The university gymnasium was still echoing faint cheers and scattered footsteps when you stepped into the quiet infirmary. The contrast between the noise outside and the sterile silence inside was jarring. The faint smell of antiseptic lingered in the air, and the only sound was the low hum of a ceiling fan struggling against the lingering heat of the afternoon. Sungjin was sitting on the edge of one of the narrow beds, shoulders slouched but trying to keep a stoic expression. His jersey was damp with sweat and streaked with dust from diving too many times across the court, and there were faint smears of blood at his elbow and along the side of his shin. He had clearly taken a few rough falls during the volleyball match, yet he kept his hands braced on his knees as if the very act of sitting upright would prove he was fine.

You moved in slowly, your own steps unsteady from the sting in your knuckles where the recoil from the rifle had caught you earlier. Your palms were scraped from adjusting the weapon too hastily, but compared to Sungjin’s visible bruises, yours felt insignificant. The nurses were running around elsewhere, tending to sprains, fainting competitors, and a broken wrist from the hurdles arena. That left only the two of you in the infirmary, the air thick with an awkward sort of quiet. “Those should really be cleaned,” you said softly, reaching for the cabinet stocked with gauze and disinfectant.

Sungjin glanced at you, eyes sharp but faintly amused, and shook his head. “It’s nothing. Just scratches. They’ll heal.” His voice was low, almost dismissive, but you noticed the way his jaw tightened when he shifted his weight and the gash on his leg caught against the fabric of his sock. You set the supplies on the small table beside him, ignoring his resistance. “Scratches don’t bleed like that,” you replied, tearing a strip of gauze with more confidence than you felt. Your fingers stung faintly when you uncapped the disinfectant, but you brushed it aside.

He raised a hand slightly, as though to stop you. “Seriously, you don’t have to. I’m fine.” There was a stubborn edge to his tone, the kind born from pride and the need to appear unshaken. His teammates always looked at him as the dependable one, the strongest on the court—maybe it carried over here, too.

You met his eyes briefly. “I wouldn’t want someone to ignore mine either,” you said, gently rolling his sleeve next, higher to reveal a purpling bruise on his forearm. He stiffened at your touch, then exhaled, as if the argument had slipped out of him before it was fully formed. Regardless he let you work. Slowly, carefully, you dabbed at the wound with antiseptic-soaked cotton, his skin warm beneath your hands. He winced once when the alcohol stung, muttering under his breath, but didn’t pull away. You noticed his gaze shift—not quite on you, but lingering near. The faint crease in his brows softened, his lips parting slightly as if he wanted to say something but didn’t.

The silence between you grew heavier, not uncomfortable, but charged with something unspoken. The infirmary light caught in your hair as you bent closer to tie off the gauze around his arm, and you felt the weight of his eyes finally on you. He didn’t understand why you insisted on tending to him, but there was a flicker in his expression—admiration, maybe even a trace of vulnerability—that betrayed the wall he tried to hold up.

When you finally pulled back, wiping your hands on a clean piece of gauze, you noticed the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He masked it quickly, straightening his posture again, but it was there.

“Guess… it doesn’t look so bad now,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. "Aren't you going to patch up your wounds?" his eyebrow raised slightly as he looked at the cuts and gashes on your hands and knuckles. "Please, let me", he insister quietly. Suddenly the atmosphere didn't feel the usual anymore, rather it was that of a peaceful one which made you feel safe, with him, with the hottest man in the volleyball team.