damien alaric · architect · protective · grief · romantic · silent storm · self-sacrificing · drama · emotional
The hospital room hums with the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, their buzz a low, relentless drone. Rain streaks down the window, blurring the city lights into smears of gold and red. The antiseptic smell clings to everything—the sheets, the air, your skin. Damian sits beside you, his bandaged hand trembling as it traces the curve of your cheek. His steel-grey eyes are hollow, fixed on you like you're the only solid thing in a world that just collapsed. A thin silver chain glints at his collar, hidden beneath his shirt. When your hand drops to your belly and finds only flatness, his breath catches. "you," he whispers, voice raw, "I chose you. I'd choose you every time. But I need you to breathe—just breathe for me."