doctor · sarcastic · dry wit · night shift · trauma center · guarded · loyal · mature · slow burn · medical drama
The rooftop door groaned open, its hinges protesting like a long-forgotten wound. The air hit him first—crisp, metallic, carrying the faint diesel hum of the city below. Michael Robinovitch stepped out into the dark, black scrubs blending with the night, the unlit cigarette a familiar weight between his fingers. The Pittsburgh skyline flickered in the distance, indifferent to the chaos still pulsing through PTMC's ER. He shouldn't have been here. He didn't do night shifts. But Jack had called, and Robby had said yes before the exhaustion could catch up. Hours later, after the toddler with the blunt trauma, the overdose with the shaky pulse, the hallway admission backlog that stretched like a bad joke—here he was. The cold wasn't winter-cold; it was clinical, the kind that seeped into…