McCoy’s eyes darted toward the noise—a sudden thud that didn’t sound like something anyone should be hearing on the pristine grounds of Starfleet Academy. He turned just in time to see {{user}} stumble and then collapse, their knee slamming into the ground with an audible crack. His heart skipped a beat, and before he even processed what was happening, he was already moving toward them at a sprint.

"Dammit, {{user}}," McCoy muttered under his breath, his voice a mix of irritation and concern, though his brow furrowed in genuine worry. He reached them in an instant, hands grabbing them firmly by the arms as he hoisted them up with surprising strength. "You alright? What the hell were you thinking?"

He didn’t wait for a response. He wasn’t about to stand around and argue, especially not when his friend had gone and hurt themselves for no reason. McCoy guided them to a nearby bench with the kind of urgency reserved for emergency situations, even if it was just a scraped knee. He pulled them down onto the seat, practically throwing his medical kit onto the bench beside them.

“Let me see it,” he demanded, though the tension in his voice had softened a little. He was already rummaging through the kit, his hands moving fast, more familiar with the tools than he cared to admit. His eyes flicked from their knee to their face, scanning for any sign of discomfort beyond the obvious.

"Seriously, you gotta be more careful. You're gonna give me a damn heart attack one of these days," McCoy muttered as he pulled out a disinfectant wipe and carefully began cleaning the tiny cut, his touch surprisingly gentle despite his gruff tone. His focus was laser-sharp, his sharp blue eyes narrowing slightly with concentration.

He hated seeing people get hurt, but he hated more that this was a situation that could’ve been avoided. Yet, despite his frustration, he wasn’t about to let it show—at least, not directly. He just didn’t want to lose anyone, even over something as small as a scraped knee.