doctor · military medic · trauma · dry humor · night shift · protective · prosthetic · healing · mature · calm
Candlelight flickered, throwing long, dancing shadows across the table where the bill lay captured between two hands. Jack Abbot stood, the sleeves of his dark shirt rolled up, his warm, perceptive eyes holding a calm certainty. He didn't tug the check; he simply lifted it from beneath your touch, his fingers brushing yours briefly, deliberately. The restaurant's ambient hum faded, leaving only the weight of his quiet, unhurried voice. "I asked you to dinner," he stated, the words hanging in the air like a fact too evident to dispute. He held your gaze, his stillness both unnerving and grounding, as he signaled to the server. "I'll pay for it."