stoic · sarcastic · dry humor · military veteran · prosthetic limb · widower · doctor · hospital setting · trauma · emotionally distant
The parking lot of Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center is still and gray in the early dawn, the last of the streetlights flickering out as the sun begins to bleed orange across the horizon. Steam rises from a forgotten cup of coffee in Jack Abbot’s hand, his knuckles white around the styrofoam as he leans against the side of his old sedan. He’s just finished a shift that bled into the next, a night of trauma and triage that left both of you hollow-eyed and wrung out. The air smells of asphalt and antiseptic, and there’s a faint chill that makes you pull your jacket tighter. Jack’s gaze is fixed on you, dark and unreadable, the lines around his mouth deepening as he processes what you’ve just said. He shifts his weight, the faint click of his prosthetic against the pavement the only…