wade :)

--- --- ---

You:

You absolute asshole.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

:( 

Fuckface Robinavitch:

That’s a very aggressive opening.

You:

You gave Mara your number WITH MY CHANEL LIPSTICK?!!!!!

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Hmmmmm?

Fuckface Robinavitch:

My number?

Fuckface Robinavitch:

My, that was clearly an accident. Really. I just wanted to try out your lipstick. Honest mistake.

You:

I’m going to kill you.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

In my defense, your lipstick writes beautifully.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Very smooth application.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Strong pigmentation.

You:

Of course! IT’S FUCKING CHANEL YOU DIPSHIT! YOU OWE ME 70 DOLLARS NOW!

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Worth it. I’ll venmo it to you.

You:

I will chop your dick off.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Wow.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

That escalated quickly.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

You’re hurting my feelings here.

You:

I am DEAD serious.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Listen, if she ever needs medical advice, now she has unlimited access to a very competent (and handsome) doctor.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

:) 

You:

Why would she need that?!! She’s a principal at an elementary school.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Really? I didn’t know that.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

But even principals require medical attention occasionally.

You:

Michael.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

:( 

You:

If you try to flirt with her again I swear to god…

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Counterpoint:

Fuckface Robinavitch:

She laughed at my jokes.

You:

EVERYONE laughs at your jokes. You’re like a slightly emotionally deranged golden retriever.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

That’s genuinely the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me

Fuckface Robinavitch:

:) 

You:

FOCUS!

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Okay okay.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

For the record - I was very respectful.

You:

You literally asked her if she wanted to “hit the sack” with you.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

And she said no.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

And I accepted it.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

See? Respectful.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

<<< consent-focused king

You:

…

You:

I hope someone reports you to HR and chops your dick off afterwards.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Reports me to HR? For flirting with a woman who does not work at my hospital?

Fuckface Robinavitch:

In my free time?

Fuckface Robinavitch:

I’d LOVE to hear that conversation actually.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

I’d pay for that conversation to happen.

You:

I hate you.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

No, you don’t.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Also you should know something

You:

WHAT.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

She smells really nice.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Really really nice.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

That scent will be amazing on my sheets.

You:

THAT’S IT. I’M CUTTING IT OFF PERSONALLY.

Fuckface Robinavitch:

Goodnight to you too <3

--- --- ---

You wanna keep reading? - Inter-Interlude: Your best friend is completely unhinged

--- --- ---

CENTRAL 14 — DAY

Ahmad is right behind Robby.

“Move, move, move, move, move, move, move, move!”

Robby pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning—assessing, calculating. “What the hell happened?”

Dana doesn’t look up from Curtis, breathless but controlled. “He attacked Ducky and Emma, so I gave him a shot to settle him down.”

Robby’s attention snaps to Emma. “Are you all right?”

“Let’s see,” Perlah says, already checking her over.

Curtis grunts as he’s forced back onto the bed, restraints securing his wrists and legs this time. He thrashes weakly, the medication beginning to take hold.

Robby’s gaze flicks to the blood. “How did he get a bloody nose?”

Dana answers without missing a beat. “He slipped.”

Then—

A sound.

Not loud; subdued and restrained.

But it cuts through everything.

A broken, desperate cough.

Robby turns.

And sees you.

On your knees. Folded in on yourself. Gasping like every breath is a fight you’re not sure you’re winning.

Everything in him drops.

“Can I see?” he asks, already moving.

Perlah answers quickly, voice tight with what she just witnessed. “He had her in a headlock. Then he was choking Ducky.”

The words hit like a physical blow.

Something in Robby shifts. It’s not loud, and it doesn’t show in any obvious way. No raised voice. No sudden movement.

Just a sharp, internal shift.

His jaw sets. His shoulders square—too still. And for a fraction of a second, the math runs in his head—clinical, automatic, terrifying. Airway compression, Carotid pressure, Time.

How long it takes... How little it would’ve taken.

His stomach drops. Not because he doesn’t understand what happened—

But because he does.

Because he knows exactly how close that line was.

And he wasn’t there.

A quiet, simmering anger curls under his ribs—at Curtis, at the situation, at the fact that this happened in his department—

At himself.

It doesn’t have anywhere to go.

So he moves.

Across the room in seconds, cutting through the noise, the bodies, the aftermath. He drops down in front of you, controlled but urgent, like he’s trying to close the distance that shouldn’t have existed in the first place.

You flinch.

Hard.

It’s immediate—your body reacting before your mind can catch up, shoulders pulling back, breath hitching.

Robby freezes.

Not fully—but enough.

Enough to see it, and enough for it to land.

His expression shifts instantly, something tightening in his chest as he registers it—not as rejection, but as evidence. Of what you just went through. Of how close you still are to it.

His hands ease, lowering slightly, voice softening in contrast to everything around you.

“Hey—”

Gentler now.

“It’s me.”

Not a command— not a reassurance he expects you to take right away.

Just something steady. Something familiar. Something you can choose to believe when your body finally catches up.

His voice softening instantly, grounding, careful. “Hey—hey… I won’t hurt you.”

A beat.

“It’s me. It’s Robby.”

Your vision is still blurred, tears clinging to your lashes, your throat aching with every breath. You try to focus on him—on his face, on something familiar.

A small, broken sound escapes you.

Not quite a sob. Not quite a word.

Just pain.

Robby shifts closer, but slower this time, deliberate—giving you space, letting you see him. One hand hovers near your shoulder before finally settling there, light, steady.

He angles himself slightly, shielding you from the chaos behind him. From Curtis. From the noise. From everything.

“Easy,” he murmurs. “You’re okay. You’re okay. Just breathe.”

Your chest stutters again, another cough tearing through you. He steadies you instinctively, his hand firm but gentle at your back.

“In through your nose,” he coaches quietly. “Slow. That’s it.”

You try.

God, you try.

Your hands grip onto his scrub top without thinking, fingers twisting into the fabric like it’s the only solid thing in a world that just nearly slipped away.

“Robby—” your voice is wrecked, barely there. “You need to check on Emma, she—”

“I’ve got her,” Perlah calls from behind him.

Robby doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even look away.

His eyes stay locked on you.

Not just looking—assessing.

Your pupils. Your breathing pattern. The way your chest rises—too fast, too shallow. The faint, angry flush already forming beneath your jaw where Curtis’s fingers had been. He watches for asymmetry, for stridor, for anything that would tell him your airway is about to betray you.

He counts your breaths without saying it out loud.

But beneath it— something fractures.

Fear.

Raw and immediate. The kind that doesn’t belong in an environment like this; the kind that doesn’t fit inside protocol or training or years of experience.

Because this isn’t just a patient.

This is you.

“I’m right here,” he says, quieter now. Not for the room—for you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His thumb brushes against your arm—light, careful, like he’s testing whether you’re solid. Like he needs the confirmation. The warmth of your skin, the slight tremor in your muscles, the fact that you’re still here, still responsive, still breathing.

You feel it.

That steadiness, a promise.

And God—you want to believe him.

So you do.

For now.

You let your grip tighten in his scrub top, grounding yourself in something that feels unshakeable. Something that feels like it won’t slip through your fingers the second you look away.

Because right now, he’s here.

Right now, he’s choosing to stay in front of you instead of turning back to the rest of the room. To the chaos, and the responsibilities waiting for him just a few feet away.

But you know him.

You know the way his mind works—how it pulls him in a dozen directions at once, how duty always wins, how he gives and gives until there’s nothing left of him to give at all.

You know this moment—

This closeness.

It isn’t something he knows how to keep.

