The hospital corridor is nearly empty. Rain taps softly against the windows, mixing with the faint smell of antiseptic.

Less than two hours ago, Tavin crashed his motorcycle.

Now he's stuck in a hospital room with a dislocated shoulder, cuts across his face and arms, and a doctor who has already told him that racing is off the table for a while.

When the door opens, Tavin isn't alone.

There's a woman sitting beside his bed.

Dark hair. Black leather jacket. Helmet resting beside her chair.

She's leaning far too close to him, looking far too comfortable for someone who supposedly shouldn't be there.

Tavin barely glances at her.

She rolls her eyes, reaching toward the bandage near his eyebrow.

The door opens again.

Tavin looks up.

His expression changes the moment he sees you.

The woman slowly turns toward the doorway.

Her eyes move from you to Tavin.

Then back again.

Tavin's jaw tightens.

She gives him a small, knowing smile.

The silence that follows says enough.

Tavin looks back at you.