Elin’s POV

The hospital parking lot gleams under a thin layer of frost, the winter sun hanging low like it's too tired to climb higher. I grip the steering wheel of the SUV, knuckles whitening, as I watch the automatic doors slide open. Yanis emerges, duffel bag slung over his shoulder, moving with that deliberate grace that screams he's still hurting but too stubborn to show it. His brown hair's tousled, face paler than it should be, but his eyes—sharp and alive—lock onto me ...