Curated Chaos

Apparently trauma bonding counted as team building.

So there they all were. A long table pushed together at a little family-owned Italian restaurant a few blocks from the hospital, half the day shift squeezed around it while tired conversations drifted between complaints about charting, impossible patients, and whose turn it was to buy the next round of garlic bread.

Reader had somehow ended up next to Javadi. It had started innocently enough.

"You see that new medical drama trailer?" Reader asked while absently tearing apart a bread roll.

Javadi groaned.

"No because why did they intubate the patient upside down?"

Reader gasped.

"THANK YOU."

"The comments were defending it too."

"They were aura farming."

"They wanted engagement."

"They absolutely rage baited."

Reader pointed dramatically. "Exactly."

Whitaker looked up from across the table. "...I understood that one."

Neither of them heard him.

"They're cooked."

"Deep fried."

"Air fried."

"Convection oven."

Reader nodded solemnly. "Microwaved."

Javadi put a hand over her heart. "You're so right."

By the time everyone's meals arrived, the conversation had evolved. Or perhaps devolved.

"...No because imagine explaining skibidi toilet to someone from the eighteen hundreds."

Reader snorted into their drink. "They would've burned us."

"They would've burned you."

"They would've burned us both."

"Fair."

Reader leaned back. "Actually...lowkey deserved."

"Highkey."

"No cap."

"No cap."

Mateo looked between them. "...I'm starting to lose the plot."

"You lost it twenty minutes ago," McKay informed him.

Reader picked up a chip. Held it thoughtfully. "You ever think about how Robby has negative aura when he hasn't had coffee?"

Javadi nodded immediately. "But after coffee?"

Reader's eyes widened. "+1000 aura."

"He lowkey locks in."

"He does."

"He actually locks in."

"He might be him."

Reader slapped the table. "WAIT."

"What?"

"...Robby is him."

Javadi stared for a second. Then immediately burst into laughter. "Oh my God."

"He actually is."

"He IS."

Across the table, Langdon slowly lowered his fork. "Are we supposed to know what that means?"

"No," Mel answered quietly. "...Neither do they."

Reader and Javadi were still laughing.

The waiter came over.

"Everything alright?"

Reader looked up. "Yeah, king."

"...Thanks?"

The waiter walked away looking deeply confused.

Dana pinched the bridge of her nose. "Please stop calling strangers 'king.'"

Reader looked offended. "I'm spreading positivity."

"You're spreading something."

Javadi suddenly looked at Reader. "...Wait."

"What?"

"...Remember the dress?"

Reader immediately sat up straighter. "The blue and black one?"

"The WHITE AND GOLD ONE."

Reader grabbed Javadi's arm. "YOU'RE A WHITE AND GOLD TRUTHER?"

"I'VE BEEN SILENCED FOR YEARS."

"I KNEW THERE WAS SOMETHING DIFFERENT ABOUT YOU."

Whitaker whispered to Santos, "...What dress?"

Santos whispered back, "...Don't."

Reader took a sip of their drink. "...Imagine explaining Vine to Gen Alpha."

Javadi sighed wistfully. "They'll never know."

"They'll never know 'road work ahead.'"

"I sure hope it does."

"The avocado..."

"..."

"...Thanks."

"I say that daily."

"So do I."

Reader looked emotional. "You're literally my Shayla."

"My what?"

"My Shayla."

"...I'll accept that."

"You should."

By now...

The entire table had gone quiet. Not intentionally. There just wasn't much point trying to contribute anymore. The two of them had entered a conversational plane that nobody else seemed capable of reaching.

"...Bro sold."

"He fumbled."

"He absolutely folded."

"Negative aura."

"Generational crash out."

"Type shit."

"On God."

"Actually insane."

"Lore accurate."

"Cinema."

"Ate."

"No crumbs."

"Period."

"And I oop—" Reader wheezed.

Javadi was crying laughing.

Neither of them had any idea why anymore.

Dana slowly looked around the table. "...Can anyone translate?"

Silence. Mateo shrugged. "I got about...thirty percent."

Whitaker frowned. "I understood 'coffee.'"

"I understood 'Robby,'" Langdon offered.

Mel quietly took another bite of pasta. "I think they're just happy."

Everyone looked at her. She shrugged. "...The words don't matter."

Reader looked over. "...Queen."

Mel smiled despite herself. "...Thanks."

A comfortable silence settled over the table for all of three seconds before Reader leaned towards Javadi again. "...You think Abbot thinks he's cool with the kids?"

Javadi didn't even hesitate. "That's giving delulu."

Reader snorted. "He'd absolutely say 'How do you do, fellow kids?'"

"He absolutely would."

Reader suddenly straightened. "Oh my God."

"What?"

"We should teach him one phrase."

Javadi's grin slowly spread. "...One really bad phrase."

Reader mirrored it. "...One really bad phrase."

Across the table, Dana watched the identical expressions bloom across both your faces. She'd seen that look before. Usually right before a practical joke. "...No," she said immediately.

Reader blinked innocently. "No what?"

"I don't know yet." Dana pointed between the two of you. "But whatever the two of you are planning...no."

Reader looked at Javadi. Javadi looked back. Neither of you said a word. You simply nodded in complete understanding.

Dana groaned. "Oh, that was worse."

"What was?"

"You didn't even speak."

Reader smiled sweetly. "We're just on the same wavelength."

Javadi nodded. "Chronically."

A tiny, shiny, ridiculously detailed thing hanging from your badge reel, half-hidden against the pocket of your scrubs. It swung every time you moved, catching the fluorescent light of the ED in little flashes of colour. Most people would not have looked twice at it. Most people would have seen it as just another piece of plastic merch, something cute and bright attached to a tired med student trying very hard not to look like they had no idea where they were supposed to be.

Parker noticed it immediately.

You were standing at the nurses’ station with Lena beside you, nodding along while she pointed out where things were kept, where you were allowed to stand without getting trampled, and which attendings were likely to teach versus which ones would make you regret choosing medicine. Abbott was behind the desk, already looking halfway done with the night even though it had barely started. Cruz was restocking a drawer with the concentrated frustration of someone who had done it three times already and knew nobody would keep it organized. Shen passed by with a chart tucked under one arm, offering you a polite smile that made you feel only slightly less like you were being dropped into deep water without floaties.

And Parker, who had been listening to precisely none of this, looked at your badge reel and said, “Is that the limited drop from the anniversary set?”

Lena stopped talking.

Abbott looked up.

Cruz’s hand froze inside the drawer.

You blinked, sure for one second that you had hallucinated the question out of stress, sleep deprivation, and the vending machine coffee you had chugged in the parking lot.

Then you looked down at the keychain.

Then back at Parker.

Your whole face lit up.

“Oh my God,” you said, with the kind of startled joy that made it impossible to pretend you were calm. “You know what this is?”

Parker’s expression barely changed, but something in her eyes sharpened with quiet amusement. “I know what it is.”

“That is not the same as answering the question.”

“I answered the question.”

“No, you dodged the question.” You held the keychain up between two fingers, the nerves of your first shift suddenly pushed aside by sheer disbelief. “This was online for nine minutes before it sold out. Nine. I had three tabs open and my phone in my hand. I nearly cried when the order confirmation came through.”

Parker tilted her head slightly. “That seems like an intense response to a keychain.”

“It is not just a keychain.”

“Clearly.”

“It is from the anniversary set.”

“I know.”

“And it’s the version with the alternate costume.”

“I can see that.”

“And the tiny symbol on the back is actually from episode seven, not episode eight, which means whoever designed this knew what they were doing, because most people confuse those two episodes even though the emotional context is completely different.”

For the first time since you had walked into the ED, Parker smiled.

It was not a big smile. It was barely even a smile, honestly. More like the corner of her mouth gave up resisting gravity in the opposite direction for half a second. But it was enough.

Enough for Abbott to stare. Enough for Lena to glance between the two of you with interest. Enough for Cruz to mouth, What the hell? to Shen across the desk.

You did not notice any of it. You were too busy looking at Parker like she had just revealed herself to be the only other person in the hospital with taste.

“You’ve seen the show?” you asked.

“No.”

Your excitement stumbled. “You haven’t?”

“No.”

“But you recognized the keychain.”

“Yes.”

“So you know the merch, but you haven’t seen the show?”

“Yes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is suspicious.”

“It’s not suspicious.”

“It’s extremely suspicious.”

“I collect limited releases.”

You stared at her. Parker stared back, perfectly composed.

“Limited releases,” you repeated.

“Yes.”

“Of anything?”

“Mostly.”

“That is somehow nerdier than if you just watched the show.”

From behind the desk, Abbott made a soft choking sound that might have been a laugh trying to escape and getting strangled halfway up. Parker glanced over once, flatly, and Abbott immediately became very interested in the chart in front of him.

You realized, belatedly, that you had just called an attending nerdy on your first night in the emergency department. Your stomach dropped.

“I’m so sorry,” you rushed out. “That was not professional. I didn’t mean—well, I did mean it, but not in a disrespectful way. More in a very impressed and slightly confused way. I’m going to stop talking now.”

Parker looked at you for a beat too long.

Then she said, “Don’t.”

You blinked. “Don’t… stop talking?”

“You were explaining episode seven.”

“Oh.” Your fingers tightened around the badge reel. “Right. Okay. So episode seven is actually where the whole thing shifts because up until then you think the main conflict is external, but it’s not. It’s about identity and memory and whether you can still be yourself if everyone around you only recognizes the version of you they need you to be—”

Lena slowly lowered her hand from where she had been pointing toward the medication room. Cruz had abandoned the drawer completely. Shen, who had only meant to pause for a second, remained paused and Abbott leaned back in his chair, watching Parker Ellis—Parker, who treated casual conversation like an unnecessary invasive procedure—stand in the middle of the nurses’ station and listen to a brand-new med student explain fictional lore with total, unwavering attention.

Parker did not interrupt you. She did not check her watch. She did not look around for an escape route. She simply stood there, arms loosely crossed, eyes on you, occasionally asking a short question that somehow proved she had actually been following every word.

“And the symbol?” she asked.

You lit up again. “Exactly! The symbol is the whole point.”

Abbott looked at Lena. Lena looked at Abbott.

Cruz whispered, “Are we all seeing this?” Shen whispered back, “I think so.”

Santos, who had picked up a double and was already regretting every choice that had led her there, rounded the corner with a stack of discharge papers and stopped dead. “Why is Parker talking to the med student?” she asked.

Nobody answered. Mostly because nobody knew.

By the end of the shift, you had survived two laceration repairs, one patient who called you “sweetheart” until Parker appeared beside you and corrected him without raising her voice, three cups of terrible coffee, and one near-death experience involving a supply closet door you opened directly into your own forehead.

You had also somehow ended up in Parker’s orbit. Not intentionally. At least, not at first. She was just there.

When Lena sent you to observe a patient evaluation, Parker was the one doing it. When Abbott asked someone to grab you before a trauma came in, Parker was already pointing you toward gloves and telling you where to stand. When you forgot where the clean blankets were, Parker walked past and said, “Second left, bottom shelf,” without even slowing down.

It was not warm, exactly. Parker was not warm in any obvious way. She did not fuss or soften her voice or make things easy just because you were new. She still expected you to keep up, still corrected you when you missed something, still gave you that unreadable look when you answered a question too quickly and not carefully enough.

But she also noticed.

She noticed when you were overwhelmed and sent you to get water before you could embarrass yourself by swaying in front of a patient. She noticed when your hands were shaking after your first code and quietly gave you a task simple enough to anchor yourself to. She noticed when your badge reel got caught on a drawer handle and untangled it before you accidentally yanked the whole thing off your scrub top.

And every now and then, in between blood work and imaging orders and the constant restless motion of the ED, she would ask something that made your brain short-circuit.

“So episode seven,” she said two weeks later, while washing her hands at the sink beside you. “That’s the one with the memory reveal?”

You almost dropped the paper towel dispenser key Lena had trusted you with. “You remember that?”

Parker looked mildly offended. “You talked for twelve minutes.”

“You timed me?”

“No.”

“You absolutely timed me.”

“I estimated.”

“That’s worse.”

She shrugged, drying her hands. “Was I wrong?”

You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from smiling too obviously. “No.”

“Then keep going.”

So you did.

You told her about the memory reveal, then the cast interview, then the theory that had been floating around fan spaces for years. Parker listened while checking a medication order. She listened while walking with you to the vending machines. She listened while you both stood in the break room at three in the morning, the hospital humming around you, your untouched coffee going lukewarm in your hands because you were too busy explaining why one line of dialogue had changed the entire interpretation of a character arc.

Somewhere between those conversations, between exhausted midnight coffees and stolen moments beside supply carts, Parker stopped being the intimidating attending who had recognized your keychain and became Parker. Just Parker.

The person who remembered your favourite character even though she still refused to watch the show.

The person who sent you a link to a merch restock at two in the afternoon with no message except, This yours?

The person who once showed up to shift with a tiny enamel pin in her palm and said, “Found it,” like she had not spent actual time tracking down something you had mentioned once while half-asleep.

The person who kissed you for the first time outside the hospital after a shift that had left you both quiet and wrung out, her thumb resting gently against your jaw, her expression calm but her eyes careful, as if even then she was watching for the smallest sign that you wanted her to stop.

You did not want her to stop.

After that, it became both easier and more complicated. At work, nothing changed. Or at least, nothing obvious changed.

Parker was still Parker. She still had the social patience of a locked door. She still gave Abbott a deadpan stare whenever he tried to joke his way out of paperwork. She still told Santos, “No,” before she even finished asking for favours. She still made Cruz roll his eyes at least four times a night and could reduce an overconfident intern to humble silence with one raised eyebrow.

But with you, she softened in increments so small nobody should have noticed them. Nobody should have noticed the way she always left the last decent coffee pod for you. Nobody should have noticed how she angled her body toward you when you spoke. Nobody should have noticed that when the ED got too loud, Parker somehow always found a reason to send you somewhere quieter for thirty seconds.

Nobody should have noticed.

Unfortunately, the night crew noticed everything.

“I think she adopted you,” Shen said one night, as you both restocked gloves.

You frowned. “Who?”

“Parker.”

You shoved a stack of mediums into place and tried very hard to keep your face neutral. “She did not adopt me.”

“She definitely adopted you.”

“That’s a weird thing to say.”

“It’s a weird thing to watch.”

You turned to him slowly. “What does that mean?”

Shen shrugged, too casual. “She doesn’t glare at you.”

“She glares at me all the time.”

“No. She looks at you. Different thing.”

You were saved from answering by Cruz calling for help from trauma two, and you spent the next thirty minutes convincing yourself that Shen was just observant in the annoying way all good doctors were.

Then, an hour later, Abbott caught Parker handing you a granola bar. He stared. Parker stared back. You took the granola bar and pretended this was very normal.

Abbott pointed at it. “Where did that come from?”

“My pocket,” Parker said.

“You carry snacks now?”

“No.”

“You just had that?”

“Yes.”

“For who?”

Parker’s face went blank in the way it did when she had decided she was finished with a conversation. “For people with low blood sugar.”

Abbott looked at you. You looked at the granola bar. Parker walked away. Cruz appeared at Abbott’s shoulder, eyes narrowed. “That was weird, right?”

Abbott nodded slowly. “Very.”

“It’s like watching a wolf feed a baby deer.”

“Don’t say that where HR can hear you.”

By the time the trailer dropped, you and Parker had been dating for three months. Nobody knew. At least, you were pretty sure nobody knew.

The thing about dating Parker was that she did not become a different person. She did not suddenly turn sweet in a way that felt false, did not start using pet names in public, did not drape herself over you or make a show of affection in places where people could see.

Parker’s love was quieter than that. It lived in the details. In the spare hoodie that appeared in her car because you always forgot one. In the way she learned your takeout order without asking twice. In the fact that she never once made you feel silly for caring too much about fictional worlds and limited-edition merchandise and characters that felt real enough to hurt.

So when the trailer dropped during the slowest stretch of a Tuesday night shift, you forgot where you were.

Completely.

You had been standing near the nurses’ station, trying to update a patient note while your phone buzzed in your pocket once, then twice, then so many times in a row that you knew something had happened. Your fandom group chat only became that unhinged in very specific circumstances: a casting announcement, a cancellation scare, a surprise merch drop, or a trailer.

You checked your phone. Your heart stopped. Then restarted somewhere in your throat.

“Oh my God.”

Lena glanced over. “Everything okay?”

You did not answer. Your thumbs moved faster than your thoughts. The trailer thumbnail stared back at you, dramatic and glossy and real after months of rumours. You pressed play for exactly three seconds before realising you could not process this alone.

You looked up.

Across the station, Parker was charting beside Abbott, her face set in its usual expression of quiet irritation as Santos explained something with too many hand gestures.

“So I’m just saying,” Santos continued, “technically, if the patient said he swallowed one battery, but the girlfriend says she saw him with three—”

“Order imaging,” Parker said without looking at her.

“I did.”

“Then why are you still talking?”

Santos blinked. “Because I was providing context.”

“You provided it.”

Abbott snorted. Parker’s jaw tightened.

You moved before you could overthink it, crossing the station with your phone clutched in one hand. “Parker.”

Her head lifted immediately. Not slowly. Not with annoyance. Immediately.

“What happened?”

“The trailer dropped.”

Parker stared at you for half a second. Then, with complete seriousness, she said, “The trailer?”

You nodded, eyes wide. “The trailer,” you repeated.

Something shifted in her expression. Recognition, not of the trailer itself, but of your excitement. Of the scale of it. Of what it meant that you had come to her first. She turned away from her computer. Abbott’s typing slowed. Santos looked between you. “Trailer for what?”

Neither of you answered.

You stepped closer, lowering your voice like the two of you were discussing test results instead of television. “I haven’t watched it properly yet. I saw three seconds and paused because I think the opening shot is the archive room.”

Parker frowned slightly. “The archive room was destroyed.”

Your mouth fell open.

Abbott stopped typing completely. Cruz, who had just arrived at the desk with a stack of labs, froze. Lena looked up from a chart. Shen, passing behind them, slowed to a halt.

You stared at Parker with open adoration. “You remember that?”

“You complained about it for two weeks.”

“Because it mattered.”

“I know.”

“You said that like you actually know.”

“You explained the structural importance of the archive room.”

“I did.”

“Twice.”

“Because the first time you were half-asleep.”

“I was awake.”

“You had your eyes closed.”

“I was listening.”

You pressed a hand over your chest. “This is why I like you.”

The sentence came out too naturally. Too softly. Too honestly. For half a second, the air around the desk changed. Parker did not react in any dramatic way. She did not look startled. She did not look panicked. She simply held your gaze, mouth relaxing at one corner in that almost-smile you had learned to recognize as something private.

“I know,” she said.

Cruz’s eyebrows shot up. Abbott leaned back in his chair. Santos looked personally betrayed by the fact that she was clearly missing several chapters of context.

You, blissfully unaware of the way the entire night crew had started watching, leaned your hip against the edge of the desk and held your phone between you and Parker. “Okay, so look. This is the opening frame. That is absolutely the archive room, right?”

Parker leaned in. Actually leaned in. Her shoulder nearly brushed yours as she studied the screen with the kind of concentration most people reserved for scans and abnormal labs.

“Could be a reconstruction,” she said.

You gasped. “That’s what I thought!”

“Or a memory sequence.”

You pointed at her with your phone. “Don’t do that.”

“What?”

“Casually drop a good theory like you haven’t been pretending not to care for months.”

“I don’t care.”

“You care a little.”

“I care that you care.”

That should have been nothing. It was not nothing. It landed softly between you, almost hidden beneath the noise of the ED, beneath the beeping monitors and distant voices and the squeak of Santos shifting his weight because he was apparently incapable of standing still. But you heard it, and Parker knew you heard it, and for one small moment the hospital seemed to narrow down to the two of you and the glow of your phone screen.

Then Cruz whispered, “What did she just say?”

Abbott whispered back, “I don’t know, but I’m uncomfortable.”

Lena, who looked far more delighted than uncomfortable, whispered, “I think it’s sweet.”

Santos leaned toward Shen. “Has Parker always been able to do that?”

“Do what?”

“Listen.”

Shen shook his head slowly. “Not to us.”

You started the trailer again, keeping the volume low enough that you had to lean closer to Parker for both of you to hear. The first few seconds played, dramatic music swelling from your phone speaker. You paused every few frames to explain something, rewinding when Parker asked a question, zooming in on background details that would have meant absolutely nothing to anyone else.

Parker followed all of it.

Not with the glazed patience of someone waiting for their turn to speak, but with real attention. She asked why one character’s jacket being a different colour mattered. She asked whether the symbol on the wall was the same one from your keychain. She asked if the actor in the final shot was the one you had sworn could not come back unless the writers were undoing an entire season of development.

