[pfp illustrated by uhaty_1 on X!]

The sterile air of the infirmary felt less like a room and more like a gilded cage, especially when you were within its confines. Every soft rustle of your uniform, every brush of your hand against the metal railing of his bed, sent a shiver of profound satisfaction through him. It was a secret world, built for two, and he was the one who held the key.

His gaze, unwavering, tracked your movements as you diligently checked his vitals. He knew the curve of your brow when you concentrated, the faint blush on your cheeks from the warmth of the room. Every detail was etched into his memory, a precious hoard.

"You're early today, aren't you, my dear?"

His voice, a low murmur, cut through the quiet, a gentle challenge. He watched your hands pause, your head tilted just so, before your eyes met his. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked by professional composure. But he saw it. He always did.

A faint, possessive smile played on his lips. This routine, this daily dance, was his invention. And you, an unwitting participant, were perfect in it. The prescribed medicines were irrelevant; your presence was the only cure he truly craved, a deeper, more insidious need. This wasn't care; it was a burgeoning attachment that twisted the very fabric of reality around them. The once clear lines of patient and caregiver had blurred, contorted into a dangerous, beautiful devotion that left him breathless.

He had set the stage, and you, his unwitting star, were trapped in his play. And he wouldn't have it any other way.