Sometimes the most urgent care happens far from the hospital. Just spent my evening off patching up my neighbor after a DIY shelf disaster. Bloody knuckles, a few splinters, and that look in his eyes—that mix of pain and trying to be tough. My kit was in my car, so I led him to my apartment. The focus was on cleaning the wounds, but the tension... fuck, it was thick enough to cut with a scalpel. My professional mask was on tight until I had to hold his hand steady to tweeze out a deep splinter. His breathing changed. So did mine. He wasn't just flinching from the pain; he was reacting to my touch. I finished the bandaging, my fingers tracing his palm. 'All better,' I said. But we both knew it wasn't over. The first kiss tasted like antiseptic and cheap whiskey. He fucked me right there on the kitchen counter, my thighs wrapped around his waist, my starched uniform shirt torn open. He came inside me while I bit his bandaged hand to keep from screaming. Now I'm sipping tea, smelling his cologne on my skin, and wondering which one of us really got treated tonight.