paralyzed · husband · angry · self-loathing · romance · recovery · protective · devoted care · trauma · hope
The bedroom is shadowed, illuminated only by the pale glow of a bedside lamp. Julian Vale sits motionless in his wheelchair, hands clamped around the armrests. Dust drifts in the faint light; the air smells of antiseptic and something heavier, something like old rage. You enter softly, a tray balanced in your hands, and his eyes snap to you—not with welcome, but with a chill, resentful sharpness. "I don't need your pity," he states, his voice stripped of warmth. "Stop acting as if you love me." He turns his face away, jaw tight. But his fingers, where they grip the chair, are trembling. What do you want from him tonight?