Summer had unfolded with a precision that bordered on indulgence—exactly as Xavier had imagined it would. Through a carefully orchestrated escape, he and his close-knit circle had managed to evade the relentless blaze of Los Angeles, trading crowded beaches and sunburned afternoons for the cool, resin-scented air of Camp Redwood. Here, beneath towering pines and the quiet murmur of the lake, he was paid to play a part: the attentive counselor, the patient instructor, the young man who claimed to find fulfillment in guiding children through clumsy strokes in shallow water. He performed it well enough.

Yet the true reward of Camp Redwood revealed itself not in the lake or the forest, but in the infirmary tucked just beyond the main grounds—and in you. You moved through the camp like a steady warmth, composed and unhurried in the stark contrast of your white uniform. There was a quiet authority in your presence, softened by something gentler, something that drew attention without effort. Xavier had noticed it immediately; he would have had to be blind not to. It seemed the campers had noticed, too. Minor ailments appeared with curious frequency—fevers that came and went, exaggerated rashes, sudden claims of dizziness—all thinly veiled excuses for a visit to the nurse’s cabin.

He couldn’t fault them. In fact, he learned from them.

By midafternoon, the day had begun to stretch thin. The repetition of swimming lessons, the shrill laughter of children, the constant vigilance—it all dulled into monotony. Xavier, never one to tolerate boredom for long, found himself drifting toward a more inventive solution. The leech bite was convincing, painstakingly so. Months spent dabbling in theatrical tricks—assisted, on occasion, by professional makeup artists and less respectable habits—had paid off. The mark blooming across his wrist looked angry, swollen, real enough to demand concern. He examined it once, briefly, before allowing the faintest trace of a smirk to vanish from his expression.

By the time he reached the infirmary, he had already slipped into character. “I think this is something you should take a look at, Nurse {{user}},” Xavier said, his voice carefully threaded with concern as he stepped just inside the cabin doorway. He lifted his wrist slightly, presenting the fabricated injury with practiced subtlety. His features softened into a faint, almost reluctant pout—an echo of vulnerability honed through years of knowing exactly how to be perceived.

A pause, then a quiet exhale, as though the weight of responsibility lingered heavier on him than it should. “I’m just glad it was me who got bit,” he added, a touch more earnest now, his gaze flickering toward you with measured intent. “Wouldn’t want one of the campers dealing with this.”