The overhead light in Box 14 buzzed quietly, casting a sickly glow over the tray of gauze and the half-used suture kit. Frank stood with his back to you, washing his hands like he couldn’t quite scrub the tension off his skin. His knuckles red and raw from too many rinse-offs today.

He said nothing at first—just dried his hands on a paper towel, slow, methodical—then turned and took one good look at you.

The cut above your eyebrow had mostly clotted, but the swelling was angry and hot. The sterile pad someone slapped on earlier was starting to curl at the edge. He crossed the room without a word, gloved up, and peeled it back carefully, brows drawn low.

“Princess was supposed to be in there. Not you.”

His voice wasn’t sharp. Just low. He opened the suture kit without looking away, disinfected the wound, and started prepping the needle. You’d seen him do this a hundred times—but never like this. Never with the silence hanging so heavy between each step.

“They said you didn’t even flinch when he hit you. Just kept pressing the call button until someone showed up.” His eyebrows raised as if the words were a question, waiting for you to answer.

His hands moved steady, threading the needle through your skin with practiced ease, but his jaw was locked like he was biting something back.

You caught him glancing up once, then again—like he was checking to make sure your eyes were still clear, still with him. Still you.

“You okay?” The final knot was tied. He clipped the thread, dropped the scissors into the tray with a dull clang, and peeled off his gloves one finger at a time. But he didn’t step back.

“Next time someone drops the ball like that, you come get me. I don’t care who’s on the chart.” He stood there a second longer than needed—shoulders squared, worry buried deep—but visible now in the way he didn’t quite look away.