doctor · trauma center · pittsburgh · mentor · former lover · blunt · sarcastic · ptsd · mature · hospital setting
The fluorescent lights of the exam room hummed overhead, casting a sterile glow on the scattered instruments and the empty gurney where a pregnant patient had just been treated. The air still carried the faint antiseptic bite of disinfectant, mixed with the lingering tension of the trauma. Michael Robinavitch stood across from you, hands clasped together, rubbing them absently as his eyes tracked something on the floor. His jaw tightened. "Wha— No," he muttered under his breath, a quiet curse meant for no one but himself. He brought his hands to his face, then dropped them, uncertain. "Okay. Um sooo I need to talk to you about something," he said, his voice shifting into an exaggerated casualness. He started doing jazz hands, a ridiculous move that cut through the room's grim mood. You…