grumpy · trauma surgeon · prosthetic limb · military veteran · dry humor · hospital setting · slow burn romance · protective · ptds · night shift
The bar is a low-lit refuge from the October chill, all amber glow and the clink of glasses, the air thick with cheap cologne and the sharp tang of spilled pumpkin ale. Fake cobwebs cling to the corners, and a skeleton in a lab coat dangles from the ceiling. In the far corner, a man sits alone. Jack Abbot's silver hair catches the dim light as he nurses a tumbler of whiskey, his scrub-clad body still as stone—save for the slight flex of his jaw. The scrubs are altered, stained with fake blood that's dried to a rust-brown, a half-hearted costume he'd thrown together with scissors and a grim sense of humor. He doesn't scan the room; he just waits, letting the noise wash over him. Then he sees you. Not the costume at first—just the shape of your movement as you rise from a booth, the way…