You answered every question with increasing enthusiasm. The more you talked, the softer Parker became. Not obviously. Never obviously. But it was there in the way her shoulders loosened, in the way she stopped pretending to chart, in the way her eyes stayed on your face more than the phone because she seemed less interested in the trailer than in the way you looked while explaining it.

Around you, the department continued moving, but the nurses’ station had become a small island of stunned witnesses. Abbott stared like he was watching a rare medical anomaly. Lena rested her chin in her hand. Cruz looked between you and Parker with the intensity of someone solving a mystery. Shen seemed quietly vindicated. Santos looked offended.

“I asked her about my patient,” Santos muttered, “and she told me to stop talking.”

“She did not tell you to stop talking,” Lena said.

“She said, ‘Why are you still talking?’ That is worse.”

Abbott nodded. “It is more efficient.”

Santos pointed toward Parker. “But look at her. She’s letting the med student explain costume symbolism.”

“Character symbolism,” you corrected automatically, without looking away from your phone.

Everyone went silent. Slowly, you looked up. Five faces stared back at you.

Parker looked up too, and whatever softness had been there a second ago vanished behind a flat, dangerous calm.

“Do none of you have patients?” she asked.

The spell broke instantly.

Abbott turned back to his computer with suspicious speed. Cruz lifted the labs and pretended he had been reading them the entire time. Lena smiled into her chart. Shen coughed. Santos raised both hands.

“I’m going,” she said. “I am going. I just want it noted that this is strange.”

“It’s noted,” Abbott said.

“By who?”

“Everyone.”

You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Was I being too loud?”

“No,” Parker said immediately.

Cruz made a tiny sound. Parker’s eyes flicked toward him. Cruz stopped.

You lowered your phone, suddenly self-conscious. “Sorry. I know I kind of ramble when I get excited.”

Parker looked back at you. Her face was calm, but her voice, when she spoke, was quieter than before.

“I know.”

You let out a nervous little laugh. “That’s not very reassuring.”

“It wasn’t criticism.”

“No?”

“No.”

Your fingers tightened around your phone. “Does it bother you?”

Parker held your gaze like the answer was the easiest thing in the world.

“No.”

You searched her face, waiting for the joke, the teasing edge, the dry follow-up that would let you both move on without making it too tender. It did not come. Instead, Parker said, “You get excited. I like listening.”

The words were simple. Matter-of-fact. So Parker that they almost sounded clinical. And still, they made your heart ache.

You looked at Parker and forgot, again, that you were standing in the middle of the ED.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Parker nodded once, as if that settled it.

Then a call came in over the radio, pulling everyone back into motion. The incoming trauma scattered the station with practiced urgency, and the moment folded itself away into the rhythm of the hospital. Parker straightened, all focus again, already reaching for gloves. You moved with her automatically, shoving your phone into your pocket, the trailer forgotten for now beneath the rush of work.

But as Parker stepped past you, you noticed the collar of her scrub top had folded awkwardly beneath her jacket.

Without thinking, you reached out.

“Wait,” you said, catching the edge of the fabric.

Parker stopped.

You smoothed the collar down with quick, familiar fingers, then patted it once. “There.”

Parker glanced at you.

“Thanks,” she said.

Then, so briefly you almost missed it, her fingers brushed your wrist.

Not enough to be dramatic. Not enough to be a declaration. Just enough to be intimate. Just enough to be known.

Then she was gone, heading toward the trauma, already asking for vitals, already back to being Dr. Parker Ellis, unreadable and sharp and impossible to distract.

You turned back toward the desk, still half-smiling.

The remaining night crew was staring at you.

This time, you noticed.

“What?” you asked.

Lena pressed her lips together.

Shen looked at the ceiling.

Santos stared at you like you had just calmly performed a magic trick in front of her and refused to explain it.

“You and Parker,” Abbott said slowly, from several feet away.

Your stomach dropped.

“What about me and Parker?”

Cruz pointed vaguely between you and the trauma bay. “That.”

“That what?”

“The collar,” Santos said.

You blinked. “Her collar was folded.”

“So naturally you fixed it.”

“Yes?”

“And naturally she let you.”

You frowned. “Why wouldn’t she?”

Nobody answered right away. That was when it hit you. The trailer. The questions. The leaning in. The I like listening. The wrist touch.

The fact that none of those things looked normal to people who did not know that Parker had kissed you in parking lots and cooked you breakfast after night shifts and kept a limited-edition keychain you had given her tucked safely beside her keys.

Your face went hot.

“Oh,” you said.

Lena smiled. “Yeah.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then looked toward the trauma bay like Parker might somehow rescue you from a situation she had absolutely helped create.

Santos crossed her arms. “Since when?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That was terrible,” Cruz said.

“Awful,” Abbott agreed.

Shen nodded. “No one believed that.”

You lifted your chin, attempting dignity despite the fact that your entire face was probably glowing. “I am going to check on my patient.”

“You do that,” Lena said, still smiling.

You walked away as calmly as possible. Which was to say, not very calmly at all.

Behind you, Santos whispered, “Since when?”

Abbott sighed. “Apparently long enough for Parker to know lore.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It answers several questions.”

Across the ED, Parker glanced back just once, catching your eye from the trauma bay doors.

Her expression did not change. But yours did. You smiled despite yourself. Parker’s almost-smile appeared for half a second before she turned away again.

And the night crew, watching from the station, finally understood the one thing you and Parker had somehow failed to hide.

Parker had not adopted the med student.

Every correction involves touch. A hand on your shoulder. Fingers around your wrist. Adjusting your arms. And she always holds on just a second too long before pulling away like it meant nothing.

If you ever thank her, she visibly freezes for half a second—before scoffing and brushing it off like you just insulted her.

She watches you when she thinks no one notices. From across the arena, the pavilion, the cabins. The second you look her way, though, her expression hardens instantly.

Other campers are convinced she dislikes you. Clarisse does absolutely nothing to correct that assumption.

If anyone else even tries to pick on you, Clarisse shuts it down immediately. Loudly. Aggressively. But she’ll act like it’s about respect, not you.

She somehow always ends up near you. Not close enough to start a conversation—but close enough to hear you, to keep an eye on you.

Conversations between you are… confusing. You’ll say something normal, and she’ll respond with something blunt, borderline rude—only for her tone to soften just slightly at the end, like she didn’t mean for it to come out that way.

She gets visibly frustrated during sparring—not because you’re doing badly, but because she’s distracted. She misses hits she normally wouldn’t. Overcompensates by going harder.

When she gets too close—like really close—she’s the one who pulls away first. Abruptly. Like she just remembered herself.

Compliments from her don’t sound like compliments. “At least you didn’t completely mess that up” is the closest you’ll get—and it always comes with a quick glance to see how you react.

She remembers small things about you without realising it. Your usual weapon. Your schedule. The way you react to certain jokes. It slips out sometimes—and she immediately gets defensive when it does.

If you ever laugh around her, she goes unnaturally quiet. Not annoyed—just… still. Like she doesn’t trust herself to react properly.

The idea that you might genuinely dislike her bothers her more than she’d ever admit—but instead of fixing it, she doubles down on acting the same way.

She has tried—once or twice—to talk to you normally. It never lasts long before she panics and defaults back to being sharp and intimidating.

When you’re not around, she’s restless. Irritable. Looking for something—or someone—to focus on.

The second thing everyone learned about you was that you were a menace.

Not in a dangerous or in an incompetent way. Robby would have kicked you out of his emergency department within the hour if you were either of those things. No, your particular brand of menace came wrapped in big eyes, an innocent expression, and the kind of unhinged Gen Z vocabulary that made half the staff feel like they were being actively aged by exposure.

You had been at the Pitt for less than two months before Santos started calling you “the prodigy gremlin,” which was unfair only because she said it like you weren’t proud of it.

You were very proud of it.

Especially today.

Today, the emergency department was already groaning under the weight of a bad morning when the call came in. A bus had clipped the median on an icy stretch near an overpass and caused a multi-vehicle collision that sprawled across three lanes of traffic. Initial reports were messy, the way they always were in the first few minutes of a disaster. Multiple injuries. Entrapments. Possible ejections. At least one paediatric patient. EMS was still triaging on scene, but they were already warning hospitals in the area to prepare for overflow.

Robby stood at the center of the department as the air changed around him.

It happened quickly, that shift from ordinary chaos into organized crisis. Dana’s voice cut through the noise at the nurses’ station, assigning beds, clearing rooms, moving patients who could be moved and snapping at anyone who looked like they were waiting for permission to be useful. Robby started calling out roles before the first ambulance even arrived, eyes sharp, posture squared, his entire body seeming to settle into the shape of command. Collins moved with grim efficiency. Langdon grabbed a tablet. Mohan started checking available trauma bays. Mel’s expression closed into focus, all soft edges vanishing as she turned toward the work that needed doing. McKay was already tying her hair back, irritation and readiness blending into one sharp line across her face.

Then someone announced that night shift was being held over.

A collective groan rose from somewhere near the nurse station.

Jack appeared with a coffee in hand and the expression of a man who had spiritually clocked out six hours ago and was now being dragged back into the narrative against his will. Ellis followed him, already annoyed, jaw tight, eyes scanning the board like it had personally insulted her. Shen came in a moment later with his usual calm, looking like he had accepted the cruelty of the universe and planned to chart it appropriately.

Brendan, who everyone still called Park the Shark when he was out of earshot and sometimes when he wasn’t, appeared from ortho with a surgical cap still shoved half into his pocket.

“Tell me this isn’t as bad as it sounds,” he said.

Dana looked up from the board. “It’s worse.”

Brendan shut his mouth.

You, standing beside Whitaker with a fresh pair of gloves tucked into your pocket, watched all of them arrive like reinforcements in a war movie and felt something bright and terrible spark in your chest.

A captive audience. A stressed captive audience. A stressed captive audience containing several people over the age of forty.

Perfect.

Whitaker noticed your expression and immediately narrowed his eyes. “Why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you just had an idea.”

“I have many ideas.”

“That’s what scares me.”

You gave him your sweetest smile, the one that made Santos once say you looked like a raccoon about to commit tax fraud. “Relax, Dennis.”

“No.”

“Lowkey, you worry too much.”

Whitaker’s face tightened. “See, that. That’s what I mean. I don’t know what percentage of your sentences are threats.”

“Skill issue.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, defeated before the day had even properly begun.

The first ambulance arrived three minutes later, and whatever mischief had been gathering behind your eyes vanished so cleanly that anyone who hadn’t known you would never have believed it had been there at all. The bay doors opened, cold air rushed in, and EMS rolled in a teenage girl strapped to a backboard, blood matting the hair near her temple, one leg splinted, oxygen mask fogging with shallow breaths. Robby stepped in at once, voice steady, asking for vitals, mechanism, interventions done en route. You moved when Dana pointed you toward Trauma Two, falling into place beside Mel and Collins as EMS rattled off the report.

“Seventeen-year-old female, restrained passenger, significant intrusion on passenger side, brief loss of consciousness on scene, GCS thirteen, BP ninety-two over sixty, heart rate one-thirty, obvious deformity to right femur, abdominal tenderness, FAST not done, two large-bore IVs established.”

“On my count,” Collins said, and everyone moved together.

One, two, three.

The patient shifted from stretcher to bed, monitors connected, clothes cut away, warm blankets pulled up as much as possible while still allowing access. You stood near the foot of the bed, hands moving before your brain had to command them, helping expose the injured leg, checking pulses, noting the rotation, the shortening, the swelling that already made the skin look too tight. Mel called out vitals. Collins ordered blood. Dana pushed someone toward the warmer. Robby stepped in briefly, eyes sweeping the room.

“What do you have?” he asked.

You answered before anyone else could. “Likely femur fracture with hypotension concerning for haemorrhage, plus abdominal tenderness after high-speed impact. Distal pulse present but weak. We need pelvic binder considered if instability worsens, type and cross, trauma labs, FAST, pain control, ortho consult, and imaging once stable.”

For half a second, Robby’s gaze landed on you.

Then he nodded. “Good. Keep going.”

You did not say anything.

You did not say anything because there was a bleeding teenage girl on the bed and you were, contrary to popular belief, capable of behaving like a normal human being when it mattered.

But when the FAST came back negative, when the blood pressure responded to fluids and the first unit of blood, when Brendan arrived and took one look at the leg before muttering that, yes, obviously ortho was involved now, and when the room settled into the controlled rhythm of a patient who was not okay but was no longer actively trying to die in front of you, you finally let yourself breathe.

Brendan finished assessing the leg, his hands careful despite the irritation permanently stamped onto his face. “We’ll need traction films and then she’s going upstairs. This isn’t staying down here.”

You nodded solemnly. “You ate that.”

The room went quiet in a way that no medical emergency had managed to achieve.

Brendan slowly looked up. “I what?”

“You ate.”

His eyes shifted to Collins, then to Mel, then back to you. “Is that…medical?”

“No.”

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“Then why did you say it like that?”

“Because you did.”

Mel’s mouth twitched.

Collins turned away with a cough that was very obviously not a cough.

Brendan stared at you for another beat, decided he did not have the time, energy, or spiritual resilience to investigate further, and looked back at the patient’s leg. “I hate this place.”

You leaned slightly toward Mel and whispered, “Park the Shark is giving confused.”

Mel did not look at you. “Please don’t make me laugh in front of the femur fracture.”

“Valid.”

Across the room, Dana saw the entire exchange and made the mistake of smiling.

That made her next.

You waited until the patient was transported to imaging, until the bed was stripped and reset, until Dana swept through the bay with clean efficiency, barking at Whitaker to stop standing in the doorway like a decorative plant and actually restock gloves if he wanted to be helpful. She moved with the kind of terrifying competence that made the entire department bend around her. A family member appeared at the desk demanding information, a monitor started shrieking in Trauma Three, and someone dropped a tray of instruments with a crash that made three people flinch. Dana handled all of it without so much as blinking.

You watched her redirect two nurses, answer a question from Robby, locate a missing portable ultrasound, and scare an intern into moving faster using only one eyebrow.

When she passed you, you pressed a hand to your chest. “Queen behaviour.”

Dana stopped.

Very slowly, she turned her head.

“What?”

“Queen behaviour,” you repeated, reverent.

Dana looked at Robby. “Am I being insulted?”

Robby, who was signing something on a clipboard, did not look up. “Probably.”

“I’m complimenting you,” you said.

Dana’s eyes narrowed. “That makes me trust it less.”

“You slayed the house down.”

Whitaker, who had been restocking gloves exactly as ordered, made a strangled noise.

Dana’s stare sharpened. “I’m sorry, I what?”

You smiled. “Nothing.”

“No, say it again.”

“I value my life.”

“Smart kid.”

“Thank you, queen.”

Dana pointed at you as she backed out of the trauma bay. “Thin ice.”

The second she was gone, Whitaker collapsed against the cabinet, one hand over his mouth. “You’re going to get us killed.”

“Us?”

“I’m associated with you against my will.”

“Bestie, that’s so sad.”

“I am begging you to stop calling me things.”

You patted his arm.

He stared at the ceiling. “I’m not built for this.”

By the time the third and fourth ambulances arrived, the department had tipped fully into disaster mode. The noise became a living thing, pressing against the walls, filling every corner with alarms, voices, wheels, footsteps, orders, pain. Patients came in waves: a middle-aged man with chest trauma from the steering wheel; an older woman with a scalp laceration that bled dramatically but blessedly less dangerously than it looked; a child with a fractured wrist and eyes too wide for his face; a driver with glass embedded along one cheek and a blood pressure that made everyone in the room stand straighter.

You were assigned where you were needed, which meant everywhere.

One minute you were helping Santos keep pressure on a wound while Robby placed a chest tube, the next you were pulling up medication dosing for Javadi, then running labs, then helping Mateo move a patient, then answering a question from McKay before she had finished asking it.

You were good.

Infuriatingly good.

Even Parker Ellis, who looked as though compliments physically pained her, seemed forced to acknowledge it when you correctly flagged a possible compartment syndrome developing in a patient whose forearm had been crushed between two vehicles.

Parker swept in with Brendan, irritation sharpening into focus as she assessed the limb. The patient was pale, sweating, trying not to cry as his arm swelled against the splint. You gave the history cleanly, noting pain out of proportion, increasing paraesthesia, tense compartments, and preserved but concerning pulses. Brendan’s face changed immediately. Parker’s did too.

“Good catch,” Parker said, briskly, already reaching for the next step.

You blinked at her.

Parker made the mistake of noticing. “What?”

“I’m processing.”

“Process faster.”

“You complimented me.”

“I acknowledged a clinical observation.”

“Mother is mothering.”

Parker froze.

Brendan, beside her, closed his eyes like he had just developed a migraine behind both temples.

Parker turned to you, slowly. “Do not call me that.”

“Understood.”

“Do not explain it either.”

“Wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“You lowkey ate, though.”

Parker inhaled through her nose.

Brendan muttered, “I don’t know what that means, but I feel attacked on your behalf.”

“You should,” Parker said.

You grinned.

Parker pointed a gloved finger at you. “No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t need proof. I have instincts.”

“Your instincts are giving paranoia.”

Parker stared at you for one long, dangerous second before turning back to the patient. “I want them off my service.”

“I’m not on your service.”

“Then I want them farther away from me spiritually.”

From the doorway, Ahmed the security guard leaned in just enough to observe the aftermath. He had been posted near the ambulance entrance since the first combative patient of the morning tried to swing at Mateo, but he had somehow managed to appear wherever the funniest thing was happening, which told you that security work had given him either incredible situational awareness or a deep appreciation for workplace chaos.

Possibly both.

He looked at Parker’s expression, then at your delighted one, then at Whitaker absolutely failing to pretend he had not been listening from the hall.

Ahmed’s eyes narrowed with interest.

Fifteen minutes later, during the first true lull anyone had seen since the mass casualty began, you found him near the security desk with a folded piece of paper and a pen.

Whitaker stood in front of him.

“So ten on Robby?” Ahmed asked.

Whitaker nodded gravely. “He’s already halfway there.”

Ahmed wrote it down.

You stopped walking.

Whitaker stiffened.

Ahmed did not.

“What is this?” you asked.

“Nothing,” Whitaker said too quickly.

Ahmed looked up at you calmly. “Morale initiative.”

Your eyes dropped to the paper.

There were names.

Robby. Dana. Ellis. Brendan. Jack. Shen. McKay.

Beside each name were dollar amounts.

You gasped.

“Is this a betting pool?”

“No,” Whitaker said.

“Yes,” Ahmed said at the same time.

Whitaker turned to him. “Dude.”

Ahmed shrugged. “She was going to find out.”

You stepped closer, delighted beyond measure. “A betting pool for what?”

Ahmed clicked his pen. “Who breaks first.”

You pressed both hands to your chest. “Because of me?”

“Mostly.”

“I’ve never been so honored.”

Whitaker looked deeply regretful. “This is going to make you worse.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Ahmed studied you for a moment, then added something to the paper.

You tried to look. “What did you write?”

“Side bet.”

“On?”

“Whether you get all of them before end of shift.”

Your grin spread slowly.

Whitaker groaned. “Ahmed, why would you give them a goal?”

Ahmed capped his pen. “Because I believe in excellence.”

“You believe in chaos.”

“That too.”

Before you could respond, Dana’s voice cracked across the department with terrifying precision. “Y/N! Trauma Two!”

You spun on your heel. “Coming, queen!”

“Thin ice!”

“Love you too!”

Whitaker looked at Ahmed. “We’re doomed.”

Ahmed looked down at his paper. “No. We’re invested.”

By early afternoon, the hospital had settled into the long, gruelling rhythm that followed the first violent impact of disaster. The initial wave was over, but consequences kept arriving. Patients who had seemed stable on scene started to decline. Imaging revealed worse injuries than expected. Families arrived panicked and demanding answers no one fully had yet. The operating rooms filled. Ortho kept getting called. Surgery moved in and out of the department like storm clouds. Everyone looked a little more tired, a little sharper around the edges.

Abbot appeared beside you at the nurse station while you were charting, his coffee replaced by another coffee, because apparently his bloodstream had given up and simply become caffeine.

“You’re causing trouble,” he said.

You kept typing. “Allegedly.”

“I respect it.”

That made you pause. You looked up slowly. “You do?”

Abbot leaned against the counter with the casual confidence of a man who had decided, very incorrectly, that he understood the assignment. “I’m not like Robby. I know things.”

You stared at him. He nodded once, as if confirming this to himself. “I’m cool with the kids.”

From the other side of the station, McKay looked up from her charting with immediate interest.

“Oh?” you said.

Abbot smiled. “Yes.”

“Define ‘rizz.’”

His smile faltered for half a second before recovering. “Charisma.”

You blinked. Unfortunately, he was correct.

