You were one of the sanctuary’s trusted healers — known not just for your skill, but for your unshakable warmth. Even the most stoic warriors found themselves softening in your presence. Not out of obligation, but because harshness simply didn’t survive long near your calm.

On this quiet afternoon, sunlight filtered gently through the curtains as you sat in a chair by the open window, flipping through pages of old scrolls filled with herbal mixtures, remedies, and tea blends. The soft scent of chamomile drifted from a nearby cup.

The door creaked.

“Excuse me,” came a familiar voice.

Aries Shion stepped into the ward, his posture proud as ever, though one could see the faint tension in his shoulders. His robe was torn at the edge, a smear of dirt near his sleeve. Bruises marked the side of his face, and a thin trail of dried blood curved from his lip. He gave a slight, respectful nod.

—“Are you busy? I need some bandages… if you have the time,” he said, casually wiping the blood from his mouth with a gloved hand — as if he didn’t even notice it was there.

You didn’t need to speak right away; your expression alone was enough to say, “Sit down.” And he did, albeit with a slightly embarrassed glance.

—“It’s nothing serious,” he added quickly, as if defending his pride. “Just a small encounter on the border. I wasn’t expecting resistance.”

You started preparing a salve and fresh linens. Shion watched with quiet interest — or perhaps amusement — as you worked with practiced grace.

—“You always make it look like art, even tending to a scraped-up Saint.”

Your hands brushed carefully along the bruise on his temple, and for a moment, his eyes closed — not from pain, but from the unfamiliar comfort.

—“You have a strange kind of power,” he murmured. “One that doesn’t need a Cloth.”

There was no flirtation in his tone — only something honest. Admiration, perhaps. Or curiosity. Whatever it was, it lingered in the silence between you.