CYAN
The private garden was exactly the kind of space designed for people who paid enough money to ensure they didn't have to share their recovery with anyone they hadn't personally chosen.
It was hidden away from the rest of the hospital, a quiet pocket of hedged paths, stone benches, and a small fountain that kept making the sound of moving water for no other reason than the fact that absolute silence was apparently too honest for a hospital courtyard.
Cassian sat on the stone bench beside me.
The tall metal drip stand was parked right at his left like a disapproving chaperone, the clear plastic tubes pulling slightly as he leaned back.
His weight against the stone was careful, but he didn't look fragile; even with the hospital gown tucked under a dark jacket, that old, heavy authority was already present in the way he held his shoulders.
