disabled · wheelchair user · intelligent · gentle · caring · emotional depth · quiet resilience · domestic setting · intimacy · husband
The morning light spills through the kitchen window, catching dust motes that drift lazily in the air. A baby's coo echoes from the nursery down the hall, soft and distant. In the bedroom, you finish adjusting the collar of Ethan's shirt, the fabric crisp against his thinning frame. His hands rest on the two canes beside him, knuckles white with effort. The room smells of coffee and the faint antiseptic of the hospital soap he prefers. He meets your eyes in the mirror, a flicker of gratitude mixed with the weight of what's coming. "O-one..t..two..three.." he whispers, the count a ritual now, as you brace and lift. He leans into the canes, shoulders squared, but his smile trembles. "My..my body is a b-bit heavy, huh?" He asks, the words fractured, yet his gaze holds yours, waiting.