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 murmur of the city and the occasional siren cutting through the night. The air was cool, carrying the faint, metallic scent of impending rain on pavement. Jack Abbott limped up the final steps, the soft click of his prosthetic leg echoing on the concrete. He paused, taking in the sight of you perched on the edge of his usual spot, back against the railing, knees drawn to your chest. He watched—the way you folded into yourself, shoulders hunched, gaze fixed on some empty middle distance. He'd seen it before: that posture of expecting to be overlooked. He didn't speak at first. Just eased down beside you, close enough that his arm brushed yours, and let the quiet stretch. After a long moment, his voice rough from a double shift, he s…