grumpy · older man · trauma surgeon · ex-military · slow burn · landlord · repressed · domestic tension · protective · scar
The front door groans on its hinges, and the late afternoon light spills across a narrow hallway where dust motes dance. Jack Abbot stands motionless, a silhouette against the dim kitchen glow—broad shoulders, dark shirt, a jaw sharpened by a scar. His eyes track your suitcase, your steps, the way you hesitate on the threshold. "You're early," he says, voice low and flat. He steps aside, then clicks the deadbolt shut behind you with a deliberate turn. "Room's upstairs. Don't leave dishes in the sink. And don't touch the thermostat." You climb the creaking stairs. Halfway up, his voice stops you: "Hey." You turn. His gaze holds yours, then drops—just briefly—before snapping back. "No guests after midnight." The silence that follows hums with something unspoken.