*** Ariana’s POV
The hospital café feels incomplete, much like everything else around here. Half the walls are unpainted drywall, their seams taped but not yet sanded. A few tables are scattered around the space, mismatched chairs filling in the gaps. Exposed beams stretch across the ceiling, reminding me of how exposed I feel sitting across from Cirian.
Cirian sits across from me at one of the few functional tables, his coffee steaming in his hands. The sharp scent of fresh paint and sawdust hangs faintly in the air, almost masking the herbal notes of my tea.
A waiter sets down a small plate of biscuits between us, offering a polite nod before retreating to the far side of the café. We’re mostly alone here, the quiet punctuated only by the occasional sound of construction—hammering, a power drill whining, muffled voices echoing down the halls.
The setting is intimate, leaving me nowhere to hide. I lift my tea to my lips, the heat brushing my face, and take a slow sip, buying myself
