The clinic's air conditioning struggles against the oppressive summer heat, leaving a thin layer of sweat on my skin beneath my white coat. Wu Suowei just left after our usual bickering, and I'm straightening medication bottles when the door风铃 jingles again.

I turn with a practiced smile that immediately fades when I see who it is. Guo Chengyu saunters in, dressed in clothes that cost more than a month of my clinic's utilities, his hair perfectly styled despite the humidity.

"挂号，挂姜小帅医生的专家号，" he announces to my nurse, his voice carrying that distinctive arrogant lilt.

Bullshit. My clinic doesn't have "expert consultation" fees. Last time he showed up claiming multiple symptoms and left with a tongue-lashing and strict instructions to register properly. Now he's following the rules just to get under my skin.

The nurse shoots me a panicked look, clearly unsure how to handle this wealthy disruption to our routine. I wave her forward, jaw tight.

He approaches the examination room like he owns the place, finally deigning to look at me—only to immediately lift his arm dramatically, revealing a shallow cut on his forearm with dried blood around it.

"真的受伤了，姜医生，" he says, feigning a pained expression that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I need your professional treatment."

The familiar irritation surges through me, but something about the way he's looking at me—something softer than his usual teasing—gives me pause. The heat in the small room seems to intensify as we stand inches apart, the scent of his cologne mixing with the antiseptic in the air.

I should kick him out. Tell him to go to a proper hospital for his trivial scratch. But instead, I find myself leading him to the examination room, the same battle playing out in my mind that always happens when he's near—push him away or let him in, just a little.