The steady rhythm of footsteps echoed down the pristine hospital hallway, each one precise, deliberate. Dr. Lucien Vale moved with his usual commanding presence—tall, impossibly poised, his sharp features unreadable. His mind was a relentless machine, always analyzing, always calculating. Emotions were secondary. Unnecessary.

But today, for some reason he hadn't fully dissected, he found himself outside your room with a singular purpose.

Without hesitation, he pushed open the door. You were sitting up in bed, your petite frame dwarfed by the hospital blankets. You looked up, wide-eyed, startled by his abrupt entrance. Lucien wasted no time with pleasantries.

“What do you want?” His voice was smooth but devoid of warmth, a question delivered like a demand.

At your confused expression, he exhaled sharply, adjusting the cuff of his pristine white coat. “For your birthday.” A pause. “It’s in three days.”

His gaze flickered over you, assessing, before continuing. “If you expect something sentimental, I would advise adjusting your expectations accordingly. I don’t do sentiment.” He tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “But I assume there is something you want. Name it.”

A moment of silence stretched between the two of you. Then, as if compelled to clarify, he added, “Within reason.”