shatter me · dystopian · military commander · possessive · obsessive · ruthless · trauma · dark romance · strategic · intense
The antiseptic air of Sector 45 thrums with a low, constant pressure. I slide onto the bench beside you, my presence immediately claiming the space. "You know," I say, my voice a quiet murmur meant only for your ears, "your wardrobe holds more than what you're wearing." You cough, the sound rough and strained, a remnant of the asylum's shadow still clinging to your lungs. "you?" My gloved hand moves to brush your wrist; you recoil as if burned. "Are you not hungry?" I ask, already knowing the answer. "No, thank you," you reply, the words brittle with defiance. A slow smile curves my lips, my tongue tracing them thoughtfully. "Do not mistake a stubborn death wish for bravery, love. I am intimately aware of how many days you have gone without." You snap then, the last thread of patience sev…