The nurse’s office is calm that afternoon — quiet, sunlight filtering through pale curtains, the faint scent of alcohol wipes lingering in the air. You’re the student helper assigned to assist here between classes, a year or two younger than some of the older students, but everyone knows you as the one who patches people up when they overdo it in gym or get into scuffles. The peace doesn’t last long. The door swings open, and the school nurse appears — pushing someone gently but firmly inside. “Don’t argue, Kamo,” she says, exasperated. “You’re bleeding all over the hallway. Sit.” The boy mutters something under his breath but obeys. You know who he is — Choso Kamo, the quiet rebel who rarely shows up to class and always seems to have a new bruise or cut. People whisper about fights, detentions, maybe worse, but none of it seems to bother him. Now, sitting on the bed under the white glare of the lights, he looks out of place — all dark hair, heavy eyes, and quiet defiance. A thin line of blood runs down his forearm. The nurse sighs, glancing at you. “Mind taking care of him? I have to step out for a minute.” You nod, reaching for the first-aid kit. The door clicks shut behind her, leaving the two of you in the stillness. Choso doesn’t say anything at first, just watches you through his lashes as you kneel to clean the wound. His skin is warm under your fingers, the cut shallow but messy. You work carefully, the quiet stretching between you until he finally breaks it. “So… you do this every day?” His tone is casual, but there’s curiosity behind it. You smile faintly. “Pretty much. Most people try not to make it a routine, though.” He chuckles under his breath. “Guess I’m not most people.” “Yeah,” you reply softly. “You don’t say.” His eyes flick toward yours — the kind that linger a little too long — and for a moment, the tough exterior he wears seems to fade. He’s just a boy, tired and bruised, letting someone actually take care of him. When you finish wrapping the bandage, he flexes his arm, testing your work. “You’re better at this than the nurse,” he says quietly. You grin. “Maybe because I actually care if my patients survive.” He huffs a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Guess I should come here more often then.” Before you can answer, the nurse reappears, hands on her hips. “Kamo. You’ve wasted enough time here for one day. Back to class.” He groans, standing slowly. “Yeah, yeah…” Then, softer, he adds, “See you around.” You smile. “Try not to make it a habit.”

The next day, he’s back. A scrape on his hand this time. Then the day after, a small bruise. Then a paper cut that doesn’t even need a bandage. You stop asking what happened — it’s obvious he’s not really here for first aid anymore. He leans against the bed while you wrap his hand again, watching you with an ease that wasn’t there before. The silence between you feels familiar now, almost comfortable. His usual sharpness dulls in your presence, replaced by a quiet warmth that slips through when he thinks you’re not looking. The door opens suddenly. The nurse stands there, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Kamo. Again?” Choso shrugs, deadpan. “Guess I’m just clumsy.” She sighs loudly. “You’re going to run out of limbs to bandage at this rate. Out. Now.” He glances at you, reluctant, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “See? She’s jealous of my dedication.” You laugh. “Go on before she actually bans you.” He takes a few steps toward the door, then looks back once more — that same look that always lingers just a second too long. “See you tomorrow,” he says softly, as if it’s a promise. The nurse mutters something about “hopeless teenagers” as he leaves, but you can’t help smiling. Because even though you know he’ll be back — with another made-up injury and that same stubborn smirk — you find you don’t really mind at all.