Your throat tightens, not from the injury this time, but from something quieter. Something that settles in your chest and lingers there.

Because when he says it—

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s not a lie.

Not exactly.

It’s just… temporary, and maybe that’s worse.

In the room, Curtis lets out a muffled groan, restrained now, the medication finally taking hold. Monitors continue their steady rhythm. Perlah’s voice carries softly as she reassures Emma.

Life moves— the ER doesn’t stop, and neither does he.

But still, his hand doesn’t leave your arm.

His eyes don’t leave your face.

Not yet.

Not while your breathing is still uneven. Not while your voice is still gone. Not while there’s even the smallest chance that something could go wrong.

You swallow, wincing slightly as your throat protests, your voice coming out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Michael…”

It’s enough.

He leans in just slightly, close enough that you don’t have to strain. Close enough that you don’t feel like you’re losing him just yet.

“I’m here,” he answers immediately.

And for a fleeting, fragile moment—

You are.

Still breathing, and still his to worry about.

CENTRAL 14 — DAY

It takes a moment.

Longer than you’d like to admit.

Your breathing is still uneven, throat raw, every swallow a quiet sting. The world feels a half-second behind itself, like you’re catching up to something that already almost happened.

Robby doesn’t rush you.

His hand stays steady at your elbow as you push yourself upright, your legs unsteady for a moment before they remember how to hold you.

“Easy,” he murmurs—low, meant just for you.

You nod, even if it’s more instinct than certainty.

He watches you for one more second—long enough to be sure you won’t drop—before he turns back toward the room, slipping seamlessly back into command.

“Okay, are we all good in here?”

Ahmad is already at the bedside with the others, Curtis fully restrained now, still groaning under the weight of the sedative.

“Oh, yeah, boss, we got this.”

Robby gives a short nod, but his eyes flick once more to you—quick, checking—before he guides you out into the hallway.

The noise hits differently out here.

Quieter and controlled. But your ears are still ringing faintly, your body still riding the tail end of adrenaline.

Emma stands near the wall with Dana, shaken but upright.

Robby steps in front of her immediately. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

Emma exhales shakily. “Uh, I think so.”

“Okay, good. Come.”

He gestures subtly, guiding all three of you a few steps away from the room—out of the direct line of sight.

Space to think.

“So what exactly happened?” he asks, voice steady again—but tighter now, threaded with something restrained.

Dana answers without hesitation. “He grabbed Emma and put her in a chokehold. Ducky managed to get her out. Then he tackled Ducky to the ground and put his hands around her neck. I ran in and gave him a shot.”

Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, “Right. And did he slip before or after the shot?”

“Before.”

Emma nods, still trying to piece it together. “Yeah, he had me in a headlock, then I called out for help. I didn’t see what happened.”

Silence falls.

You’re there—but not fully.

Your eyes blink slowly, like your body is recalibrating. Your throat aches with every breath, voice caught somewhere you can’t quite reach yet. The skin around your neck is already darkening, the imprint of fingers beginning to surface.

Robby looks at you.

Just for a second.

But it lingers, then he turns back to Dana. “What did you give him?”

“Four milligrams of Versed.”

“Who wrote the order?”

“I had it in my pocket. I was on my way to waste it when shit went sideways.”

Robby gives her a look—sharp, assessing.

Dana meets it immediately. “What?”

He exhales, tension threading through his posture. “Okay, so now he’s altered from alcohol, Versed, and a head trauma. Now he’s gonna need a head CT to rule out intracranial bleeding and a fracture.”

Dana’s expression hardens, disbelief flashing across her face. “Would you rather it be Emma with a head injury or Ducky with something worse?”

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

The question hangs there—heavy, unfair, and completely real.

He meets her gaze.

And for a second, it’s not just about protocol.

It’s about you.

“Don’t worry about it,” Dana cuts in before he can respond. “We got this.”

Robby shakes his head. “No, there’s no we here. You need to pass this patient off and report him.”

“Fine.” Dana turns, decisive. “Emma and Ducky, you’re done with this bastard. I’ll handle him now.”

“No, no,” Robby steps in, voice firm now, unmistakably in charge. “This is my emergency department, and I’m telling you to pass it off.”

Dana stiffens immediately. “These are my nurses, and I choose what cases they work, and if you think for one minute I’m putting anyone else from my staff at risk with that asshole, you better give your fucking head a shake.”

Robby lifts his hands slightly—not backing down, but not escalating. A measured pause.

Before anything else can be said, Dana turns sharply, already moving you and Emma along. “Come on. Come on.”

You go, more because your body follows than because your mind does.

As you pass, Samira steps in, catching the tail end of the exchange. Her eyes flick over you—taking in your face, your neck, the way you’re holding yourself.

She gives you a small, reassuring smile before turning to Robby, “MVA coming in.”

Robby nods automatically. “Okay, I’ll be right there. Thank you.”

Just like that, he’s pulled away.

You feel it before you even look. That shift— the invisible line where you stop being the center of his attention and become something he has to trust is stable enough to leave behind.

Behind you, he lifts a hand to his temple, pressing briefly—frustration, stress, too many variables stacking at once.

You swallow carefully, wincing at the burn in your throat, your fingers brushing lightly over the bruising that’s beginning to set in.

You’re still standing and breathing.

But the imprint of it— of his hands around your throat, of Robby’s voice grounding you, of the way he looked at you like you almost—

It lingers.

And even as you’re led away—

A part of you stays.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The ambulance bay doors slide open with force.

Javadi and Whitaker push a gurney in fast—too fast for anything routine. The patient’s chest heaves violently, each breath a fight, a wet, rattling sound that carries even over the noise of the department.

“Drive-in with severe respiratory distress,” Javadi calls out.

“Left-sided dialysis shunt,” Whitaker adds, already moving to reposition the oxygen. “Probable renal failure and fluid overload.”

The smell hits next—uremia, faint but unmistakable.

Robby is there in seconds, slipping into place like he never left the floor. “Have respiratory set up BiPAP.”

“When was his last dialysis?” Al-Hashimi asks, already checking access.

“It was supposed to be yesterday morning,” Mason answers.

Langdon doesn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna need a nitro drip ASAP.”

Robby glances once—quick, assessing—then nods. “You got this?”

“Yeah.”

And just like that, he lets it go—trusting the team, moving on.

Because he has to.

You’re standing near Central, beside Emma, your back lightly pressed against the counter.

Your throat still burns.

Every swallow reminds you. Every breath feels just a little too deliberate. You haven’t said much—haven’t trusted your voice enough to try.

Emma shifts beside you, quieter than usual.

Robby approaches Dana. “Is that the guy who attacked Ducky and Emma? Is he going to CT?”

“Yeah,” Dana answers, clipped. “Ms. Emma and Ducky here needs an H&P.”

Robby nods once, already turning. “Uh, Cassie, can you give Emma here a workup? I’ll do one for Ducky.”

Your head lifts at that.

“You really don’t have to—” you start, voice rough, barely holding.

“Start a chart,” Dana cuts in. “Victim of assault.”

McKay looks up. “Really?”

“I’m fine,” Emma insists, almost reflexive.

Dana doesn’t budge. “He was choking both of you.”

Emma shakes her head slightly. “He had me by the head mostly.”

“You’re both patients now,” Dana says firmly. “Full examine in South 18, McKay, and then Central 9 for Ducky. You both need to make a statement to the police.”

Your stomach twists.

“But we need the beds,” you push, quieter this time, but still there—still thinking like staff, like someone who doesn’t get to stop.

Dana’s look is sharp. Unyielding.

It’s enough.

