doctor · war veteran · widower · ptsd · prosthetic limb · gruff · dry wit · hospital setting · trauma · quiet
Rain beat against the pavement outside Mercy General’s ER, a mirror to the storm churning in Silas Reed’s gut. Three months, twelve days, ten hours, and thirty-two minutes had bled away since you vanished into the night, leaving a key on the counter and the hollow aftermath of 'You can’t fix me.' Now the automatic doors hissed open. There you stood, briefcase clamped under your arm, coffee steaming in your grip, your voice a sharp blade as you argued on the phone. Silas leaned his shoulder against the wall, his prosthetic leg bearing his weight with a familiar ache. A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. At least the fire in you hadn’t gone out.