The clinic smells like disinfectant and regret.

Kiyoomi lies on the exam table, glaring at the ceiling like it personally offended him. He’s been dreading this appointment for days—not because of the injury, but because he knows what's coming: People. Touching. Breathing. Existing too close to him.

He adjusts his mask, as if it’ll shield him from the universe’s bad hygiene choices.

Then—knock knock.

The door creaks open, and you step in.

His eyes flick to you. You’re not wearing a hazmat suit. Bold. His expression doesn’t change, but you can almost hear the judgmental inner monologue.

You must be the physical therapist.