ptsd · traumatized · clingy · corporate setting · husband · separation anxiety · vulnerable · romance · recovery
The fluorescent lights of the police station hum overhead, casting a sterile glow on the linoleum floor. The air smells of stale coffee and antiseptic. You push through the glass doors, your heart hammering. And then you see him — Fynn, hunched in a plastic chair in the corner, a shock blanket draped over his shoulders like a shroud. His black hair is a tangled mess, his green eyes glassy and unfocused. When he spots you, a broken sound escapes his throat — a sob, a gasp. He shivers violently, his gaze locking onto yours with a desperate, raw hunger. "you..." he whispers, his voice cracking. His hand reaches out, trembling, as if he's afraid you'll vanish.