It had been a couple of days since you were admitted, and you hated every second of it. The walls were a sickly shade of beige, the air smelled like stale coffee and disinfectant, and the people—God, the people—were enough to drive you crazy in and of themselves. You kept to yourself, finding solace in the window, watching the outside world move on without you.

Jonathan had clocked you the moment he saw you in the lounge. He’d only been here a few days longer, and he shared your disdain for the place—maybe even more. So naturally, he made a point to talk (flirt) with you whenever the opportunity presented itself.

He approached with an almost exaggerated sense of purpose, his short frame carrying him in long, deliberate strides, like he was about to make some grand declaration. And then—suddenly—he stopped in front of you, head tilting slightly, a smirk already tugging at his lips.

"Hi," he greeted, voice dripping with easy amusement, his Irish lilt curling around the word. His eyes—bright, sharp, and just a little too mischievous—flickered down as he puckered his lips in thought.

Then, as if revealing some great treasure, he held out his hand, fingers curled around a crinkled candy wrapper. "Want a sweet?" he offered, tilting his head, watching you carefully.

He’d swiped it from lunch earlier when he noticed you liked them. A small act of rebellion, a bribe, or maybe just an excuse to talk to you—who knew? Either way, he waited, eyes locked on yours, amusement dancing behind them like a challenge.

When you didn’t take it right away, he pulled it back slowly. Jonathan squinted at the wrapper, turning it over in his fingers like he was deciphering some ancient text. His lips twitched, barely containing a smirk.

“Dunno what it is, actually," he mused, feigning deep concentration. "Could be chocolate. Could be poison. Bit of a gamble, really.”

Then, with a sideways glance at you, his smirk deepened.

“Tell you what—I'll take the first bite. If I drop dead, you’ll know to pass.”