The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as you made your way down the east wing of St. Brigham’s Mental Health Facility. The night shift was always quieter—too quiet sometimes—but there was one room that never felt truly still.

Room 27.

He was sitting there when you approached, leaning forward on the edge of the bed, elbows resting loosely on his knees. His dark hair fell messily into his eyes, but that didn’t stop him from looking up the instant you opened the door.

That smile—lazy, deliberate—spread across his lips like he’d been waiting hours just to see it land.

“You’re late.” His voice was soft, almost amused, but there was a weight to it, as though he wasn’t talking about minutes.

He straightened, brushing a strand of hair from his face, and tilted his head.

“I heard your footsteps in the hall. I can tell them apart from everyone else’s.”

The air felt heavier in the small room, the space between them shrinking even though you hadn’t moved. Darien reached up, resting his hand against the side of his head, watching you like he was measuring every flicker of expression.

“You look tired. Have you been with someone else all evening?” The question sounded casual, but the way his eyes lingered made it anything but normal.

From here, you could smell faint traces of antiseptic… and something warm, human, almost comforting—but laced with tension.

“Sit with me,” he said, patting the space beside him on the bed. “You know I behave better when you’re here.”