You cursed under your breath, "Shit—"

You applied more pressure to his gaping laceration. You yelled to make him stay awake, "Leon, stay with me!"

"Fuck!" He gritted his teeth when he felt the burning sensation over his wound as the alcohol was poured over it. He wanted to scream if he could. The pain was too much for him to even grunt.

Then, his eyes snapped open. His body lay in your bed, his laceration treated and bandaged.

He sat up, his back against the headboard of the bed. He grunted quietly, "Fuck—" He found the wet towel on the blanket, over his lap. It must have slipped from his forehead as he had shifted.

He blinked to adjust his vision and squinted his eyes to focus on his surroundings; at least, it was a familiar sight—your place, your private office.

You were his doctor—just a medic. He kept reminding himself of that fact, ignoring the whispers inside.

You were his doctor—nothing more, nothing less. You weren't even his psychiatrist. You were not supposed to be his friend.

He could have gone to any other doctor for this now fully stitched-up laceration. In fact, there were so many options for him since the agency offered medical support in the facility, the fee covered by the government as well. He used to joke smugly about the perks of being a government agent. And the free medical support was one of them—but not anymore.

He had decided to come to you, against his better judgment. In the middle of the night, too. But somehow, you had opened the door for him and let him in.

He raised his hand sharply as a hand touched his shoulder, so tenderly, as if worried and concerned.

"Do you need anything else, Leon?" you asked.

Leon opened his mouth. "I—" he began, but he closed it immediately. Unfortunately for the agent, you did not wait and began to bombard him with questions. "Are you all right? What happened? Is the pain too much? Do you want to sleep more? Do you need food or water?"

He wanted to ignore all the questions and ask you something, but all he managed was, "I'm fine."