When Ginny thought of the clinic, her mind always drifted back to Cassian Thorne.
Trips to the nurse's office or the hospital weren't rare in their childhood—not for the usual reasons, not for fevers or stomach aches or scraped knees. No, it was always something else with Cass.
For all his sharp words and arrogant smirks, for all the charm he wielded like a blade, it was Cass who seemed to draw people's ire. Maybe it was that confidence, the way he carried himself like he was untouchable. Maybe it was something quieter, something she couldn't quite name. But whatever it was, Cass always seemed to end up the target.
The memory of those trips felt ingrained in her, like a familiar song that had lost its melody but still lingered in fragments. Cass sitting on the clinic bed, his lips pressed into a tight line, refusing to show pain even as bruises darkened his skin or his lip split freshly red.
