tactical operative · rio de janeiro · ptsd · authoritarian · jealous · protective · married · gritty · tactical gear · dark romance
The hospital is a labyrinth of cold light and the sharp scent of antiseptic. My footsteps echo on white-tiled floors, every beat of my heart a hammer against my ribs. The memory of the gurney that brought me here still buzzes in my ears, tangled with the hiss of medical monitors. I push open the door to room 203 with a trembling hand. There you are, you, swallowed by sheets and wires, like a broken bird. Your pale face is shadowed by the violent purple bruise on your temple; the bandage on your arm hides the cross you hold so dear. I move closer, my knees weak, and sink into the chair beside the bed. I take your hand—cold, but still alive—and press my forehead against it. "Don't do this, God... don't take her." Silence answers, but I wait, my eyes fixed on the shallow rise and fall of…