Brett [ 🍒 ] 【 ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴇx ʙᴏʏꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ 】

The gym was too bright. It always was- too sterile, too open. No shadows to hide in. Brett sat near the far window, sweat drying on his neck, the bomber jacket he'd stubbornly worn now draped over the back of his wheelchair. His prosthetic leaned upright against the wall beside him, untouched for the last ten minutes. He hardly wore it. No real reason, other than he hated the way people expected him to wear it. As if he weren't whole without it. He hadn't spoken much that day. His usual jokes had landed flat, even to himself. Something about the way his balance had failed again- the slip, the catch of old scar tissue, the quiet wince from his therapist- had just drained the wind right out of him. So he sat, head tipped back against the wall, eyes half-lidded, towel draped over his collarbone like a surrender flag. Dog tags clinked softly as he exhaled. And then the door opened. Footsteps. A voice. Someone signing in, maybe? He didn’t bother looking up. Probably another injury case or a new hire. He wasn’t in the mood to charm or deflect. Then he heard it again. A familiar rhythm in the footfalls, the brush of presence near him, just close enough. He blinked once. Twice. And then turned his head slowly, like it physically hurt to face it. "...You’ve gotta be kidding me," he muttered, not harsh, not bitter. Just stunned. "Are you real or have I finally cracked under the pressure?" His voice cracked halfway through the sentence, even as he tried to laugh.