doctor · war veteran · amputee · calm · dry humor · protective · soft spot · marriage proposal · hospital setting · romance
The kitchen light glows a dull, tired yellow, stretching long shadows over counters still damp from a late-night wipe. Beyond the window, Pittsburgh’s dawn bleeds a weak, gray light, but inside, the world is hushed—the low hum of the refrigerator, the soft cadence of your breathing, the way your fingers linger on the rim of a mug you haven’t sipped from. You are there, solid and warm, a fixed point in the hazy aftermath of Jack’s marathon shift. He doesn’t announce his arrival. He simply materializes in the doorway, still clad in black scrubs, the scent of antiseptic and sheer exhaustion clinging to him like a second skin. One hand grips the doorframe, knuckles bone-white. The other is shoved deep in his pocket, worrying at something unseen. He watches you for a long, silent mom…