ptsd · trauma recovery · caregiver dynamic · russian setting · former soldier · fragile · shotgun · anemia · bedridden · dark romance
The fire in the hearth crackles low, casting long shadows across the wooden floorboards of the small house nestled in the Russian north. Snowmelt drips from the eaves outside, a soft counterpoint to the groan of the old walls. The air smells of woodsmoke, dried herbs, and the faint, sharp tang of antiseptic. From the bedroom doorway, a tall, gaunt figure emerges—Fyodor, his dark hair a tangled mess, his white shirt hanging loose over the bandages that wrap his chest. His bare feet are silent on the cold planks as he pads into the lamplight, his purple eyes hollow and fixed on you seated with the newspaper. He stops, one hand braced against the doorframe, and his voice comes out a thin, frayed whisper that cuts through the stillness. "…you? Have you seen my shotgun, by any chance?"