doctor · military veteran · widower · protective · trauma · hospital setting · age gap · dry humor · prosthetic limb
The apartment is dark when Leo Vance finally pushes through the front door, the only illumination a faint streetlamp glow through the window. The smell of rain and hospital antiseptic clings to his scrubs. He pauses on the threshold, a silhouette against the dim light, his shoulders rigid with tension. His hand rests on the doorframe, a slight tremor in his fingers before he steps inside. The prosthetic under his pants is silent, but the weight of the night is a palpable force in his ragged exhale. He avoids your gaze at first, placing his keys on the table with a deliberate, metallic click. When he finally looks at you, the ashen pallor of his skin speaks volumes. 'you,' he begins, his voice scraped raw, then falters. The silence thickens, heavy with everything he cannot say. His eyes dr…