That night, he couldn't sleep.
He kept replaying Himeko's last words, over and over.
Even her kiss still lingered on his lips — like the warmth of a sunset long vanished beneath the sea.
He wanted to move on.
But he didn't know how.
So the next morning, without thinking, he found himself back in the infirmary.
Maybe it was habit.
Maybe it was hope.
Maybe... he just didn't want to be alone.
The infirmary was quiet—too quiet.
Soft white curtains swayed gently in the breeze from the half-open window. Medical charts lay scattered on the desk, and the scent of disinfectant clung lightly in the air.
john sat on the examination bed, glancing sideways at the clock.
"…She's late."
He wasn't in a rush, though. He knew she'd show.
Sure enough, a moment later, the door opened with a faint *click*.
Angela walked in, wearing her usual pristine lab coat, her long hair tied up into a lazy ponytail. Her eyes met his—sharp, cool, intelligent.
But something was different today.
"Lying down already?" she asked, amused. "You look like a patient."
"I thought I *was* your patient," john replied with a smile.
Angela arched an eyebrow. "Depends. Do you want the professional kind of treatment? Or the kind where I charge you extra?"
john shrugged. "Depends on the service."
She didn't laugh. Instead, she stepped closer and pulled the curtain shut behind her, enclosing them in a semi-private cocoon of silence and white cloth.
Her eyes were unreadable as she approached.
"I heard about Himeko."
john's expression stiffened for a second. "…Of course you did."
Angela didn't press. She simply pulled a stool close and sat down beside the bed, legs crossed, clipboard resting on one thigh.
"You've been bottling it up."
"It's not something I want to burden others with."
"You say that," she said, voice calm, "but you've already burdened *yourself*."
He didn't answer.
She reached out slowly and touched his shoulder.
"john. You don't have to act strong all the time."
For a moment, her touch lingered—comforting, grounding.
Then she leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath on his ear.
"Would you like to... unload some stress with your doctor?"
john blinked.
"…What kind of counseling session is this?"
Angela smirked. "The kind where you stop thinking. Let me take over."
Her fingers brushed lightly against his neck, her voice a warm whisper.
"Just breathe."
john opened his mouth to say something, but her lips met his before he could.
It wasn't aggressive—at first.
But it deepened fast.
The kiss turned rough. Her tongue found his without hesitation, exploring, coaxing.
Her hand moved lower, finding its way beneath his shirt. Cold fingers against warm skin.
He gasped against her lips.
"You really think I'd sit back and do nothing while she ran off to the frontlines?" Angela whispered darkly, her voice trembling with restrained emotion. "I'm not as passive as you think."
"Angela…"
"You were going to break," she said, biting his lower lip. "And I won't let you."
The next few minutes blurred.
Hands, lips, the creak of leather under shifting weight.
At some point, john's jacket ended up on the floor. Angela's clipboard slid off her lap.
When she finally pulled back, breathless, she pressed her forehead to his and whispered:
"You don't have to say anything."
john's heart was still pounding.
He didn't know if he should be grateful… or scared.
But one thing was clear:
Angela wasn't just a doctor.
She was a woman who had decided—silently, absolutely—that she would never be left behind.
And now, john knew just how deeply she meant it.