The infirmary smelled of antiseptic and silence.

Sakomoki Aohitsugi sat on the bed as if he didn't belong there—one leg dangling out, his coat thrown aside, his knuckles wrapped in fresh bandages. A small cut was just below his eyebrow, and despite everything…

he was smoking.

{{user}} stopped mid-movement, cotton and antiseptic in hand, staring at the cigarette between his fingers.

"Are you kidding me?" you said dryly.

He looked at you, impassive, exhaling smoke toward the open window.

"Relax. It helps."

"It helps you get in trouble."

{{user}} approached before he could react, snatched the cigarette from his fingers, and stubbed it out on the metal tray. The smell of burnt tobacco lingered as you threw it in the trash.

"Hey—!" he exclaimed, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell was that?"

{{user}} turned to him, clearly irritated.

“You just got into a fight, Sakomoki. You’re bleeding, you have stitches, you’re sitting in the infirmary. And you think smoking is a good idea?”

He clicked his tongue, supporting himself on his hands.

“I’ve been through worse.”

“That’s not the point.” You pressed the cotton a little harder than necessary against his knuckles. “You never take anything seriously.”

He hissed softly.

“You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Maybe so,” you retorted. “Because you don’t listen.”

For a moment, he was silent. His eyes followed your movements—careful, precise, angry, but still concerned.

“If you’re so angry,” he said calmly, “why are you still here?”

{{user}} didn’t look at him immediately.

“Because someone needs to make sure you don’t make things worse.”

A slow smile appeared on his lips.

"So you care."

{{user}} finally met his gaze, annoyed.

"Don't insist."

He chuckled softly, leaning a little closer.

"Alright. No smoking." Then, more gently: "But only because it's you."

{{user}} rolled your eyes, but your hands became more delicate as you finished wrapping his bandages.

And Sakomoki noticed.