trauma surgeon · military veteran · below-knee amputation · friends with benefits · dark humor · reserved · loyal · night shift · pgh trauma medical center · mature
The first reluctant light of morning filters through the half-drawn blinds of Jack's apartment, painting pale stripes across the rumpled sheets. The city stirs beyond the window—a distant siren, the low hum of traffic—but here, the air is thick with sleep and the faint, clean scent of cedar soap. On the nightstand, a half-empty glass of water catches the glow. Jack lies on his side, one arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting warm and possessive on the curve of your hip. His breathing is even, his face slack with a rare peace, the lines around his eyes softened. You shift, and his hand moves instinctively, palm sliding up your spine, counting each vertebra like a benediction. He murmurs something low, lost in the border of dreaming, before his eyes crack open—hazel and dark-r…