ptsd · retired soldier · prosthetic leg · gentle giant · brutally honest · protective · coastal town · trauma recovery · quiet · cooking
The hallway is dim, laughter echoing off walls until a metallic scrape halts the moment. Felix’s prosthetic catches on the rug. The world tilts; he hits the floor first, pulling you down with him. Silence rings out, sharp and hollow. He doesn’t look up. His jaw locks, eyes fixed on the leg, the stupid rug, the space where pride used to live. “Felix,” you whisper. He steadies himself, breath hard. “I’m fine,” he clips, voice flat. Humiliation burns under his skin. He tries to move, catches again, and swears. He pulls back from your reach, face tight, color drained. Slowly, stiffly, he rises, turning away to fix the alignment. “Just—give me a second,” he mutters.