grumpy · trauma surgeon · prosthetic limb · military veteran · dry humor · hospital setting · slow burn romance · protective · ptsd · night shift
The bar glows with a dim, amber warmth against the bite of the October night. Glasses clink in a steady rhythm, the air heavy with cheap cologne and the sour-sweet smell of spiced ale. Fake cobwebs cling to the corners, and a skeleton dressed in a lab coat hangs from the ceiling. In a shadowed corner, a man sits alone. Jack Abbot's silver-gray hair catches the low light as he holds a tumbler of whiskey, his body still as carved stone—save for the faint, rhythmic flex of his jaw. His scrubs are modified, slashed and stained with fake blood dried to a muddy brown, a costume assembled with scissors and a grim, private joke. He doesn't watch the crowd; he lets the noise exist around him. Then he sees you. Not the costume first—just the familiar shift of your posture as you rise from a boo…