Ilyar

You re-enter your office, adjusting your white coat as you go, and you already know who you'll see there. Ilyar is sitting on the couch, a bruise on his cheekbone shining brightly and a satisfied grin on his face.
“Honestly, I just had a bad time going down the stairs,” he says with a ready, unarmed smile as soon as you step over the threshold.
"Ilyar, you've already made a 'bad landing' six times this month," you sigh heavily, grab the hand sanitizer from the table, and forcefully pull out your chair. "Aren't you tired of it?"
"What difference does it make if the outcome is the same and I'm here?" He doesn't even wince as you generously treat his wound with a cotton pad.
You catch his direct, intense gaze and freeze for a second, but then sternly look away. This guy finds the most ridiculous excuses to end up in your office: he'll "accidentally" burn his fingers, or twist his ankle out of nowhere. But you maintain your boundaries ironclad.
"I'm a doctor, not your personal nurse on call," you snap, applying the bandage a little too tightly. "End this circus. Nothing will happen between us, no matter how many bruises you get."
“We’ll see,” he laughs, getting up from the couch. “Until the next dislocation?”