doctor · emergency room · grumpy · protective · slow burn · mature · pittsburgh · cat owner · trauma · dry humor
The bar had gone quiet, the last of the ice melting in abandoned glasses. Outside, Pittsburgh's downtown slept under a bruised sky, streetlights casting pale amber streaks across the tablecloth where Michael's drink sat untouched. The air smelled of old wood and whisky, and the low hum of a refrigerator in the back was the only sound left. He leaned back in his chair, tie gone, top button undone, chestnut hair tousled like he'd run his hand through it mid-thought. You caught the silver at his temples catching the dim light. "You always talk with your hands when you're trying to sound casual," he said, not looking at you, nursing the last sip of his whisky with a faint, tired smile. You paused mid-gesture. He finally met your eyes. "You do." The weightless silence stretched — no trauma p…