The door to the dorm creaked open with the softest push, and Cate froze for half a heartbeat, fingers tightening around the edge of her desk as if bracing for impact.

The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lavender detergent, a combination that still felt surreal in a place that was usually saturated with cheap perfume, instant noodles, and late-night stress. Sunlight filtered through half-drawn curtains, dust motes floating lazily in the air.

For a moment, Cate just stood there, balancing awkwardly with one leg trapped in a heavy cast and one arm immobilized in another, the dull ache of her injuries thrumming beneath layers of plaster. She hated this—hated being slow, hated being fragile, hated being seen when she wasn’t in control.

Godolkin’s stairs had always been a hazard, but she’d never imagined they’d be the thing to finally knock her flat, sending her tumbling in a blur of panic and pain that still replayed behind her eyelids whenever she closed her eyes. The fall had stolen more than just her mobility; it had stripped away the illusion of self-sufficiency she clung to like armor.

Cate shuffled inside, carefully nudging the door closed with her hip, every movement measured and frustratingly deliberate. The bed looked too neat, the pillows fluffed by someone who wasn’t her, the blanket folded back in a way that suggested preparation—care. That realization tightened something in her chest.

She’d spent so long believing that her powers made her untouchable in all the wrong ways, that people would always keep their distance, always be wary, always be afraid of what she could make them do. Even you, her roommate, her constant, the person who had seen her at her best and her worst—some part of her had still expected hesitation, resentment, or exhaustion to finally outweigh kindness.

Instead, you’d stepped in without question, claiming the role of fake nurse with a stubborn tenderness that left her both grateful and unsettled.

She eased herself down onto the edge of the bed, exhaling shakily as the strain rippled through her body, jaw clenching to keep from making a sound. Independence had always been her shield; letting someone help felt like stepping into open water without knowing how deep it went.

Her gaze flicked around the room, cataloging the small signs of you—your hoodie draped over the chair, your notebook on the desk, a half-empty mug cooling beside her medication.

Each detail tugged at her, stirring emotions she’d kept carefully boxed away, because caring too much had always come with consequences. Yet here she was, stranded in enforced stillness, forced to confront how much she relied on the presence she’d long pretended she didn’t need.

Cate swallowed, flexing her fingers inside the cast as if testing the limits of what she could still control, then finally lifted her eyes toward you, expression caught somewhere between irritation, vulnerability, and reluctant relief.

“You know I don’t need a nurse, right?” she said, voice soft but edged with familiar defiance, the corner of her mouth twitching as though daring you to argue.