McKay’s eyebrows lifted.

Abbot looked smug. “See?”

“Okay,” you said slowly. “Define ‘ate.’”

“Performed well.”

Your mouth dropped open.

Abbot pointed at you. “I told you.”

McKay leaned back in her chair. “I don’t like this. He’s adapting.”

Abbot took a sip of coffee, visibly pleased with himself. “I contain multitudes.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Define ‘Ohio.’”

Abbot stopped. The silence stretched. McKay’s grin grew. Abbot set his coffee down with great care. “That’s a state.”

“Yes.”

“But not in this context.”

“Correct.”

His eyes narrowed. “Bad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Embarrassing?”

“Sometimes.”

“Cursed?”

“Getting warmer.”

He looked genuinely invested now, the mass casualty temporarily forgotten in the face of a linguistic puzzle he had absolutely no business trying to solve. “So if I said Robby was being Ohio—”

From behind you, Robby’s voice cut in. “Don’t.”

All three of you turned. Robby stood there with a chart in hand, exhaustion settling into the lines of his face, his glasses slightly crooked, his expression caught somewhere between suspicion and resignation.

Abbot straightened. “We’re discussing language.”

“You’re discussing nonsense.”

“It’s actually quite nuanced.”

You nodded solemnly. “Dr. Abbot is lowkey cooking.”

Abbot pointed at you. “That’s good.”

You beamed. “That is good.”

“I knew that.”

Robby looked between the two of you. “Why are you encouraging him?”

“Because he’s cool with the kids.”

Abbot looked deeply satisfied.

McKay muttered, “God help us.”

Robby stared at Abbot for a long moment, then at you. “Both of you back to work.”

“Yes, king,” you said automatically.

Robby closed his eyes. Abbot’s shoulders started shaking. McKay turned fully away from her computer, delighted.

Robby opened his eyes again. “Do not call me that.”

“Understood.”

“Do you understand?”

“Highkey.”

He stared at you.

You stared back, angelic.

Robby looked at Abbot. “Translate.”

Abbot, glowing with the confidence of two correct definitions and one catastrophic failure, said, “It means very.” Robby looked betrayed that this was a real answer.

You clapped once. “He ate!”

Abbot lifted both hands. “I’m telling you, I know things.”

Robby rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I have patients actively trying to die, and somehow this is still the thing giving me a headache.”

“Skill issue,” McKay said under her breath.

The three of you went silent. You turned to her slowly. McKay’s face changed as she realized what had just left her mouth.

“Oh no,” she said.

You pointed at her. “YOU’VE BEEN INFECTED.”

“I have not.”

“You said skill issue.”

“I said it medically.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

Abbot looked thrilled. “Welcome.”

McKay glared at you. “I hate all of you.”

Before anyone could respond, another overhead page called Robby back toward Trauma One, and the moment snapped back into motion. The department swallowed everyone again: Robby to a decompensating patient, McKay to a shoulder reduction, Abbot to a confused older man with chest pain, and you to wherever Dana pointed next.

But the damage had been done. The language had spread. And you had witnesses.

Ahmed caught your eye from across the department and silently lifted his betting sheet. You gave him a thumbs-up. He shook his head, but he was smiling.

By the time you reached Trauma One, Robby was already elbow-deep in the kind of controlled chaos that made everyone around him move faster. The patient was a man in his forties who had initially seemed stable after the crash and then suddenly wasn’t. His pressure was dropping. Breath sounds were diminished on one side. The room smelled like antiseptic, blood, sweat, and the metallic bite of adrenaline. Robby called for a chest tube with that rough, steady authority that made even panic organize itself around him.

You stood ready when Dana shoved supplies into your hands. Santos watched from the far side of the bed, eyes wide but focused. Mateo assisted with positioning. Robby worked quickly, cleaning the site, draping, anesthetizing, cutting through skin and tissue with practiced precision. He moved like someone who had done this too many times to be impressed by it, fingers sure as he dissected down and pushed through the pleura. Air rushed. Blood followed. The tube slid in, connected, secured. The patient’s oxygen saturation began to climb.

For a moment, the room exhaled.

Robby pulled off his bloody gloves and looked at the monitor. “That bought us time. Get surgery down here now.”

Dana was already moving. “On it.”

You watched the numbers stabilize, watched the team reset around the patient, watched Robby’s shoulders lower by a fraction.

And because you had been very good for almost twenty whole minutes, you smiled.

“Respectfully,” you said, “you devoured that chest tube, king.”

The silence was immediate.

Robby turned his head very slowly.

Santos looked at the floor. Mateo looked at the ceiling. Dana, halfway to the door, stopped dead.

Robby stared at you with the expression of a man who had just been forced to process a second emergency against his will. “I did what.”

“You devoured.”

His eyes narrowed. “The chest tube?”

“Metaphorically.”

Dana made a sound that might have been a cough if she had ever been less committed to lying.

Robby looked at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“I think a lot of things.”

He looked back at you. “Is that supposed to be good?”

“So good.”

“No cap,” Mateo added, and immediately looked like he regretted every choice that had led him to this moment.

You whipped around. “MATEO.”

He pointed at you. “No. Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re learning.”

“I’m surviving.”

Dana finally lost the battle and laughed, one sharp burst before she walked out of the room shaking her head.

Robby stared at the doorway she had escaped through, then at Mateo, then at you. His face shifted through exhaustion, confusion, irritation, and something dangerously close to amusement before settling back into command by sheer force of will.

He shook his head once.

Quietly, almost to himself, he muttered, “Kids these days.”

Your entire body went still.

Santos’s eyes widened.

Mateo whispered, “Oh no.”

You pointed at Robby with both hands, triumphant. “HE SAID THE THING.”

Robby looked immediately regretful. “What thing?”

“THE THING.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“YOU SAID THE LINE.”

“I say a lot of lines.”

“Iconic behaviour.”

“Stop.”

“Never.”

From the hallway, Whitaker appeared at the doorway like he had sensed comedy through the walls. “Did he say it?”

You spun toward him. “HE SAID IT.”

Whitaker doubled over.

Robby’s eyes closed.

Somewhere behind you, Ahmed’s pen clicked.

And even though there were still patients waiting, charts unfinished, families crying, surgeons being paged, and half the hospital running on fumes, laughter rippled briefly through the trauma bay like a pressure valve releasing steam.

Robby opened his eyes, looked at the ridiculous collection of people around him, and sighed with the bone-deep exhaustion of a man who knew he had lost control of something far less medically significant and far more spiritually damaging than a mass casualty event.

“Back to work,” he said.

“Yes, king,” you replied.

Dana’s laughter echoed from the hall.

Robby pointed at you without turning around. “Thin ice.”

You smiled sweetly.

By the time she entered medicine, she'd perfected the art of swallowing her own discomfort before anyone could notice.

Unfortunately for her...

You noticed everything.

The first time the two of you worked together, Dana paired you on a handful of lower-acuity patients while the department teetered somewhere between manageable and complete disaster.

Melissa barely looked at you when Dana introduced you.

"This is Y/N." A nod. "Melissa."

Then she immediately returned to checking medication doses with the kind of focus that suggested conversation was already over. Most people probably would've assumed she was unfriendly. You didn't. You simply introduced yourself again once you were walking toward your first patient.

"So..." you said conversationally. "Do you always look this excited to meet new coworkers?"

Melissa glanced sideways. "I thought I'd smiled."

"You did."

"...Oh."

"..."

"...That explains a lot."

The completely serious response earned a laugh from you before either of you could stop it.

Melissa blinked.

"...Was that funny?"

"A little."

"I wasn't joking."

"I know."

She stared another second before giving the smallest nod.

"...Okay."

That was, strangely enough, the longest conversation she'd had with someone all morning.

{----------------------------------}

You began noticing things almost immediately. Not because anyone pointed them out or  because you were looking for them. Simply because they'd become familiar to you years ago.

Melissa never stood directly beneath the brightest lights if she could avoid it.

Whenever several conversations happened around her at once, she'd grow noticeably quieter instead of louder.

If an ambulance rolled in while monitors were already screaming and doctors were shouting across the trauma bay, she'd unconsciously rub at the sleeves of her scrub top until the fabric twisted around her fingers.

And when things became particularly overwhelming... She scratched absentmindedly at the inside of her forearms. Not enough to hurt herself. Just enough that it looked habitual. Grounding. Regulating. Something to anchor herself while the rest of the room threatened to spin apart.

Nobody seemed to notice. Or if they did... They didn't think much of it. You simply tucked the observation away.

{----------------------------------}

A week later, the emergency department was bursting at the seams. Three ambulances. A combative intoxicated patient. A toddler screaming because someone needed to remove six very colourful beads from his nose. Monitors beeped incessantly. Someone dropped a tray. Someone else yelled for respiratory. Dana barked orders from the nurses' station with enough authority to silence half the room.

Melissa stood beside a computer, charting with one hand while scratching repeatedly at her opposite forearm with the other. Not hard. Just...again. And again.

Her shoulders were pulled almost to her ears. Her breathing had shortened. She hadn't spoken in nearly twenty minutes.

You walked over.

"Haven't eaten?"

She didn't even look up.

"No."

"What time was breakfast?"

"..."

"...Mel."

"...Six."

You checked the clock. It was nearly three.

"You need food."

"I'll eat after—"

"No."

"I still have—"

"I've got your patients."

She finally looked up, confusion replacing the distant look she'd been wearing.

"...What?"

"You need ten minutes."

"I don't have ten minutes."

"You do now."

"I can't just leave."

"You absolutely can."

She frowned. "Dana—"

"I already asked."

"You...what?"

"I asked Dana."

Melissa's eyes flickered toward the charge desk where Dana, catching the glance, merely pointed toward the staff room without saying a word.

Go.

Melissa looked back at you. "...You planned this."

"Yeah, I did."

"..."

"...Go eat."

For several long seconds she simply stared. Then... "...Seven minutes."

"I'll start a timer."

She disappeared into the break room. Exactly seven minutes later she emerged carrying half a granola bar and looking... Lighter. The tension in her shoulders had eased. Her breathing had settled. She hadn't scratched her arm once. You never mentioned it. Neither did she.

{----------------------------------}

After that, little adjustments simply became part of your routine.

If you walked into a treatment room first and found the fluorescent lights painfully bright, you'd quietly dim the ones you could before Melissa arrived. She never commented. She just stopped squinting.

When several attendings tried speaking over one another, you'd intercept one of them.

"One second."

Just enough to stagger the conversation. Melissa answered every question without missing a beat.

If you noticed her beginning to fold inward during particularly chaotic moments...

"You've been on your feet for four hours."

"I'm fine."

"I didn't ask."

"..."

"Water."

She'd sigh dramatically. "...You're persistent."

"I've been called worse."

{----------------------------------}

The funniest discovery happened completely by accident. You walked into the break room expecting silence. Instead, Melissa was sitting alone with her lunch untouched, staring intently at her phone. Bright blobs of orange and blue drifted lazily across the screen. A lava lamp. Not a real one. An app.

She noticed you looking and immediately locked her phone. "...It's relaxing."

The words came out almost defensive.

You blinked. "I didn't say anything."

"I know."

"..."

"...People usually do."

You sat opposite her. "It looks relaxing."

Melissa looked suspicious. "...Really?"

"Yeah."

"..."

"...Okay."

Conversation over.

{----------------------------------}

You downloaded the app that evening. Not because you particularly enjoyed watching colourful blobs bounce around your screen. Mostly because... Well... It made Melissa look calmer than almost anything else you'd seen.

{----------------------------------}

Several weeks later, the department dissolved into complete pandemonium. A multi-car collision. Every trauma bay occupied. Robby barking orders so quickly that even Langdon struggled to keep pace. Dana directing nurses in three different directions simultaneously.

Someone crying. Someone vomiting. Monitors screaming. Phones ringing.

Melissa stood frozen for a fraction longer than usual. Not enough that anyone else would've noticed.

You did.

Her hands had begun rubbing repeatedly over the seams of her scrub pants. Her jaw tightened.

You quietly stepped beside her. Didn't speak. Didn't ask questions. Instead... You pulled out your phone. Unlocked it. Opened one app. Then held the screen in front of her.

Orange. Purple. Blue. Slowly swirling. A lava lamp.

Melissa stared. Then slowly looked up at you. "...Really?"

You nodded with complete seriousness. "Emergency lava."

"..."

"...You're ridiculous."

"But you're looking."

"..."

"...Shut up."

She rolled her eyes. Yet her gaze drifted right back to the moving colours. Her shoulders lowered almost imperceptibly. She took one long breath. Then another.

Thirty seconds later she looked away from the screen.

"I can work now."

"Okay, good."

{----------------------------------}

Whitaker happened to witness the exchange. "What...was that?"

You looked over. "What was what?"

"The..."

He gestured wildly. "...lava lamp."

"Oh."

"Why do you have a lava lamp?"

"Medical reasons."

"..."

"...I have more questions than answers."

"You'll survive."

{----------------------------------}

It wasn't just Whitaker.

Mateo noticed too. "So..." he said one afternoon while helping restock supplies, "I've worked with Mel for almost two years."

"Mhm."

"And you've worked with her..."

"About three months."

"...How come she actually listens to you?"

You shrugged. "I don't know."

"You do."

"I pay attention."

Mateo frowned. "To what?"

You considered the question. "The things she doesn't say."

{----------------------------------}

Dana noticed long before anyone else. Of course she did.

She watched Melissa enter a room looking wound tighter than piano wire. She watched you quietly lower one bank of lights before Melissa stepped inside. She watched Melissa visibly relax without ever realising why.

Another time she caught you sliding a bottle of water across the nurses' station without interrupting Melissa's charting. Melissa drank half of it absentmindedly. Never stopped writing.

Dana smiled to herself.

There were people who cared loudly. There were people who cared quietly.

You... You cared in ways most people didn't even recognise as care.

{----------------------------------}

It wasn't until months later that Melissa finally asked. The shift had ended. Most of the staff had gone home. The emergency department had settled into that rare, peaceful lull where the lights somehow felt softer.

She found you reorganising supplies. "...Can I ask you something?"

You looked up. "Always."

Melissa hesitated. A rare thing. "...Why?"

You blinked. "Why what?"

"You keep...," she searched for the words, "...doing things."

"What things?"

"The lights, the breaks, the water, the lava lamp."

"..."

"You notice when I'm..." She stopped. Unable—or unwilling—to finish the sentence.

You leaned against the shelf. "You seem happier."

Melissa frowned. "...That's it?"

"I like when you're comfortable."

"You don't think it's strange?"

"What?"

"The things I...,” she gestured vaguely, "...do."

"No."

"You've never asked why."

"I didn't think I needed to."

"..."

"...Why not?"

You smiled gently. "Because they help and that's enough for me."

Silence settled between you. Not awkward. Just... quiet. Melissa looked at the floor for several moments before speaking again. "My sister..."

You stayed silent. Waiting.

"She was diagnosed when she was little."

You nodded once.

"I practically raised her."

"I know."

"I spent so much time learning what helped her that..., " she laughed softly, "...I never really thought about myself." Another pause. "I always assumed I was just..., " she searched again, "...bad at coping."

You shook your head, "I don't think you're bad at coping."

"No?"

"I think you've spent years figuring out what works."

Melissa stared at you. "But I don't even know why those things work."

"You don't have to."

"..."

"...Not today."

Her eyes shimmered with something she clearly wasn't prepared to name.

"So...," she said quietly, "You don't think I'm weird?"

You snorted. "Melissa."

"Hm?"

"You became friends with someone who carries an emergency lava lamp."

For a heartbeat she simply looked at you. Then…she laughed. An actual laugh. Short and warm. Unrestrained. It caught both of you by surprise.

"There she is," you teased softly.

Melissa shook her head, smiling despite herself. "...You're impossible."

"I've heard."

As the two of you left the department together, shoulders brushing for the briefest moment, Melissa realized something she hadn't allowed herself to consider in a very long time. For years, she'd learned to make herself smaller so the world would be easier to navigate.

You had never once asked her to shrink. Instead, without fanfare, without pity, without trying to fix her, you had simply looked around, noticed the sharp edges of the world where they caught against her, and quietly moved a few of them aside.

It wasn't dramatic. Most people would never even see it happening. But Melissa did. And for perhaps the first time in years, she found herself wondering what it might feel like to stop surviving every shift...

That smile. Polite. Kind. Careful. The smile people used when they were trying to make other people comfortable. The smile people used when they had already decided they weren't going to ask for anything. It followed him home. It followed him into the shower. It followed him while he lay awake staring at the ceiling at two in the morning despite being exhausted enough to barely keep his eyes open.

Because the more he thought about it, the more he realized you had forgiven him far too quickly. And people who expected good treatment didn't do that. People who expected respect didn't do that. People who believed they deserved apologies usually required more than thirty seconds before accepting one.

You had accepted his immediately. Like it was a formality. Like it wasn't important. Like being yelled at by somebody in authority was simply another unpleasant thing to get through.

The realization sat in his chest like a stone. Unfortunately, it only got worse during the following shifts. Because now he was paying attention. Really paying attention. And once he started noticing things, he couldn't stop.

The first time it happened was three days later. A nurse accidentally misplaced a set of lab results. Nothing major. Nothing unusual. The sort of mistake that happened daily in an emergency department. You found the results five minutes later. Problem solved. End of story. Or at least it should have been. Instead, before anybody could say anything, you immediately apologised.

"Sorry. I should've checked there first."

Nobody had blamed you. Nobody had even implied fault. Yet somehow you had apologised anyway. Robby watched the interaction from across the desk. The nurse immediately shook her head.

"No, it was my fault."

You smiled.

"It's okay."

Then moved on.

The entire exchange lasted less than ten seconds. It ruined Robby's morning. Because he started noticing how often it happened. Every day. Several times a day.

Sorry.

Sorry.

Sorry.

Sorry.

The word seemed stitched into your vocabulary. Not dramatically. Not excessively. Just constantly. Tiny apologies. Automatic apologies. Apologies for things that weren't your responsibility. Apologies for existing in somebody else's way.

And the worst part? Nobody else seemed surprised.

Because apparently everyone except him had already noticed. The second thing he started noticing was your tendency to brace. Not physically. Emotionally.

A patient complaint. A missing result. A delayed consult. Any situation that carried even the slightest possibility of criticism. Your shoulders would tighten. Your attention would sharpen. Your body would prepare itself. Like someone waiting for impact. Like someone who had learned mistakes weren't simply mistakes. They were invitations. The realisation made Robby's stomach churn.

Because he knew exactly who had reinforced that expectation recently. Him. The thought haunted him. So he started trying.

At first, nobody noticed. Not even you. Because Robby wasn't exactly known for warmth. His version of effort looked different. It looked like patience. It looked like restraint. It looked like deliberately choosing not to snap when he normally would. It looked like taking a breath before responding. It looked like remembering that exhaustion wasn't an excuse.

The first person to notice was Santos. Naturally. She noticed everything. Unfortunately.

"You're being weird."

Robby looked up from his chart.

"What?"

Santos narrowed her eyes.

"Weird."

"I'm literally reading."

"Exactly."

Robby stared.

Santos pointed at him.

"You haven't complained in three hours."

"That's not weird."

"It absolutely is."

He returned to the chart.

"Go away."

"You brought Whitaker coffee yesterday."

The chart suddenly became very interesting.

Santos gasped.

"Oh my God."

"Leave me alone."

"You're trying to make amends."

"No."

"You are."

"No."

"You totally are."

When Robby finally looked up, Santos was grinning. Not because she found the situation funny. Because she'd figured him out. Which was somehow more annoying.

"She's not even talking about it," Santos said.

"I know."

That was the problem. Santos' smile faded slightly.

"You feel guilty."

Robby looked away. Santos studied him for a second. Then sighed.

"Good."

The response surprised him. Santos shrugged.

"You should."

Then walked away. Which was deeply unhelpful. Because she wasn't wrong. He should. The problem was guilt wasn't accomplishing anything. It wasn't helping you. It wasn't undoing what happened. It wasn't rebuilding trust. It was just sitting there. Heavy. Useless.

So Robby decided guilt alone wasn't enough. He had to do something. The opportunity arrived unexpectedly. About a week after the argument. The department was busy. Not catastrophic. Just busy.

You were working through a complicated discharge while simultaneously coordinating follow-up care and trying to answer questions from a patient's increasingly frustrated family.

A difficult situation. The kind that would've stressed anyone. Robby noticed because he'd become annoyingly aware of where you were at all times. Not intentionally. His attention simply tracked you now. Part guilt. Part concern. Part an uncomfortable need to make sure he never put that expression on your face again. He watched as the family member's tone became sharper. Then sharper. Then outright rude.

You remained polite. Patient. Professional. Apologising occasionally, even when you didn't need to.

