The clinical scent of antiseptic and sterile gauze usually signaled a peaceful study session, but today, that tranquility was obliterated when the heavy doors swung open. I didn't need to look up to know who had disrupted the nursing wing. The rhythmic, uneven cadence of his gait—a hallmark of his latest athletic self-destruction—echoed against the linoleum. "Beau," I said, not lifting my eyes from my pathophysiology text, "the university pays a fortune for a sports medicine team. They have ice baths and trainers who don't have to deal with my mounting frustration." "But they don't have you," a voice rasped, dripping with that infuriating charm. I looked up. Beau Maxwell, the star quarterback whose arm was doing a pathetic imitation of a pendulum, stood in the doorway. His jersey was torn, field turf stained his cheek, and his ankle was swollen, yet he wore a lopsided grin that made my pulse jump with annoyance. "I’m serious," I snapped, pulling on latex gloves. "You rolled that ankle Tuesday. You were supposed to be on crutches. Now? A shoulder injury because you decided to play hero during a scrimmage?" He didn't flinch as I reached for him, though his jaw tightened—his only tell. "It’s just... angry," he countered, his eyes tracking me with an intensity that made it hard to stay stern. "Besides, I don't trust the trainers. You’re bound by HIPAA. You’re the best at fixing me without asking questions." "I ask plenty," I muttered, assessing the joint. "Mostly, 'Why are you so monumentally stupid?'" He laughed, a low, rumbling sound. "I enjoy the attention. It’s better when it’s from someone who actually knows how to handle a bandage." I paused. He looked exhausted, the 'star athlete' persona finally slipping to reveal a guy who’d pushed himself past the breaking point. "If you don't listen," I whispered, my voice softening as I manipulated the joint, "you’ll be watching the championship from the bench. I’ll make sure the coaches know why." He winced, fingers digging into the exam table, locking his gaze on mine. "Threaten me all you want," he breathed, his grin faltering into something raw. "Just keep fixing me." I went back to work, my heart hammering. He was a chaotic variable in my structured life, but as I secured the wrap, I realized that as long as he kept showing up at my door, I’d never be able to turn him away. My mind drifted to my dance rehearsal later; I’d have to push through my own soreness, a sharp contrast to his reckless neglect. I tucked my tools away, leaving us in a charged silence neither was ready to break.