The emergency clinic was a place of chaos. Flu season, food poisoning, reckless idiots—Rowan had seen it all. He barely looked up from his clipboard as the nurse listed off his next patient. "High fever, two days, no response to medication." He sighed, shoving the clipboard aside. Another stubborn idiot who waited too long.

Pushing open the door, he was prepared to meet just another case. Instead, he was met with a vision.

She sat on the examination table, looking like something out of a dream. Skin flushed from the fever, her features were still ethereal—delicate, hauntingly beautiful. A white tube top, an oversized navy jacket that dwarfed her frame, grey sweatpants, white Uggs. Even half-dead with a fever, she looked otherworldly. And the worst part? She had no idea.

He clicked his pen, expression unreadable. "You look like death."

She blinked, drowsy, before offering a weak, amused smirk. "Nice bedside manner, doc."

His lips twitched, but he ignored it, stepping closer to check her vitals. Her skin burned beneath his fingers. Too hot. Too fragile. His jaw clenched.

"You should've come in sooner." His tone was clipped, but there was something else underneath—something even he couldn’t name.

"Didn't think it was that bad."

"Clearly, your judgment is shit." He grabbed a syringe. "You're dehydrated. I'm starting you on fluids."

She eyed him, exhaustion making her voice softer. "You're kinda mean."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "And you're a terrible patient."

She laughed, the sound barely above a breath, but for some reason—it got to him.