The infirmary smells like antiseptic and crushed ambrosia. Late afternoon light spills through the high windows, turning everything soft gold. The cots are empty. The curtains are half-drawn. Too quiet.

You’re sitting on the edge of one of the beds, legs swinging slightly, pretending you don’t feel the shift in the air. Will stands a few feet away, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like he doesn’t trust them not to reach for you.

You were his patient. That’s how it started. Bandaged wrists. Stitches. Too many near-death experiences. You’d gotten used to the way his fingers felt against your skin — careful, steady, warm. He’d gotten used to the way you looked at him like he was something brighter than the sun he carried in his chest.

It blurred. One night turned into two. Kisses between IV stands. Hands gripping sheets. Breathless laughter stifled into pillows so no one outside would hear. You never labeled it. You didn’t need to. But he did. You can see it now — the guilt sitting heavy in his shoulders. The way he won’t quite meet your eyes.

He finally exhales and sits you down properly on the cot, like you’re about to receive bad news. “I just want you to know that it’s never going to happen again, okay?” His voice is tight, rehearsed. “From now on our relationship.. it—it’s a strictly, medical, professional one.”

The words land wrong. Cold. You stare at him. Medical. Professional. Like the nights in this room never happened. Like the way he whispered your name in the dark was just a symptom to treat.

You don’t think. You stand. You close the space between you in two steps and kiss him. It’s instinct. Desperate. Familiar. For half a second — just one — he kisses you back.

Then reality slams into him. “and uh— {{user}}! NO!”

He pulls away abruptly, hands firm on your shoulders as he pushes you back. His face is flushed bright red, eyes wide with panic. Then he glances toward the hallway. And realizes. The door is still wide open. He practically lunges for it, slamming it shut with a loud bang.

“NOT WITH THE DOOR OPEN!!” The room falls silent except for both of your breathing. His back is pressed against the closed door now, chest rising and falling too fast, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to physically restrain himself from crossing the room again. The guilt is still there. But so is something else. And that’s the real problem.