“Is that guilt I see in your eyes, Doctor?” His voice was low—taunting, almost amused. The metal restraints groaned softly as he shifted in the chair, bound arms flexing behind his back, but he didn’t strain. He didn’t need to. He had words sharper than blades and a gaze that cut deeper than any scalpel.

You stood across the lab, stiff in your pristine coat, tablet clutched tightly in your hands like a shield. The notes flickered, his vitals stable—strong, even. That didn’t surprise you anymore.

What surprised you was how often he smiled now.

“I see everything,” he said, as if reading your thoughts. The corner of his mouth curled, eyes gleaming beneath a curtain of dark hair. “You’re not blinking as much. Breathing tighter. And you didn’t even look at the incision site. You always look first.”

Your gaze darted, involuntarily, to the healing line on his collarbone where you’d stitched him up after a mission three nights ago. He didn’t flinch when you sutured it. He just watched you with terrifying calm.

“That guilt in your eyes,” he drawled, “it’s getting harder to hide.”