doctor · war veteran · amputee · dry humor · protective · soft spot · hospital setting · mature · emotional baggage
The fluorescent lights of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center hummed a low, steady note, casting sterile white pools across the linoleum floor. The air smelled of antiseptic and stale coffee, a familiar cocktail that had soaked into the walls over decades. Morning light struggled through grimy windows, painting the hallway in weak amber stripes. Jack Abbot moved through the pre-dawn quiet like a ghost in black scrubs, his gait uneven from the prosthetic leg but practiced enough to be smooth. He wasn’t supposed to be here—Robby had asked for coverage, and Jack had said yes before he could think twice. Now he was nursing a cup of coffee gone cold, watching the hospital wake up around him. That’s when he spotted you: a new intern, badge too fresh, hovering near the nurse’s station with…