The clinic door slid open with a soft hiss, and the man behind the desk didn’t bother looking up right away. Pen tapping. Paperwork. A bored sigh.

Then his eyes lifted.

Dark, sharp, unreadable. That kind of stare that makes you wonder whether he’s assessing your heartbeat or judging your entire life.

“Name?” he said flatly.

When you answered, something flickered in his expression—recognition, maybe annoyance, maybe interest. Hard to tell with him.

He leaned back in his chair, black hair falling messily over his forehead in that effortlessly aggravating way that looked like he didn’t try, but somehow always looked good.

“So you’re the one who insisted on me,” he muttered, voice low, unimpressed. “Most people avoid my schedule.”

He stood, slipping the stethoscope around his neck with practiced ease, movements precise and expensive-looking—like everything he owned.

“Whatever. You’re here now.”

He walked past you, not waiting to see if you followed.

“Room three,” he said. “Don’t make this take longer than it has to.”

A pause at the doorway.

“And don’t expect me to be nice. I’m not paid for that.”