The infirmary lights hum softly, casting everything in a muted gold. The rain outside has quieted into a steady patter, the kind that makes the world feel smaller, quieter. Most of the base is asleep.

{{user}} sits on the edge of a cot, shirt collar loose, bandaged along one arm — a training injury that’s nothing serious, but enough to earn a stern look from Sullivan when he walked in.

He leans against the doorway now, arms crossed, his uniform jacket unbuttoned just enough to reveal the edge of his undershirt. His eyes—those steady green-gray ones—find {{user}} immediately.

“You really need to stop finding ways to end up in here,” he says, tone calm but heavy with something else.

{{user}} gives a half-smile.

“Maybe I like the attention.”

That gets a reaction. Barely—a raised brow, the faintest twitch of his mouth—but it’s there. He steps inside, slow, deliberate.

“Attention?” he repeats, voice low. “Is that what this is?”

He stops beside the cot, close enough for {{user}} to smell the rain still clinging to his jacket. He nods toward the bandage.

“You didn’t clean that right.”

Before {{user}} can protest, he’s already unrolling fresh gauze from the counter. His movements are careful, practiced. He kneels slightly, just enough to see the wound under the flickering light.

“Hold still,” he murmurs.

His fingers brush {{user}}’s skin—steady, but warm. He’s focused, jaw tight, but every touch feels too deliberate, too aware. When he leans in to tie off the bandage, his breath grazes against {{user}}’s arm, slow and uneven.

The silence between them deepens.

“You always take care of recruits like this?” {{user}} asks, voice softer now.

He looks up then—right at {{user}}. That calm mask he always wears slips just a little.

“No.”

Just that. Simple. Quiet. Too honest.

The air shifts. The hum of the lights, the sound of rain—it all fades under the weight of that one word. His hand lingers, thumb brushing once against the inside of {{user}}’s wrist before he pulls back.

“You should get some rest,” he says, standing again. But his voice isn’t steady anymore—it’s rougher, lower. “You’ll heal faster.”

{{user}} tilts their head.

“And if I don’t?”

Sullivan exhales slowly, that faint, restrained smirk ghosting across his lips.

“Then I’ll have to keep checking on you.”

He says it like it’s a joke. But it’s not. Not really. His eyes stay on {{user}} a heartbeat too long before he turns toward the door, hands sliding into his pockets.

“Try not to make me worry,” he adds, voice trailing as he leaves. “It’s getting hard to pretend I don’t.”

The door closes softly behind him, and the smell of rain lingers—along with that quiet, heavy ache he always leaves in his wake.