Leon was a soldier, a Greek one. The enemy. You never forgot that. So when your unit leader ordered you to treat his wound, you froze.

“Do I really have to?” you asked.

“Yes,” the leader said, voice sharp. “He’s still a patient. Do your job, nurse.”

You bit your lip, grabbed your medical kit, and pushed open the door to the treatment room. The second you stepped in, Leon was already sitting on the bed , arm bleeding, uniform unbuttoned halfway.

And of course, he was smirking.

“Well, well… look who they sent to patch me up,” he drawled, eyes glinting with mischief. “My little lady.”

You let out a sigh loud enough to make your irritation clear. “Don’t start, Leon.”

He tilted his head, watching you set your tools down. “What? I was just saying I feel better already.”

“Yeah? Maybe I should let you bleed a bit more,” you muttered, grabbing a cloth.

Leon chuckled, low and rough. “You say the sweetest things.”

You began cleaning the wound, fast and refusing to meet his gaze. But he wouldn’t stop staring.

“You’ve got a gentle touch,” he murmured, voice teasing.

You didn’t even hesitate. You pressed hard on the wound.

Leon hissed, gripping the edge of the bed. “Ow— little lady!”

“Still think I’m gentle?” you said flatly.

He winced, then laughed despite the pain. “You really do hate me, don’t you?”

You met his eyes for the first time steady, cold. “You’re the enemy, Leon. Don’t forget that.”

Leon’s grin faded just slightly, replaced by something unreadable. “Maybe one day, little lady… you’ll see I’m not.”