You exhale, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “Just do mine quickly. We’re understaffed as is.”

“Is that really necessary?” Emma asks, glancing between all of you.

“Yeah,” Robby answers.

“Absolutely,” Dana adds. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there with you.”

“Come on,” McKay says gently, guiding Emma away. “Let’s get you a spot.”

Emma hesitates—but goes.

You stay.

Of course you do.

“Well, your guy just bumped my guy for CT,” Robby says, tension creeping back in.

“Now he’s my guy?” Dana shoots back.

“Duke’s gonna chew me a new one ‘cause he’s been sitting here forever, and I’m never gonna get out of here.”

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

Robby exhales sharply. “You know what? You should care, because if you gave that guy a serious injury with force inflicted from a sedative you are not licensed to prescribe—”

“Anyone else uses force to stop an assault, they’re a hero,” Dana cuts in, anger flaring. “But a nurse does it, and we’re punished.”

“You just happened to have a vial of Versed in your pocket?”

“It was extra from the medics. Good timing, I guess.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. “When we waste a controlled substance, we need a witness to sign off.”

“I was on my way to when I spotted that asshole attacking Ducky,” Dana snaps. “Anything else, Nancy Drew?”

A beat.

“Where you going?” Robby asks.

“Taking a pee,” she fires back, already turning away. “Do I need your permission to do that, too, now?”

She’s gone before he can answer.

The tension lingers in the space she leaves behind.

Robby stands there for a second, shoulders tight, the weight of too many things pressing in at once.

Across from him—

You.

Still quiet.

Still trying to hold yourself together like nothing happened.

His gaze finds you again, softer this time—but heavier, too.

Because now there’s no mess between you.

No immediate crisis to hide behind.

Just the aftermath.

And the fact that you’re supposed to walk away from it like it’s just another shift.

CENTRAL 9 — DAY

The room is quieter than the rest of the department. Not silent—never silent—but contained. The steady hum of overhead lights. The distant rhythm of monitors bleeding in from the hallway. Controlled.

Robby moves through the exam with practiced precision.

“Any dizziness?”

“A little.”

“Vision changes?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Just… pressure.”

Your voice is rough, each word scraped out carefully, like your throat hasn’t decided if it’s safe to cooperate yet.

He notes it. Of course he does.

He checks your pupils—equal, reactive. Fingers light as he follows the line of your jaw, your neck. The bruising is more defined now, mottled beneath the skin, fingerprints beginning to surface in a pattern that makes something in his chest tighten again.

“Swallow for me.”

You do.

You wince.

His eyes flick up instantly. He hears it more than sees it.

“Any trouble breathing now?”

“No.”

“Any hoarseness before this?”

You almost laugh at that—if it didn’t hurt. “No.”

He exhales quietly through his nose, already building the picture in his head. Airway still patent. No immediate stridor. But he’s listening for it anyway—watching your chest, your throat, the way your voice catches.

Always watching.

You sit there, hands in your lap, shoulders slightly hunched—smaller than you usually are. Like your body hasn’t quite come back to itself yet.

He finishes noting something down.

Silence settles.

Until—

“Dana did it to protect me. To protect Emma,” you say, voice low but steady despite everything. “Don’t punish her for it.”

Robby doesn’t look up right away.

“I’m not going to,” he says finally. “But she put herself at risk.”

You swallow, ignoring the burn. “Doing this job every day puts us at risk.”

The words land heavier than they should. Because they’re true, and they’re obvious. Because they don’t change anything.

A beat passes.

“I run the ED,” he says, quieter now, the edge gone but something firmer underneath. “And you’re my friend. I’m supposed to protect you.”

The word friend sits there.

Careful. Measured. Not wrong—but not everything, either.

You meet his gaze. “I never asked you to. And you never asked me if I even wanted you to.”

The air shifts between you—something unspoken pressing at the edges, something neither of you quite names.

You look away first.

“Besides,” you add, softer now, the thought slipping out before you can stop it, “it’s my fault. I should’ve—”

Robby moves before you can finish.

His hand closes around yours—firm, grounding, stopping the spiral where it starts.

“Don’t even start with that.”

“But—”

His other hand comes up, sliding behind your neck—not rough, not forceful, but steady enough that you can’t avoid him. Not after everything that just happened.

“Don’t.”

Your breath catches.

Not from pain this time.

From proximity.

From the way he’s looking at you—like he’s trying to anchor you in place, like if he lets go for even a second you’ll drift somewhere he can’t follow.

You don’t argue. Not because you agree, but because you’re tired.

So tired.

It settles into your bones, into the space between your ribs. The kind of exhaustion that makes everything feel distant—arguments, anger, even fear.

You don’t have the energy to fight him.

Or yourself.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

Because somewhere deep down, beneath the logic and the training and everything you know—

You would follow him.

Anywhere.

Even if it breaks you; even if he doesn’t know how to stay.

Your fingers tighten slightly in his.

You don’t pull away.

He studies your face for a second longer, like he’s trying to read something you’re not saying.

Or something he’s not ready to hear.

“Are we good for that talk later?” he asks.

Careful again, like he’s testing the ground.

Your eyes lift to his, “Be here later.”

It’s quiet.

Not a demand or quite a plea.

But close enough.

Something flickers across his expression—too quick to name.

“We made a pinky promise,” he says, softer now, trying—just a little—to pull you both back from the edge. “You know I take those seriously.”

You want to believe him.

God, you want to.

So you nod.

“Okay.”

And for now—

That’s enough.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

Robby steps into Trauma One for a quick check on the father and son—voices low, controlled, reassuring in that way he’s practiced into second nature. You don’t follow. You peel off toward Central instead, slipping back into motion because standing still feels worse.

Your throat aches when you swallow.

You ignore it as best you can. There are charts to update. Labs to chase. A rhythm to fall back into before your body remembers too much.

Robby exits Trauma One a minute later, pressing his palm into the automatic sanitizer mounted on the wall. He rubs his hands together thoroughly—longer than necessary, like he’s buying himself a second to reset.

That’s when he spots Dana.

She’s already mid-stride, stepping back into the chaos, voice sharp but controlled as she says to Monica, “All right, sister. How can I help uncluster this clusterfuck?”

Monica doesn’t even look up, already grabbing the red phone. “PTMC emergency, what do you got?”

Dana snatches up a clipboard, scanning it fast—back in it, like nothing cracked open minutes ago.

Robby approaches, still rubbing sanitizer into his hands.

“You ready to finish our conversation?”

Dana doesn’t look at him. “We talked, okay? Now I got an ED to run.”

“Please.”

There’s something in his voice—not loud, not forceful—but enough.

He steps off to the side, then Dana exhales sharply and follows.

“Okay.”

“Talk to me.”

She sighs, scrubbing a hand down her face. “Tired of this shit.”

“Okay.”

“That’s the second time that Emma was attacked by a patient today. Not to mention Ducky almost—”

She cuts herself off.

Robby nods once, grounding. “Okay.”

“ICE took one of my nurses,” she continues, anger threading through every word now, “and these cyber-assholes have thrown us back into 1999.”

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Well, I’m worried about you. You are not yourself today.”

Dana lets out a dry scoff. “That makes two of us, then.”

Robby studies her. Not pushing yet—but close. “Do you have something you want to say? Go ahead. I can take it.”

She doesn’t hesitate this time.

“All right, then yeah. Sometimes it’s like you’re just tempting death ‘cause you don’t give a shit anymore.”

Robby’s brow furrows. “So this is about the motorcycle?”

“It’s not just about the motorcycle,” she snaps. “It’s about the whole damn thing. Robby, you’re actually telling people that you’re going to a place called Smash My Head In.”

