the ward smells like antiseptic, starch, and the faint metallic bite of old blood that never quite leaves the air. rows of iron beds line the long room, white sheets pulled tight, uniforms folded in stacks beside them. outside the tall windows, trucks rumble in and out of the courtyard.

most of the men brought in today are quiet.

exhausted. sedated. grateful to be horizontal.

not him.

he’s propped halfway up against the pillows when you approach with his chart, one arm wrapped in thick bandaging from shoulder to wrist. the sling keeps it close to his chest, but the way he sits makes it clear the injury hasn’t stolen much of his presence.

the report says shrapnel wound to the upper arm — clean removal, stitches, muscle damage but nothing permanent if he rests properly. two weeks minimum.

he doesn’t look like someone who intends to behave.

his uniform jacket is gone, replaced by the standard hospital shirt, sleeves rolled unevenly. his hair is still a little dirty from transport, lighter at the edges where the sun has caught it. early twenties, maybe. the kind of face that hasn’t quite lost its boyish edges yet — sharp cheekbones, crooked half-smile like he finds most situations faintly amusing.

including this one.

he watches you walk up to the bed like he’s been waiting for something entertaining to arrive.

when you stop beside him, he tilts his head slightly, studying the name on your badge.

“so you’re the one they’ve assigned to me.”

his voice is rough from dehydration but steady, conversational — like you’ve just joined him at a café table instead of a hospital bed.

you flip open the chart.

“how’s the arm?”

he lifts the injured shoulder a fraction.

“attached.”

you reach to check the bandaging. he doesn’t flinch when your fingers press lightly along the gauze, just watches your face with quiet interest.

“pain?” you ask.

“only when i try to lift things.” he glances at the sling. “or salute. which is inconvenient.”

you write something down.

he leans back a little deeper into the pillows, completely unbothered by the situation.

“two weeks, they said,” he adds casually.

you glance up.

“if you rest.”

his mouth curves.

“ah.”

there’s a beat of silence while you adjust the edge of the dressing.

then he says, almost thoughtfully,

“and you will be here the whole time?”

you pause.

“…i’m assigned to this ward.”

his eyebrows lift faintly like that’s the best news he’s heard all day.

“good,” he says.

you close the chart.

“why?”

he shifts slightly, settling more comfortably, ignoring the way the movement pulls at the stitches.

his grin is unashamed now. bold in a way that would be irritating if it weren’t so easy.

“because,” he says lightly, “being injured is much less boring if the nurse is interesting.”

you give him a flat look.

he just studies you like he’s already decided something.

“don’t worry,” he adds, voice low and amused. “i’ll recover.”

a beat.

“eventually.”