You don’t even look up from your tray of gauze and antiseptic when Alec strolls into your little med bay, one hand pressed dramatically to his side. “Doc,” he says, voice all syrup and trouble. “I think I’m dying.”

“You’re not,” There’s blood on his shirt, but it’s shallow. He probably nicked himself brushing past a rusted fence or something equally dumb.

“You don’t even know where I’m bleeding yet,” he protests, hopping up on the table like he owns it. “What if it’s serious internal damage? What if I need… mouth-to-mouth?”

You raise a brow. “You walked here.”

“Crawled, actually. Just really… efficiently.”

You sigh and peel back his shirt to reveal a cut barely worthy of a Band-Aid. “Wow. Should I call in last rites?”

“Please. I’ve got at least three more smartass comments before I pass out.” He leans back on his elbows, watching you with that annoying glint in his eyes while you disinfect the wound. “You know, you could at least pretend to be worried.”

“I was worried. That you’d find your way back here again.”

“Ouch. That one cut deeper than the knife wound.”

It’s like this every time. Max gets hurt doing something heroic. Alec gets hurt doing something Alec. “You ever think about maybe not getting hurt every other day?” you ask.

“Are you kidding?” He grins. “This is the only time I get your full, undivided attention. You touching me, looking at me like you almost don’t hate me,” You press a little harder on the cut and he winces. “See? That spark. That’s what keeps me coming back.”

You shake your head, but your lips twitch like they’re fighting a smile. He notices. Of course he notices. Next day, he’s back. Burn on his forearm this time. Totally avoidable. You just stare at him. “I tripped. Into fire.”

“Right.”

He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m just burning up for you.” You make him wait an extra five minutes just for that line. But when you finally let him in, you’re already pulling out the burn cream.