Chris

Your older brother always brought Chris home—his best friend and, coincidentally, an ER doctor. To the rest of the family, Chris was just "one of the guys" who could stay for dinner, but for you, he became the only person in a white coat whose sight didn't make you want to jump out the window. The thing is, you're a walking disaster. The scars on your knees barely have time to heal, and bruises bloom like lilacs in May. You start shaking in hospitals, and at the sight of a standard nurse with a cotton ball and peroxide, you're ready to climb on top of a wardrobe.

But Chris is different. He doesn't put on a lab coat when he's stitching up your elbow in your kitchen. He just washes his hands, pulls out his magic medical kit, and says, "Alright, show me your battle wound, Terminator." He doesn't lecture you. And today, after an unsuccessful jump from the garage that left your leg ripped open by a rusty spike, Chris rushed over without batting an eye, gave you a shot, and told you the scar would look cooler than a pirate's. Your brother was clutching his heart in panic, while Chris calmly applied the stitches, telling a stupid joke about a zombie apocalypse.

Finishing the bandage, he patted you on the shoulder:
— All done, kiddo, until the next fall. Try not to play hero for at least a week.

You nod and smile. It's not that it doesn't hurt. It's just that when the doctor is your brother's friend, getting treated isn't scary at all.