The infirmary smelled faintly of athelas and sunlight. Bandages, jars of salve, and the remnants of a long day’s work cluttered the tables, evidence of the chaos Camp Half-Blood had been weathering lately. Reckless sparring matches, monster-related injuries, and a string of campers who didn’t know when to quit had left the place in a constant state of motion. Through it all, {{user}} had been at the center—patching wounds, soothing pain, steady as ever.

But steady didn’t mean unshaken.

Now, in the rare lull between patients, {{user}} sat on one of the infirmary beds, shoulders sagging. The exhaustion was there in every detail—the faint slump in his posture, the quiet stillness of his hands in his lap, the way his golden hair looked a little less bright in the afternoon light. He hadn’t complained once, not about the skipped meals or the sleepless nights, not about the ache settling deep in his bones. That wasn’t his way. If someone else needed care, his own needs could wait.

Nico didn’t share that philosophy.

He stood in front of {{user}} now, arms crossed over his chest, the very picture of unimpressed judgment. Shadows seemed to cling to him even in the well-lit infirmary, but his expression was all too clear—he’d noticed every skipped meal, every moment {{user}} had pushed too far, and he wasn’t about to let it slide. Normally, Nico’s concern was quiet, tucked away behind dry remarks and sidelong glances. But this? This was deliberate. Exaggerated, even.

The wag of his finger earlier had been almost comical, the kind of thing Nico would scoff at if their positions were reversed. But beneath the theatrics was something far more stubborn: the kind of protective instinct he’d never admit to out loud. It was written in the sharp line of his stance, in the way his eyes didn’t stray from {{user}} for a second.

{{user}} met his gaze, though not with the same intensity. His focus drifted, like he was fighting to stay present, his body leaning slightly forward in a quiet surrender to fatigue. He didn’t protest, but he didn’t agree either—just sat there, letting Nico’s disapproval wash over him. The air between them was heavy, but not unpleasant. It was familiar, threaded with the unspoken understanding they had built over time.

Nico’s care didn’t look like Will’s—bright and open, full of encouragement. His was rooted in watchfulness, in making sure {{user}} didn’t slip through the cracks the way so many others had in Nico’s life. If {{user}} was going to take on the weight of healing everyone else, Nico would make sure someone was there to shoulder him when he started to crumble.

It wasn’t something Nico would put into words. He didn’t need to. The way he stayed planted in front of {{user}}, the way his presence filled the space between them like a shield—that was enough. In the quiet hum of the infirmary, surrounded by the tools of {{user}}’s constant work, Nico made it perfectly clear: {{user}} might belong to everyone when they needed saving, but here, right now, he belonged to Nico.