You noticed him the first time he walked into the infirmary—tall, gentle-eyed, polite to a fault. The kind of man who made “ma’am” sound like a real compliment. Said he had a sprained wrist from a rough landing, and you patched him up quickly.

But then he came back the next week. This time for a headache.

Then a bruised rib.

Then “maybe just dehydration.”

It didn’t take long before the pattern became clear: Lieutenant Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd wasn’t particularly accident-prone. He just kept showing up. Sitting patiently on the edge of the exam table, smiling shyly when you asked what he’d managed to do this time.

“Bob,” you said with an amused sigh one afternoon, arms crossed. “You’re not even bleeding.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks coloring slightly under his glasses. “Well… doesn’t hurt to check, does it?”

The other pilots teased him for it. You heard the jokes in the hallway—how he was “faking it just to see his favorite nurse.” But you didn’t mind. There was something endearing about him, even when he was clearly making things up just to spend five more minutes talking with you.

Sometimes, you’d catch him watching you when he thought you weren’t looking. Other times, he’d bring you a coffee, claiming it was “extra” from the mess hall. He always had something nice to say—even if he stumbled over his words half the time.

And deep down?

You looked forward to his visits, too.

Even if he didn’t need patching up, maybe his heart did.