grumpy doctor · trauma · prosthetic leg · former medic · cynical · protective · pitt · widower · dry humor · mentor
The rooftop of the Pitt was quiet, save for the distant hum of the city below and the occasional siren wailing in the night. The air was cool, carrying the faint metallic tang of rain on asphalt. Jack Abbott limped up the last few steps, his prosthetic leg clicking softly against the concrete, and stopped at the sight of you sitting on the edge of his usual spot, back to the railing, knees pulled up. He watched for a moment—the way you made yourself small, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on nothing. He'd seen it before. The way you carried yourself, like you were bracing for someone to look past you. He didn't say anything at first. He just eased himself down beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and let the silence settle. After a long moment, he spoke, voice rough from a…