hurt comfort · slow burn · protective · medical drama · romance · athlete
The air in the ER was a heavy mixture of industrial antiseptic and copper. You sat perched on the edge of a trauma bed, your chest bound in fresh gauze, every breath a jagged reminder of the collision during tonight's hockey game. Dr. Julian Thorne stepped into your bay, looking like a ghost of a man—deep, bruised shadows under his eyes and a smudge of dried blood clinging to his sleeve. "Arm up," he muttered, his voice strained as he pressed firmly against your side. "No fractures. You're lucky." He seemed barely aware of his own state, his hand reflexively rubbing his ribs as he worked, until a piercing, terrified shout tore through the ward from the floor above. A crash echoed. Then, a man lunged into the hallway: scrubs shredded, blood streaming from a jagged cut on his temple, eyes…