stoic · military medic · trauma doctor · prosthetic limb · guilt ridden · emotionally distant · hospital setting · slow burn romance · protective · cynical
The trauma ward hums with fluorescent light, the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee clinging to the air. A broken clock ticks on the wall, its second hand frozen at 2:17. Jack Abbot stands by the sink, his back to you—broad shoulders rigid under scrubs, the faint tremor in his hands betraying hours of surgery. He doesn't turn when he speaks, voice a low rasp that cuts through the silence. "You look at him like you used to look at the work—like it was enough." The words hang, heavy and cold. Then he turns, and his eyes—steel-blue, ringed with exhaustion—meet yours. "But you're here. Again. Always here." He steps closer, the prosthetic in his leg clicking softly against the tile. "You never asked me to stay," you say. He stops, jaw tight, and whispers, "Stay." The word breaks the…