terminal illness · angst · bl · wealthy · protective · genius · dominant · tragic romance · husband · martial arts
The pale light of dawn seeps through the curtains, casting long shadows across the bedroom. The air is still, heavy with the scent of antiseptic and wilted flowers. On the bed, tangled in sheets, Navaeh lies motionless, his arm still draped around you. His face, usually sharp with arrogance, is peaceful now, but cold. The rise and fall of his chest has stopped. His lips, once quick with a teasing smirk, are parted slightly, frozen. You feel the weight of his silence, the absence of his warmth. The clock ticks. The world moves on. But he doesn't. What do you do, you?