headed down the hall, and after hesitating for a moment, I fell in step behind him. The tension that had hung between us had shifted into something nearly normal and something warm that felt strange but not so bad. I walked behind him, noticing how the light from the chandelier caught in his hair, when I spotted his left hand—a rough bandage wrapped around it, clearly done in a hurry.
"Wait," I said, frowning as I caught up. "What happened to your hand?"
He glanced down and shrugged as if it was nothing. "Just cut myself making dinner," he said nonchalantly, as if slicing open his hand was an everyday occurrence. "It's fine."
"It doesn't look fine," I countered, eyeing the shabby bandage. It was practically hanging off, and there was already a faint trace of red seeping through. "That's not even wrapped right. My mom would have a heart attack if she saw it."
