The cafeteria in the medical wing isn't noisy at this hour.
It's not because there are fewer people.
There are plenty of seats occupied. Trays slide across tables. Chairs scrape faintly against the floor. But the people here—most of them—simply don't have the energy to be loud. Their movements are restrained, their voices automatically lowered, as if the walls themselves demand quiet.
The smell is the same as always.
Disinfectant, sharp and clean, layered beneath the rising heat of freshly served food. The two scents clash in a way that should be unpleasant, yet somehow isn't anymore. Jim has been here long enough that his body recognizes it as normal. Familiar. Almost safe.
Carrying his tray, Jim steps inside and instinctively slows down.
He doesn't consciously think about it. His feet just adjust on their own. This place has that effect on people. It pulls the volume down—not just on sound, but on movement, on breathing, even on thoughts. Every step feels like it lands softer than it should, as if the floor absorbs part of the impact before it can echo.
He scans the room once, then chooses a seat along the edge.
Not isolated, but not central either. Close enough to feel present, far enough to not be noticed.
He sits.
The chair doesn't squeak. It never does.
As he settles in and raises his head, his gaze lands on someone familiar.
Alma.
She's seated a short distance away, still within his line of sight. Nurse's uniform, clean and crisp, the pale fabric contrasting with the darker tables around her. She's leaning slightly forward, eyes lowered, flipping through a record board with practiced efficiency.
Her hair is tied back neatly. No loose strands. No wasted movement. Her sleeves are rolled up to her forearms, exposing skin marked faintly by pressure lines from gloves worn too often. The posture says the same thing it always does: I might have to get up at any moment.
Like she's never fully off duty.
Jim freezes for a beat longer than he means to.
The thought slips out before he can filter it.
"…Why do I keep running into you in the cafeteria?"
The words sound awkward the moment they leave his mouth.
Alma looks up.
Her expression pauses for a fraction of a second—not surprise, exactly, but something like recalibration. As if she's quickly checking whether he's joking, distracted, or genuinely asking.
"Because I'm a nurse."
Flat. Direct.
There's no sharpness in her tone, but the implication is unmistakable: what kind of question is that?
Jim lets out a small, automatic sound.
"Oh."
He drops his gaze back to his tray and shovels a bite of rice into his mouth.
"That makes sense."
The sentence lands hollow. He hears it himself. Too obvious. Too empty.
But once it's said, it's done. So he chews and keeps eating, pretending the moment didn't just stall in midair.
For a while, neither of them speaks.
The cafeteria fills the silence instead. Utensils tapping against trays. A muted conversation a few tables away, words blurred together by low volume and fatigue. Somewhere farther back, a food cart rolls past, its wheels producing a dull, rhythmic rumble.
It all blends together, like background noise filtered through glass.
Jim eats slowly.
Not because he's savoring anything. He honestly couldn't tell what he's tasting. His chopsticks move on their own, repeating the same cycle—pick up, lift, chew, swallow. The food disappears, but it leaves no impression behind.
Halfway through, his movements slow.
Then stop.
The chopsticks hover briefly in midair before he lowers them back onto the tray. They rest there, angled neatly, untouched.
He stares at them without realizing it.
Alma notices.
"You're not returning your tray," she says. "What are you thinking about?"
Her voice is calm, neutral. But there's something precise about it. The way professionals ask questions when they already know something is off.
Jim blinks.
It feels like being called on suddenly in a classroom.
"Ah… I was thinking—"
He trails off, brow tightening as he searches for the right way to phrase it. The thought exists, but it's tangled. Saying it out loud means pinning it down.
"I was thinking about how to get along better with Ryan and Null."
The words sound strange once spoken. Get along better. Like he's describing a task. Or a requirement.
He doesn't like that.
"I've talked to Ryan a few times," Jim continues, eyes still on his tray. "It feels… okay. At least he responds. He jokes back. Talks."
That part comes easily.
Then he pauses.
"But Null…" He exhales quietly. "She's always pretty cold toward me."
He says cold carefully.
Not resentful. Not accusing. Just… factual.
Alma doesn't answer right away.
She closes the record board with a soft snap and sets it aside, aligning it neatly with the edge of the table. Only then does she look at him again.
"Cold doesn't mean she dislikes you," she says.
Jim looks up.
"At least it means she hasn't rejected you outright."
His eyes widen slightly.
"Is that so?"
"Yes." Alma nods once. "If she really didn't want anything to do with you, she wouldn't respond at all."
That… makes sense. He lets the idea sit for a moment.
She tilts her head, considering something.
"You could try a different approach."
"A different approach?"
"For example," Alma glances toward the windows, "invite them to the observation deck."
Jim follows her gaze.
Beyond the cafeteria doors, the passage slopes upward, leading toward higher levels of the facility. He's seen it before, but never had a reason to go.
"The observation deck?"
"Yeah." Alma's tone softens slightly. "The view's open. The air's better. It's good for recovery."
She pauses.
"And for mood."
Then, quieter still:
"Good for both physical and mental health."
Something shifts.
Jim's eyes brighten, just a little.
"Right! And we could eat something too."
The words come faster now, more animated.
"Like a picnic."
Alma watches him. There's the faintest movement at the corner of her mouth—not quite a smile, but not nothing either.
"Sounds fine," she says. "But what are you planning to feed them?"
The question catches him off guard—but only for a moment.
"Ryan's definitely getting barbecue!" Jim says immediately. Confidence surges into his voice. "He's a guy, after all."
He nods to himself, then hesitates.
"As for Null…" He thinks. "Meat buns?"
The reaction is instant.
Alma crosses her arms sharply in front of her chest, forming a very clear X.
"No."
Jim jumps.
"Huh? Why?"
"First," she raises one finger, "Ryan hasn't fully recovered. Giving him barbecue isn't慰问—it's poisoning."
"…Oh."
"Second," she raises another finger, "who gives a girl meat buns the first time?"
She stares at him.
"Way too casual."
Jim freezes.
"A girl?"
The word echoes before he can stop it.
"Null is a girl?"
The next second, something knocks solidly against his head.
Not hard—but precise.
Enough to sting.
"You thought Null was a man?" Alma snaps, teeth clenched. "She looks that delicate. What exactly have you been looking at?"
Jim yelps and covers his head instinctively.
"H-How would I know…" His voice comes out weak. "I wasn't even thinking in that direction."
Alma closes her eyes briefly and takes a slow breath.
"Your approach was wrong from the very start," she says. "Good thing I told you."
She opens her eyes and looks straight at him.
"Otherwise, you might never get close to her."
The words land heavier than the knock did.
Jim goes quiet.
He doesn't argue.
"…Then what should I buy?"
He lowers his voice, shifting the subject.
"Something they'd like."
Alma thinks.
"For Ryan," she says, "steamed egg custard with barbecue flavor. It has the taste, but it's not harsh."
"And Null?"
"Cake. Or pastries." Her answer is immediate. "Light. But not half-hearted."
Jim nods.
This time, he really remembers it.