The drive wasn't very long. Mark kept glancing at you, but your eyes were glued to the road in front of you.

Ever since you'd said his name and "hospital," Mark had been silent. He'd only picked up his keys and ordered you out the door without so much as a question as to who Michael even was. That fact in particular touched you. He didn't care. All he seemed to care about was getting you to the hospital to see what was going on. Of course you needn't tell him what hospital it was because there was only one in the area anyway. You wondered what he was thinking now...

It was obvious what you were thinking about: Michael. Your mind flashed back to two or so months ago...

"(Y/N), where do you think your going?"

You stop and pin the man with a glare.

"Out," you reply curtly.

"Did I say you could?" he asks, raising an eyebrow in question.

"You're not my father. You don't need to."

"No, I'm your Fiancé and would like to know where you go." His eyebrows lower as a scowl twists his hideously handsome face. Before, you'd been entranced by it, but now it disgusted you.

Anger and frustration flicker within you as you frown at him.

"No you're not. I said no."

"For now," he interjects with a bitter tinge to his voice.

"You can't force me to obey you like a dog, Michael."

"No, but you're supposed to listen to me, (Y/N)! You're living in my house, eating my food that I bought."

"That I clean, eating food that I cooked. I have just as much a right to my freedom as you do! I won't let you push and order me around anymore."

That one declaration had thrown him into a rage and he'd torn the house apart. If you hadn't have fled to your mother's grave where you were intending to go to begin with, you were certain that you would have been next.

"(Y/N)?"

You flinched involuntarily. It was a gentle question, not a harsh rebuke. It was Mark, not him.

"Yes?" you responded, looking back over at the man apologetically. You hadn't meant to get so wrapped up in a memory.

"We're here," he said, looking ahead at the broad, looming building in front of them whose shadow cast far over them despite the sun being high in the sky.

He was acting strange, you noticed. You wondered if anything was wrong with him.

"Are you coming with me, Mark?"

"If you want me to."

Another short reply. Was that worry you heard in his voice? Heartfelt worry? Or was it nostalgia? That was possible, right? Or could it be both?

"I do. Please come?"

He looked at you finally, a soft smile on his face. "Of course, (Y/N). Lead the way."

You both exited the car and looked up towards the seemingly nonexistent top of the building before heading towards the door, you walking through one Mark himself had opened for you.

Inside was much different than outside. The air was cold and crisp, smelling of sterile linen and tools. Ammonia and rubbing alcohol were two prominent smells you could pick out of the air.

White tiles flecked with gray was the floor and white walls with a colored strip in the middle were the norm here. Broad strip lights were set into the ceiling and blared a harsh, bright light down on those under them.

Everything about this place set you on edge. This was a place of death as much as it was a place of rescue.

"Ma'am? Can I help you?"

You shook your head, stuck off in another reverie as your eyes refocused on the nurse at the desk you had come to stand in front of instead of the little bamboo plant behind her. It had a tiny little bamboo arm that swayed up and down with a little thunk every time it filled with water.

"Yes, I'm here to see Michael Atmos. You called me about him."

As soon as you'd finished, her face took on a practiced apologetic look, the one she gave all patient visitors just because there was a chance they were going to walk out alone and never come back unless their own life was in danger.

"Ah, yes. I remember. He's down the second hallway six doors to the right. They have him stable and he's ready for visitors."

"I'll be his only one."

And with that, you walked away in the direction you'd been pointed.