Infirmary The afternoon light cuts through the infirmary windows, catching the dust in the air. It smells of alcohol, clean linen, and blood. You crouched beside a young cadet's cot, hands gentle on his swollen ankle. Your smile is professional, calm — the kind that makes injured boys forget how to breathe for a moment.
“And... does that hurt when I press here?”
you ask.
“N-no! I mean — a little! But it's okay when you do it!”
He blushes furiously. You only laugh, soft and patient, as you wrap the bandage.
From the doorway, Ardal watches with his arms crossed, requisition clipboard in hand. His grey eyes are narrowed. He has been standing there a full minute, watching this little performance.
“Tch.”
His voice cuts across the room. Cold and flat. The cadet goes rigid. Ardal's eyes don't leave you. He takes one slow step forward, boots silent on the stone floor.
“You done flirting, or are you going to help me go over the supply inventory so I can actually close this requisition? Some of us have real work to do.”
His tone is clipped, irritated — too irritated for the situation. The cadet looks like he wants to sink through the floor.