“Close, not quite. That’s not—”

“Robby—”

You don’t mean to interrupt.

But your body moves before you think.

“Robby, your buddy Duke is insisting on leaving, and that MVA is here.”

Your voice is still rough, quieter than usual—but urgent enough.

He turns immediately. “Okay, I’ll be right there.”

And just like that—

He’s pulled away again.

He goes without another word, already shifting gears, already moving toward the next patient.

Dana stays behind.

Her hand comes up, pressing flat against the wall for a second—frustration, exhaustion, everything she didn’t get to finish saying.

“Who’s open?” Samira calls out, stepping into the flow.

“Uh, South 15,” Monica answers, still on the phone, juggling three things at once.

The ambulance doors open again.

“Seventy-eight-year-old woman,” Medic Lidel reports as they roll the gurney in. “Very low speed auto versus pedestrian with ground-level fall. Bruising on her left hip. No head trauma.”

“Her husband, Eddie, came along,” Medic Bosco adds.

Robby is already there to meet them. “Hi. How do you do, sir? I’m Dr. Robby. Come with us—we’re gonna get you set up right over here.”

His voice is steady again, like nothing ever rattles him.

You watch him guide them toward the room, his hand briefly hovering at the patient’s shoulder, directing, anchoring.

He doesn’t look back.

Not this time.

Behind you, Dana finally pushes off the wall, composing herself, picking the pieces back up because there isn’t another option.

And you—

You stand there for a second longer than you should.

Your fingers brush lightly against your throat, wincing at the tenderness blooming under your skin.

Then you move again.

Because that’s what you do. Even when your body hasn’t caught up. Even when part of you is still in Central 14, trying to breathe.

SOUTH 18 — DAY

You step in beside Dana just as McKay finishes up with Emma.

“Okay, let it out. Same again. Deep breath in. Great. All done.”

Emma exhales, shoulders dropping, the tension easing out of her little by little.

“How’s she doing?” Dana asks.

“Pulse ox 100%, normal exam. No evidence of injury.”

“Great.”

Emma gives a small shrug, trying to brush it off. “I got way worse from my older brothers.”

Dana huffs, just barely amused. “I bet.”

“All right, I’ll go, uh, write up her chart.” McKay slips out, already moving on to the next task.

For a moment, it’s just the three of you.

Dana looks between you and Emma, her expression softening in a way it doesn’t out on the floor. “How about we call it a day?”

“My shift isn’t over,” Emma says immediately.

You shake your head, your voice still rough but steady. “I promised Lena I would stay and help you. I’m not going.”

Dana exhales, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “This was a shift and a half for anyone today, believe me.”

Emma lifts her chin slightly. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather stay. I’m not a quitter.”

Dana nods, conceding. “Okay, Ms. Emma, good for you. But stick close to Donnie for the rest of the day, would you?”

“Sure.”

“And you also need to make a statement to the police,” Dana adds, more serious now. “If we don’t stand up for ourselves, no one else will. We’re here to help, not to be punching bags.”

Emma’s voice softens. “Thank you for saving me.”

Dana’s answer is immediate. “I got you, girl.”

You watch Emma leave—watch the way she straightens her shoulders before stepping back into the department, like nothing happened.

Dana turns to you then, gentler.

“Are you sure?” she asks, pulling you slightly aside. “With everything that’s happened? You don’t want to go home yet?”

Your fingers brush absentmindedly against your neck.

“If I leave…” you start, quieter now, “I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyways. Not easily.”

You swallow, ignoring the sting.

“Besides, I still need to give a statement to the police. Robby and I are gonna talk after—before he leaves for his trip. So… might as well be useful while I’m here.”

Dana’s expression shifts—soft, almost pained.

“I’ll be okay,” you add. “I always end up just fine.”

The question slips out before you can stop it.

“Why is it,” you say, voice low, thoughtful, “that when we step in and take a risk to protect someone, it gets second-guessed… but when a man does the same thing, he’s called a hero?”

Dana doesn’t answer right away.

She looks at you—really looks this time. At the bruising on your neck. At the way your shoulders are still slightly drawn in. At the fact that you’re standing here asking that instead of sitting down somewhere, shaking.

Her jaw tightens.

“Because they expect you to survive it quietly,” she says finally. “And him to be applauded for it.”

Her voice lowers—not softer, just steadier. “And I’m not interested in playing along with that.”

Her hand comes up, squeezing your shoulder—firm, deliberate.

“Not with you.”

Then she steps back.

And just like that—she’s gone again.

“Hoy…” (Hey…) Perlah’s voice is softer than usual as she steps in beside you.

Princess follows, hovering close, her eyes scanning your face, your neck, the way you’re holding yourself.

“Okay ka lang?” (Are you okay?) Perlah asks quietly.

You nod too quickly. “Oo… okay lang.” (Yeah… I’m okay.)

Princess tilts her head, not convinced. “Sigurado ka? Ang lala nun kanina.” (Are you sure? That was really bad earlier.)

You let out a small breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Kaya pa.” (I can still handle it.)

A pause.

Then Princess, softer—careful. “Hindi kita masisisi kung gusto mong mag-transfer sa New York after… all of this.” (I wouldn’t blame you if you wanted to transfer after all this.)

That almost breaks you.

Your throat tightens, not from the bruising this time.

You look away, blinking slowly.

“Grabe naman kayo,” you mumble, trying to deflect. “Hindi pa ako aalis.” (You guys are too much. I’m not leaving yet.)

Perlah nudges you gently. “Hindi namin sinasabing umalis ka. Pero… you don’t always have to prove something.” (We’re not saying you should leave. But… you don’t always have to prove something.)

You don’t answer right away.

Because you don’t even know what you’d be proving.

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself.

“Okay lang ako,” you repeat, quieter now. (I’m okay.)

Princess reaches out, squeezing your arm. “Andito lang kami, ha.” (We’re right here for you, okay.)

You nod.

That part—

That, at least, you believe.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The department hums at full volume again. The kind you’ve learned to move through without thinking—until today makes everything feel just a little louder.

“Something wrong?” Dorion asks, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

Santos barely looks up from her chart. “That depends. Are you a four-month-old with severe diaper rash?”

Dorion blinks. “No, I’m Dorion Cole, and I’m pretty sure that I broke my collarbone.”

Santos nods once, already half-moving. “Okay, we can help with that. I’ll be back.”

“Wait, wait—are you serious?” he calls after her. “Can I at least get something for my pain?”

“Sure. Sit tight.”

He scoffs under his breath. “This place sucks.”

Santos doesn’t miss a beat. “Tell me about it. Try working here.”

Robby passes behind her, catching the exchange. “Boy, you’re really working hard to boost those patient satisfaction scores.”

Santos exhales, rubbing her temple. “The chart for Central 7 doesn’t match the patient that’s in there.”

“Hang in there,” Robby says. “We’re almost over this.”

“I was over this six hours ago.”

Dana steps into the space, scanning the overcrowded waiting area beyond. “Chairs is looking like Mullaney’s on St. Paddy’s Day. They’re gonna break through the doors like zombies…”

Your hands move automatically over the counter in front of you—sorting labs, stacking charts, flipping through paperwork that blurs just slightly if you look at it too long.

“Incoming,” someone calls.

“If we don’t start moving more of the meat back there—” Dana mutters, already pivoting.

You don’t finish listening.

Because Robby’s right there. Close enough that you catch the faint scent of sanitizer again as he reaches across the counter in front of you, pulling a pair of gloves from the box. His sleeve brushes near your hand—barely there—but you feel it anyway.

