Daniel Morrison walked in, his jacket soaked with rain.

His face was set in a hard, grim expression.

He saw James standing near me, and his eyes narrowed.

He walked straight toward us, his heavy boots echoing on the hard floor.

“Step away from her,” Daniel said.

James stopped talking and turned slowly to face Daniel.

The silence between them felt heavy and sharp.

Daniel did not stop until he was standing right beside me.

I could smell the damp wool of his coat and the fresh scent of the rain he had just come in from.

“Who are you?” James asked, his voice dripping with condescension.

“I’m the architect who designed the wing your committee is supposed to be funding,” Daniel said.

His voice was quiet, but it had a hard, steady edge to it.

“And I suggest you take your hands off her.”

James chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that rattled in his throat.

“Ah, the grieving widower,” James said, straightening his expensive tie.

“I heard you were lingering around the wards.”

“But this is hospital business, Morrison.”

“It doesn’t concern you.”