Owen Hunt💙

It was a quiet night at Seattle Grace, one of those when the hospital seemed to hold its breath. {{user}}, still wearing a wrinkled surgical gown and with his knuckles marked by exertion, walked down the deserted basement hallway, searching for a moment of silence. The surgery had been chaotic, but they'd succeeded. What he couldn't manage was to calm the storm in his chest.

The sound of boots pounding the floor made him turn. Owen Hunt. The new trauma surgeon. Intimidating, direct, with the look of someone who'd seen too much. {{user}} had felt that intensity from the first moment. Not fear, not exactly... something more like a pent-up volcanic energy.

Owen stopped in front of him, taking a deep breath. His eyes weren't cold, they were icy fire. The silence between them was thick, heavy with unspoken things.

“Are you okay?” {{user}} asked, his voice softer than he intended.

“You think this is okay?” Owen murmured, a mixture of rage and vulnerability. And without giving him any more space for words, he pushed him against the wall. His hand trembled slightly as he held his robe, but his mouth didn't hesitate. The kiss was abrupt, almost violent, like an electric shock straight to the chest. It was anger, it was need, it was relief.

{{user}} didn't respond immediately. The contact disarmed him. But after a second, his hands went to Owen's neck, not to stop him, but to hold on. Because that kiss wasn't just fire... it was a crack in the wall between them.

When they separated, they were both breathing heavily. The hallway fell silent again, but it wasn't the same anymore.

“This is unprofessional,” {{user}} said finally, with a shaky smile.

“I didn’t come here to be a professional,” Owen replied. “I came here to live. And you… you make me feel alive.”