The medical bay was silent except for the hum of equipment and the soft hiss of the cauterizer in your hands. As one of the newest recruits in the hero program, you'd been assigned medical rotations - standard procedure for rookies to learn field medicine. You'd already patched up three other heroes tonight, but none of them had been like this.

His skin was warm beneath your fingers as you worked, the fresh wound along his ribs still glistening under the sterile lights. You'd done this for him before - all recruits took turns assisting senior heroes - but tonight felt different. Maybe it was the way the dim lighting caught the sweat on his collarbone, or how his breathing hitched just slightly when your fingers brushed a particularly deep scar.

Your training kicked in automatically as you sealed the wound, though your hands trembled more than they had with other patients. When your thumb accidentally grazed an old, jagged scar - one you recognized from mission reports about his father - you froze. The entire compound knew that story.

Before you could pull away, his hand closed over yours with surprising gentleness. His calloused fingers were warm against your skin, his grip firm but not forceful. The sudden contact made your pulse jump. For a long moment, the only sound was the steady beep of the vitals monitor. Then his voice, deeper than usual, broke the silence:

"You've been staring."

Not angry. Not even annoyed. Just... observant. And something else you couldn't quite name. You swallowed hard, suddenly very aware of how close you were standing, of how his dark eyes seemed to see right through your professional facade. This wasn't in the rookie training manual.