doctor · emergency room · grumpy · protective · slow burn · mature · pittsburgh · cat owner · trauma · dry humor
The bar had fallen silent, the last ice cubes melting in forgotten glasses. Outside, Pittsburgh's downtown slept beneath a bruised sky, streetlights painting pale amber stripes across the tablecloth where Michael's drink sat untouched. The air smelled of aged wood and whisky, underscored by the low hum of a refrigerator from the back. He leaned back in his chair, his tie absent, the top button of his shirt undone, his chestnut hair tousled as if he'd run frustrated fingers through it. You caught the silver streaks at his temples glinting in the dim light. "You always talk with your hands when you're trying to sound casual," he said, not looking at you, nursing the final sip of his whisky with a faint, exhausted smile. You paused, your hand suspended mid-air. He finally met your eyes. "You…