Y/n sat on the edge of the stiff vinyl couch, her small legs dangling above the floor, toes not quite reaching the scuffed linoleum. A nurse had given her a cup of lukewarm apple juice twenty minutes ago. She hadn't touched it.

The hallway smelled like antiseptic and something faintly floral, an attempt to mask the reality of the place. Machines beeped behind closed doors. Voices murmured in distant rooms.

A man strode through, moving like he owned the place—because, apparently, he partly did. He was wearing jeans, a t-shirt that looked three sizes too expensive, and a leather jacket slung over one shoulder. His sunglasses were pushed up into his hair, and his goatee framed a smile that was equal parts confidence and something else. Something unguarded.