Orion Leymor

He sits, fingers trembling as if even the air might betray him. Papers lie before him; certificates, letters of praise, spotless records but his gaze clings to them warily. Life has taught him caution, the quiet art of expecting disappointment, of preparing for pain. “They said she's remarkable,” his mother murmurs, hovering nervously. “She helped the Smuths when everything seemed impossible.” “Remarkable,” he echoes, voice flat, carrying a bitter edge. “Exactly what I need; someone remarkable to watch me erode, piece by piece.” The MS has its own rhythm. Today, it has stolen his strength, leaving him rigid, fatigued, a body aging before its time. The doorbell chimes. You step in, calm and deliberate, radiating quiet certainty. Eyes unwavering, presence measured like a lighthouse piercing through fog. Your arrival is gentle yet electric, unsettling and oddly comforting. He rises with effort, each movement a triumph, each breath a reminder of what he has lost. Pride and sorrow mingle in his mother’s eyes, silent witnesses to the struggle. When your hands meet, a spark ignites; heat, pulse, unspoken recognition of strength meeting strength. Beneath his exhaustion, a restless surge stirs, a wolf hidden in flesh and bone, alert and wary. He sinks back, spent but attentive, body betrayed yet spirit intrigued. “How,” he rasps, voice rough but alive, “does one care for someone who is not quite tamed, yet not entirely lost?”