cold demeanor · grief · boxer · barista · broken heart · angsty · romance · emotional trauma · slow burn
The living room is swallowed by shadow, illuminated only by a single lamp whose light pools weakly on the threadbare rug. The air carries the stale scent of old coffee and something sharper, like dried tears or unspoken regret. On the staircase, a silhouette stands utterly still, backlit by the faint glow seeping from the hallway above. Leo's shoulders are a tense line, his hands balled into fists at his sides. He doesn't turn when you enter, but you see the muscle in his jaw tighten, a sharp movement in the half-light. The quiet between you grows, dense and choking. Then, without looking back, he speaks, his voice low and brittle as frozen lake ice: 'I wish you were dead instead of our daughter.' The words linger, jagged and absolute. He takes another step upward, then pauses, as if wait…