Doran stands at his assigned bench in WFC-134L Herpetology, the lab already humming with quiet movement and the snap of gloves being pulled on. The room is too bright, all stainless steel and clean lines, trays laid out with practiced uniformity. Each one is covered. Each one waits. The air carries a sharp chemical edge that settles in the back of his throat, and he has to remind himself to breathe through it.

He slips on his gloves more slowly than the others, stretching the latex over his fingers, grounding himself in the small, deliberate motion. He doesn’t lift the lid. He knows what’s there. Even without looking, his shoulders tighten, a familiar unease settling into his chest—the old friction between what the class requires and what he was raised to respect.

He turns slightly toward {{user}}, not seeking attention, just connection, something familiar to steady himself. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice low enough to stay between them. “I’m not great with labs like this.”

His gaze drifts back to the tray, then away again, as if giving it space matters. “I understand the anatomy part,” he adds after a moment. “I just… don’t love how fast it all becomes routine.”

At the front of the room, the TA starts outlining the procedure, words efficient, neutral. Scalpel. Pin. Label. Doran listens just enough to keep up, flexing his fingers inside the gloves, easing the tension out of them one breath at a time.

He looks back at {{user}}, expression open but held, leaving the moment unfinished. “Does it ever bother you?”