Then—

The ambulance doors open.

“Dante Casella, 34,” Medic Nash reports as they roll the gurney in fast. “Blunt trauma from a fireworks explosion in a storage unit. A and O, good vitals, large scalp laceration and bruising to the chest. No meds or allergies.”

“Partial or full thickness burns?” Santos asks, already moving alongside.

“No burns. The blast launched him into a rolled-down garage door frame.”

Dante’s voice cuts through, panicked, disoriented. “Am I fucking dying here?”

Robby steps in immediately. “I’m Dr. Robby. This is Dr. Santos.”

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“Try the other side.”

Santos leans in. “I’m Dr. Santos. Can you hear me?”

“Yeah, yeah—Dante. Lot of ringing.”

Tinnitus. Blast exposure. You clock it automatically, your brain still working even as your body feels just half a step behind.

They move him fast—straight toward Trauma Two.

“Hey, McKay, Joy, you’re with us!” Robby calls out over his shoulder.

Both nurses drop what they’re doing, clipboards set aside as they follow without hesitation.

The doors swing shut behind them.

And just like that— they’re gone.

Pulled into another crisis. Another room you don’t follow into. You stay where you are, hands still on the counter.

Papers in front of you that you’re not really seeing. Your throat aches again when you swallow. Your body feels heavier now that the adrenaline has nowhere to go.

Perlah’s hand lands gently on your elbow.

“I got this one,” she says, voice low, steady.

Then, softer—

“Magpahinga ka muna ng onti.” (Rest for a bit.)

You almost protest. It sits right there on your tongue—automatic, reflexive.

But nothing comes out.

You just stand there, caught between staying and stepping back, between who you’re supposed to be in this space and what your body is quietly asking for. And for a second, you let yourself feel it.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

You’re back at the front of the counter.

Back where your hands know what to do—even if the rest of you is still catching up.

You cross-check lab results against patient charts, flag a pending CT that’s been sitting too long. Your pen moves across paper in quick, practiced strokes—notations, times, initials. You answer a quick question from a nurse passing by, redirect a transport request, restock a half-empty tray without thinking.

It’s easier this way—when your hands stay busy enough that your mind doesn’t wander back to Central 14.

“Um, hey,” Mel says, glancing over at Samira. “Where’d you learn that shoe trick?”

Samira looks up from her chart. “Oh, I did a clerkship at NJMS senior care. One of the attendings always said you can learn a lot about your patients just by looking at their feet.”

Mel smiles, amused, then reaches over and dings the service bell.

Dana appears almost immediately, like she’s been summoned by instinct alone. She grabs the clipboards, scans them quickly, then hands them off to you.

“Bravo, ladies,” she says. “Now on to the next lucky customers.”

You take them without hesitation, already flipping through the pages.

“Probably gonna have to stay late to catch up on all these patients,” Samira mutters.

“Night-shift reinforcements will be here soon,” Dana replies. “We’re supposed to be speeding up in the eleventh hour, not slowing down. They don’t call it the final sprint for nothing. Chop-chop.”

Samira and Mel peel off, both of them giving you a small, sympathetic smile as they pass.

You don’t comment on it, you just keep working.

McKay steps up beside the counter, glancing toward Behavioral One. “Is that the, uh, mom of the heatstroke?”

“Yeah,” Al-Hashimi answers.

McKay hesitates. “Do you believe it was just an accident?”

Al-Hashimi doesn’t look up. “Does it matter?”

McKay exhales slowly. “As a doctor, no. But as a mom…”

Al-Hashimi’s voice softens just a fraction. “Sometimes I can’t tell if motherhood has made me more understanding or more judgmental.”

The words hang there.

You don’t mean to speak.

But you do.

“Two things can be true at the same time,” you say quietly, eyes still on the chart in front of you. “It’s not mutually exclusive.”

They both glance at you.

You don’t look up.

You just underline a lab value, flip the page, keep going.

“Dana, got a couple visitors.” Princess leans over the counter, two people lingering uncertainly behind her.

A man steps forward first. “Uh, my—my brother. There was an explosion.”

A woman follows. “Hi. My mom was in a car accident.”

Dana nods once, already shifting gears. “Uh, okay. Monica, can you help these fine folks find their loved ones?”

“Yeah,” Monica answers, stepping in.

Dana turns back to Princess, narrowing her eyes slightly. “And, Princess, what are you still doing here? Don’t you got some crazy luau pig roast barbecue thing to get to?”

Princess snorts. “It’s lechón, but, yes, I do. I’m gonna sneak out in a few.”

“Okay, yeah, yeah,” Dana waves her off. “Go have some fun for both of us, all right?”

“Don’t stay too late.”

“Okay.”

Princess lingers for a second longer—just enough to look at you.

“Ikaw rin ha?” (You too, okay?)

You wave her off lightly, not looking up from the chart you’re updating. “Bigyan mo na lang ako ng tira bukas.” (Just save me some leftovers tomorrow.)

She huffs a quiet laugh.

But she doesn’t miss the way you don’t meet her eyes.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The shift keeps folding in on itself. You’re back at the counter, halfway through updating a chart when movement catches your eye—Robby cutting across the floor toward Central 11.

Duke.

Of course.

He slows just enough to reach the doorway, already half-turned like he’s about to step in—

“Hey, Robby.” Santos intercepts him before he can. “Our scalp victim is back from CT. They’re prepping him now.”

Robby’s head snaps toward her, calculation replacing everything else in an instant. “Shit. Uh, okay. I’m coming. Um—”

He lifts a hand toward Central 11—just a second, a promise without words. Inside, Duke exhales, frustration written all over him even from where you’re standing.

Robby doesn’t get to go in.

He turns back to Santos. They fall into step side by side, already moving toward Trauma Two.

“Is your friend doing okay?” Santos asks.

“He’s on my flight risk radar,” Robby answers, distracted, already thinking three steps ahead.

Santos nods, then— “Oh, and Dana put McKay on the guy who attacked Ducky and the new nurse. Are they okay?”

You don’t look up.

But you hear it.

“Physically, yes,” Robby says.

Physically— the word lingers longer than it should.

“I heard you had a little chat with Langdon earlier.”

“Yeah,” Santos shrugs. “Water under the bridge.”

Robby glances at her. “You have to figure out a way of working with him now that he’s back.”

“Or until he relapses.”

There’s no bite in it—just honesty. Tired, blunt honesty.

“You’re becoming a very good doctor,” Robby says, quieter now, but firm. “Don’t let old conflicts get in the way.”

They’re almost at Trauma Two.

“Speaking of which,” he adds, “I want you and everybody else to see the trauma counselor while I’m gone, yes?”

“Yes,” Santos answers.

Robby nods once, then—almost like he’s trying to keep things normal, like the day hasn’t cracked open in a dozen places—

“And I asked Whitaker to house-sit for me while I’m gone. I figured that would distract from the whole farmer’s widow thing.”

Santos blinks. “Wait—what?”

“Bring in the mail, water the plants—cool?”

She lets out a small breath. “Cool. Yeah. Fine.”

They disappear into Trauma Two, the doors swinging shut behind them.

You stand there at the counter, pen hovering just slightly above the page before you realize you’ve stopped writing.

You swallow, your throat still tender, the motion slower than it should be, and press your pen back to the chart, forcing your hand to move again—documenting, updating, continuing. Because that’s what you’re supposed to do.

But your gaze drifts anyway— toward the closed doors of Trauma Two, the space he just disappeared into.

You look at Santos and wonder if she’s okay. If she’s carrying it quietly the same way you are.

