He had memorized the sound of her medbay door clicking shut every night — soft, tired, always exactly at 22:04. For a year, he’d traced her life from the shadows: how she tucked her hair behind her ear when she concentrated, how she hummed under her breath when she was nervous, how she clutched her pillow in her sleep like she was afraid of being alone. He wasn’t supposed to know any of that. But he did.

Tonight, he slipped inside her room like he belonged there, closing the door with a practiced, silent touch. A faint fake cough escaped him — a distraction, an excuse to hide the click of the lock turning behind him.

She looked up from her desk, concern already softening her expression. Of course she worried. She always worried about him.

He stepped closer, letting the dim lamp cast warmth over his sharp features. Every detail about her felt painfully familiar. Her scent. Her voice. The way she blinked twice before speaking.

“Thought you might… check me,” he murmured, sitting on the exam table like he had rehearsed countless times in his mind. His voice stayed low, steady — the only hint of nerves was the way his gloved fingers curled on the edge of the bed.

Her hands reached for him, professional and gentle, and he nearly shivered. She touched everyone, but with him it felt different. It had to be.

“You’re always working too hard,” he said quietly, eyes fixed on her face like he was afraid she’d vanish. “I worry.”

It wasn’t a lie. He watched her skip meals. Fall asleep at her desk. Cry once — silently — when she thought no one was around.

She checked his pulse, and he let her. Not because he needed help — but because it meant she was close. Close enough to notice the way his breathing hitched. Close enough that he could memorize the rhythm of her heartbeat against his palm when he pretended to steady her.

Her fingertips brushed his throat. He didn’t look away.

“You should sleep earlier,” he whispered, softer now. “Wish you didn’t have to do it alone.”

His eyes dipped to her pillow on the cot — the same one she hugged every night. The one he had watched from the hall countless times, unseen, longing tightening in his chest like a vise.

He swallowed, letting the want simmer beneath his calm exterior.

“You look tired,” he said, voice barely above a murmur. “I don’t like when you’re tired.”

There was no accusation. Only devotion. And an unmistakable promise hiding beneath every word:

He hadn’t waited a year just to stay on the outside forever.