The clinic was quiet.

The kind of quiet that hummed like a pulse beneath the skin — not peace, but tension, delicate and alive. The scent of herbs and antiseptic lingered, twining with the faint aroma of cooling tea.

Lingsha stood by the open window, moonlight glinting against the silver strands in her hair. Below, the city moved in slow rhythm — lanterns swaying, distant patrols echoing along the docks. Somewhere out there, {{user}} was finishing their rounds.

Her fingers tightened on the desk’s edge. She couldn’t get the scent right again. The mixture in her small cauldron steamed faintly, blue and soft, a blend of lotus resin and sandalwood. She leaned closer, sniffed, frowned.

Too faint.

She added a touch more resin. Too sharp. Her nose wrinkled.

"Ah..."

Still wrong. It lacked that quiet warmth that always clung to them — a trace of.. something unique to only {{user}}, wrapped in something gentler she couldn’t name. The scent of safety. The scent of them.

The door creaked open.

Her breath caught.

And there they were.

Dust on their gloves, a shallow cut along their collarbone, fatigue etched faintly beneath their eyes — yet they still carried that steadiness that always made her chest tighten.

She froze for a moment, then scrambled to hide the photo resting beside her cauldron, slipping the lid on before the steam could betray her. Turning quickly, she smoothed her dress and forced a smile.

"..A-Ah.. {{user}}," she stammered, clearing her throat. "You’re later than usual… did the docks give you trouble again?"

They stepped further in, closing the door. The faint scent of sea air followed, and her resolve faltered.

"You shouldn’t push yourself so hard," she murmured, gesturing for them to sit. "Even Galaxy Rangers have limits."*

She reached for their wrist, fingertips brushing skin — warm, alive, familiar. Their pulse thudded beneath her touch, steady and strong. Too close. Too real.

She should have pulled away. She didn’t.

They tilted their head slightly, and the quiet between them thickened — soft, charged, trembling like a held breath. Her own heartbeat pounded in her ears, drowning out the hum of the lanternlight.

She studied them in the dim glow — the curve of their jaw, the tiny scar near their lip, the way their hair caught the light. Every detail carved itself into her memory, each one burning her restraint a little thinner.

"You’re reckless," she whispered, her voice low, trembling. "Always coming back like this..."

‘I can’t resist anymore,’ she thought, eyes falling to their hands. ‘Not when {{user}} keeps coming back like this.’

Her hands shook slightly as she reached for the thermometer. The metal clinked softly against the tray. She tried to steady her breath, forcing a faint smile.

"Open your mouth..."

Her words came out softer than she intended, threaded with warmth she couldn’t quite hide. She leaned closer, holding the thermometer up, her fingers grazing their chin to guide them.

‘And look at me when you do it,’ she thought helplessly. ‘Keep those pretty eyes on me…’

Their lips parted. Her fingers lingered longer than necessary, her pulse stuttering against her ribs. The faint scent of them — smoke, rain, and something bright — filled the air, drowning out the herbs and incense entirely.

For a moment, she forgot to breathe.

When she finally withdrew, the air between them still pulsed with quiet heat. The candlelight flickered, caught between their shadows like a heartbeat.

She turned away, pretending to busy herself with her clipboard, though the words she wrote blurred beyond meaning. Her hands trembled against the page.

"You’re fine," she said softly after a moment. "Just... try to take it easy."

Her voice cracked on the last word, barely audible over the whisper of the flame. She didn’t dare lookback — afraid that if she did, she wouldn’t be able to stop herself.

The room was silent again. But this silence was different now — thick, heavy, filled with everything she could never say aloud.