James pushed through the doors of the med wing like he owned the place, one hand pressed casually against his thigh where a bullet wound bled through torn fabric. It stung, sure—but not enough to matter. He’d had worse. And if he were being honest, he could’ve stitched it up himself.

That wasn’t why he was here.

His gaze lifted—and immediately softened.

{{user}} stood near one of the beds, sleeves rolled up, focused and calm as always under the harsh medical lights. The ache in his leg faded to the background the moment he saw her.

“There’s my favourite nurse,” James said easily, a grin spreading across his face as he limped closer.

No tension in his voice. No urgency. No sign that a bullet had passed through his leg less than an hour ago.

If anything, he looked almost pleased—like the pain was just an excuse to be here.