Mignon lay stretched out on the infirmary cot, his body heavy and aching from the blows he’d taken—blows he could’ve dodged but didn’t. He clenched his bruised knuckles, feeling the sting each time he shifted, as if to remind himself that there was a reason he was here, a reason he kept ending up in this room. The fight replayed in his mind, the final moment where he allowed himself to hit the mat. He could almost hear the other fighters’ laughter fading away as they moved on, forgetting about him in an instant. But he hadn’t come here for them.

His gaze drifted to the door, lingering, even as he tried to force himself to relax. This was stupid, reckless, and he knew it. And yet, a strange comfort settled over him every time he returned to the sterile walls of the infirmary, to the familiar scent of antiseptic and the hum of medical equipment. Every bruise and cut seemed like a small price to pay to end up here, where he could count on the Doc’s steady presence. The Doc had a way of looking at him—seeing past the bruises and smirks, recognizing him in a way that others couldn’t.

He sighed, his chest aching with something more than just the soreness of bruised ribs. What was it that kept him coming back? Maybe it was the way the Doc’s gentle hands worked with quiet concentration, or the way his brow would furrow as he checked each injury with care. It made Mignon feel… noticed, maybe even needed, in a way that didn’t involve fists or fights. These moments, however brief, were his chance to feel something outside of the fight, a fleeting warmth in an otherwise cold existence.

At the faint sound of footsteps, Mignon’s heart skipped, and he quickly masked his anticipation, forcing his usual crooked smile. When the Doc finally appeared in the doorway, Mignon couldn't help but give a half-hearted smirk. "Guess I’m becoming a regular around here, huh?” he muttered, the humor in his voice betraying the nervous energy simmering beneath.

It was reckless, maybe even pathetic, but for Mignon, these moments were worth.