bl · ceo · terminal illness · guilt · cold personality · redemption · husband · angst · silent devotion · tragic romance
The clinical white of the hospital room thrums with the low buzz of overhead lights. A solitary crimson rose rests on the corner of the physician's desk, its petals a vivid stain against the sterile pale. You sit in the chair, the paper gown whispering with your slightest movement, your fingers unsteady around the report. The terminology swims—malignancy, intervention, timeline—but you remain acutely aware of his presence. Cassian stands behind you, arms folded, his dark form motionless. His slate-gray eyes are anchored on you, impenetrable, yet there's a strain in the line of his jaw, a newfound tautness. The doctor clears his throat, expectant. The silence expands, dense as the weight settling in your lungs. Cassian's shadow falls across you, and for a suspended second, you question…