The family member grew increasingly hostile. And suddenly, Robby was moving before he consciously decided to. He crossed the department. Stepped directly into the conversation. And said, in a voice calm enough to be dangerous:

"Is there a problem?"

The family member immediately redirected toward him. Of course. People usually did. The attention shifted. The pressure shifted. The hostility shifted.

You blinked. Surprised. Robby ignored that. Focused entirely on the family member. Within three minutes the situation was resolved. The family calmed down. Questions answered. Problem solved. Simple. Routine. Normal.

Except when Robby turned back toward you, he found you staring. Confused. Almost suspicious. Like you couldn't figure out why he had stepped in. The realisation hurt more than he expected. Because you genuinely hadn't expected help. Not from him. Maybe not from anybody.

And suddenly all the guilt he'd been carrying condensed into something sharper. Determination. Because this wasn't about one apology anymore. It wasn't even about one argument. It was about proving something. Over and over and over again. Until you believed it. You deserved respect. You deserved patience. You deserved support. And maybe most importantly—

You deserved to make mistakes without expecting someone to explode. The problem was that belief had been built over years. And Robby couldn't undo years. He could only show up. Consistently. Repeatedly. Every single shift. Until one day you stopped waiting for the next explosion. Even if it took months. Even if it took longer. Even if he never fully forgave himself.

Because somewhere along the way, making you feel safe had become more important than making himself feel better. And that realisation terrified him almost as much as it motivated him.

{----------------------------------}

Three weeks was not a long time. Not in the grand scheme of things. Not compared to years. Not compared to childhood. Not compared to all the habits and instincts and carefully constructed survival mechanisms that had spent decades embedding themselves into the foundations of who you were.

Three weeks should not have been enough to change anything significant.

And yet, somewhere along the way, things had begun to feel different.

The realisation didn't arrive all at once. There was no singular moment where you woke up and discovered the knot of tension that had taken up permanent residence between your shoulder blades had finally loosened. No dramatic revelation. No grand conversation. No neat, cinematic turning point.

Instead, it happened gradually, so slowly that you barely noticed it while it was occurring. The first sign had been Santos. Or rather, the fact that you had started laughing around Santos again.

Not the polite, automatic chuckles that people produced because social situations demanded them. Real laughter. The kind that escaped unexpectedly and left your stomach aching afterwards. The kind that appeared when Santos launched into one of her increasingly ridiculous stories about patients, or Whitaker accidentally said something so earnest that the entire department collectively lost the ability to take him seriously for ten minutes.

Then came Javadi's coffee. Not the first coffee she'd bought you after the argument. The seventh. Or maybe the eighth. You weren't entirely sure anymore.

At some point, the gesture had stopped feeling like concern and started feeling like normality. It had become less about checking whether you were okay and more about a friend knowing exactly how much caffeine another friend required to survive a twelve-hour shift.

You hadn't realised how significant that was until the morning she forgot.

The look of horror on her face when she arrived at the nurses' station empty-handed had been so dramatic that you nearly laughed yourself off your chair.

The coffee arrived twenty minutes later. Javadi had apparently bullied a resident into covering one of her patients long enough for her to leave the floor. The coffee itself hadn't mattered. The fact that the gesture no longer felt fragile had.

Somewhere along the way, people had stopped handling you like glass. You were grateful for that. Even if part of you knew it had only happened because they trusted you to tell them when something was wrong. A trust that felt suspiciously one-sided most days.

The final sign had been Robby. That realisation was considerably more complicated. Because if somebody had asked you whether you trusted him again, you probably would've hesitated.

Not because you thought he would yell. Not because you thought he was cruel. But because trust felt like such a dangerous word. Trust implied certainty. Trust implied safety. Trust implied guarantees that nobody could realistically make. And yet.

You no longer found yourself checking his mood before approaching him. You no longer took alternate routes through the department to avoid crossing paths. You no longer rehearsed conversations in your head before speaking to him. More importantly, you no longer expected anger.

At least not automatically.

The change had happened so gradually that you hadn't fully appreciated it until one afternoon when Santos casually informed you that Robby was looking for you.

Three weeks ago, that sentence would've caused immediate tension to bloom beneath your ribs. Now?

Your first thought had been:

What does he need?

Not:

What did I do wrong?

The difference was subtle. Massive. And entirely Robby's fault. Because he had been trying. Relentlessly. Sometimes awkwardly. Frequently in ways that would have horrified him if anyone pointed them out. But trying nonetheless. Not through speeches. Not through promises. Through consistency. The kind of consistency that couldn't be faked because it required showing up every single day and making the same choice over and over again.

Patience. Respect. Kindness. Three things that sounded simple until someone spent weeks proving them. The Thursday it all came to a head began like every other Thursday. Which was probably why you didn't see it coming.

The department was busy enough to keep everyone moving but not so overwhelmed that people were actively considering homicide as a stress-management technique. The waiting room was backed up. The ambulance bay had been active all morning. Somebody in exam seven had somehow managed to spill an entire cup of apple juice directly into a supply drawer.

Twice. Nobody knew how. Least of all the patient.

You were balancing three active cases, two pending discharges, and a daughter who had apparently decided you personally controlled every specialist in the hospital system.

The woman wasn't rude. Not exactly. She was simply anxious in the way family members often became when they felt helpless. Anxiety had a way of transforming itself into impatience when it ran out of places to go.

You understood that. It didn't make answering the same question six times any less exhausting. By mid-afternoon, you were surviving entirely on caffeine and determination. Unfortunately, determination was not always an adequate substitute for sleep.

The mistake revealed itself at 3:47 PM.

You remembered the exact time later because your brain, apparently deciding the moment deserved preservation, had burned it permanently into memory.

You were reviewing medication documentation while waiting for transport to arrive for one of your discharges. It was mindless work. Familiar work. The sort of administrative task your hands knew how to complete even when your attention was divided between four other things.

At first, nothing seemed unusual. Then your eyes caught on a timestamp. You frowned. Scrolled back. Read it again. The feeling arrived immediately. Not panic. Not yet. Just confusion. A tiny splinter of uncertainty lodging itself beneath your thoughts.

You clicked into another section of the chart. Checked the medication history. Then the orders. Then the administration record. The confusion disappeared.

In its place came certainty. Followed closely by dread. Your fingers stopped moving. For several long seconds, you simply stared at the screen. The order should have been entered hours ago. Not yesterday. Not last shift. Today. Your shift. Your responsibility.

The patient wasn't in danger. The medication delay hadn't caused harm. The issue was entirely fixable. Logically, you knew all of that. Unfortunately, logic had never been particularly effective at preventing old fears from waking up.

The reaction swept through your body before your brain had time to intervene. Your stomach dropped. Your shoulders tightened. Heat flooded your face. A familiar pressure settled behind your ribs, sharp and immediate, carrying years of memories that had absolutely nothing to do with hospitals and everything to do with mistakes.

Not the mistake itself. The reaction to it. That was always the frightening part. You closed your eyes briefly. Opened them again. Read the chart one final time.

The information stubbornly refused to change. The mistake remained. Which meant there was only one thing left to do. Tell someone. Your gaze drifted automatically toward the central desk. Toward Robby.

And despite everything that had changed over the past three weeks, despite every conversation and every apology and every effort he had made to prove himself different from the version of himself that had exploded at the nurses' station, you felt your body brace.

Not because you thought he would yell. Not really. Because some fears learned young never disappeared completely. They simply waited. And for the first time since the argument, you realised there was still a part of you waiting too.

Waiting to discover whether all those weeks of patience had been real. Or whether they had only existed because nothing had gone wrong.

You stood slowly. The chart suddenly felt much heavier in your hands than it had five minutes ago. Across the department, Robby was reviewing imaging results beside the central desk. Completely unaware that he was about to become the most important part of your day. The next few minutes were about to reveal just how much had changed.

{----------------------------------}

The walk across the department should not have felt as difficult as it did.

Objectively, it was only a few yards. A straight path from your workstation to the central desk, weaving around a transport stretcher and a nurse pushing a medication cart. You had walked it hundreds of times before. Thousands, probably. There was nothing remarkable about the distance itself.

The problem was what waited at the end of it. Not Robby. The conversation. The admission. The mistake. The old, familiar vulnerability that came with telling another person that you had gotten something wrong.

By the time you reached the desk, you had already rehearsed the explanation three separate times in your head. Each version sounded worse than the last.

You should have caught it sooner. You should have double-checked. You should have been paying more attention. The criticism came automatically, arriving long before anyone else had been given the opportunity to offer their own.

Robby looked up when your shadow crossed the desk. At first, his expression was neutral. Focused on whatever scan he had been reviewing. Then his attention settled properly on your face. Something shifted. You saw it happen. Not alarm. Recognition. The kind that came from somebody noticing details they had spent weeks teaching themselves to see.

"What happened?" he asked.

The question was simple. Your response was not.

"I missed an order."

You hated how quickly the explanation followed. The words tumbled out before he could ask anything else.

"The patient is fine. It didn't affect treatment. I caught it while reviewing documentation and I've already checked the timeline and—"

"Hey."

The interruption wasn't sharp. It wasn't irritated. It wasn't even particularly loud. Still, you stopped speaking immediately. Robby waited until your attention returned fully to him. Then he held out his hand.

"The chart."

For a second you simply stared at him. Then you handed it over. The silence that followed felt unbearable.

Robby looked through the documentation carefully, his eyes moving between screens, timestamps, medication records and physician notes. The longer he read, the tighter your stomach became.

You hated this part. Waiting. The evaluation. The moment where another person decided how angry they were going to be.

Around you, the department continued moving. Phones rang. A patient laughed somewhere near triage. Santos was arguing with Whitaker about something involving supply inventory and what sounded suspiciously like a missing box of gloves.

Normal sounds. Normal life. None of it felt particularly normal from where you were standing. Finally, Robby looked up.

"Okay."

You blinked.

"...Okay?"

"Yeah."

The response was so immediate, so uncomplicated, that your brain struggled to process it. You frowned.

"I missed the order."

"I know."

"It should've been entered earlier."

"I know."

You stared. Robby stared back. Then, apparently realising where your confusion was coming from, he set the chart down on the desk.

"We'll fix it."

The words landed gently. Too gently. You waited. For the rest. The criticism. The lecture. The inevitable explanation for why this was unacceptable. Nothing came. The silence stretched.

Robby frowned slightly. Not at the mistake. At you. And suddenly you became aware of your own posture. The tightness in your shoulders. The way your fingers had curled into the edge of the chart. The fact that you were still standing there waiting for impact. His expression changed. Not dramatically. Just enough. Enough for understanding to settle into place.

The realisation seemed to hit him all at once. You saw it happen. The mistake stopped being the centre of the conversation. The fear became the centre instead.

Slowly, Robby leaned one hip against the desk. The movement relaxed the space between you in a way you hadn't realised you needed.

"You thought I was going to yell."

It wasn't phrased as a question. Heat immediately rushed into your face.

"No."

The lie sounded terrible. Robby raised an eyebrow. You looked away. The eyebrow remained.

"...Maybe a little."

"A little."

You winced.

"Okay, more than a little."

The honesty felt embarrassing. The admission felt worse. Because now that it was out in the open, you could hear how ridiculous it sounded.

Three weeks. Three weeks of effort. Three weeks of patience. Three weeks of him proving, over and over again, that he regretted what had happened. And still part of you had expected the worst.

You rubbed a hand across the back of your neck.

"I'm sorry."

The words escaped before you could stop them. Robby immediately closed his eyes.

You frowned.

"What?"

When he looked at you again, there was something almost pained in his expression.

"See?"

"See what?"

"That."

His voice remained frustratingly calm.

"You just apologized."

You blinked.

"I—"

"For being scared I'd yell at you."

The sentence hit harder than you expected. Because when he said it out loud, it sounded absurd. And yet. You had apologised. Without thinking. Without meaning to. Without even realising it until he pointed it out.

Robby exhaled slowly. Then rubbed a hand over his face. For a moment, neither of you spoke. When he finally broke the silence, his voice was quieter than before.

"I've been trying to figure out how to fix it."

Your brow furrowed.

"Fix what?"

His laugh was brief.

Humourless.

"Seriously?"

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Because suddenly you knew exactly what he meant. The nurses' station. The argument. Everything that had followed. Robby looked down at the chart before continuing.

"I keep thinking about that day."

You stayed silent.

"I keep replaying it."

The confession seemed difficult for him. Not because he didn't want to say it. Because he wasn't used to saying things like this at all.

"I was angry," he admitted. "Not at you. Not really. I had a hundred things going wrong, and I picked the easiest target in the room."

The honesty stole the air from your lungs.

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Robby—"

"No."

He shook his head.

"I'm not saying it because I want you to tell me it's okay."

His eyes met yours.

"I'm saying it because it wasn't."

The department seemed to fade slightly around the edges. Not disappear. Just become less important. Less immediate. The conversation drawing everything else inward. Robby folded his arms across his chest. Then unfolded them again a second later, clearly uncomfortable.

"I thought the apology would fix it."

You swallowed.

"It helped."

"I know."

His gaze dropped briefly.

"But then I started paying attention."

Something in his expression softened. Not pity. Not sadness. Something closer to heartbreak. And somehow that felt infinitely worse.

"You apologize for everything."

You looked away immediately. Robby continued anyway.

"You apologize when things aren't your fault."

Silence.

"You apologize before people are even upset."

Silence.

"You apologize for asking questions."

Your throat tightened.

"And every time something goes wrong," he said quietly, "you look like you're waiting for permission to exist."

The words hit with devastating precision. You couldn't look at him. Couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe properly for a second. Because nobody had ever said it before. Not like that. Not so accurately. Not so plainly. The worst part was that he wasn't wrong.

Robby sighed. The sound carried weeks of guilt. Weeks of observation. Weeks of realising things he wished he hadn't noticed.

"I hate that."

Your eyes finally lifted. He wasn't looking at you anymore. He was staring at the desk. At the chart. Anywhere except your face.

"I hate that I contributed to it."

The honesty sat between you. Heavy. Real. Entirely unprotected.

For the first time since this conversation started, neither of you seemed interested in filling the silence.

You stood there. The department moving around you. Life continuing. Patients waiting. Phones ringing. And somehow, despite all of it, the moment felt still.

Eventually, you spoke.

"I do trust you."

Robby looked up. Surprised. You offered a small smile. A real one this time. Not the polite one. Not the customer service version. The genuine article.

"It just takes me a while."

Something eased in his expression. Not relief exactly. Something deeper. Like a tension he had been carrying finally loosened.

"Fair."

You laughed softly.

"That's it?"

"What?"

"I just poured my heart out."

Robby immediately looked offended.

"You absolutely did not."

You laughed harder.

"There he is."

"There who is?"

"The grumpy one."

"I'm not grumpy."

The look you gave him spoke for itself.

Robby rolled his eyes.

"Whatever."

The familiar sarcasm settled comfortably between you. And for the first time in weeks, it felt normal. Natural. Easy. A voice suddenly cut across the nurses' station.

"There!"

You froze.

Santos. Of course it was Santos.

Across the department, Santos pointed dramatically in your direction. Whitaker looked up.

"What?"

"She's smiling."

Whitaker's face lit up immediately.

"Oh my God, she is."

"No," you muttered.

"She is," Javadi confirmed from behind a computer.

McKay glanced over. Then smirked. Which was arguably more terrifying than if she'd started yelling.

"Oh, look at that."

"Dana owes me ten bucks," Santos announced.

Dana looked up from her chart.

"What?"

"You said it'd take another week."

Dana's eyes found yours. Then Robby's. Then the smile still lingering on your face. Understanding dawned instantly.

"Oh."

You covered your eyes with one hand.

"Please stop."

"No," Santos said.

"Absolutely not," Whitaker agreed.

"You people are impossible."

"Correct," Javadi said.

Abbot appeared from a hallway at that exact moment, took one look at the scene and immediately understood more than any human being reasonably should have.

His gaze shifted toward Robby. One eyebrow lifted. Robby immediately looked annoyed. Which was answer enough.

Abbot smiled. Small. Knowing.

You groaned.

"Not you too."

"Too late."

The warmth that followed spread through the group gradually. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just comfortable. Easy. The kind of warmth built from long shifts and shared disasters and people who had chosen, somehow, to become important to one another. And standing there in the middle of it, surrounded by coworkers who had become friends and a department that had somehow become home, you realised something.

Healing had never arrived in a single moment. It hadn't happened during the apology. Or the argument. Or the reveal. It had happened slowly. Through patience. Through consistency. Through people showing up over and over again until eventually you believed they would keep showing up.

Robby caught your eye. You smiled. He smiled back. And this time, neither of you looked away. The shift continued around you. Patients still needed treatment. Charts still needed signing. The waiting room was probably still complaining. Life, as always, moved forward.

You'd stopped asking where he was every time you woke up and found him gone.

Still.

The absence beside you is enough to pull you from sleep.

Half-awake, you reach across the mattress. Your hand meets cold sheets.

No Pope.

You groan softly into your pillow. The clock on the nightstand reads 3:17am. Too early to be awake. Far too early to be a functioning human being.

You close your eyes again. Attempt to go back to sleep.

Then—

Thunk.

A soft noise somewhere outside the bedroom. Your eyes reopen.

A drawer. Maybe. Or a cupboard.

You listen. Silence. Then another faint sound. A cabinet door clicking shut.

{----------------------------------}

The apartment is dark when you step into the hallway.

You'd only moved in six days ago.

Six days.

There are still boxes tucked against walls. Blank spaces waiting for pictures. The lingering smell of fresh paint and cardboard.

The place doesn't quite feel like home yet. Not fully. You're still learning where the light switches are. Still reaching for things that aren't where they used to be. Still adjusting.

And if you're adjusting...

Pope probably is too.

You follow the faint glow coming from the kitchen. Round the corner. And stop.

Because somehow—

Somehow—

The kitchen looks worse than it did when you went to bed.

Every cabinet door is open. Every single one. Boxes sit scattered across the floor. Half the contents of your cupboards have been removed and sorted into neat little piles. The silverware tray is sitting on the counter. Three stacks of plates occupy the kitchen island.

Mugs are everywhere.

Mugs on the counter.

Mugs on the table.

Mugs lined up like tiny ceramic soldiers waiting for inspection.

And standing in the middle of all of it is Pope. Barefoot. Sweatpants hanging low on his hips. An old t-shirt stretched across his shoulders. Staring into an open cabinet with an intensity normally reserved for bomb disposal.

You watch him for a full thirty seconds before speaking. Mostly because you're curious how long it'll take him to notice you.

The answer? Immediately.

Without turning around. Without looking. Without any indication that he'd heard you approach.

"You're awake."

Your eyebrows lift.

"You say that like I walked into a perfectly normal situation."

Pope finally glances over his shoulder. Then back to the cabinet.

"The mugs were wrong."

You stare.

"The mugs."

"They don't belong there."

You look at the offending cupboard. Then at him. Then back at the cupboard.

"...Andrew."

"They don't."

The conviction in his voice almost makes you laugh. Almost. Because beneath the absurdity of the situation, there's something familiar. Something you've seen before. The restless energy. The need to keep moving. The inability to settle when his brain decides something isn't right. It's not really about the mugs. You know that. And judging by the way he's reorganised half the room three separate times, he probably knows it too.

You lean against the counter.

"How long have you been doing this?"

A pause.

"Don't know."

Which means it's been a while.

Pope picks up a stack of bowls. Moves them. Stops. Moves them again. Studies them. Moves them back. You watch the entire process.

"Those bowls have changed addresses four times."

"They're not staying there."

"Clearly."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Only slightly. But enough. Enough to tell you he knows exactly how ridiculous this looks.

The apartment falls quiet again. Not uncomfortable. Never uncomfortable. Just the kind of silence that naturally settles between two people who don't always need words.

A spoon clinks softly against another. A drawer slides open. A cabinet closes. The hum of the refrigerator fills the gaps. Eventually, you notice something. Pope isn't cleaning. Not really. Everything is already clean. The counters are spotless. The dishes are washed. The floor doesn't need sweeping.

What he's doing is creating order. Building a system. Making the unfamiliar feel familiar. Trying to carve certainty out of a place that still feels temporary. Still feels new. Still feels like it belongs to somebody else.

Something in your chest softens. Because suddenly the whole thing feels less funny. Less ridiculous. And a little sad.

Without a word, you walk over to one of the remaining boxes. Open it and pull out a bundle of utensils.

Pope looks up.

"What are you doing?"

You shrug.

"Helping."

His expression flickers. Not surprise exactly. Something quieter. Something warmer.

"You don't have to."

"I know."

You start sorting forks.

"I want to."

For a moment he simply watches you. As though he's waiting for the joke. Waiting for you to get bored. Waiting for you to decide you've done enough. Instead, you hold up a potato masher.

