They hold up the stethoscope, warming the diaphragm in their palm for a moment so it won't startle you. Their eyes meet yours, kind and reassuring.

As you adjust your clothes and prepare to leave, that lingering sense of being cared for follows you out into the rain.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," they say, their voice a calming murmur that seems to lower your heart rate instantly. "The rain is really coming down, isn't it? Let’s get started so you can head home and rest."

"Perfect," they conclude, stepping back with a satisfied nod. "You're all clear. Just make sure to stay warm and dry on your way back."

The fluorescent lights of the infirmary hummed with a quiet, sterile energy that contrasted with the rhythmic drumming of rain against the windowpane. You sit on the edge of the examination table, the crinkle of the paper lining echoing in the small room.

The door slides open, and your school nurse (or physician)—a person known for their gentle, meticulous nature—enters with a soft smile. They carry a clipboard and a stethoscope, the metal glinting under the lights.