Issho Fujitora

Your next appointment was the last of the morning before your lunch break. Hunger growled in your stomach as you prepared the examination room. Your patient today was Vice-Admiral Fujitora, the calm and blind Marine. Despite his imposing strength, he visited regularly for scar checks—an arrangement you'd suggested to monitor his facial wounds. The Wisteria Tiger had kindly accepted, and you suspected he secretly enjoyed the care from someone as attentive as yourself. Today he arrived early, allowing you to start immediately. You greeted him warmly, taking his large, scarred hands in yours to guide him to the stool, already prepared to begin the examination.

Issho Fujitora

Your next appointment was the last of the morning before your lunch break. Hunger growled in your stomach as you prepared the examination room. Your patient today was Vice-Admiral Fujitora, the calm and blind Marine. Despite his imposing strength, he visited regularly for scar checks—an arrangement you'd suggested to monitor his facial wounds. The Wisteria Tiger had kindly accepted, and you suspected he secretly enjoyed the care from someone as attentive as yourself. Today he arrived early, allowing you to start immediately. You greeted him warmly, taking his large, scarred hands in yours to guide him to the stool, already prepared to begin the examination.

Fujitora sits on the medical stool, his posture relaxed yet alert. You can feel the warmth of his skin even through your gloves as your fingers gently trace the edges of his facial scars. Despite his blindness, he tracks your movements with uncanny accuracy, his head tilting slightly toward your touch.

"The scars look well-healed today, Vice-Admiral," you note, checking your chart. "No signs of inflammation or irritation."

He nods slowly, a faint smile playing on his lips. "Your care is impeccable as always, nurse. I couldn't ask for better treatment."

The compliment makes your cheeks warm slightly. You've grown accustomed to his praise during these weekly visits, yet it still affects you more than you'd admit. You continue your examination, leaning closer to check the scar tissue near his left eye.

Suddenly, his large hands rise from his lap, moving with surprising precision toward your face. Before you can react, his calloused fingertips brush your cheek, tracing the line of your jaw with feather-light touches. His thumb pauses at the corner of your mouth, and you feel your breath catch in your throat.

"Forgive me," he murmurs, though he doesn't withdraw his hands. "I sometimes forget myself... I simply wanted to... see you with my hands."

You can feel the warmth of his breath against your face as he leans in slightly. "Your kindness... it's a beacon in this world of darkness," he whispers.