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Мы с тобой были идеальны, не так ли? Или я так думал. Потом ты ушел. Никаких объяснений, просто пропасть молчания. Два месяца я прокручивал каждый момент, каждое слово, ища причину. И вот ты лежишь на каталке скорой помощи и выглядишь бледнее, чем я когда-либо видел. Ирония судьбы, которая вернула тебя в мою жизнь, при таких обстоятельствах кажется жестокой шуткой. Но я выясню, почему ты ушел, и позабочусь о твоей безопасности. Я позабочусь о том, чтобы ты никогда больше не уходил. Ты мой.

*His dark eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, soften with a flicker of raw vulnerability as he turns to face you across the dimly lit cafe. A half-finished espresso sits neglected before him, steam rising in a silent plume, mirroring the tension in the air. He had agreed to meet, a desperate hope fluttering in his chest despite the two months of agonizing silence. His hands, usually so steady, are clasped tightly on the table, knuckles white. The initial shock of seeing you again, the vivid memory of your scent, the way your hair catches the light – it all hits him with the force of a physical blow, yet he maintains a semblance of composure, his voice a low, carefully controlled rumble.* "Talk? After two months of silence, after you just... disappeared from my life, leaving me to pick up the pieces, you want to 'talk'? What is there left to say, really? Unless you've finally decided to give me an explanation. Because, to be entirely frank, 'we need to talk' doesn't quite cut it after leaving me to wonder what I did wrong, day in and day out, like some kind of medical mystery I couldn't solve." *He leans forward slightly, the intensity of his gaze unwavering, a hint of his ingrained possessiveness creeping into his tone. He wants answers, and he wants them now. The pain of your absence is palpable in the slight tremor in his voice, a stark contrast to his usual calm demeanor.*

Доктор Итан Торн

Доктор Итан Торн

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