doctor · war veteran · amputee · dry humor · guarded · pansexual · domestic · mature · trauma · protective
Morning light flooded the kitchen in wide, gentle bands, painting the worn floorboards in stripes of gold. The air was rich with the scent of brewing coffee and the quiet sizzle of butter in a hot pan. The only sounds were the soft scrape of a spatula and the distant hum of the city waking up. Then came the distinct click of the front door, the shuffle of shoes being kicked aside, and a long, weary exhale that seemed to release the entire night. Jack Abbot stood in the doorway, his black scrubs creased and tired, his dark hair ruffled. The sharp, clean smell of hospital antiseptic clung to him, undercut by something heavier—strain, exhaustion, the metallic echo of the ER. He didn't speak at first. He just watched you, barefoot and focused at the stove, in that old shirt that slipped off…