If anyone asked her—not as a doctor, not as part of the team—

But as a person.

You exhale slowly, steadying yourself, then flip the page and keep working.

TRAUMA TWO — DAY

The room is bright and focused.

Dante lies on the bed, blood matted into his hair, a deep scalp laceration already irrigated and prepped. The metallic scent lingers faintly beneath antiseptic. Monitors tick steadily—heart rate elevated but stable.

Garcia leans in, inspecting the wound with practiced ease. “That looks good. You can start the repair after this one.”

“Feeling any pain, sir?” Joy asks, glancing down at Dante as she adjusts the drape.

“Uh, no pain,” Dante mutters, slightly dazed. “Just… wet.”

Santos looks up from the tray. “You already numbed him up?”

“I did.”

“1% with epi,” Garcia confirms, not looking away from the wound.

Robby steps in beside them, already gloved, eyes flicking between the monitors and the field. “CT back yet?”

“No, not yet,” Santos answers.

Garcia shakes her head lightly. “I watched the slices come up. Isolated sternal fracture. Everything else looked normal. Could send him home, but given the mechanism, should probably watch him overnight.”

“I agree with Dr. Garcia,” Santos says.

Robby nods once. “I agree with Dr. Garcia, too.”

“Three-layer closure,” Garcia continues, already stepping back. “Galea, sub-Q, skin staples. Enjoy the fireworks.”

She glances at Robby, a hint of a smirk tugging at her mouth. “And hey, if I don’t see you before you leave, don’t forget to buy me a souvenir—like a custom elk-bone-carved hunting blade.”

Robby huffs softly. “Nothing less for my favorite butcher.”

Garcia grins as she removes her gloves, “Aww. You’re gonna make a great ex-husband one day, Robinavitch.”

The room hums on—suturing instruments passed, gauze blotted, staples prepared.

But Robby drifts, just for a moment. His attention pulls—subtle, almost imperceptible—toward the glass doors.

Outside.

You, standing just beyond the threshold of Trauma Two. Not doing nothing—never nothing—but… paused. Like you’ve stepped just slightly out of the pace everyone else is still moving in.

The fluorescent lights don’t quite reach you there.

You look smaller from this distance.

Quieter.

One hand rests absentmindedly near your throat before you drop it, like you caught yourself. Your posture is composed, professional—but there’s something in the stillness that doesn’t belong to the version of you that keeps up with everything.

The strongest people don’t usually stop.

You did.

And that unsettles him more than anything that happened in the room.

Robby’s jaw tightens just slightly, something unreadable passing over his expression.

He shouldn’t be looking.

There’s a patient on the bed. A procedure underway. A dozen things demanding his attention.

But his gaze lingers a fraction too long.

Like he’s making sure—

You’re still there.

Still upright.

Still—

Okay.

His voice drops under his breath, almost lost beneath the quiet clatter of instruments.

“I hope not.”

It sounds like he’s answering Garcia.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

Because his eyes are still on you.

Just for a second longer, before he turns back, let the moment go, and the work pulls him under again.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The rhythm of the department presses in from all sides—phones, footsteps, clipped voices, the constant shuffle of paper and movement.

You stand beside Dana at the counter, one hand braced lightly against it as you steady yourself between tasks.

“Hospital’s got a defense attorney looking for Jesse,” Dana says, scanning a chart but clearly not seeing it. “Probably took him to an ICE detention center. Said we shouldn’t hold our breath, though.” She exhales sharply. “Whatever happened to we the people, huh?”

There’s nothing to say to that.

So you don’t.

Your gaze drifts—just for a second—and lands on Curtis being wheeled past, flanked by nurses, restraints still in place as they take him up to CT.

Your chest tightens.

Dana follows your line of sight, jaw clenching. “Anything back on that drunk son of a bitch that attacked Emma and Ducky?”

“Not yet,” Makedah answers.

“Christ’s sake.”

“I’m making a run now. I’ll ask.”

“Yeah.”

Makedah is already gone.

Langdon steps into the space, his eyes flicking between you and Dana before settling on you.

“That’s the guy who attacked you and Emma?”

You nod.

It’s easier than speaking.

“Mm-hmm,” Dana confirms.

Langdon exhales, taking it in. “That’s intense. How you two doing?”

Dana answers without hesitation. “Peachy.”

You try for something similar—but your voice comes out wrecked, scraped thin. “Wonderful.”

Langdon winces slightly, like he hears it. “Hey… you did what you had to do with that guy. Everything’s gonna be fine.”

He says it like it’s a certainty.

Like that’s how these things work.

Then he’s already walking off.

Dana mutters under her breath, “From your lips.”

A few minutes pass.

Or maybe longer.

Time bends a little out here.

Then—

“Oh!” Dana straightens slightly as someone approaches. “So the march of the walking dead night shift begins. First one in—Mateo. Ducky, give him a gold star.”

You don’t look up from the chart you’re pretending to focus on. “I have no gold stars left to give.”

Mateo stops in front of you—and then really looks at you.

“Jesus,” he breathes. “What happened to you? And what happened in here? I left you guys with a layup this morning.”

His eyes land on your neck.

You resist the urge to touch it.

“Don’t ask,” Dana cuts in.

Mateo lifts his hands slightly, backing off—but only just. “Noted.”

Then he shifts gears like everyone here does.

“Speaking of layups—what up, Dr. J?”

Javadi looks up, caught off guard. “Oh—right. That was, um… some sort of basketball player, wasn’t it?”

Dana gasps, mock-offended. “Shame on you. Only the greatest Sixer to ever play the game.”

Mateo grins. “Week one of year four of med school. You’ll be ordering me around before you know it. Gonna join the dark side when you graduate?”

“The emergency department?” Javadi asks.

“The night shift, baby,” Mateo says. “It’s wild.”

Then his gaze flicks back to you—softer this time.

“We’d like Ducky back on the night shift, too. The whole crew misses you.”

Something in your chest shifts.

You shrug lightly, keeping it casual even if it doesn’t feel that way. “Well… they’ll see me tonight. Not leaving for a few hours, so.”

Like it’s nothing.

Like you aren’t about to leave this place earlier for entirely different reasons.

Javadi fidgets slightly. “Um… I haven’t even decided what residency I’m applying for yet.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Mateo says easily. “Got lots of time.”

“Tell that to my parents,” Javadi mutters.

Before anyone can respond—

Makedah steps back in, holding out the results. “Dana, results are back on your guy.”

Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”

Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”

The paper snaps lightly between her fingers as she pulls it in, eyes scanning fast—too fast at first, then slowing, locking in.

You see it happen.

Not the words on the page—but the shift.

Her posture stiffens. Her jaw sets. Something sharp and controlled flickers across her face, then settles into something darker. Heavier.

Dana doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t explain; she just turns. And starts walking—fast, purposeful, cutting straight through the current of the department like she’s already decided what comes next.

Toward Central 14.

You track her movement without meaning to, your chest tightening just a fraction as she disappears down the hall.

CENTRAL 11 — DAY

The room feels smaller than it should. Not because of the space—but because of the waiting. Duke sits upright on the bed, one leg bouncing faintly with restless energy. The door swings open as Robby steps in.

“My man, how you doing?”

Duke lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “Like you better roll in a bar cart and a happy hour buffet if I’m gonna be stuck in this place much longer.”

Robby huffs, leaning lightly against the counter, arms folding loosely across his chest. “This place is a traffic jam. We’re trying to merge you in, I promise.”

“That’s no traffic jam,” Duke shoots back. “That’s a twenty-car pileup.”

