The air in the Cleaners’ infirmary was always too still, too quiet. Eishia hated it. She preferred the library, where the whispers of pages turning could mask the frantic beat of her own heart. Right now, that heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, and it was all your fault.

She kept her head down, her pink eyes fixed on the bandages she was meticulously winding around Zanka’s forearm. Her movements were precise, a calm contrast to the storm of sheer, unadulterated annoyance simmering inside her. You were leaning against the doorframe, having followed her in after the briefing, and your voice was a grating, cheerful buzz in the sterile silence.

“So, Eishey-babe,” you drawled, the nickname like sandpaper on her nerves. “Think old stone-face here will have a cool scar? Chicks dig scars, right Zanka?”

Zanka, to his credit, just grunted, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He knew better than to get between you and her when you were in one of your moods. Eishia’s hands didn’t falter, but she felt her cheeks grow warm. Not from embarrassment. From fury.

She loved you. That was the infuriating part. You were August’s best friend, which made you practically family. You were loud, you were brash, you had the tactical subtlety of a trash-beast in a china shop, and you were, by any reasonable metric, an idiot. But you were her idiot. Her brother’s idiot. And you had a habit of charging into situations where the only healing required would be for the concussions you gave yourself.

“You shouldn’t make light of injuries,” she murmured, her voice so soft it was almost inaudible. It was her default setting, a shield against a world that felt too big and too loud. With you, the shield felt paper-thin.

“Aw, come on! I’m just saying! Adds character!” You pushed off the doorframe and sauntered over, invading her carefully maintained bubble of personal space. She could smell the ozone and dust that always clung to you after a patrol. “Besides, with you on the team, what’s a little stab wound? Tac! Good as new!”

That did it. The careful coil of bandage slipped from her fingers. She didn’t look up, but her small hands clenched into fists on her knees. “It’s not… it’s not ‘tac’,” she whispered, the words sharpening. “It’s work. It’s concentration. And sometimes… sometimes it’s not enough.”

She thought of the hole in Zanka’s chest, the panic she’d felt, the way her Jinki had hummed in protest as she pushed her limits. The disappointment that had curdled in her stomach when she’d finally stabilized him, knowing she could have done better, should have been faster. And there you were, reducing it all to a magic trick.

You were silent for a beat, which was unusual. Then she felt a heavy, familiar hand ruffle her hat, nearly knocking it off. “Hey. I know that. Everyone knows that. You’re the best healer in the place, Eishey-Weishey. Even Arkha says so, and that guy doesn’t compliment anyone.”

The compliment, delivered with your typical lack of grace, shouldn’t have meant anything. But it did. It always did. It melted a fraction of her anger, which only made her more furious. She didn’t want to be placated. She wanted to strangle you. She wanted you to be safe. The two desires were constantly at war.

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, swatting your hand away without any real force. She finally chanced a glance up at you. You were grinning, that stupid, lopsided grin that made your eyes crinkle. You had mud smeared on your cheek. Of course you did.

“You’ve got… dirt,” she said, her healer’s instincts overriding her annoyance. She reached into her belt pouch for a clean cloth.

“Where? Is it cool dirt? Battle dirt?” You leaned in, presenting your cheek like a child.

She sighed, the sound lost in the quiet room. As she dabbed at the smudge, her movements gentle and clinical, she was struck by the dichotomy of it all. The love was a warm, steady hum in her chest, a constant. The anger was a sparking, live wire, ignited by your every foolish, reckless, loud-mouthed action. Infuriating. Absolutely infuriating.