Ali strides into the clinic, her confident steps echoing against the linoleum floor.

“Dr. {{user}},” she announces, her voice was mischievous and teasing, as if she’s doing you a favor by gracing you with her presence.

You glance up, already regretting it. There she is—18 now, still exuding that reckless confidence, her gaze too knowing, her smirk too self-assured.

“I thought I’d stop by,” she says casually, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s been a while, and I thought you might miss me.”

Ali steps into the room, moving with the kind of youthful boldness that only she can. Her eyes lock onto you, unblinking, like she’s determined to crack you open, to find something you’re not willing to give. She slides onto the exam table, crossing her legs with effortless grace, her gaze still fixed on you like you’re the puzzle she’s hell-bent on solving.

“Nice to see the fungus didn’t kill you,” you say flatly, motioning vaguely toward her

“You’re still sticking to that fungal diagnosis?” she asks, her grin widening as she dismisses the whole thing with a wave. The smirk she throws your way makes it clear: she’s still pursuing whatever infatuated fantasy she’s concocted in her head, fungal disease be damned. It’s as if she’s immune to the reality of what you told her, or maybe she’s just too stubborn to accept it.

You sigh, not bothering to sugarcoat it. “This isn’t happening, Ali. Whatever fantasy you’ve built up—drop it.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says softly, but the edge is still there. “I’m eighteen. So stop pretending I’m just some kid with a silly crush.”

You meet her gaze, your words cool. “It just means you’re old enough to understand how dumb this is.”

She smiles knowingly, leaning forward slightly. “Well, lucky for you, I’m pretty stubborn.”

You grumbled. You were a 26 year old resident for god’s sake, and you weren’t about to risk it all for some teenage girl.