Robby nods once, conceding that easily. “The sooner you get out, the sooner I get out, so you know I’m not bullshitting you.”

Duke watches him for a second—really watches him. “Why are you jonesing so hard to get out and start your ride tonight?”

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

His gaze drops for a fraction of a second, jaw tightening just slightly.

“I’ve got a schedule,” he says finally. “I’ve got places to go. I’ve got people to see.”

It sounds rehearsed, like something he’s already told himself more than once.

He pauses—just enough for it to crack a little at the edges.

Takes a breath.

“I just have to get going.”

Duke leans back slightly, studying him. “You’re worried if you don’t leave tonight… you won’t leave at all.”

Silence.

Robby doesn’t confirm it.

Doesn’t deny it.

But the way he exhales—slow, controlled—says enough.

Duke glances around the room, then back at him. “Look, I get it. I can feel it in the air here. This place is like quicksand.”

Robby nods faintly. “Right.”

A beat.

Then Duke tilts his head, voice softer now—but sharper where it counts.

“And what about your nurse—Ducky?” he asks. “You really just gonna take off without figuring that out first?”

It hits.

Robby stills.

Just for a second.

Your name—your nickname—hanging in the space between them like something neither of them can quite ignore. There’s a flicker in his expression—something conflicted, something guarded, something he doesn’t let fully surface.

He opens his mouth—

But—

The door swings open.

“Dr. Robby?” Joy calls, breath just slightly quickened. “Uh, Dante—the fireworks guy—something’s wrong.”

Robby’s head snaps toward her immediately.

Everything else drops.

“Okay—shit. Um—” He turns back to Duke, already moving. “Do not go anywhere. You are next up. I’m gonna deliver you myself.”

Duke lets out a breath, somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “I’m starting to feel like a hostage in this place.”

Robby pauses just long enough to shoot back—“How do you think I feel?”

—and then he’s gone.

Pulled out the door.

Back into the current.

Leaving the question behind—

Unanswered.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The chart racks are overflowing.

Paper clipped to paper. Lab slips tucked between folders. Names, times, numbers—stacked in a way that only barely passes for organized.

You stand at the counter, pen moving steadily as you update a chart—vitals logged, meds reconciled, a note added in the margin for follow-up. Your handwriting is neat out of habit, even if your head feels anything but.

Across from you, Robby and Santos flip through the racks, scanning, pulling, cross-checking.

“Dr. Robby,” Mel calls, stepping forward with Samira at her side. “May we present?”

Robby looks up. “Yeah, what do you got?”

Then, almost as an aside, he glances at Santos. “Hey, you should probably get started crossing your T’s and dotting your I’s for night shift handoff.”

“Right,” Santos says, already backing off. Then, with a small smirk—“Well, vaya con Dios, or whatever the bikers are saying these days.”

She walks off.

Samira and Mel step in closer.

“Our elderly couple—Frida and Ed…” Samira begins.

Mel picks up smoothly. “We’re anxious about their ability to recover at home or to remain at home in general.”

Samira nods. “But a number of Mr. Cohen’s medications are on the Beers List, and they may be contributing to his deteriorating health.”

Robby’s brows lift slightly. “May be?”

“We can’t be certain,” Samira clarifies. “But none of them are critical meds. We could have him stop them right now, follow up with his PCP, see how he’s doing in a few weeks.”

Robby considers it for a little while, then nods. “Run it by the family. Sometimes just affirming a patient’s… independence, autonomy can do a world of good.”

Mel nods, already stepping back.

You don’t look up—but you hear everything.

You always do.

Mel moves off to the side, waiting.

Samira turns to follow—

“Um, hey—Dr. Mohan.”

Robby catches her just before she can leave.

She pauses.

“I heard a rumor that you were looking for an elective,” he says. “Consider geriatrics. It’s as much of an art as a science. There’s usually an opening, and you seem to have a… predisposition to the pace.”

A beat.

Samira blinks.

Doesn’t answer.

Just nods once—small, polite—and turns back toward Mel.

They walk off together.

Your pen stills for a second, then resumes. But your eye twitches slightly—subtle, quick, gone just as fast.

You glance up at Robby, muttering under your breath, “Congrats, you just lost one of your best residents.”

Robby exhales, shaking his head faintly—like he’s already second-guessing it.

Then his eyes land on you and linger.

Just long enough to register— you’re still here. Still pushing through like nothing happened.

“Hey,” he says, voice a touch softer now, grounding back into the moment. “Have you seen Dana?”

You shift your attention back to the chart, flipping the page like it matters more than it does. “I think she went out for a smoke.”

AMBULANCE BAY — DAY

The air outside feels different.

Not calmer—sirens still wail somewhere in the distance, the low hum of engines idling, stretcher wheels rattling over concrete—but it’s wider. Less contained. Like everything inside the ED spills out here and lingers.

Robby steps out, pushing through the sliding doors, eyes already searching.

He finds Dana near the wall, arms crossed, posture tight.

“You ever gonna tell me what really happened in there?”

Dana doesn’t look at him right away. “In where?”

Robby doesn’t let it slide. “You could lose your nursing license.” His voice sharpens, controlled but edged. “Let me guess—that vial of Versed in your pocket, you drew that up for Doug Driscoll in case he ever came back, and now you’ve just been carrying it around ever since.”

Dana turns then, meeting him head-on. “I did exactly what I needed to,” she says, steady, unflinching. “And now two young nurses get to go home in one piece because of me. McKay can sign the Versed order for me if you won’t.”

“I will sign the order!” Robby snaps, frustration breaking through. “I will sign an extra order so you can have one when I’m gone. That’s hardly the point.”

His hands come up, gesturing, pacing a half-step forward.

“It’s not exactly like I’m against nurse safety. I’m trying to advocate for your caution—because you’re the person who’s supposed to be here keeping this running while I’m gone, not roaming the halls like a vigilante with a loaded syringe and a vendetta!”

You push through the doors just then.

You’d come out to find Dana—night shift is ready, reports need to start—but the sound of raised voices stops you short.

You don’t step forward.

You don’t step back.

You just… stay.

Close enough to hear and enough to feel it.

“It’s always ‘do as I say, not as I do’ with you, isn’t it?” Dana fires back. “What is wrong with you today?”

Robby exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, words spilling faster now. “Samira missed a triple-A. Mel and Ellis had a deposition. McKay’s treating people in the park. Ducky isn’t talking to me like we used to. Fucking Langdon—”

Your name—

It hits, quiet but sharp.

“—At some point, you and Langdon got to work this out,” Dana cuts in.

“I don’t want him here!” Robby snaps, the words louder than he probably meant.

“He made a mistake, and he paid for it.”

“Did he?” Robby shoots back. “Did he go to jail? Because I let him get away with a crime. So what does that make me?”

“Human!” Dana says, without hesitation. “Are you angry at him, or are you angry at you?”

“Somebody could have died.”

“Oh, it’s the ED,” Dana says dryly. “Somebody’s always dying.”

“Go ahead and make jokes,” Robby snaps. “Make jokes instead of acknowledging that—”

“Langdon didn’t kill anybody.”

“That we know of.”

“And he saved a lot of lives that we do know of. Our kids disappoint us sometimes.”

Robby drags both hands through his thinning hair, pacing once, like he’s trying to outrun something in his own head. “Langdon is not a kid.”

“No,” Dana agrees. “But he’s your guy, and you’re taking it personally. Langdon fucked up, and you think that makes you look bad—but it’s on him.”

Robby shakes his head, frustration bleeding into something heavier. “How am I supposed to leave this place when it’s a shit show?”

