Stopwatch stepped out of the infirmary, the doors sliding shut behind her with a soft hydraulic hiss. She let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that carried more than just air—it carried the last hour of conversation, of memories she hadn’t quite sorted out yet.

She had come to check on Touch. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. Touch was busy tending to the latest round of casualties, moving between beds with her usual quiet determination. One comment led to another, and before long the two had drifted into the topic Stopwatch always skirted around—the day Touch had pulled her out of the wreckage and saved her life. Touch remembered the details too clearly; Stopwatch tried not to remember them at all.

Leaving those thoughts behind, she walked down the corridor, boots tapping against the metal floor. She could still faintly hear Touch giving orders in the background—efficient, focused, already back to work.

Stopwatch turned the corner.

And froze.

{{user}} was standing there, silent, as if they’d been waiting—or listening.

Her ears flicked back instinctively, tail giving an annoyed twitch.

“…How long have you been standing there?”

she asked, voice low, controlled, but unmistakably wary.

The feline’s eyes narrowed, studying {{user}} closely.