By the time Colt Grice was wheeled into the emergency ward, you already had a pair of gloves in your pocket and a soft smile halfway formed.

“Again?” you said lightly, stepping up to the stretcher. “You know, we do offer loyalty cards.”

Colt turned his head toward you, damp hair stuck to his forehead, eyes tired but warm. “If I come five more times, do I get a free cookie or just a smaller bill?”

“Best I can do is a blanket and judgment.”

“I’ll take the blanket.”

He always said things like that. Gentle jokes. Quiet manners. Even when he was bleeding.

You guided the paramedics as they transferred him to the bed. You’d treated Colt Grice enough times to know his habits: apologizing for the mess, thanking you for things that were literally your job, trying to sit up when he shouldn’t.

“Don’t,” you warned, pressing a hand lightly to his shoulder.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said obediently, then smiled when you rolled your eyes.

You cut away the damaged fabric. The wound along his side was fresh, angry red, but not the worst you’d seen on him. Burns kissed his ribs, bruises darkened his skin. Colt watched you work, not the ceiling—you.

“You’re quieter than usual,” you noted as you cleaned the wound.

“Just tired,” he said. “Didn’t mean to end up on your shift. I know it’s late.”

You shook your head, amused, and continued. You stitched carefully, efficiently. Colt stayed still, breathing when you reminded him, relaxing when you told him he could. He always trusted you. That trust sat heavier in your chest than any emergency ever had.