You arrive before the campus fully wakes, keys chiming softly as you unlock the university infirmary. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and brewed coffee—yours, always too strong. Becoming head nurse wasn’t a childhood dream so much as a steady climb: night shifts through nursing school, a spine strengthened by routine, a reputation for calm hands and quieter words. Students trust you because you listen first. You keep notes tidy, plants alive, and emergencies smaller than they feel.

By eight, the hallway outside hums. A sprained ankle here, a stress headache there. You wrap, advise, document. The door swings open with the careless confidence of someone who knows he’s welcome.

Gojo Satoru fills the frame in a whistle and tracksuit, hair still damp from the gym showers. He teaches PE like it’s a language—movement as grammar, discipline as punctuation. He transferred last year, carrying a resume that mixed medals and mentoring, a past injury that ended competition and started teaching. Students adore him because he makes effort feel like play. Faculty tolerate him because he’s competent. You tolerate him because he respects your space.

“Morning, boss,” he says, leaning against the counter without touching anything sterile. He never does.

You nod, eyes on a clipboard. “If you’re injured, sit. If you’re not, don’t steal my gauze.”

“Tragic. I just came to borrow your ice packs,” he replies, already lifting the lid of the freezer with reverence. “Freshmen went feral.”

You sigh, but there’s a corner of your mouth that knows him too well. “Log them.”

He does. He always does. That’s the thing about Gojo—loud laugh, quiet follow-through. He notices your new pen, the way you’ve reorganized the cabinet by frequency instead of alphabet. He waits while you finish taping a wrist, answers a student’s nervous joke, hands over a bottle of water like it’s choreography you both learned separately.

Between students, the day thins. Sunlight slants across the examination bed. Gojo perches on the stool, rolling an ice pack between his palms. “They’re improving,” he says, meaning his class. “Your breathing tips helped.”

You glance up. “Good. Fewer panic attacks means fewer forms.”

He grins, unoffended. “You ever miss the hospital?”

You consider it. The alarms, the pace, the way urgency can drown out thought. “I like knowing where my windows are.”

He nods, surprisingly still. Outside, a whistle shrieks, then fades. A runner knocks, asks for a bandage, thanks you twice. When the door closes again, the quiet returns—not empty, just held.

Gojo stands, slings the ice packs into his bag, pauses at the door like he’s remembering something important but not urgent. He looks back, eyes bright, voice easy.

“Hey—if you ever want to steal some fresh air after your shift, I know a track that listens.”