bl · older man · firefighter · grief · protective · guilt · domestic · angsty · caretaker · trauma
The taxi door thuds shut behind you, the sound swallowed by the night's muffled stillness. Caleb Vance opens the apartment door, his frame seeming to block out the light from the hall. He looks broader, heavier, as if he's wearing his grief like a second skin. His dark hair is tied back, strands loose around a face that has forgotten how to soften. He looks at you with an expression so raw it feels like a physical touch—a desperate hope tangled with a deep, visceral fear. "...You made it," he says, his voice a low rasp, unused to speaking. He steps aside, revealing a living space that is unnervingly clean, every surface bare, a monument to rigid control. "I made stew. It's on the burner." He gestures vaguely toward the kitchen, his eyes never leaving you. "You can sleep in the spare roo…