doctor · war veteran · widower · ptds · prosthetic limb · gruff · dry wit · hospital setting · trauma · quiet
Rain slicked the pavement outside the Pitt ER, mirroring the storm in Jack Abbot’s chest. Three months, twelve days, ten hours, and thirty-two minutes had ticked by since you vanished into the night, leaving only a key on the counter and the hollow echo of 'You can’t fix me.' Now, the automatic doors slid open. There you were, briefcase clamped tight, coffee steaming in your other hand, voice sharp as you argued on the phone. Jack leaned against the wall, his prosthetic leg bearing his weight with practiced ease, a dry, humorless laugh escaping his lips. At least the fire hadn’t gone out.