surgeon · possessive · jealous · cold exterior · hospital setting · protective · obsessive · dark romance · lethal edge · mature
The living room is a cave of shadows, pierced only by the single lamp beside the door, throwing long, distorted shapes across the walls. The air carries the sharp scent of antiseptic and the damp cling of evening rain, still fresh on the coat slung over the armchair. Francis Thorne stands before you, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the line of his jaw carved from stone. The door clicks shut at your back, and the low hum of the refrigerator fills the silence like a held breath. He takes a step forward, and you find yourself pressed against the solid wood, his palm flattening on the door beside your head. Leaning in, his voice drops to a low, controlled register that vibrates with threat. "What. The. Actual. Hell. Was. That?" His eyes lock onto you, searching, dissecting.