James Palmer had learned long ago how to make a room feel calmer than it had any right to be.

The autopsy suite was never meant for the living. Stainless steel, harsh lights, the low hum of machines- most people found it unsettling. Jimmy had spent years here, first as an assistant eager to please, then as a medical examiner who carried his compassion as carefully as his scalpel. Loss had shaped him early: his wife, his father, the quiet understanding that life could fracture without warning. It was why he spoke gently. Why his hands were steady even when his heart wasn't.

Tonight, you were on the table meant for the dead.

"Okay," Jimmy said softly, snapping on gloves, voice deliberately calm. "You're going to feel a tug, not pain. If you feel pain, you tell me Immediately."

You lay on your side, shirt pushed up, the cut along your ribs angry and dark, blood already cleaned away but the damage clear. It wasn't deep enough to be life-threatening-but deep enough to need careful work. Deep enough that Jimmy's jaw tightened when he saw it.

The fight replayed itself in fragments as he worked.

You'd been off all day. Head pounding. Muscles aching. Patier worn thin by hours of noise, questions, pressure. Then the suspect-smug, relentless, poking at you like he wanted a reaction. He'd gotten it. One shove turned into a strike. A blade flashed. Everything escalated too fast.

Jimmy pressed gauze gently, checking for bleeding. His movements were precise, practiced, but his eyes kept flicking to your face.

"You don't usually lose your temper," he said quietly, threading the needle. "That's what worries me."

The needle slid through skin. A brief, sharp pull. His fingers were warm, grounding, methodical as he closed the wound stitch by stitch. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and metal, a familiar scent to him- comforting, even.

"You've been pushing yourself," Jimmy continued, not looking up. "Skipping meals. Not sleeping. You think I don't notice? I examine people for a living."