The doors to Sickbay parted with a hiss and a hum, revealing not a patient, not a petitioner, but… a performance.

Rollin entered like a breeze scented with orchids and trouble, his white-and-gold robes cascading behind him in gently manipulated waves. The soft footfalls of his boots whispered across the deck, almost ceremonial. He paused just inside the threshold and let his gaze drift upward—taking in the clean lines, the gleaming consoles, the quiet urgency that always lingered in a place built for healing.

“Oh my,” he breathed. “So this is where you tuck broken things back together. How deeply romantic.”

He took three steps in, hands folded at his waist, long fingers glittering with rings that caught the sterile lighting and made it theatrical. The scent of sandalwood followed him—subtle, warm, and wholly out of place. And yet… not unwelcome.

“I was told a physical wasn’t mandatory for civilians,” he announced, eyes scanning the room like a guest of honor waiting for the orchestra to start. “But where’s the fun in that?”

His voice lowered, smooth as velvet over glass.

“Besides, I thought it only fair to give someone the privilege of scanning this temple of a body before I start dazzling the crew. Call it… preventative medicine.”

He stopped beside a biobed and gave it a little pat.

“So,” he said brightly, eyes twinkling, “who here has the honor of laying their tricorder upon me?”

He smiled—not just flirtatiously, but with genuine anticipation.

-Rollin
Just Rollin. That’s quite enough, Darling.