"Where does this live?"

Pope immediately points. Second drawer. Left side. No hesitation.

You laugh.

"You've mapped the entire kitchen already?"

"I've been busy."

That earns an actual smile. Tiny. Brief. Gone almost instantly. But there. So you keep helping. And somewhere along the way the task stops being his. It becomes yours. Both of yours. The two of you sitting cross-legged on the floor sorting utensils. Debating cabinet space. Arguing over mugs. Laughing when Pope becomes unexpectedly passionate about where the mixing bowls should go.

At one point, your shoulder brushes his. Then stays there. Neither of you move away.

At another point, you catch him watching you. Not the utensils. Not the boxes. You. The look disappears the second he realises he's been caught. But not before you see it. That quiet disbelief he sometimes gets. Like, he still hasn't quite figured out why you've chosen him. Why you're here. Why you're sitting on a kitchen floor at four in the morning helping him organize measuring cups.

You don't mention it. Instead you hand him a whisk.

{----------------------------------}

The sun is beginning to rise by the time you're finished. Soft orange light spilling through the blinds. Painting the countertops gold. The apartment feels different now. Warmer. Lived in. Yours.

Pope stands in the middle of the kitchen.

Looking around. Taking inventory. Every drawer. Every cabinet. Every shelf. You watch his shoulders slowly relax. The tension that had been sitting there all night finally easing. Not disappearing. Just easing. Enough.

{----------------------------------}

"Better?" you ask softly.

For a long moment, he doesn't answer. Just keeps looking. Then finally—

"Yeah."

The word is quiet. Honest. And somehow carries far more weight than it should.

You step closer. Slip your hand into his. Pope immediately intertwines your fingers. Like it's instinct. Like it's breathing.

"Come back to bed."

His thumb brushes across your knuckles.

A small nod.

The ER moved on because it always moved on. Patients still needed medication. Families still wanted updates. Admissions still stalled. Lab work still vanished into the mysterious void that existed somewhere between being ordered and actually appearing in the system.

Life continued. But something had shifted beneath it. And everybody knew it. Including you.

You regretted telling Dana and Abbot almost immediately. Not because you didn't trust them. You did. That was the problem. Trust meant exposure. Exposure meant vulnerability. Vulnerability meant people looking at you differently. And you hated being looked at differently. You hated the feeling that everyone suddenly possessed a piece of information they weren't supposed to have. That they were mentally rearranging you. Re-categorising you. Rewriting every interaction they had ever had with you through the lens of that one sentence.

I grew up with a narcissistic parent. You wished you could take it back. Unfortunately, words didn't work that way.

You finished the conversation with Dana and Abbot because there wasn't really any other option.

Dana had eventually let out a long breath through her nose and said, with all the authority of someone who had spent years keeping emergency departments functional through sheer force of will, "What happened out there was not okay."

You had nodded. Because arguing would have been exhausting. Abbot had remained quieter.

Observing. Listening. Watching. You weren't entirely sure which was worse.

Eventually, Dana had squeezed your shoulder once—briefly, professionally, but firmly—and told you to take ten minutes.

You had immediately informed her that you did not need ten minutes.

She had informed you that she wasn't asking. The conversation ended there.

Now, forty minutes later, you were restocking supplies because it gave your hands something to do.

Boxes made sense. Inventory made sense. Alcohol wipes belonged in one section. Syringes belonged in another. There was comfort in things having designated places. People were considerably more complicated.

The supply room door opened. You didn't look up immediately.

"Hey."

Whitaker.

Of course it was Whitaker. You glanced over your shoulder. He was holding a box of IV tubing and looked approximately as comfortable as someone preparing to diffuse a bomb using only positive thinking.

"Hey."

He lingered awkwardly. You returned a package of gauze to the shelf. Whitaker cleared his throat. Then did it again. You waited. Eventually, he blurted, "You know none of that was your fault, right?"

You closed your eyes briefly. There it was. The thing everyone kept trying to hand you. The responsibility. The validation. The reassurance. All perfectly reasonable. All somehow impossible to accept.

"Whitaker—"

"No, seriously."

His voice surprised you. Not loud. Just determined.

"You didn't do anything wrong."

You stared at him.

Whitaker shifted his weight.

"You know that, right?"

The answer should have been easy.

Yes.

Instead, your brain immediately began compiling evidence. Maybe you should have finished the chart sooner. Maybe you should have been faster. Maybe you should have spoken up. Maybe you should have handled it differently. Maybe—

You stopped yourself. Hard. Because that train never ended anywhere useful.

"I'm aware," you said carefully.

Whitaker looked unconvinced.

"You don't sound aware."

You almost laughed. Instead you shook your head.

"I'm fine."

Whitaker groaned. Actually groaned.

"Oh my God."

You blinked.

"What?"

"That's the sixth time."

"The sixth time what?"

"The sixth time you've said that."

You stared.

He pointed at you.

"That's not normal."

There it was again.

Not normal. Dana had said it. Abbot had said it. Now Whitaker. The words landed strangely every time. Because from your perspective, it was normal. Painfully normal. Normal enough that you genuinely didn't understand why everyone seemed so alarmed by it. Before you could answer, the supply room door opened again.

Santos walked in. Took one look at Whitaker. Then at you. Then sighed dramatically.

"Oh good."

Whitaker frowned.

"What?"

"You're doing the thing."

"What thing?"

"The concerned puppy thing."

Whitaker looked offended.

"I do not have a concerned puppy thing."

"You absolutely do."

"I don't."

"You do."

"You do."

Santos pointed at him. Whitaker pointed back. Somehow, the argument continued for another thirty seconds. You watched them bicker. And for the first time all day, something in your chest loosened. Just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough to remember that not everyone was angry. Enough to remember that some people stayed. Even when things got messy. Unfortunately, that brief moment of relief didn't last.

Because later, while updating a patient's chart near the nurses' station, you made the mistake of looking up. And seeing Robby. He was standing alone. Which wasn't unusual. Robby spent plenty of time alone. What was unusual was how still he looked. The entire day he had been moving. Pacing. Snapping. Charging from problem to problem.

Now he stood near the board with a chart in his hands and a thousand-yard stare that suggested he wasn't actually reading any of it.

You looked away immediately. Unfortunately, not before he noticed. His gaze found yours almost instantly. And stayed there. You dropped your eyes back to the computer. Your stomach twisted. Not because you were scared of him. Not exactly. Because you were tired.

And because you had no interest in whatever conversation he was inevitably working himself toward.

The apology. The explanation. The justification. The inevitable "I shouldn't have yelled, but—" There was always a but.

There had always been a but.

A thousand versions of it.

I'm sorry, but you made me angry.

I'm sorry, but you should've listened.

I'm sorry, but you know how I get.

The apology never arrived alone. It always dragged an excuse behind it.

So you weren't particularly eager to hear Robby's version.

Across the department, Robby continued staring. And for perhaps the first time all day, he looked less angry than lost. Because after Dana and Abbot had left the alcove, they hadn't gone far. Not far enough.

Not with voices carrying the way they did in emergency departments.

Not with conversations interrupted by call lights and passing staff, and the constant movement of people through hallways.

Robby hadn't heard everything. But he'd heard enough. Enough to catch the phrase “narcissistic parent.” Enough to hear Dana's immediate reaction.

Enough to understand that whatever had happened in front of the nurses' station had not existed in a vacuum.

At first, he'd been defensive. Of course he had. That was Robby.

The moment Dana cornered him afterwards, he'd immediately launched into explanations.

Stress. Patient volume. The waiting room. The charts. The bottlenecks. The pressure. Dana had let him talk.

Then she'd asked one question. Only one.

"Did you notice her face?"

The question had annoyed him immediately.

"What does that mean?"

"You know exactly what it means."

"No, actually."

Dana had stared at him. And for the first time all day, Robby had felt uncertain. Because he remembered your face. He remembered every second of it. Not the beginning. The end. The stillness. The emptiness. The absence. Like someone had turned off a light. At the time, he'd interpreted it as indifference. Now he wasn't so sure.

Dana had crossed her arms. "She didn't stop reacting because she didn't care."

Robby had looked away. And Dana had delivered the sentence currently ruining his evening.

"She stopped reacting because she's used to it."

Used to it. Three words. That's all. Three words that had crawled under his skin and refused to leave.

Used to it. Not upset. Not sensitive. Not dramatic. Used to it.

Because apparently, there had once been someone in your life who yelled often enough that public humiliation barely registered anymore.

Robby hated the thought.

Hated it.

Because suddenly every interaction from the afternoon looked different. The nodding. The apologising. The constant "I'm fine." The way you had never once defended yourself. Not because you couldn't. Because you'd already learned it wouldn't help. The realisation sat heavily in his chest. And for a man who preferred action to introspection, that was a deeply unpleasant place for it to be.

Across the nurses' station, he watched you laugh quietly at something Santos said. The sound didn't carry. Only the expression. Small. Brief. Gone almost immediately. And something about it made the guilt worse. Because you'd spent the entire day being kinder than he deserved. While he'd spent it looking for someone to blame.

For the first time since the argument, Robby considered the possibility that an apology wasn't going to fix this. Not really. Because apologies repaired mistakes. This wasn't just a mistake. This was a wound he'd accidentally found. And then pressed on. Hard.

The realisation hit with uncomfortable clarity. You had accepted being yelled at far too easily. And somehow that upset him more than if you'd screamed back. Because if you had screamed back, at least he could have convinced himself you'd fought. Instead, you'd simply endured. And Robby had no idea what to do with that.

{----------------------------------}

By the time the shift finally started winding down, the exhaustion in the department felt different from the usual kind.

Normally, end-of-shift exhaustion was physical. Sore feet. Aching backs. Headaches from fluorescent lighting and too much caffeine.

The familiar heaviness that came from spending twelve hours solving other people's problems while ignoring your own.

Tonight, though, the fatigue felt emotional. Like everyone had spent the day carrying something heavier than patients. You certainly had. The worst part was that you genuinely wished everyone would stop worrying about you. Not because you weren't grateful. You were. Painfully so.

The concern coming from everyone was real. There was nothing performative about it. None of them were trying to make themselves feel like heroes. They simply cared.

And somehow that made it harder. Because concern implied damage. Concern implied there was something wrong. Concern implied that what had happened at the nurses' station had been significant enough to warrant attention.

A large part of you still wasn't entirely convinced that it had. Logically, yes. Emotionally? That was more complicated.

You were sitting at one of the side workstations reviewing a medication list when Javadi appeared beside you carrying two cups of coffee. Without a word, she placed one next to your keyboard.

You blinked.

"What's this?"

"Coffee."

"I can see that."

"Then we're off to a strong start."

You stared at her. She stared back. The corner of your mouth twitched despite yourself. Javadi looked pleased.

"You looked tired."

"I am tired."

"Exactly."

You picked up the cup. Warm. Fresh. Actually decent coffee for hospital standards. Which meant she'd probably gone out of her way to get it. The realization settled uncomfortably in your chest.

"You didn't have to do this."

"I know."

You looked at her. She looked away first.

"You don't have to make it weird."

A laugh escaped you. A real one this time. Small. But real. Javadi's expression softened immediately. There and gone again. The kind of reaction people had around injured animals. Careful. Gentle. Trying not to spook them. You hated how quickly you recognized it.

Javadi cleared her throat.

"Anyway."

"Anyway."

"You should drink it before Whitaker finds it."

You frowned.

"What would Whitaker do?"

"Accidentally steal it."

"Why?"

"Because he's Whitaker."

You couldn't argue with that. Javadi nodded once. Satisfied. Then walked away. The interaction lasted less than two minutes. Somehow it stayed with you for the next hour. Because people kept doing things like that. Small things. Quiet things. Santos appeared with extra snacks she absolutely did not need to share. McKay took over a difficult family discussion without being asked. Whitaker volunteered for a supply run that was very obviously supposed to have been your responsibility. Nobody mentioned the argument. Nobody mentioned your parent. Nobody mentioned the fact that half the department seemed to be treating you like you might shatter if somebody raised their voice too quickly.

But the care remained. Constant. Steady. Present. And every single act of kindness made your chest ache a little more. Across the department, Robby noticed all of it. That was the problem. He noticed everything now. Every interaction. Every glance. Every protective instinct suddenly orbiting around you. It felt like the entire ER had quietly reached a collective decision.

Not against him. Not exactly. But certainly not in favour of what he'd done. Santos ignored him unless absolutely necessary. Whitaker looked nervous whenever he approached. McKay's responses had become so professionally polite they bordered on hostile. Even Javadi, usually eager to ask questions or discuss cases, had started directing those questions elsewhere. To Dana. To Abbot. To literally anyone else. Nobody was being insubordinate. Nobody was refusing to work. But the warmth was gone.

And Robby hated realizing he had caused it. Because unlike earlier in the day, he no longer had anger to hide behind. Only regret. Regret was a significantly less comfortable emotion. Especially because it left him alone with his thoughts. Unfortunately, his thoughts had become increasingly occupied by you. Not in the way people would assume. Not romantic. Not obsessive. Just persistent. Every time he looked at you, he found himself replaying the conversation with Dana.

Used to it. The phrase continued haunting him.

Used to it. The more he thought about it, the worse it became. Because normal people weren't used to being screamed at. Normal people reacted. Normal people defended themselves. Normal people got angry.

You hadn't. And that bothered him more than he knew how to articulate. Because if you'd yelled back, he could've blamed the argument on both of you. If you'd cried, he could've apologized immediately. If you'd stormed off, he would've known what to do. Instead you'd simply accepted it. Like it belonged there. Like it was expected. Like someone had spent years teaching you that being somebody's emotional punching bag was a perfectly ordinary part of life.

The thought made something ugly twist inside his chest. The realization arrived slowly. Then all at once. He wasn't angry with you anymore. He hadn't been for hours. Now he was angry at himself. Which was significantly harder to fix.

The opportunity for an apology presented itself near the end of the shift. Naturally. At the worst possible time.

You were alone at one of the side stations, updating a chart while the department existed in that strange transitional phase between chaos and cleanup. Patients still filled beds, but the frantic edge had dulled. Staff were beginning to think about handovers. Night shift personnel had started appearing in small clusters. Normal end-of-day things.

Robby stood twenty feet away staring at you like a man preparing for surgery. Abbot noticed immediately. Of course he did.

Abbot was leaning against the counter reviewing a chart when he followed Robby's line of sight. Then looked at Robby. Then back at you. The realization crossed his face.

"You're going to apologize."

It wasn't a question. Robby grimaced.

"Eventually."

Abbot raised an eyebrow.

"You've had four hours."

"I know."

"Then why are you standing here?"

Because Robby didn't know how. That was the truth. He knew how to diagnose. How to lead a trauma. How to make impossible decisions under pressure. How to keep people alive. He had considerably less experience with sincere apologies. Especially the kind that mattered. The kind without excuses. The kind without justifications. The kind where you admitted fault and sat with it.

Abbot seemed to read all of this somehow.

"Just talk to her."

Robby rubbed a hand over his face.

"What if she doesn't want to?"

"Then she'll tell you."

"And if she doesn't?"

Abbot was quiet for a moment. Then he said something that stopped Robby cold.

"That's what you're afraid of, isn't it?"

Robby looked at him. Abbot folded his arms.

"Not that she'll be angry."

The realisation landed. Hard. Because Abbot was right. Anger would've been easier. Anger meant engagement. Anger meant caring. Anger meant there was still something to repair. What Robby feared was something else entirely. Politeness. Distance.

The possibility that you'd already decided he wasn't worth trusting. And that realisation felt far worse than any argument ever could. Across the department, you finished your note and closed the chart. The movement broke whatever paralysis had been holding him in place.

Before he could overthink it further, Robby pushed away from the counter and started walking.

Abbot watched him go. Didn't interfere. Didn't help. Just trusted him to finally do the right thing. Which felt undeserved.

The closer Robby got, the more aware he became of the fact that he had no plan. No speech. No carefully crafted apology. Only the uncomfortable certainty that he needed to say something. You looked up when his shadow fell across the workstation. Immediately, your shoulders tightened. The reaction lasted less than a second. Barely noticeable. Most people would've missed it. Robby didn't. And suddenly the guilt got worse.

You offered a polite smile. The same one you'd been giving everyone all evening. Professional. Friendly. Distant.

"Hey."

The word hit him like a punch. Because you sounded normal. Too normal. Like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't spent the afternoon making an absolute mess of things.

"Hey."

Silence stretched. You waited. Patiently. Robby hated that too. Because you were making this easier than he deserved. Finally he cleared his throat. Then immediately wished he hadn't because it made him sound nervous.

Which, unfortunately, he was.

"I was out of line."

The words landed between you. Simple. Direct. True. Your expression softened slightly. Not much. Just enough.

"You don't have to—"

"Yeah."

His interruption surprised both of you. Robby shook his head.

"I do."

Silence returned. This one gentler. Less sharp. You looked at him carefully. For the first time all evening, you weren't immediately trying to escape the conversation.

So he kept going. Slowly. Awkwardly. Painfully. The way honest things sometimes required.

"I shouldn't have spoken to you like that."

You swallowed.

Robby continued.

"You didn't deserve it."

The words felt important. Necessary. Not because they fixed anything. Because they acknowledged reality. For several seconds, neither of you spoke. Then you smiled. Small. Kind. And somehow heartbreaking.

"It's okay."

There it was. The response everyone expected. The response Robby had expected. The response he immediately realised wasn't true. Because the smile never reached your eyes. And for the first time all day, he understood exactly what Dana had been trying to tell him. You had accepted the apology. But you didn't trust it. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The board was full, but not catastrophic. The waiting room was impatient, but not mutinous. There were traumas pending, labs missing, a kid in curtain four with a Lego in his nose, and a man in bed twelve loudly insisting that WebMD had diagnosed him with something “definitely neurological” even though his chief complaint was heartburn. It was normal. It was busy, overstretched, and irritating in the way the ER always was.

But the mood was wrong.

You felt it before anyone said anything. It was in the way Santos came out of trauma two with her jaw tight and her eyes narrowed, muttering something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “Well, good morning to you too, sunshine.” It was in the way Whitaker stopped mid-sentence near the nurses’ station, watched Robby stalk past without acknowledging him, and then slowly lowered the chart in his hands as if it might somehow protect him from whatever was brewing. It was in the way Javadi gave you a look over the med cart, eyebrows raised just enough to ask a question neither of you had the energy to answer.

Robby was in a mood.

Not just tired. Everyone was tired. Tired was the baseline around here, the wallpaper behind every interaction, the thing you all learned to work around because there were still patients to see and orders to put in and families to update. This was different. This was sharp-edged and restless, the kind of mood that moved through the department ahead of him and left people adjusting themselves after he passed, like they had been brushed by something hot enough to burn.

He had been there before you arrived. That was never a good sign.

You found him at the central desk when you came in, one hand braced against the counter, the other flipping through a chart with all the subtlety of someone trying not to throw the computer across the room. His hair was already messy in that end-of-shift way despite the shift having barely started for most of you, and his expression was carved into something hard and remote, like whatever patience he’d had when he woke up had been spent before sunrise.

“Morning,” you said carefully, setting your bag down and reaching for the stack of charts Dana had left near your workstation.

Robby didn’t look up. “Is it?”

You paused for half a second, just long enough for the words to land but not long enough to make anything of them. “Apparently.”

He gave a humourless little breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff. You told yourself not to take it personally. That was one of the first survival skills of emergency medicine, right up there with always knowing where the clean gloves were and never trusting a patient who said they were “totally fine” while actively bleeding onto their shoes.

Do not take moods personally.

Do not absorb what isn’t yours.

Do not stand too close to someone else’s fire.

So you went about your morning.

For the first couple of hours, you managed to stay mostly out of his path. You picked up two moderate cases, one elderly woman with dizziness and dehydration who kept apologising every time you adjusted her blanket, and a construction worker with a deep forearm laceration who insisted he didn’t need stitches because he had once “superglued something worse closed” and survived. You moved steadily, not perfectly, but steadily. You checked your orders twice. You made sure your charting was more complete than usual because something in the air warned you that any missing detail might become ammunition. You updated families, chased labs, coordinated with McKay over bed assignments, and even managed to coax the elderly woman into sipping water without making it feel like an argument.

By any fair measure, you were doing fine.

Robby did not seem interested in fair measures.

The first comment came while you were outside bed seven, finishing a note. You had one hip leaned against the counter, eyes moving quickly over your screen, when he appeared beside you without warning and looked over the top of your monitor.

“Still on Mrs. Halpern?”

You glanced up. “Her sodium came back lower than expected. I’m just updating the note and waiting on the repeat—”

“You’ve been waiting on the repeat for twenty minutes.”

“It was drawn ten ago.”

His eyes flicked to you. Not long. Just enough.

