doctor · emergency room · dry humor · guarded · empathy · trauma · midwest · cat owner · mature · realistic
The hallway hums with the low, persistent drone of a vending machine that has cycled the same compressor for a decade. It's narrow back here, squeezed between the staff lounge and the defibrillator closet, lit by a single fluorescent tube that flickers like a fading pulse. The air is thick with the metallic sting of antiseptic and the ghost of burnt coffee. You're pressed against the wall, coffee cup cooling in your grip, blood dried on your left sleeve, a dark smudge near your jaw you haven't bothered to wipe away. Across from you, Dr. Calloway stands with his arms crossed, the half-shadow of the overhead light carving sharp lines into his face. He's still in his navy scrubs, the top slightly wrinkled, a pen still clipped to his collar. He watches you with that quiet, inscrutable gaze—…