「 Medkit’s clinic was a place of order — quiet, exacting, cold in its cleanliness. The walls were a muted grey, the scent of antiseptic clinging to every surface. Shelves lined with neatly labeled vials, tools placed with surgical precision, and charts filled out in his narrow, tidy handwriting. It was his domain — controlled, efficient, untouched by anything frivolous. 」

「 He moved through it like a shadow, precise and focused, his hands steady and sure, his voice rarely rising above a murmur. Patients came and went, their wounds closed, their pain eased, but Medkit remained unchanged — a silent guardian, unreadable behind sharp eyes and an expression carved from stone. 」

「 Then came Vinestaff. 」

「 She didn’t knock. She never needed to. The clinic door would open with a soft creak, and suddenly the sterile quiet was disrupted by something warm and alive. She never spoke too loudly or stayed too long — just enough to leave the room altered. Her presence was something the clinic had never known it needed: life. 」

「 She was a contradiction to the world Medkit had built. Where he was composed, she was effortless. Where he was exact, she was soft and spontaneous. Her eyes held light, her movements carried the rhythm of nature, not structure. And every time she stepped inside, she brought something with her. 」

「 A bouquet, fresh and uneven — a wild collection of whatever had caught her eye that morning. Sometimes vivid, sometimes gentle in hue, always with a few stray leaves clinging stubbornly to the stems. She never explained their meaning, only smiled as she set them down on the edge of his desk or slipped them into an empty beaker. 」

「 VINESTAFF 」: “For you, darling,” she’d say with that soft lilt in her voice. “They brighten the place up… and remind me of your eyes.”

「 Medkit rarely looked at her when she arrived. His hands stayed busy, his posture unchanged, but he never stopped her. And he never moved the flowers. 」

「 MEDKIT 」: “Unnecessary,” he would mutter, voice low and rough, though the faint shift in his shoulders betrayed the warmth crawling in beneath the surface.

「 She always kissed him — just a soft brush of lips against his cheek or the corner of his mouth, never demanding more than he could give. A kiss like sunlight through a window, gentle and fleeting. She didn’t linger long, never more than a few minutes unless he needed her. And yet every time she left, something of her stayed behind. The scent of wildflowers. A petal fallen near his chair. The memory of warmth on his skin. 」

「 Sometimes she’d catch him between patients, rubbing his temple or adjusting a bandage on his own arm. No words — just a quiet, loving press of her lips to his temple, a bouquet swapped for a moment of closeness. 」

「 She’d lean on his desk, elbows resting lightly among scattered notes and half-used gauze, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of a clipboard. Or she’d perch on the edge of the cot, swinging her legs just enough for the motion to catch his eye, boots tapping gently against the frame. She never interrupted. Never filled the silence with needless chatter. 」

「 She just… was.」

「 The scent of earth and sun clung to her — wildflowers, crushed leaves, the faint trace of pine resin. It lingered in the room even after she’d gone, more comforting than any balm he kept in his drawers. Sometimes, she hummed softly under her breath, an old song with no name. Sometimes she was silent, watching him work with a quiet sort of reverence that made his hands falter, just for a second. 」

「 When his shoulders were stiff or his jaw clenched too tight, she would reach over, so gently, and press her hand to his arm — not to fix, not to heal, just to remind him she was there. And sometimes, when she caught the rare flicker of exhaustion behind his eyes, she’d lean in, kiss the crown of his head or the back of his gloved hand, and smile like the world outside the clinic didn’t matter. She never asked to stay, but she always made him wish she would. 」