“Then the note shouldn’t take that long.”

He walked away before you could answer.

For a moment, your fingers hovered over the keyboard. You stared at the half-finished sentence in front of you, suddenly unable to remember where it had been going. Then the phone rang, bed twelve shouted something about his rights, and McKay called your name from across the desk. You swallowed whatever had risen in your throat and kept typing.

Not personal, you reminded yourself.

It became the refrain of the morning.

Not personal when he cut Santos off in the middle of an update and told her, “I asked for the relevant part.”

Not personal when he told Whitaker, “Think before you order imaging,” in a tone that made Whitaker’s ears go red.

Not personal when Javadi asked a perfectly reasonable question about a discharge plan, and Robby looked at her like she had asked whether the heart was “that pump thing.”

Not personal when he passed behind you and said, “We need movement today, people,” even though no one was standing still.

Dana noticed. Of course Dana noticed.

Dana noticed everything. It was one of the reasons the department hadn’t collapsed into dust years ago. She saw the missing labs before they became a problem, the new nurses before they started drowning, the family members before they turned from anxious to aggressive. She saw Robby too, and each time he snapped, her expression tightened another fraction.

The first time she warned him, it was quiet.

“Robby.”

He was at the desk, flipping through a chart. “What?”

“Take a breath.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Not like a person who wants to keep working here.”

His jaw shifted. For a second, you thought he might snap at her, too, but even on his worst days, Robby possessed a certain instinct for self-preservation. He looked back down at the chart instead.

Dana held his stare for another beat anyway, then turned away with a look that said the conversation was not finished, only postponed.

You wished that had helped.

It did not.

By late morning, the department had filled in around the edges. The waiting room went from impatient to openly hostile. A psych hold started yelling in exam three. The construction worker with the laceration finally admitted that he had not had a tetanus shot since “probably high school, maybe prison, depends what counts,” which created a whole new branch of questioning you hadn’t been emotionally prepared for. Mrs. Halpern’s daughter arrived with a folder full of medication lists and a level of suspicion usually reserved for crime scenes. Somewhere near triage, a toddler began screaming with the endurance of an Olympic athlete.

And Robby kept moving like a man with a storm trapped inside his ribcage.

He was efficient. That was the infuriating part. He was never useless when he was angry. If anything, anger made him faster, sharper, more exacting. He cleared beds, made calls, pushed consults, cut through delays with the brutal focus of someone who refused to let the system win. If his temper had only harmed the paperwork, you might have respected it.

But it didn’t.

It clipped everyone around him.

A word here. A look there. A comment too pointed to be ignored but too small to challenge without making yourself look sensitive. He was a master of those, whether he realised it or not. Little cuts hidden inside urgency.

“Did anyone actually call CT, or are we just hoping they develop psychic abilities?”

“Why is this still here?”

“Great, so we’re all just guessing today.”

“Can we try doing the thing I asked the first time?”

Each one landed somewhere. On Santos, who rolled her shoulders back and pushed through with sheer force of will. On Whitaker, who got quieter every time Robby passed. On Javadi, whose face pinched with frustration before she smoothed it away. On McKay, who started answering him in the flattest possible tone, which was usually a sign that she was one sarcastic remark away from murder.

And on you.

You hated that it landed on you.

You hated that you were aware of him even when you weren’t looking at him, that your body had started tracking his movements with a precision you did not consciously approve of. You knew when he was near the desk. You knew when his voice shifted. You knew which footsteps were his without turning around. Every time he came within range, some small, ancient part of you straightened its spine and prepared.

It annoyed you.

You were good at your job. Maybe not perfect, maybe not untouchable, but good. You cared. You worked hard. You were not slow, not careless, not fragile. You had built a life around becoming someone who could function under pressure, someone who did not fall apart just because a man with too much authority and not enough sleep decided to sharpen himself on the nearest available surface.

Still, by noon, you had checked your own charting four separate times before signing anything.

By one, you had apologised to a nurse for asking for help even though she had offered first.

By two, you had started choosing longer routes around the department to avoid crossing Robby’s path.

That was the thing about certain kinds of anger. It didn’t have to be aimed at you to make you rearrange yourself around it.

Abbot arrived early, just as the shift began tipping from strained into ugly.

You saw him come in through the ambulance bay doors with a backpack slung over one shoulder and the unmistakable expression of a man who had expected chaos but found something more personal waiting for him. He paused near the entrance, eyes scanning the department with that quiet, assessing calm of his. Abbot had a way of making stillness look intentional, like he was not merely standing there but collecting information from the air.

His gaze landed on Santos first, then Whitaker, then Javadi, then Dana, and finally Robby, who was at the central desk telling someone over the phone that he did not care what the bed board “preferred” if they weren’t planning to come down and practice medicine themselves.

Abbot’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

Dana caught his eye from across the desk.

Nothing was said.

A great deal was communicated.

You were coming out of bed nine with a chart tucked under your arm when Abbot stopped beside you.

“Bad one?” he asked, voice low enough that it could have meant the patient, the shift, or the general state of the universe.

You gave him a small smile. “Depends who you ask.”

His eyes moved over your face in a way that made you feel more seen than you wanted to be. “I’m asking you.”

You adjusted the chart against your chest. “Manageable.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It’s the one I’ve got.”

Abbot studied you for another second, then nodded once, not accepting it exactly, but letting it stand. “Fair.”

Before he could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.

“Where are we on bed nine?”

You turned automatically. “I was just coming to update you.”

Robby looked up from the computer. His expression did not change, but something in it tightened when he saw you standing beside Abbot, as though even that brief pause had been recorded as evidence against you.

“Outstanding.”

The word was flat. Not praise.

You walked over, setting the chart down beside him. “Middle-aged male, abdominal pain, vitals stable, labs mostly reassuring. I’m still waiting on the lipase, but his exam’s improved and—”

“Mostly reassuring?”

You blinked. “Yes.”

“Which means?”

“It means his white count is normal, CMP is unremarkable, lactate is fine, but the lipase isn’t back yet, so I don’t want to say completely reassuring until—”

“Why isn’t the lipase back?”

“It was delayed with the lab. I called fifteen minutes ago.”

“And?”

“And they said it was processing.”

Robby leaned back slightly, rubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “So we’re waiting.”

“For one lab, yes.”

“And he’s still occupying a bed.”

Your stomach tightened. “He’s in pain.”

“A lot of people are in pain.”

You felt the eyes before you saw them. Santos had gone still near the med room. Whitaker was pretending to look at the board. Javadi’s hands had paused over a medication drawer. McKay was watching openly now, no attempt at subtlety.

You kept your voice even. “I know. I’m not trying to hold the bed unnecessarily.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

The words were not loud.

That almost made them worse.

You took a breath, slow and measured, the way you had taught yourself to breathe years ago in kitchens and hallways and bedrooms where raised voices turned the walls into traps.

Do not react.

Do not give them anything.

“I’ll call the lab again,” you said.

Robby’s eyes snapped to you. “That would be a start.”

A silence opened around the desk.

Small, but noticeable.

Dana looked up immediately.

Abbot, still near the edge of the station, shifted his weight.

You nodded once, because nodding was safe, because nodding ended conversations faster than defending yourself, because some habits did not care how old you were or how many degrees you had or how many emergencies you had survived without flinching.

Then you turned and picked up the phone.

The lab answered on the fourth ring. The lipase resulted while you were still on hold.

Normal.

Of course it was normal.

You discharged bed nine twenty minutes later with instructions, follow-up, and a patient who thanked you twice because he felt better and did not know he had accidentally become part of someone else’s bad day. You smiled at him. You meant it. You wished him well. You made sure he understood when to come back. You did everything you were supposed to do, and maybe that should have steadied you.

It didn’t.

The rest of the afternoon blurred into the kind of movement that left no space for thought, only reaction. You picked up another case. Then another. You reassessed Mrs. Halpern, who was being admitted. You helped Santos restrain the psych hold when he escalated. You found Whitaker staring at a chart like it had personally betrayed him and quietly pointed out the result he was looking for. You gave Javadi a protein bar from your bag because she looked like she had forgotten food existed. You answered questions, placed orders, made calls, kept your voice calm, kept your hands steady.

Every so often, Robby found you.

Not intentionally, maybe. Not consciously. But enough.

“Did you update the family?”

“Yes.”

“Chart it.”

“I did.”

A pause.

“Then make it easier to find.”

Another time:

“Why is bed fourteen still pending discharge?”

“Transport.”

“Then call again.”

“I already—”

“Call again.”

And later:

“You need to move faster.”

You were standing outside the medication room when he said it, low enough that only you and McKay heard. You had just finished catching a near-miss on a dosage discrepancy before it became an actual problem, but Robby had not seen that part. He had only seen you standing still.

You looked at him. “I’m moving.”

“Not fast enough.”

McKay’s head turned slowly toward him. “She just caught a med error.”

Robby barely glanced at her. “Great. Then she can catch up too.”

McKay’s mouth opened.

You touched her arm lightly before she could say anything.

It was instinct. Reflexive. Stop the escalation. Smooth the surface. Keep the peace.

McKay looked down at your hand, then up at your face, and something in her expression changed.

You pulled your hand back.

“I’m fine,” you said quietly.

She did not look convinced.

By the time evening light began fading beyond the ambulance bay doors, the ER felt bruised.

Not destroyed. Not overwhelmed beyond recognition. Just bruised. Everyone was still working, still treating, still answering call lights, dodging family complaints, and hunting down missing supplies, but the usual rhythm was off. People were quieter around Robby now. More careful. Santos had stopped making comments within earshot. Whitaker looked like he had physically aged since breakfast. Javadi’s politeness had become razor-thin. McKay was openly hostile in the way only someone deeply professional could be, all clipped answers and immaculate competence.

Dana had warned Robby twice more.

The second time, she had said, “Walk away before you say something you can’t unsay.”

The third time, she had said nothing at all. Just his name.

Robby had ignored both.

You wanted to believe he would run out of steam eventually. Anger took energy, and no one had infinite reserves, not even him. But some people did not burn out when they were angry. They burned through.

You were at the central desk, finishing notes on your last two patients and trying very hard not to think about how badly your shoulders ached from being held too tight all day, when Santos dropped into the chair beside you with a groan.

“If I die here, delete my browser history,” she said.

You huffed a laugh despite yourself. “That bad?”

“I had a man tell me he was allergic to saline.”

“Maybe he meant salt?”

“He was eating fries while he said it.”

You smiled, and for a second, something in your chest loosened. Santos had that effect sometimes, dragging humour into places where it had no business surviving and planting it there anyway. Even Javadi, standing nearby with a chart in hand, cracked a smile.

Then Robby appeared behind you.

The smile disappeared before you could stop it.

You hated that too.

He reached over the counter for a chart, eyes flicking toward your screen. “Are those still not done?”

You kept your hands on the keyboard. “Almost.”

“They should’ve been done before you picked up another patient.”

“I had to pick up another patient because the waiting room was backing up.”

“And now your charting’s behind.”

“It’s not behind. I’m finishing it.”

“You say that like there’s a difference.”

Santos went still beside you.

You stared at the screen. The cursor blinked at the end of a sentence. You could feel Robby behind you, the heat of his impatience pressing against the back of your neck.

You should have said something.

Not something sharp. Not something disrespectful. Just something reasonable. Something like, I have handled my patient load appropriately. Or, I need you to stop making comments while I am trying to work. Or even simply, Robby, enough.

But the words jammed somewhere behind your ribs.

Because there was a tone people used when they had already decided you were wrong. A tone that did not want information, only submission. And no matter how many years passed, no matter how far you got from the rooms where you first learned it, your body still recognised that tone before your mind had time to argue.

So you said, “Okay.”

Just that.

Quiet.

Careful.

Robby exhaled sharply. “Don’t ‘okay’ me. Just get it done.”

Santos pushed her chair back. “Robby.”

He ignored her.

Dana looked over from the far side of the desk.

Abbot, who had been reviewing something near trauma, lifted his head.

You nodded again, because your body had apparently decided that was all you were allowed to do today. “I will.”

Robby stood there for another second, as if waiting for something. A defense. A reaction. A spark. When none came, his expression darkened in a way you couldn’t read.

Then the radio crackled. EMS incoming.

The department surged back into motion.

And whatever was coming next did not happen yet.

But it was close.

You could feel it.

A pressure change before lightning.

A storm gathering over the central desk.

And for reasons you could not explain, even to yourself, you already knew that when it finally broke, it was going to break over you.

{----------------------------------}

The incoming trauma bought everyone exactly fourteen minutes of mercy.

Fourteen minutes where Robby’s temper had somewhere useful to go, where the sharpness in him could be repurposed into orders and movement and the clean, brutal efficiency of emergency medicine. Fourteen minutes where nobody had time to think about the way he had been circling the department all day like a storm looking for somewhere to land. The ambulance bay doors burst open, EMS rolled in with a cyclist clipped by a delivery van, and for a while, there was only the familiar rhythm of controlled panic: blood pressure dropping, airway intact, two large-bore IVs, get him on the monitor, cut the shirt, call for portable chest, someone page trauma, someone find out if he had family.

You were pulled in because Santos needed hands, and whatever tension had been sitting between your shoulder blades all afternoon disappeared beneath the immediate demands of a body trying very hard to become a catastrophe. That was the strange mercy of a real emergency. It gave you no room for yourself. Your thoughts narrowed to tasks, to vitals, to blood slick beneath gloves, to the patient’s pale face and the way his fingers kept twitching at his side as though he were still holding handlebars that were no longer there. You moved when you were told, spoke when you needed to, and anticipated what Santos would ask for before she asked for it. Robby stood at the head of the bed, voice clipped but steady, every order landing where it needed to. In trauma, at least, anger could pass for focus.

For those fourteen minutes, he was almost himself again.

Not kind, exactly. Robby was rarely soft in the middle of a trauma, and nobody expected him to be. But he was clear. He was present. He was the person everyone needed him to be when the room was too loud, and the patient was too fragile, and hesitation could become a very expensive mistake. He caught details fast, absorbed information faster, and when the cyclist’s pressure dipped again, he adjusted the plan without wasting a word.

You remembered, standing there with blood on your gloves and adrenaline making the edges of the room too bright, why people trusted him.

That was what made the rest worse.

Because he knew how to be better than this.

The patient stabilised enough for transfer upstairs, and the trauma team peeled away in pieces, each person carrying their part of the aftermath with them. Santos stripped off her gloves with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere beneath her bones. Whitaker hovered near the counter, waiting for Robby to decide whether the silence meant approval or simply the absence of immediate criticism. Javadi collected discarded packaging with a kind of focused aggression that made you suspect she was imagining each wrapper was someone’s face. McKay was already on the phone, trying to secure an open bed with the patience of a saint and the tone of a woman two syllables away from threatening divine punishment.

You stepped out of the trauma bay last, pausing at the sink to scrub your hands longer than necessary. The water ran hot over your knuckles. Pink swirled down the drain. You watched it disappear and tried to let the motion reset you, tried to convince your body that the danger had passed just because the patient had made it upstairs alive.

Then Robby’s voice cut through the hallway.

“Where’s the chart on bed fourteen?”

Not loud.

Not yet.

You turned off the tap.

Santos, beside you, closed her eyes for half a second.

“I’m finishing it,” you said, drying your hands.

Robby was at the central desk, one hand on the counter, the other braced against his hip. He had not even taken off his trauma gown properly; it hung open at the neck, wrinkled and stained, making him look more exhausted than intimidating for one brief, unfortunate second. Then his eyes found you, and the softness of that impression vanished.

“You said that before the trauma.”

“I know,” you said. “Then the trauma came in.”

“And before that?”

You crossed toward the desk, keeping your pace even because speeding up would look guilty and slowing down would look defiant. You had learned a long time ago that when someone was looking for a reason, your body could become one before your mouth ever opened.

“Before that, I was finishing my other notes.”

“So no.”

You stopped on the opposite side of the counter. “No, it’s not signed yet.”

His jaw tightened, and something about that tiny movement made the air around the desk change. Santos followed you at a distance. Dana looked up from the phone. Abbot, who had been speaking quietly with Whitaker near the board, shifted his attention without moving his body. You saw McKay’s eyes flick between you and Robby, saw Javadi pause with a stack of discharge papers in her hand.

Everyone was still working.

Everyone was listening.

Robby rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “How long does it take you to discharge one patient?”

The question landed flat and mean.

You heard Santos inhale.

You kept your face neutral. “He needed transport coordination and repeat vitals before he left. I spoke to his daughter, went over the paperwork, and—”

“I didn’t ask for the scenic route. I asked how long it takes.”

Something in your chest tightened around itself. You could still smell antiseptic from the trauma bay, still feel the ghost of blood on your hands despite the fact that they were clean now. You had been moving all day. You had done your job all day. You had swallowed comment after comment because the department was busy, and Robby was tired and pushing back would only turn you into one more problem for everyone else to manage.

“I had multiple patients,” you said. “I’m almost done.”

“Everybody has multiple patients.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

That one hit harder than it should have.

Not because it was clever. It wasn’t. Not because it was fair. It absolutely wasn’t. It hit because of the audience, because his voice was no longer low enough to pretend this was a private correction, because the central desk sat at the beating heart of the ER, and people had begun to notice that the heartbeat had stuttered. Even a patient’s family member near bed eight had gone quiet, eyes darting between the two of you before she looked away like she had accidentally witnessed something intimate and ugly.

Dana stood slowly.

“Robby,” she said.

He held up one hand without looking at her. “No, I want to understand.”

“No, you don’t,” Dana said, voice hardening.

He ignored that too.

His attention stayed fixed on you, and you had the horrible, detached thought that he looked less angry with you than angry through you, as if you had become a convenient shape for something that belonged elsewhere. Some part of you knew that. Some fair, reasonable, adult part of you understood that people had bad days, that pressure leaked sideways, that Robby’s exhaustion had probably been building long before you walked into his line of sight.

But another part of you had already gone very still.

That part did not care why someone was angry.

That part only cared where the exits were.

You glanced once toward the hallway behind him, not even meaning to, and Robby’s eyes narrowed as if he had caught you trying to escape.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?”

“No.”

“Then look at me when I’m talking to you.”

The room went cold.

Not actually. The ER was still too warm, too crowded, full of bodies and machines and old coffee and the relentless hum of fluorescent lights. But something inside you cooled all at once, as though a door had opened onto winter. Your hands, resting lightly on the counter, stopped feeling entirely like your hands.

Santos said, “Hey. That’s enough.”

This time, Robby turned his head. “Stay out of it.”

“No,” she said immediately. “Not when you’re being an ass.”

“Santos,” Dana warned, but it was not really a reprimand. It was more like a line thrown into rising water.

Robby’s laugh was short and humourless. “Great. Good. So this is where we are? Nobody can take feedback now?”

“That wasn’t feedback,” McKay said from behind the desk.

You could feel all of them around you. Santos on your left. McKay is somewhere behind Robby. Javadi frozen near the printer. Whitaker at the board, looking deeply uncomfortable. Dana coming closer. Abbot was still quiet, still watching, which somehow made him feel more present than anyone else.

Robby looked back at you. “Is that what this is? You think I’m being unfair?”

The correct answer sat somewhere in your mouth and dissolved before you could form it.

Yes.

Yes, you are being unfair.

Yes, you have been taking your mood out on everyone all day.

Yes, I am doing my job.

Yes, you need to stop.

But your body had reached an older conclusion before your mind could argue its way into courage.

Do not challenge.

Do not escalate.

Do not give them a reason.

“I didn’t say that,” you replied.

“No, you just stand there looking at me like I’m the problem.”

Your face did not move. You knew it did not move because you had left it behind.

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Robby,” Abbot said.

It was the first thing he had said, and that alone made several people turn toward him. His voice was calm, but there was nothing casual in it.

Robby did not turn. “What?”

“Step back.”

“I’m handling my department.”

“No,” Abbot said. “You’re losing control in it.”

That should have stopped him.

For half a second, you thought it might. Robby’s shoulders lifted with a breath, and his face shifted, something flickering beneath the anger. Embarrassment, maybe. Recognition. The beginning of restraint arriving too late but arriving anyway.

Then the printer jammed behind Javadi with a loud mechanical crack, bed twelve shouted from behind his curtain that he had been forgotten, the phone at the desk began ringing again, and whatever fragile thing might have saved the moment shattered under the weight of one more irritation.

Robby snapped.

“Fine,” he said, voice rising. “You want me to step back? Great. Let’s all step back and pretend this is working. Let’s pretend we’re not drowning because people can’t manage basic flow. Let’s pretend charts finishing hours late don’t matter, beds sitting occupied don’t matter, patients backing up in the waiting room don’t matter. Let’s pretend doing things halfway is fine as long as everyone feels supported.”

Your vision changed.

