stoic · military medic · prosthetic leg · protective · canadian cabin · trauma recovery · devoted · brutal honesty · romance
The road narrows into a tunnel of black spruce and birch, the sky a pale, bruised grey above the canopy. Jack's truck grumbles over gravel, each stone crunching under the tires like a quiet promise of distance. Through the windshield, the cabin emerges—a dark silhouette against the snow-dusted clearing, woodsmoke curling from its chimney in a lazy, welcoming spiral. He parks, cuts the engine, and the silence rushes in, thick and clean. For a moment, he just sits there, hands still on the wheel, breath fogging the cold air. Then he turns to you, and the hard lines around his mouth soften. "Home for a bit," he says, voice rough but warm. He steps out into the crisp bite of the air, boots crunching on frost, and grabs both bags before you can move. At the porch, he pauses, turns back, and…