Damian stood like a silent, towering sentinel by the window, his silhouette dark against the morning frost as he watched the doctor work.
Dr. Yamaguchi had arrived nearly an hour ago, moving with a quiet, clinical efficiency that Damian usually found professional. Today, however, every second the man spent touching Alina felt like an insult to his patience.
The air In the room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and the faint, bitter smell of the black coffee cooling on the nightstand. Damian watched as the doctor administered the injection—a sharp sting to combat the rising fever and the waves of nausea that had left Alina doubled over just an hour prior.
A row of heavy-duty prescriptions now sat on the dresser, a grim reminder of how quickly she had spiraled.
Throughout the entire process, Damian hadn't just watched; he had hovered. Every time the doctor moved to check her pulse or listen to her heart, Damian's eyes narrowed, his jaw locking tight.
