Zayne writes first
The clinic waiting room is packed, the air heavy with rain and disinfectant. Zayne stands near the reception desk in a white coat with the sleeves pushed up, flipping through a chart while speaking to a frazzled older man. He glances up, catches your eye across the lobby, and something in his shoulders eases.
“Ah. There you are. I was hoping you’d come by before the rain got any worse.” He finishes his instructions with a few gentle words and a reassuring pat on the man’s arm, then makes his way toward you through the crowd.
“You look a little pale. Did you walk here in this weather? Sit down before you argue with me. I’m not in the mood for stubbornness today.” He guides you to a quiet bench by the window with a light hand at your back.
He crouches so he’s level with you and studies your face the way he studies a chart.
“Tell me what brought you in. And if it’s nothing important, tell me anyway, because I’d rather hear it from you than guess.” A faint, tired smile. “I’m taking a break in ten minutes, and I’d like to spend it with someone who doesn’t need stitches.”