It did not blur, exactly. It widened and narrowed at the same time, the way the world sometimes did when your body decided you no longer needed details. Robby’s face remained in front of you, but everything around him began to feel oddly distant. Santos became colour and movement. Dana became a shape approaching. The ringing phone became a thin sound from another room. You felt your own breathing, but only because you were counting it without meaning to.

In for four.

Hold.

Out for six.

Do not react.

Robby was still talking.

“You’re not new anymore,” he said, and the words struck somewhere they could not show. “You don’t get to move like someone is going to come clean up behind you. You don’t get to take your time because you’re being thorough while everyone else carries the weight. This place does not have room for people who need to be reminded how urgent urgent is.”

Dana’s voice cut in, sharp as a slammed drawer. “Robby, stop.”

He didn’t.

Or maybe he couldn’t.

“You want to be here? Then be here. Pick up the pace. Finish your charts. Make decisions. Stop acting like keeping up is optional.”

You stared at him.

Not because you were brave.

Not because you were defiant.

Because you had gone somewhere he could not reach.

That was the part nobody understood about being yelled at often enough when you were young. People imagined you either fought back or broke down. They imagined tears, shouting, slammed doors, dramatic wounds that announced themselves clearly enough for someone else to recognise. They did not imagine the quiet exit. They did not imagine a person could remain standing in front of them, eyes open, face calm, while some essential part of her slipped neatly out of the room and waited elsewhere until it was safe to return.

Robby’s voice continued, but the words began to separate from meaning.

Too slow.

Not enough.

Basic.

Everyone else.

Your fault.

You knew this rhythm.

Not his voice. Not these exact accusations. Not this department, this counter beneath your palms, this audience of coworkers frozen between horror and intervention. But the rhythm, yes. The building pressure. The public/private humiliation of being corrected as if correction was not the point, as if the point was to make you smaller and smaller until there was no version of you left large enough to argue.

Your face stayed calm.

Your body knew how.

It had been trained by experts.

“Enough.”

This time, it was Dana, fully between you and Robby now, not touching either of you but using her body like a door. Her voice had dropped into something low and dangerous, the kind of tone that made even patients reconsider their life choices. “I said enough.”

Robby’s mouth was still open, another sentence already loaded.

Abbot stepped in beside her.

That stopped the sentence.

Not because Abbot looked angry. He didn’t. Somehow, that made him more unsettling. He looked steady, almost still, his expression stripped down to something clean and severe.

“Walk away,” Abbot said.

Robby’s eyes cut to him. “I’m not done.”

“Yes,” Abbot said. “You are.”

The department held its breath.

Somewhere in the distance, a monitor beeped steadily. Bed twelve shouted again, less confidently this time, as if even he had sensed he was no longer the loudest problem in the room. The phone kept ringing until McKay reached over and silenced it with a little more force than necessary.

Robby looked at Dana. Then Abbot. Then Santos, whose face had gone hard with open disgust. Then McKay, Javadi, Whitaker, all of them watching him with varying degrees of shock, anger, and something worse.

Disappointment.

Finally, his gaze returned to you.

That was when you saw it.

The smallest change.

His anger faltered.

Not gone. Not forgiven. Not even fully understood yet. But interrupted.

Because you were not doing what people did when they were simply upset. You were not crying. You were not arguing. You were not embarrassed in any visible way. You were standing too still, your eyes fixed somewhere near his face but not quite on it, your expression emptied of anything he could answer.

For the first time all day, Robby looked uncertain.

Your own voice, when it came, sounded perfectly normal.

“Okay.”

It was a terrible word.

Small. Smooth. Practiced.

Dana turned her head slightly toward you, and something in her expression changed from anger to alarm.

You lifted your hands from the counter. Your fingers left faint crescent marks in your palms from where you had been pressing them into your own skin. You looked down at them with mild curiosity, like they belonged to someone else, then let them fall to your sides.

“I’m going to finish my charts,” you said.

Nobody moved.

Robby stared at you.

Santos said your name quietly.

You did not look at her because if you looked at kindness too suddenly, something might crack, and you did not have time for that. There were patients in the rooms. There were notes to finish. There was a waiting room full of people who did not care what had just happened because their pain was still real and immediate and demanding. The ER did not pause just because someone had peeled back a piece of you in public.

So you turned.

Not quickly.

Not dramatically.

You simply turned away from Robby, from Dana and Abbot and the awful circle of attention that had formed around you, and walked toward the workstation at the far end of the desk.

Behind you, Santos said, “What the hell, Robby?”

Dana’s voice followed immediately, colder than you had ever heard it. “Not here.”

“I wasn’t—” Robby began.

“Not. Here.”

You sat down at the computer.

Your password took two tries because your fingers were not as steady as they looked.

That irritated you more than the yelling.

You corrected the mistake, logged in, and opened the chart for bed fourteen. The screen glowed white and blue in front of you. Fonts. Boxes. Timelines. Medications. Discharge instructions. Familiar things. Safe things, in the sense that they were impersonal and required nothing from you except accuracy.

You began to type.

The first sentence was garbage.

You deleted it.

Started again.

Behind you, the ER remained strangely quiet for several seconds longer before sound returned in cautious layers. A phone rang and was answered. Someone moved a rolling stool. Javadi cleared the printer jam. McKay called transport in a voice so controlled it almost vibrated. Bed twelve decided, wisely, to stop shouting.

Robby did not come near you.

You could feel his absence as distinctly as you had felt his presence all day.

That should have helped.

It didn’t.

Because the problem with leaving your body to survive something was that, eventually, you had to come back to it. And when you did, everything was still there waiting. The tightness in your throat. The heat behind your eyes. The humiliation crawling under your collar. The old, familiar disgust at yourself for not saying anything, followed immediately by the older, more familiar relief that you had not made it worse.

You signed the chart.

Then another.

Then another.

Santos approached first.

She did not sit beside you. She knew better, somehow. She leaned her hip against the counter a few feet away, giving you space while refusing to disappear.

“Hey,” she said softly.

You kept your eyes on the screen. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

There it was.

The expected question.

The one that had an expected answer.

You gave it.

“Yeah. I’m fine.”

Santos did not respond right away. You could feel her studying you, probably looking for cracks, for evidence, for some visible sign that what had happened had landed where anyone with a functioning nervous system knew it must have landed.

“You don’t have to be,” she said.

You clicked into another field. “I know.”

“Do you?”

That almost made you look at her.

Almost.

But you had returned to yourself only partially, and the parts that were back did not feel trustworthy yet. If you turned and saw concern on her face, real concern, the kind that asked nothing and offered too much, you might have to acknowledge there was something to be concerned about.

So you smiled faintly at the computer instead.

“I’m good, Santos.”

She was quiet again.

Then, in a voice that had lost all its usual bite, she said, “That was messed up.”

You nodded once. “Busy day.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know.”

Another pause. Then she sighed through her nose, frustrated but careful. “Okay. I’m nearby.”

You nodded again. “Thanks.”

She left because there were still patients, and because you had not given her anywhere else to stand.

Whitaker came next, awkward and pale, holding a chart he clearly did not need.

“I, um.” He glanced over his shoulder, then back at you. “I just wanted to say, that wasn’t okay.”

You looked up at him because Whitaker looked so uncomfortable that ignoring him felt cruel.

His face was earnest in a way that made your chest ache.

“I’m fine,” you said.

His frown deepened. “Right. Yeah. But still.”

“I know.”

“I don’t think you should have to—”

“Whitaker,” you said gently.

He stopped.

You softened your voice because none of this was his fault. “I’m okay.”

He nodded too quickly, obviously unconvinced. “Okay. Good. That’s good.”

Then he fled.

Javadi did not ask if you were fine.

You appreciated that.

She appeared beside your station, set down the discharge papers you needed, and said, “I put the transport confirmation on top.”

You looked at her. “Thank you.”

Her eyes held yours for one second longer than usual. “Also, I corrected the printer before it made me commit a felony.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Javadi’s mouth twitched, but her eyes stayed serious.

Then she said, “For the record, I think you were moving fast enough.”

The laugh died somewhere warm and painful.

You looked back at the papers. “Thanks.”

She nodded and walked away.

McKay waited the longest, which meant when she finally came over, you knew she had been deciding whether to say anything at all. She stood on the other side of the desk, arms crossed, gaze sharp enough to cut through the monitor.

“I need you to know,” she said, “that if you decide to file something, I will back you up.”

You froze.

Only for a second.

Long enough.

McKay noticed.

Of course she did.

“I’m not saying you have to,” she added. “I’m saying you wouldn’t be alone.”

The words settled around you strangely.

You wouldn’t be alone.

There were sentences people said when they wanted to be kind that somehow made you feel more exposed than cruelty ever had.

You swallowed. “I’m not filing anything.”

“I figured you’d say that.”

“I just want to finish the shift.”

“I figured you’d say that too.”

You looked at her then, really looked, and found no pity on her face. Only anger, contained and directed firmly away from you. You liked that better. Pity made you feel like an exhibit. Anger, at least, gave the shame somewhere else to go.

“I’m fine,” you said again.

McKay’s expression did not change. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I am.”

“Okay.”

She clearly did not believe you.

She let you have it anyway.

By the time Dana approached, you had finished the remaining charts, called one family member, checked on Mrs. Halpern again, and successfully convinced yourself that the shift could still be completed through sheer mechanical competence. You had a list. Lists helped. Tasks helped. Anything with boxes to tick and instructions to follow helped.

Dana did not interrupt you immediately.

She came to stand at the end of your workstation, close enough that you knew she was there but not so close that you felt cornered. Abbot was with her, a half step behind, quiet as ever. The sight of both of them together made something in your stomach drop.

You gave them the same smile you had given everyone else.

Small. Professional. Fine.

Dana did not smile back.

“You got a minute?” she asked.

You glanced at the board. “I have to check on—”

“Covered,” Abbot said.

You looked at him.

He nodded toward Santos, who was already heading toward your patient’s room with a chart in hand.

Of course.

They had planned this.

Not aggressively. Not unkindly. But still, the knowledge made you want to retreat so hard your skin prickled.

Dana’s voice softened by exactly one degree. “Come with us.”

You could have said no.

Probably.

Maybe.

Instead, you stood.

Your legs felt oddly light beneath you as you followed them away from the desk, away from Robby’s line of sight, away from the centre of the department where the air still seemed to hold the shape of his voice. They did not take you far. Just to the little alcove near the supply room, tucked enough out of the way to offer privacy but close enough that none of you were abandoning the floor.

Dana turned to face you.

Abbot leaned back against the opposite wall, arms folded, silent but attentive.

For one brief, absurd moment, you felt like you were in trouble.

Your shoulders squared automatically.

Dana saw it.

Her expression changed again, that same controlled sadness from earlier moving beneath the surface of her face. Not tears. Not softness exactly. Dana did not do helpless emotion. But something pitying passed through her eyes, wrapped in frustration and restrained fury.

“You are not in trouble,” she said.

The fact that she knew to say it made your throat tighten.

You forced a breath.

“I know.”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

You corrected yourself. “I mean, okay.”

Abbot’s gaze lowered for a second.

Dana folded her arms, not defensively, but like she needed somewhere to put her hands. “I’m going to ask you once, and I want you to give me a real answer.”

You looked at her.

“Are you okay?”

You had given the answer so many times by then that it came almost automatically.

“I’m fine.”

Dana’s face hardened.

Not at you.

Never quite at you.

But close enough that your body noticed.

“No,” she said. “That’s the answer you give because it gets people to stop asking.”

You had no idea what to say to that.

So you said nothing.

Abbot’s voice was quieter. “What happened out there shouldn’t feel normal.”

The words opened something.

Not dramatically. Not like a dam breaking. More like a lock turning in a door you had forgotten was closed.

You looked between them, confused in a way you did not want to be. Because you understood, logically, that Robby should not have yelled. You understood, socially, that public humiliation was bad and that your coworkers were upset because they had witnessed something inappropriate. You understood all of that in the clean, intellectual way you understood lab values and discharge criteria.

What you did not understand was the way they were looking at you.

Like your calm was the injury.

Like your lack of reaction had frightened them more than Robby’s anger.

You shrugged slightly. “It’s not a big deal.”

Dana’s mouth pressed into a thin line.

Abbot went very still.

And because you were tired, because your guard was still half somewhere else, because the day had been long and the sentence seemed factual rather than revealing, you added, “I grew up with a narcissistic parent. I’m used to being screamed at.”

The alcove went silent.

Not ER silent, which was never truly silent. Somewhere nearby, a cart rattled. A call light chimed. Someone laughed too loudly down the hall, unaware that the world had just shifted three feet to the left.

Dana stared at you.

Abbot did too.

You realised, too late, that you had said something wrong.

Or not wrong.

Too much.

The kind of thing that was normal inside your own head because it had lived there for so long, but strange and misshapen once placed in front of other people.

You tried to fix it.

“I mean, not that it was okay,” you said quickly. “I know he shouldn’t have done it. I just mean, I’m fine. Really. That wasn’t even—”

Dana held up one hand.

You stopped.

Her face had changed completely now. Not crumpled. Not tearful. Dana remained Dana, solid and sharp and grounded, but the headstrong certainty of her had turned protective in a way that made you wish you had kept your mouth shut. There was sadness there, yes, but it was not delicate. It was heavy. Practical. The kind of sadness that immediately began looking for who to blame and what to do about it.

“Do not finish that sentence,” she said.

You blinked. “What?”

“Whatever you were about to say.” Her voice was low. “Do not make what he did smaller just because you’ve had worse.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came out.

Abbot looked at you with a quietness that somehow felt like mercy. “That’s not how the scale should work.”

You looked away.

Because that landed.

And because, for the first time since Robby’s voice had risen across the central desk, you felt something inside you try to come back all at once.

{----------------------------------}

Dr. Abbott

Dr. Abbott is by far your easiest target

You compliment him once and discover that the tips of his ears turn pink

It's over for him after that

"Morning, doctor"

"Morning"

"Looking handsome today"

Immediate ear blush

Immediate

He tries so hard to pretend it doesn't affect him

It absolutely affects him

You start dropping compliments at random times just to watch him malfunction

The worst part? He never knows what to say

Not because he doesn't appreciate it

Because by the time he's figured out a response, you've already wandered off looking pleased with yourself

Everyone notices

Especially Dana

{----------------------------------}

Dr. Robby

Dr. Robby is dangerous because he doesn't get flustered

He gets even

The first time you call him pretty, he simply smiles and keeps walking

The second time, he decides to participate

Which was a mistake

For you

"Need anything else, doctor?"

"Depends"

"On?"

"Whether you're offering"

Then he walks away

You stand there staring after him while your brain attempts to reboot

He thinks it's hilarious

Unfortunately, he's right

By the end of the month, you've accidentally started a competition

Nobody knows who's winning

{----------------------------------}

Dana

Dana treats your flirting the same way she'd treat a mildly annoying weather event

Completely unbothered

"Dana, you're the most beautiful person in this ER"

"I know"

"That wasn't supposed to work"

"And yet"

You never win

Ever

Dana has been dealing with people longer than you've been alive

She sees every compliment coming from three rooms away

{----------------------------------}

Mateo

Mateo immediately starts flirting back

Aggressively

It becomes impossible to tell who's joking anymore

Everyone else regrets it

"Miss me?"

"You left four minutes ago"

"Longest four minutes of my life"

"You're obsessed with me"

"Correct"

Neither of you breaks character

Santos threatens violence at least once a shift

{----------------------------------}

Mel

Mel laughs

Every

Single

Time

You could tell her she's gorgeous

You could tell her she's the highlight of your day

You could tell her she's the reason the sun rises every morning

Mel would just start laughing

Which somehow makes you try harder

The smile she gets afterwards is always worth it

{----------------------------------}

Santos

Santos reacts to flirting the way a suspicious stray cat reacts to affection

Deep distrust

Immediate concern

"You're pretty"

"What do you want?"

"Nothing"

"Liar"

The thing is—

Santos secretly finds you funny

She just refuses to give you the satisfaction of knowing that

The occasional smirk is all you get

{----------------------------------}

Whitaker

Whitaker is a disaster

A complete disaster

The easiest person in the ER to fluster

You tell him he looks nice one time and the poor man nearly forgets his own name

"I like your hair"

"My—"

"Your hair"

"Right"

Long pause

"I have hair"

You have to physically walk away because laughing in his face feels mean

Santos never lets him live it down

{----------------------------------}

Ellis

Ellis acts like she's immune

She's not

She just refuses to give you the reaction you're looking for

Which somehow makes you more determined

"You look nice today"

"I always look nice"

"Confident"

"Accurate"

The two of you spend most conversations trying to outsmart each other

It's less flirting and more verbal sparring

Neither of you would admit how much fun you're having

{----------------------------------}

McKay

McKay notices what you're doing immediately

Immediately

She spends an entire shift watching you work your way around the ER

Then eventually corners you

"So"

"So?"

"You flirt with everybody?"

"Not everybody"

"Everybody"

She starts listing names

Unfortunately, she's correct

You have no defence

{----------------------------------}

Javadi

Javadi is somehow even worse than Whitaker

At least Whitaker eventually recovers

Javadi just freezes

Entirely

"You're adorable"

Silence

"Javadi?"

More silence

You can physically see her trying to process what just happened

After that she becomes deeply suspicious of every compliment you give her

Which only makes you want to give her more

{----------------------------------}

The ER's General Opinion

After a while, everyone figures out that you flirt with literally everyone

Nobody is safe

Not the doctors

Not the nurses

Not the med students

Not the attendings

Eventually people start keeping score

Nobody knows what the score means

Only that Whitaker is losing

Horribly

The only person who genuinely seems to enjoy the chaos as much as you do?

Robby

Which becomes concerning

Yet there you were. Completely oblivious. Windows down. Singing. Not quietly, either. Full commitment. The kind of singing reserved for people who thought nobody was listening.

Robby recognised the song almost immediately. ABBA. Of course it was ABBA.

He almost laughed. Then the light stayed red a little longer. And he started paying attention to the words. You were drumming your fingers against the steering wheel as the chorus approached, completely invested. Completely unaware.

And somewhere between one traffic light and the next, Robby's amusement faded. Because suddenly he wasn't hearing a cheerful old song anymore. He was hearing the words. The ones about sorrow. The ones about hopelessness. The ones about being someone's shoulder to cry on. The ones promising that pain eventually ends. That the sun is still in the sky. That someday you'll sing again.

And for reasons he couldn't entirely explain, those lyrics lodged themselves somewhere uncomfortable. Somewhere he'd spent a long time trying not to look.

By the time you pulled into the hospital parking structure, he'd convinced himself he was being ridiculous. It was just a song. Nothing more. Nothing less. Still.

The words stayed with him. All morning. Through patient charts. Through consultations. Through interrupted lunches and overflowing trauma bays. Through every moment he usually managed to bury himself in work. They lingered. Persistent. Annoying. Refusing to leave.

I'm a shoulder you can cry on.

Robby hated that line most of all. Not because it was wrong. Because he couldn't remember the last time he'd let anyone be that for him.

{----------------------------------}

By mid-afternoon, exhaustion had settled into his bones. The familiar kind. The dangerous kind. The kind that made everything feel heavier. The kind he'd gotten very good at hiding.

He was staring at a chart when he heard your voice from down the hall. Laughing about something. Completely normal. Completely unaware that you'd spent the entire day living rent-free inside his head because of a forty-year-old ABBA song. The realization was embarrassing. And somehow that made it worse.

{----------------------------------}

He found you later near one of the quieter corridors. Not entirely on purpose. At least that's what he told himself.

"Got a minute?"

You looked up immediately.

"Sure."

The concern appeared almost instantly. Subtle. But there. Something in his face must have given him away. Because your smile softened.

"Everything okay?"

The question should have been easy to answer. Instead, silence stretched between you. For one second. Then two. Then three. Long enough that your expression shifted completely.

The joking ease disappearing. Replacing itself with quiet attention. The kind doctors usually gave patients. The kind friends gave each other. The kind he'd spent years avoiding.

"I heard your music this morning."

Your eyebrows rose.

"My music?"

"The ABBA."

A surprised laugh escaped you.

"Oh God."

For the first time all day, the corner of Robby's mouth twitched.

"You were singing."

"I was having a private concert."

"With the windows down."

"Details."

The laugh faded. The silence returned. And somehow it became easier. Just enough.

"I kept thinking about the lyrics."

You blinked. Then waited. Not interrupting. Not rushing him. Just waiting.

"I don't know why."

Another pause.

"I guess..."

His jaw tightened. The next words felt impossibly heavy.

"I guess I'm tired."

Your expression didn't change.

"Okay."

Not dismissive. Not alarmed. Just listening.

"I mean really tired."

You nodded slowly. Still listening. Still giving him space. Robby stared at the floor. At the scuffed hospital tiles. Anywhere but your face.

