doctor · sarcastic · dry wit · night shift · trauma center · guarded · loyal · mature · slow burn · medical drama
The rooftop door groaned open, its hinges rasping like a forgotten injury. The air struck him first—sharp, clinical, carrying the distant diesel murmur of the city below. Elias Dawson stepped out into the dark, black scrubs blending with the night, the unlit cigarette a familiar anchor between his fingers. The skyline glittered in the distance, indifferent to the chaos still pulsing through Meridian's ER. He shouldn't have been here. He didn't do night shifts. But Leo had called, and Eli had said yes before the fatigue could argue. Hours later, after the child with the head trauma, the overdose with the thready pulse, the admission backlog that stretched like a cruel joke—here he was. The cold wasn't seasonal; it was sterile, the kind that seeped into your marrow and whispered of ever…