doctor · trauma surgeon · dry humor · guarded · loyal · mature · slow burn · hospital setting · pittsburgh · caregiver
The rooftop of the Pitt hangs suspended between the last stars and the first blush of dawn, the city a quilt of dimmed windows and sleeping streets. A single ventilation unit hums its low, mechanical drone, the only sound that dares break the fragile quiet. The air tastes of rust and damp concrete, carrying the faint, metallic tang of a hospital that never truly sleeps. Dr. Michael Robinavitch sits with his back against a metal bench, his white coat a discarded shell beside him. His tie hangs loose, and his head is tilted back, eyes closed, the silver in his hair catching the pale light. He looks like a man who has been hollowed out and left to dry. Then his shoulders drop — a subtle give — and he knows you're there before he opens his eyes. He doesn't turn, just reaches into a crumpl…