"There are days I wake up and I don't want to be here."

The confession landed between you. Raw. Terrifying. Honest. The kind of honesty he almost never allowed himself.

When he finally looked up, he expected shock. Fear. Discomfort. Instead, he found something much simpler. Compassion.

"You've been carrying that alone?"

The question nearly broke him. Because there was no judgement in it. Only sadness. Only concern. Only the quiet realisation of how long he'd been struggling by himself.

And for the first time in a very long time, Robby found himself nodding.

{----------------------------------}

You didn't try to fix him. That was what he remembered later. You didn't rush to fill the silence. You didn't offer miracle solutions. You didn't tell him everything would magically be okay. You just stayed. You listened. You reminded him that being exhausted wasn't weakness. That needing help wasn't failure. That the people who cared about him would rather know than lose him.

And when he finally admitted he wasn't sure how much longer he could keep carrying everything alone, you told him something simple. Something that sounded suspiciously like the song he'd heard that morning.

"You don't have to carry it alone anymore."

A paper cup of water sits untouched beside him, his hands folded in his lap as people hurry past. Every time somebody brushes too close, he shifts his feet out of the way. Every time a nurse passes, he offers a small smile that usually goes unnoticed beneath the overgrown beard covering most of his face.

He's easy to miss.

Which somehow makes him impossible to ignore.

You see him a few times throughout the day. Catch glimpses of him whenever you pass through the waiting area. By the third or fourth time, you find yourself slowing down.

The hair is long.

Not dirty exactly.

Just neglected.

The beard too.

Months of not having access to much more than the basics.

And every now and then, you catch him absently tugging at a knot in his hair before immediately dropping his hand, as if embarrassed he'd been caught.

The last time you walk by, he happens to glance at his reflection in the dark screen of a switched-off television.

Only for a second.

Then he looks away.

Something about that sticks with you.

{----------------------------------}

"You ever think about getting a haircut?"

The question slips out before you've fully thought it through.

Digby blinks.

"What?"

You gesture vaguely.

"The hair."

His face immediately reddens.

Not defensive.

Just embarrassed.

"Oh."

The reaction is so unexpectedly shy that you immediately feel guilty.

"No, no. I didn't mean it like that."

A nervous laugh escapes him.

"I know it's a mess."

"It isn't a mess."

His expression suggests he doesn't believe you.

It takes a surprising amount of convincing. Not because he doesn't want one. Because he clearly can't understand why you'd offer.

"You don't gotta do that."

"It's really not a big deal."

"Feels like a big deal."

You smile.

"Then let me do something nice."

The words seem to catch him off guard. Like he's not entirely sure what to do with them.

Eventually, he agrees. Though he continues looking unconvinced right up until you're draping a towel around his shoulders.

{----------------------------------}

The ER, unsurprisingly, continues functioning around you.

Patients still arrive.

Phones still ring.

Monitors still beep.

Nobody really has time to stop and watch.

But people notice.

How could they not?

A few heads turn when they pass.

A couple of curious glances.

Nothing more.

Most of them probably assume you're simply helping a patient clean up.

{----------------------------------}

Digby talks more than you'd expected while you work.

Not constantly.

Just little things.

Stories that seem to emerge the more comfortable he becomes.

You learn about jobs he used to work.

Places he's lived.

A dog he once had that he still misses.

The conversation drifts easily.

And slowly, almost without realizing it, his shoulders begin to relax.

{----------------------------------}

"You used to do this professionally?" he asks at one point.

"No."

"You sure?"

You laugh.

"Very sure."

"Could've fooled me."

{----------------------------------}

By the time you're trimming his beard, the nervousness has mostly disappeared.

Not entirely.

Just enough that he's smiling more.

Enough that he occasionally cracks a joke.

Enough that he stops apologizing every five minutes.

{----------------------------------}

When you finally finish, you hand him a mirror.

For a moment he simply stares.

His fingers come up to touch his jaw.

Then his hair.

Then his jaw again.

Like he's checking whether it's actually real.

The smile appears slowly.

Softly.

The kind of smile that starts in the eyes.

"Oh."

Your chest tightens.

"You like it?"

He looks at you.

Actually looks at you.

And nods.

"Yeah."

A small laugh escapes him.

"Yeah, I really do."

{----------------------------------}

The rest of the shift passes.

You don't think much more about it.

Until later.

{----------------------------------}

"That was nice."

You glance up from a chart.

Dana is standing beside the desk.

"What's that?"

"The haircut."

Then she walks away before you can answer.

{----------------------------------}

A couple hours later, Abbott appears beside you while reviewing labs.

"Digby seems happier."

You blink.

Abbott shrugs.

Then immediately returns to reading.

As though he hadn't said anything at all.

{----------------------------------}

Even Santos comments.

Though in the most Santos way possible.

"You made him look presentable."

You stare.

"Thank you?"

"Don't get used to it."

{----------------------------------}

The comment that sticks with you most comes from Robby.

Not because it's particularly dramatic.

Because it isn't.

It's the end of the shift.

The department has finally quieted enough for everyone to breathe.

You happen to spot Digby on his way out.

Clean-shaven.

Hair neatly trimmed.

Head held just a little higher than it had been that morning.

A subtle difference.

But noticeable.

Robby follows your gaze.

"He looks different."

You smile.

"The haircut helped."

Robby shakes his head.

"No."

His eyes remain on Digby for another second.

Thoughtful.

Then he looks back at you.

"The haircut wasn't the important part."

And before you can ask what he means, he's already moving toward his next patient.

Leaving you standing there.

Watching Digby disappear through the doors with a small smile on his face.

Not in a normal way, either.

No.

In a heart skipping, thoughts evaporating, face heating so fast you could probably be used as a warming device kind of way.

The first time it happened, you’d barely registered it.

A packed trauma bay, too many bodies moving at once, monitors beeping incessantly in the background.

You’d stepped exactly where you shouldn’t have, and suddenly there had been a warm hand on your shoulder and Dr. Robby’s calm voice at your side.

“Ah-ah. Not there.”

He’d turned you with easy efficiency, guiding you neatly out of a nurse’s path without even looking directly at you.

Entirely innocent.

Entirely professional.

And yet somehow your brain had taken that simple interaction, wrapped it in neon lights, and filed it away under important.

The second time had been worse.

“Other side.”

A brief touch between your shoulders.

Gone in seconds.

You had then proceeded to forget the medication you’d been specifically sent to retrieve.

By the third?

You knew this had become a serious personal issue.

“Doctor?”

You blinked.

A resident was staring at you.

Right.

Reality.

“Sorry.”

“Long shift?”

“Something like that.”

You avoided eye contact and kept moving.

What you failed to notice—initially—was that Dr Robby had started noticing too.

It happened during the busiest stretch of the shift.

The ER had descended into its usual controlled chaos; people moving quickly through corridors that suddenly felt too narrow, voices overlapping, overhead pages interrupting thoughts before they formed.

You were attempting to navigate around a crash cart while mentally reviewing patient notes when—

“Ah-ah-ah.”

Warm hands landed lightly on your shoulders.

Not rough. Not even firm.

Just enough pressure to turn you neatly out of someone’s path.

And your brain immediately blue-screened.

Again.

You froze for half a second too long.

Long enough that when you looked up, Dr Robby was already watching you.

Not confused.

Not concerned.

Interested.

And then you saw it.

That subtle shift in expression.

That tiny spark of amusement.

Oh no.

No, no, absolutely not.

He couldn’t possibly—

“Go assist with sutures in bay three,” he said smoothly.

Then, just before stepping away, his hand gave your shoulder the briefest squeeze.

“Try to stay with us.”

Oh, he knew.

You wanted the floor to open.

Instead, the universe chose cruelty.

Because once Dr Robby knew?

He became absolutely unbearable.

Suddenly, every correction involved touch.

Things that could have easily been communicated verbally somehow required physical intervention.

“Not that chart.”

A hand at your shoulder.

“You’re with me.”

A light guiding touch at your back.

“Other side.”

Fingers briefly curling around your upper arm.

Every single time, your thoughts dissolved into static.

It wasn’t fair.

He was a grown man. A doctor. A professional.

Surely he had better things to do than psychologically torture one medical student for sport.

And yet.

Halfway through shift, while you were reaching for something entirely correctly, a familiar voice sounded beside you.

“Ah-ah.”

You closed your eyes.

“No.”

A warm hand landed on your shoulder.

“Actually—”

“No,” you repeated, opening your eyes to glare at him. “I reject this.”

One of his eyebrows lifted.

“Reject what?”

“This.”

You gestured vaguely between the two of you.

“The unnecessary redirecting. The touching. The—”

“The touching?”

His expression was criminally neutral.

“Yes.”

“I physically direct people all the time.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

You hated how innocent he sounded.

“You know exactly what.”

“Do I?”

Oh, he was enjoying this.

That was the worst part.

You opened your mouth, immediately realised you had no dignified way to explain yourself, and shut it again.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then—because clearly humiliation was the theme of your day—he stepped closer.

Not enough to be inappropriate.

Just enough that you noticed.

Both hands settled lightly on your shoulders.

Entirely professional.

Entirely devastating.

Your thoughts ceased functioning.

“There,” he said quietly, watching your expression with far too much satisfaction. “That.”

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Use your words.”

You stared at him.

Then, because honesty had violently abandoned you, managed a weak:

“Oh my God.”

That did it.

He actually smiled.

Not a polite little amused expression.

A real smile.

Warm. Brief. Devastating.

“Thought so.”

And then—because apparently destroying your nervous system wasn’t enough—he stepped back like nothing had happened.

“Come find me when you’re ready to admit it.”

Then walked away.

Just left you standing there.

Non-functional.

While a passing nurse took one look at your face and said—

You’ll be sitting at breakfast, halfway through your food, when the back of your neck starts prickling with that unmistakable feeling of being watched. You glance up, slow and careful, and sure enough—there she is. Across the pavilion, elbow on the table, staring straight at you like she’s trying to figure out how easily you’d snap in half if she decided to test it.

The first time it happens, you freeze.

The second, you look away quickly.

By the third, you force yourself to hold her gaze for a second longer than feels safe.

Clarisse doesn’t look away.

She just keeps staring.

Like she’s waiting.

For what, you have no idea.

It continues like that for days.

At the training arena, you’ll be practicing with a sword, trying to focus on your footwork, when the same feeling creeps up your spine. You glance to the side, and there she is again, leaning against one of the posts, arms crossed, watching you with that same intense, unreadable expression.

If you mess up, she clicks her tongue.

If you recover, she nods once, sharp and approving, before pretending she wasn’t paying attention at all.

At the campfire, it’s worse.

You’ll be sitting with a few other campers, half-listening to whatever story is being told, when you feel it again—that weight, that focus, that impossible-to-ignore presence—and when you turn your head, Clarisse is there, standing just outside the circle of light, her face half-shadowed and her eyes fixed on you like you’re the only thing worth looking at.

It’s unsettling.

Not because she looks like she’s about to hurt you.

But because she doesn’t.

Clarisse La Rue looks at most people like she’s already decided they’re not worth the effort.

She looks at you like she hasn’t decided anything at all.

And somehow, that’s worse.

You try to ignore it.

You really do.

You tell yourself she’s just making sure you don’t go running your mouth about what you saw in the Ares cabin. About the hoodie. At the moment, she didn’t look like she had all the answers.

It makes sense.

Clarisse doesn’t trust easily. Everyone knows that.

This is probably her version of a warning.

A silent, looming, ever-present reminder that she’s watching you, that she knows where you are, that you’d better keep your promise.

It’s intimidating.

It’s effective.

And after nearly a week of it, it’s also incredibly annoying.

Because she doesn’t say anything.

Not once.

No threats. No insults. No actual confrontation.

Just—

Staring.

Watching.

Hovering at the edges of your space like a storm that refuses to break.

You catch her outside the cabins one afternoon, leaning against the wall like she’s been there for a while. The moment your eyes meet, she straightens slightly, like she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t be.

But instead of walking over, instead of saying anything at all—

She just… looks at you.

Again.

That’s when something in you snaps.

Not dramatically. Not loudly.

Just enough.

You change direction mid-step and walk straight toward her.

Clarisse’s posture shifts immediately, her shoulders squaring like she’s preparing for impact, her chin lifting in that familiar defensive angle.

Good.

Let her brace.

You stop a few feet in front of her, close enough that she can’t pretend this is accidental, close enough that walking away now would mean something.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Clarisse’s gaze flickers over your face, searching, cautious in a way she’d probably deny if anyone pointed it out.

“What,” she says finally, her voice sharp enough to cut, “do you want.”

You blink at her.

Then you laugh.

It’s not mean, just disbelieving, a little breathless with the sheer absurdity of it all.

“What do I want?” you repeat. “Clarisse, you’ve been staring at me like you’re planning my funeral for the past week.”

Her eyes narrow instantly. “I have not.”

“Oh, you absolutely have.”

“I don’t—” she cuts herself off, jaw tightening. “I look at people. That’s normal.”

“Not like that,” you shoot back. “Not like you’re trying to set me on fire with your brain.”

Clarisse scoffs, but there’s something off about it—less confident, more… defensive.

“If you’re scared,” she says, folding her arms like that settles the matter, “you can just say that.”

“I’m not scared,” you reply immediately, stepping closer without thinking, because if she’s going to push, you’re going to push back. “I’m annoyed.”

That gets her attention.

Clarisse straightens fully now, her gaze sharpening as it locks onto yours. “Annoyed.”

“Yes, annoyed,” you repeat, gesturing vaguely in her direction. “Because if this is your way of trying to intimidate me into keeping quiet about your—” you lower your voice slightly, glancing around before continuing, “—your soft side, it’s overkill.”

Her entire body stills.

Not in the way she does before a fight.

In the way something freezes when it’s been hit directly.

“My what,” she says slowly.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair, the frustration finally spilling over now that you’ve started. “The hoodie, Clarisse. The fact that you’re not just—” you wave your hand, searching for the word, “—all of that all the time.”

Her expression does something complicated.

For a second, it looks like anger.

Then it flickers into something else. Something sharper. Something almost… panicked.

“I’m not trying to scare you,” she snaps, a little too quickly, like the words have been sitting just under the surface, waiting for an excuse to come out.

You blink.

“…What?”

Clarisse’s jaw clenches.

Her hands flex at her sides, like she’s trying to grab onto something that isn’t there.

“I said I’m not trying to scare you,” she repeats, louder this time, like that’ll make it easier to believe. “I don’t—” she cuts herself off again, clearly irritated now, her gaze darting away for half a second before snapping back to you. “That’s not—what I was doing.”

You stare at her.

Because that… doesn’t make sense.

“Then what were you doing?” you ask, your voice softer now, confusion bleeding into it despite yourself.

Clarisse opens her mouth.

Closes it.

Opens it again, like she’s about to say something measured, something controlled—

Instead, what comes out is—

“I like you.”

The words hit the air like a thrown weapon.

Sharp. Fast. Impossible to take back.

Silence crashes down immediately after.

Your brain stalls.

Completely.

Because—

What.

Clarisse seems to realize what she just said about half a second too late.

Her eyes widen, just barely, and then her entire expression slams shut, defensive walls snapping back into place so fast it’s almost impressive.

“I mean—” she starts, voice rough, already backtracking, already trying to bury it, “—you’re—useful. You don’t—run your mouth. That’s—what I meant.”

You don’t move.

You don’t speak.

You just look at her.

Clarisse shifts under the weight of it, visibly uncomfortable now, her shoulders tightening like she’s bracing for impact.

“Don’t make it weird,” she mutters.

That’s when you reach out.

It’s not planned. Not thought through.

Your hand just moves, fingers closing around her wrist before she can step back, before she can put distance between you and whatever just happened.

Clarisse goes completely still.

Not resisting.

Not pulling away.

Just… frozen.

Her gaze drops to where you’re holding her, then lifts back up to your face, something uncertain flickering in her eyes in a way that doesn’t match anything else about her.

You step closer.

Close enough now that there’s no space left for misunderstanding.

“Clarisse,” you say, your voice quieter, steadier than you feel, “if you like someone…”

She tenses at the word.

“…you’re allowed to just talk to them,” you continue, softer now. “You don’t have to stand across the arena and stare like you’re about to declare war.”

Her mouth opens.

Closes.

For once, Clarisse La Rue has absolutely nothing to say.

You can see it—the confusion, the embarrassment, the unfamiliar territory of not knowing how to fight your way through something.

And for a second, she looks younger.

Not weaker.

Just… less certain.

You squeeze her wrist gently, grounding, not restraining.

“I wouldn’t mind,” you add, a small smile tugging at your lips, “if you actually came over and talked to me.”

Clarisse stares at you.

Really stares.

Like she’s trying to figure out if this is a trick. Like she’s waiting for the moment you laugh, or pull away, or prove that this was all a mistake.

You don’t.

You just stay.

And something in her finally… shifts.

Not all the way.

Not completely.

But enough.

You lean in before you can overthink it.

It’s quick.

Soft.

A brief press of your lips against her cheek.

For a second, Clarisse doesn’t react at all.

Doesn’t move.

Doesn’t breathe.

Doesn’t even blink.

Then you pull back.

And just like that, the moment breaks.

Clarisse jerks like she’s just been struck, her hand flying up to her cheek, her eyes wide in a way that’s almost comical if it wasn’t so her.

“What—” she starts, voice cracking slightly before she forces it steady, “—what was that.”

You grin, unable to stop it now.

“That,” you say lightly, “was me being less subtle than you.”

Her face goes red.

Actually red.

Not from sunburn, not from anger.

From something else entirely.

She scowls immediately, like that’ll fix it. “That was—stupid.”

“Mm,” you hum, already stepping back, giving her space before she can panic and bolt. “Maybe.”

Clarisse glares at you.

But it’s weaker now. Less sharp around the edges.

“…Don’t do that again without warning,” she mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. “So I can do it with warning?”

Her brain visibly short-circuits.

“I didn’t say that.”

You grin wider. “You kind of did.”

She groans, dragging a hand down her face like she’s reconsidering every decision that led her here. “You’re impossible.”

“And you,” you shoot back, turning to leave before you can say something worse—or better—“are terrible at talking to people.”

“Hey—”

You glance over your shoulder.

Clarisse is still standing there, one hand hovering near her cheek, her expression caught somewhere between annoyed and completely thrown off.

“You’re improving, though,” you add, softer this time.

She huffs, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“…Next time,” she mutters, almost to herself, “I’ll just—come over.”

You smile.

“Good.”

And as you walk away, you can feel it again—that weight, that attention, that presence behind you.

But this time, it’s different.

Less like a warning.

More like something trying, awkwardly and stubbornly, to stay close.

Which was how you’d ended up on an examination bed in one of those awful hospital gowns, hair a mess, dignity somewhere on the side of the road with your poor car.

Dr Abbott stepped back through the curtain, tablet in hand, looking unfairly composed.

Well. Mostly composed.

“Any nausea? Dizziness? Pain worsening?”

“Only emotionally.”

His mouth twitched.

Small victory.

He set the tablet aside, pulling on gloves with practised efficiency. “I’m going to need to examine your abdomen, just to check for tenderness.”

You sighed dramatically. “Wow.”

His brow furrowed. “...What?”

“At least buy me dinner first.”

The silence that followed was glorious.

For one beautiful second, Dr Abbott completely short-circuited.

You watched it happen in real time—the blink, the frozen posture, the immediate bloom of pink crawling up from beneath his collar.

Oh.

Oh, this was so much better than expected.

“Sorry,” you said, absolutely not sounding sorry. “Humour is my coping mechanism.”

The flush only deepened.

Not just his cheeks now—his neck had gone red too, and if you craned just enough, you could see the tips of his ears turning pink.

“Right,” he cleared his throat, very pointedly focusing anywhere but your face. “That’s… good to know.”

“Is it?”

“No.”

You grinned.

He pressed tentative fingers against your side. “Tell me if this hurts.”

“Only because you rejected me.”

That actually made him huff out a laugh—quick, quiet, reluctant.

“Please,” he muttered, “I’m trying to be a professional.”

“Mm.” You tilted your head. “You’re blushing like I just proposed.”

His hand paused for half a second.

Got him.

“Abdominal tenderness?” he asked, voice tighter now.

“Crippling attraction.”

“Not a medical term.”

“Could be.”

Dr Abbot finally looked at you then, properly, with that exhausted, I am dealing with a menace expression that somehow only made him more attractive.

And despite himself—despite the blush, the professional restraint, the fact that you were actively making his job harder—there was unmistakable amusement in his eyes.

“Good news,” he said, stepping back once the exam was done. “I’m fairly certain you’ll survive.”

You smiled sweetly. “So dinner is still on the table?”

The look he gave you was thoroughly unimpressed.