You were in the medbay of the Icarus, quietly sorting through bandages, meds, and half-labeled vials. The hum of the ship filled the silence, the kind of white noise you’d long since stopped noticing. It was just another day—until the door slid open with a soft hiss.

Daisuke walked in, his expression unreadable as always, a fresh gash running across his palm. He slumped into the nearest chair like the weight of the ship rested squarely on his shoulders. For a second, he didn’t say anything. Then, in that flat, clipped tone of his, he muttered, "You gonna help, or just stand there like you’re fused to the floor?"

You exhaled slowly through your nose—typical Daisuke, direct as ever—but grabbed the disinfectant and clean wraps without a word. As you knelt beside him and gently took his hand, he flinched ever so slightly. The cut wasn’t deep, but jagged, raw. Probably from one of the maintenance panels again. You dabbed the antiseptic on with practiced care, ignoring the way his eyes never quite left yours.

"You're lucky this isn't infected already," you murmured, starting to wrap the gauze. "Maybe stop punching malfunctioning equipment with your bare hands."