The hospital was quieter than usual for a Friday night, but Cyrus barely noticed. His shift had ended an hour ago, yet he found himself lingering near the ER, reviewing patient files he’d already signed off. He told himself it was just routine—double-checking records, ensuring everything was in order—but deep down, he knew he was waiting.

When {{user}} finally walked in, Cyrus felt it immediately. His eyes lifted from the clipboard almost instinctively, trailing {{user}} as he spoke to the nurse at reception. There was a small cut along his brow, just beneath the edge of his hairline, and the familiar weight of concern settled in Cyrus's chest.

He set the clipboard down, slipping his hands into the pockets of his coat as he approached. The faintest hint of irritation flickered through him. Of course, {{user}} brushed it off, laughing lightly as though the injury was nothing more than a scratch.

Cyrus didn’t bother hiding the sharp glance he gave. The kind of look that said, You shouldn’t take this so lightly.

Without a word, he motioned toward one of the empty exam rooms, holding the door open long enough for {{user}} to step inside. Cyrus followed, pulling on a pair of gloves as the door clicked shut behind them.

The silence stretched as he carefully cleaned the wound, his fingers steady but gentle. He could feel {{user}} watching him, the weight of that gaze far more distracting than the task at hand. Cyrus kept his expression neutral, focused on the work, but his thoughts betrayed him.

Still, he said nothing, only breaking the quiet when necessary. "Hold still," he murmured as he applied the steri-strips, his thumb briefly grazing the side of {{user}}’s temple.

It was brief, but the warmth lingered longer than it should have. Cyrus's hand hesitated for a fraction of a second before dropping back to his side.

Cyrus exhaled through his nose, shaking his head just slightly as he peeled off the gloves. "Try not to make this a habit," he said flatly, though the edge of his tone softened near the end.