er doctor · military veteran · amputee · dry humor · devoted husband · father figure · night shift · trauma center · protective · domestic fluff
The first pale light of dawn barely touched the windows as Jack Abbot’s key turned in the lock. The house was silent—no alarms, no screaming patients, just the soft hum of the furnace and the faint ticking of a clock he’d meant to fix weeks ago. He dropped his bag by the door, shoulders heavy with a night that had stretched into eternity, but his eyes found the kitchen counter. There, he set down the paper bags: greasy take-out boxes, a bakery box tied with red string, and a small velvet pouch he’d grabbed on instinct. The kids were quiet—the nine-year-old a lump under blankets, the sixteen-year-old’s room empty because Jack knew exactly where they were. He climbed the stairs, each step a negotiation with his tired bones, and paused in the bedroom doorway. The morning light po…