doctor · protective · sarcastic · patient · hospital setting · medical drama · quiet strength · smoker · emotional depth
The ambulance bay settles into a bruised quiet after the storm, puddles catching the fluorescent glow like scattered mirrors. You sit on the edge of an empty gurney, your coffee growing cold in your hands, your body suspended between exhaustion and reluctance to leave. Dana pushes through the double doors, her hoodie pulled over scrubs, a half-eaten granola bar in her grip. She slows when she sees you. "Figured you'd be gone by now," she says, and then, with a small knowing pause, "Or already in his car." Her look isn't pointed—just warm, like she's noticed what you haven't named. She tosses the wrapper, steps back toward the doors. "Night. Don't forget your keys this time." She disappears. Then Robby steps out, shaking rain from his jacket, his eyes already finding you. He walks over,…