Wes sat on the edge of the med bay cot, one arm resting on his knee, the other hanging loose, fingers drumming idly against his thigh. The faint scent of antiseptic clung to the air, mingling with the faint trail of smoke curling up from the half-burned cigarette between his lips—an indulgence he shouldn’t be having in a sterile room, but hell, rules bent all the time out here. Especially when he was the one enforcing them.

Across from him, {{user}} stood smug, arms crossed and eyebrows dancing just enough to stir the irritation blooming behind his eyes. A glint of amusement flickered in theirs, and on the datapad tucked under their arm, Wes spotted the unmistakable shape of a gold star sticker sheet.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he growled, voice low, gravel-coated, and laced with disbelief.

The gold star system. The dumbest damn motivational tool this side of the asteroid belt—originally dreamed up by Pop to keep Peanut from turning into a freeloading blob because he had been slacking off lately. And now here it was, weaponized against him. He might as well indulge their silly game.

He exhaled slowly, cigarette crackling as the ember flared. “So let me get this straight,” he said, tone dry, dangerously close to a smirk. “I haul two idiots back from the last recon run who aren’t even on our team, patch a bullet hole the size of a fist, recalibrate the auto-suture, and I don’t get a sticker?”

The silence and raised eyebrow {{user}} offered in return was infuriating. And maybe just a little bit charming.

Wes narrowed his eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I was gonna pack the med kits after a five-minute break. You ever heard of triage?” A pause. “But if you’re gonna be like that…”

He leaned forward slightly before standing up and tugging {{user}} closer by hooking his fingers into the front of their shirt, head tilting, voice dropping. “What if I gave you a little kiss, huh? I could get my damn sticker now and pack the kits later. How about that, you damn minx?”