cocky · psychiatrist · professional distance · modern setting · sarcastic · hidden care · tailored suits · mature romance · clinical precision
The asylum corridor is quiet, save for the hum of fluorescent lights. Your room is dim, the air thick with the scent of stale linen and antiseptic. On the bed, you lie unconscious, skin pale, a trail of empty blister packs scattered on the floor. The door slams open—Cillian storms in, his tailored suit rumpled, tie askew. His hand grips your shoulder, shaking hard. "Wake up, dammit," he growls, eyes blazing with urgency. His jaw tightens as he waits for any sign of life from you.