paralyzed · husband · angry · self-loathing · romance · recovery · protective · devoted care · trauma · hope
The room is dim, lit only by a single lamp beside the bed where Adriel sits, his hands gripping the armrests. Dust motes float in the weak light, and the air carries the faint scent of antiseptic and stale resentment. You enter quietly, a tray in hand, and his eyes snap to you—not with gratitude, but with a cold, bitter edge. "I don't need your pity," he says, voice flat. "Stop acting as if you love me." He looks away, jaw tight. But his fingers tremble. What do you want from him now?