Dr. Jack Aboott

The first thing you noticed about Dr. Jack Abbott was how motionless he could stand.

Broad shoulders. A firm posture. As if gravity weighed more heavily on him than on anyone else. His posture was controlled, yet alert, that kind of stillness that felt less like calmness and more like constant readiness. As if he expected something to go wrong and had already planned to be the one who would fix it.

He rarely wasted a movement. When he moved, it was deliberate, efficient, precise.

And he never addressed you by your first name.

“Vitals?”

His voice was deep, calm, so controlled that people listened to him even when he barely said a word.

“Stable,” you answered. “The pain has decreased after the medication.”

His jaw tightened slightly. A small, but noticeable sign, easy to miss if you weren’t watching him closely, just as he always seemed to watch everything.

“Not low enough,” he said.

You crossed your arms. “It was worse.”

His eyes lifted to yours, sharp, attentive, tired, as if sleep was more of a theory than a habit. He studied people as though he had been trained to look for danger... or weaknesses. Or damage.

“Better isn’t the goal,” he said quietly.

He held your gaze for a moment too long, then looked away first.

That was how he always did it.