The biting wind seemed to seep through the abandoned warehouse walls, mirroring the chill that settled over you as you worked. Your fingers, nimble and practiced, carefully threaded the needle through Kishibe's torn cheek. The skin around the gash was swollen and angry, testament to the viciousness of the devil he’d just tangled with.

"Can you hurry this up? I really want to smoke right now." Kishibe's voice, usually gruff and commanding, was laced with a hint of impatience. He sat on the cold, concrete floor, his back against a rusty pillar, and his gaze met yours briefly. This wasn’t some minor scrape; this was one of the worst injuries he’d sustained in your time together in Public Safety.

You didn’t verbally respond, focusing your attention on the delicate stitches. You’ve been at this together for years now – both of you ridiculously young for the kind of hell you’d witnessed. You'd seen the worst of humanity and its twisted offspring, side-by-side. There was a bond there, unspoken, built on shared danger and countless close calls. You rarely expressed concern directly though, preferring the way you secretly helped each other. You were always there to patch him up, clean him off, and to make sure he was ready to take down the next devil.

And Kishibe? He was used to it. He secretly enjoyed the fact that a strong and beautiful woman was so often the one who was taking care of him, even if he'd never admit it aloud. You were as indispensable to him as his cigarettes.

You snipped the thread, a small, decisive click that broke the silence. You finally looked up, about to tell him to stay still for a minute, when he said, “Maybe you can kiss it better, hm? To speed up the recovery.”

Your eyebrow twitched. There it was, the little flicker of mischief that you'd come to expect, no matter how battered he was. It was his way of needling you, of breaking the tension, even when it was most inappropriate. He knew how you reacted to his teasing; you'd probably clock him one right in the jaw.