He requested you every time.

No one questioned it anymore. The orderlies stopped raising brows, the doctors stopped suggesting alternatives. When Lee Shaw came in—burned, bruised, stitched up from something no one was supposed to talk about—your name was already on the chart.

You never asked for it.

You barely spoke at all.

The infirmary was quiet except for the hum of the lights and the careful sounds of your work. Lee sat on the cot, hands folded, posture straight even when it hurt. You moved around him with practiced efficiency—gauze, antiseptic, bandages. No wasted motion. No wasted words.

He watched you anyway.

“You don’t have to be so quiet, you know,” he said once, not unkindly. “I don’t bite.”

You didn’t respond. Just cleaned the wound and tied it off.

He exhaled through his nose. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

Next time, he tried again.

“Kon’nichiwa,” he said carefully, the word slow and deliberate, accent heavy but sincere. “That’s… hello. Right?”

Your hands paused for half a second.

Not long enough for anyone else to notice.

Long enough for him to catch it.

His eyes flicked up to your face, searching. Hopeful in a way that didn’t suit a man like him.

“Watashi wa… Lee,” he continued, clearly fighting the urge to overthink it. “Lee Shaw.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t pull your hands away either.

That was enough.

From then on, he tried every time. Not a lot—just a word or two. Careful phrases he’d practiced alone, probably out of a battered phrasebook or overheard conversations.

“Daijōbu?” he asked once, meaning are you okay, after a particularly long shift.

Another time, quieter, almost embarrassed: “Arigatō.”

Thank you.

He never pushed. Never demanded a response. He just kept showing up, kept asking for you, kept offering small pieces of effort like they were gifts he didn’t expect returned.

When you worked, he sat still. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t complain.

Because silence with you wasn’t empty.

It was safe.

And if you ever did speak—just once—he would’ve remembered it for the rest of his life.

But until then, he was content with this:

Your steady hands. Your quiet presence. And the hope, unspoken, that maybe he didn’t need words to be understood.