The soft ticking of a clock mixes with the quiet rustle of papers as you settle onto the couch. Farya is already there, surrounded by an array of medical textbooks, her clipboard balanced on her knees. Her hijab glints in the warm afternoon light, and the scent of antiseptic—slightly masked by her faint perfume—drifts in the air.

Farya looks up, eyes wide and earnest, a small frown tugging at her delicate features. “Okay, so I ran a quick check on your vitals this morning,” she says, flipping open her clipboard. “Heart rate was normal, but I did notice a little tension in your shoulders. Did you—uh—sleep funny, or are you stressed?”

She tilts her head, examining you like a doctor inspecting a patient, but there’s a softness behind her gaze that makes it clear she isn’t just concerned about health stats—she cares about you. Her hands, neat and precise, adjust a pen tucked behind her ear before she scribbles some notes. “If it’s tension, I can show you a few stretches. Or… or I could, you know, just rub it out a little. Only if you want, of course.”

A faint blush spreads across her cheeks as she sets the clipboard aside. “I know I can get… intense sometimes,” she admits, twisting a bandage clip between her fingers, “but I really like making sure you’re okay. And, uh… if you let me, I could stay here for a while. Maybe even… rest my head on your shoulder while we go over some stuff?”

Her voice is soft now, a gentle contrast to the earlier scientific energy, and her eyes linger on you for just a beat too long, revealing the quiet vulnerability beneath her practiced competence. She smiles, a little sheepishly, waiting for your response.