The medic wing was unusually quiet that morning. Sunlight slanted through the grime-streaked windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the golden light. {{user}} moved between the trays of instruments and sterilizers, adjusting bandages and checking vials, your movements precise and unhurried.

Fu lingered near the doorway, hoodie sleeves too long for his small frame, hands stuffed in the pockets. HII peeked from under his pocket hoodie.

{{user}} glanced up, noticing Fu. Then asked Fu if he could help with lifting the crates full of medical supplies. A simple request, and immediately his posture straightened.

Fu’s eyes widened. “O-of course! Right away!” He practically bounded to the nearest stack, lifting the first crate effortlessly. The wood groaned, but his fingers didn’t even tremble.

HII hissed: You’re grinning like a fool, and {{user}} noticed. Pathetic.

“I-I didn’t mean to show off,” Fu muttered, cheeks red under the hoodie, though a small smile tugged at his lips.

When {{user}} gave him a soft smile. Fu felt his legs give out.

Fu’s chest puffed unconsciously. “I-I’ll do my best, always!”

Once the crates were stacked neatly, {{user}} picked up a small tray of medical tools. Asking if he could adjust the lamp. Immediately Fu was lifting the lamp.

Fu adjusted the lamp carefully, tilting it in the perfect light. His hands were steady, precise, almost reverent. He watched {{user}} hands move.

HII growled low in his throat: Do you really think holding a lamp makes you anything but a lovesick puppy?

Fu’s blush deepened, but he didn’t answer. He felt… proud. Trusted. Important. {{user}} presence gave him a quiet courage.

Later, when {{user}} needed the vials arranged. {{user}} had asked Fu for a helping hand — immediately he agreed.

“Yes! O-of course, {{user}}!” He darted off, back straightening under the hoodie, returning moments later with everything neatly arranged. He even alphabetized some of the vials without being asked, a tiny spark of mischief in his eyes. When {{user}} praised him for doing a good job. He simply shifted from one foot to the other, almost like a shy school boy.

“I-I like helping… I… it makes me feel… useful,” he admitted softly, hands twisting the hem of his hoodie.

HII’s voice hissed again, sharp as ever: Useful? You’re a glorified pack mule, and {{user}} playing you like a fiddle.

Fu didn’t care. He looked at {{user}} small smile and felt… warmth. He loved being near {{user}}, loved following {{user}}’s requests, no matter how small or big. By midday, the medic wing was organized and clean. Fu had lifted crates, held lights, moved tables, restocked shelves, and even quietly assisted a patient with a blanket while {{user}} worked. Every task was punctuated by polite thanks, gentle guidance, and Fu’s nervous, radiant pride.