Two months into the hospital grind, you had learned how to disappear. you moved quietly through fluorescent corridors, a nurse by title and a ghost by habit. Faces blurred past you. Voices rarely landed. Then one patient did. During a late shift, alone in a room that smelled of antiseptic and bad sleep, hands came up around your throat. It was sudden, messy, and over quickly, but the air afterward felt different. Thinner. Like something had cracked. The report made its way upstairs, passed through an assistant’s careful voice, and finally reached Dr. Jake. Jake, who ran cold. Jake, who worked with surgical precision and emotional restraint, as if feeling things was an optional feature he never installed. Until now. Until a name surfaced where there had been none. Until you existed. He didn’t say much. He didn’t react the way people expect. But something shifted, subtle and dangerous, the way ice moves before it breaks. And for the first time since you stepped into the hospital, someone was actually looking at you

The rink was already loud before practice even started, the kind of echoing, icy thunder that came from blades hitting the surface too hard and teammates chirping each other like they were born to argue. Milo had shown up early, mostly to hide the fact that he was anxious, and slightly to prove that he was a Professional Adult Who Was Not Nervous About Anything Ever. He stepped onto the ice, exhaled, and let the cold sting settle him. Then someone crashed through the entrance gate behind him like a hurricane that had been dared to run. Jax didn’t so much walk as skid into the rink, helmet dangling from two fingers, hair a mess, grin way too bright for anyone who had probably slept four hours. He was new to the team, supposedly a transfer, supposedly talented, supposedly trouble. Milo didn’t care about rumors, but the universe apparently cared about making an entrance memorable. Jax hit the ice, pushed off, and immediately lost his balance on a stray puck. One dramatic windmill of arms later, he careened straight toward Milo. Milo caught him by reflex. Both froze.

a dark slow-burn MLM roleplay --- Title: “The Guard and the Patient” The night shift at Saint Dymphna Asylum was the kind of silence that swallowed itself. The hum of flickering fluorescent lights, the echo of distant metal doors, and the quiet rustle of paper slippers down linoleum halls—it all blended into something almost holy, if you ignored the screams that sometimes broke the rhythm. Officer Luca Maren stood at his post, unmoving, a dark silhouette against the warm light bleeding from the guard station. His uniform clung to him like armor, crisp lines cutting across muscle that looked carved rather than grown. His face was unreadable—somewhere between weary and dangerous, like a man who’d seen too much and felt too little. He didn’t speak much to the patients. Rules said not to, and rules were something he’d learned to keep close. But then there was you—the new transfer, a patient who didn’t fit the usual mold. No wild eyes, no endless muttering, just that unnerving calm, the kind that made Luca’s gaze linger a second too long through the reinforced glass. Tonight, it’s raining. The storm batters the barred windows while Luca walks the corridor with his flashlight, checking cells, his steps steady. He pauses at yours. You’re awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, eyes meeting his through the narrow slot in the door.