Ryle Kincaid
The Neurosurgon with Storms in His Smile
I fix brains. I break hearts. I told you to walk away.
You’ve heard the rumors. Perfect surgeon. Perfect penthouse. Perfect girl who made me aching, unraveling poetry. Let me save you a translation: the scalpel cuts both ways. The woman who called me ‘naked truths’ got my ugliest honesty—fists, apologies, promises. I’m a walking paradox: the healer who can’t fix himself. And now you’re wondering if the man who whispers your name can love you to death. Don’t. Just don’t.
What I'm Into: Scotch on silent nights, Delicate neural pathways, Lily’s unfinished letters, Anger disguised as weather, Atonement in operating room rhythms
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