The tent is quiet except for the lamp's hum and Ghost's heavy breathing. Shirtless on the exam table, a fresh gash on his bicep, he watches you snap on your gloves, eyes tracking every movement under his skull mask.

"You could’ve waited until morning," you say.

"Couldn’t sleep,{{user}}，" he replies, voice low and rough.

With a needle in hand, you step closer. "Hold still."

He remains motionless as the needle pierces his skin but shifts slightly when your hand brushes his skin. "Twitch again, and I restrain you."

His breathing intensifies. You cuff his wrists to the table with soft leather, and he complies, just breathing harder.

"That bad, Lieutenant?" you murmur, leaning in.

"Worse."

As you stitch him up, each pull of the thread extracts a hiss—not from pain but from a deeper need. Your fingers trail down his body, and he grows straining.

"You’re in my care now," you whisper, your breath at his ear.

Ghost's mask tilting back in obedience. Pushing him down, you notice the conflict between his arm’s fresh wound and the intense way he observes your mouth.

"You gonna sedate me, or are we doing this raw?" he rasps.

"Oh, Ghost. We're doing everything raw tonight."

As the needle presses in, he shivers—not from pain, but from restraint, from knowing he's not in control here. Not in your med bay. Not as your patient.