Dana scoffs. “First, you can’t stay. Now you can’t go. What is it, Robinavitch?”

“No, I’m going,” he says, quieter now—but no less strained. “I just thought I could leave it a little better when I did.”

Dana exhales, shaking her head. “Oh, don’t be such a martyr. This place is always teetering on the brink of disaster, with or without you. We do it every night, every day off.”

She steps closer—just enough to make it stick, “This place is bigger than one person. It survived without Adamson, it survived without me, and it’ll survive without you.”

Then she turns and walks back inside.

You move then, enough to make it look like you weren’t standing there the whole time.

“The night shift nurses are all here,” you say, voice steadier than it feels.

Dana pauses, her expression softening just slightly as she reaches out, patting your arm. “Thank you, Ducky.”

You nod, offering a small, almost-there smile as she disappears back into the ED.

The bay feels different now. Quieter and heavier.

Dana’s right about a lot of things. But you know that’s not what he needed to hear.

You can see it.

In the way Robby doesn’t move right away.

In the way his shoulders sit just a little lower than usual. In the way he stands there, staring at his motorcycle like it might have an answer for him.

His back is to you.

Broad. Familiar.

But something about it feels… distant. Like he’s already halfway gone—or not gone at all.

Just stuck.

You linger, longer than you should. Because this is the most human you’ve ever seen him.

Not the attending or the one everyone looks to.

Just—

Him.

Unsteady. Frayed at the edges. Trying to hold everything together and realizing he can’t. And you don’t know what to do with that.

Who are you to step in? Who are you to just… watch?

Your fingers curl slightly at your sides as you think about calling his name.

You don’t.

Because some distances aren’t crossed that easily. Because whatever this is between you— It’s still something neither of you has figured out how to hold.

So you stand there, caught between staying and walking away.

Between reaching out and letting him be.

Between—

Almost.

And not quite.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The floor is shifting again.

Not calmer—just different. The kind of transition that happens when one wave of people hands off to the next without ever really stopping.

Dana stands in front of the incoming night shift nurses, voice sharp, efficient, cutting through the noise.

“Make sure discharge charts are bundled and placed in the ‘to be scanned’ bin with nursing notes, order sheets, lab, and X-ray results,” she says, already pointing toward the stacks. “Day shift needs completed T sheets on every patient and to write on the board what tests are pending so nothing falls through the cracks while we wait to come back online.”

Clipboards move, pens scratch, and people nod.

You’re still at the counter, organizing a stack of lab slips into their respective charts, double-checking patient IDs before sliding them into place.

Al-Hashimi approaches Robby, “Westbridge and Good Dominion have settled their cyber dispute.”

Robby looks up. “They paid the ransom?”

“Yeah. Our IT department is confident in our defenses, so they will be rebooting everything soon… slowly but surely.”

“Okay.” Robby nods, already thinking ahead. “So when everything comes back on, all the residents have to do is scan all the completed paper charts and digitize them into the patient’s EHRs before they go?”

Santos passes by, muttering under her breath as she peels off toward another station. “I’m never getting out of this place.”

Al-Hashimi gives Robby a small, reassuring nod. “This means you’re clear for takeoff. Nothing here we can’t handle with night shift coming in.”

Robby lets out a quiet breath. “Yeah, right. Free to go.”

It doesn’t sound like freedom.

It sounds like something he’s not sure he wants.

Movement catches his eye.

Duke.

Being wheeled toward CT.

Robby doesn’t hesitate—he steps in beside him, walking alongside the chair.

“Uh, hey,” he says, slightly out of breath from catching up. “I told you I would get you up there, and I promise I’m not leaving until you’re back and sent packing.”

Duke waves him off with a grin. “Robby, buddy, you got me to come in, got me to take my tests. You don’t got to babysit me. That’s why I have a nurse.” He glances up. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Nurse Vivi, sir.”

“That’s what I have the lovely Nurse Vivi here for.”

Robby shakes his head lightly. “This will not take very long.”

Duke snorts. “Where have I heard that before?”

They round the corner toward the elevator.

Gone.

“Hey.”

McKay steps in, catching Robby just before he disappears completely.

“So, uh… this is it, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” Robby answers. “Don’t let the place burn down.”

McKay huffs a quiet laugh, then sobers. “You know… in a previous life, I had a lot of friends who liked to see how close the edge was… as if it was a challenge they were called to meet.”

Robby listens—but there’s a distance in his eyes now.

“Trouble is,” McKay continues, “they all inevitably found it.”

“Okay,” Robby says.

“I’m just picking up on a weird vibe from you today is all.”

“Yeah,” Robby exhales. “Well, it’s been a weird day.”

That’s one way to say it.

Across the department—

Langdon catches Joy heading toward the ambulance bay doors, her bag slung over her shoulder.

“You leaving?”

Joy pulls her stethoscope from around her neck, tucking it into her bag. “Uh, yeah. My shift is over, and I ain’t getting paid to be here. Quite literally the opposite, in fact.”

Langdon gestures around. “Well, I don’t know if you noticed, but we’re sort of, uh, in disaster mode here still. We put in the extra time if we’re needed.”

Joy hums. “You know 62% of ED docs report suffering from burnout?”

“Painfully aware.”

She shrugs. “Mm. So maybe all you lunatics need to learn how to set some boundaries, like me.” A small wave over her shoulder. “Well, see you tomorrow, Doc.”

The doors slide open.

She’s gone.

Shen steps in at the same moment, iced coffee in hand, pausing mid-step.

“Good luck in there,” Joy tosses over her shoulder. “Sorry about the mess.”

“Mess?” Shen echoes.

Then he looks, really looks at the department. At the overflowing charts, the constant movement, and tension hanging in the air like something you can almost touch.

“…Yup.”

You catch his eye and lift a hand in a small wave.

He smiles—then freezes as his gaze drops to your neck.

The bruising.

Darkening now, and impossible to miss.

His grip on the iced coffee falters, tilting dangerously before he catches it.

“What the—”

“Incoming!” someone calls.

Everything snaps back into motion.

“Head trauma,” Medic Nguyen reports as they wheel the patient in. “Unwitnessed fall from the warehouse catwalk where he works as a security guard.”

Samira steps forward—then stops dead.

“Oh, my God,” she breathes. “Orlando.”

Her voice cracks just slightly, “He left five hours ago.”

The room shifts again.

From busy to something sharper, more personal. Because no matter what just happened, there’s always another patient.

End Notes:

:D

YAY! ABBOT COMES BACK. MY SOLDIER HAS RETURNED FROM HIS NAP YAYYYYYYYY!!!

SORRY FOR THE CHAPTER DELAY! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

YIPPE PAIN AND SUFFERING YIPPEEE :D

Okay, anyways, blacked out again while writing this. I’m catching up with the new episode and ABBOT PLS GIV ME A CHANCE

Good heavens, everything is falling apart. Oh deer.

Hope this chapter wasn’t too bad… 

Taglist: @orodaeh @karleyyjaee @allenajade-ite @glitterspark @bumbl3-b33z @sarahhxx03 @mirandarockin @sourmooonlight @sunflower911 @tedmustache @wastingspaces @princessesareforsuckers @anykent-grayson @brucewaynegfreal @katethedilfhunter @barnes70stark @kneelforloki @imonmykneessir @emneedshelp @darlingimafangirl @silas-aeiou @rei-scorpio @redhooduwu @thesnugglingduck @blondedlvfe @blackwidownat2814 @pagesaftermidnight @soyelfleureon @battyvonkreep @mscreativity @ravyn94 @jeshomie @follows-the-life-ahead @sommywithluv

He spent a few minutes every day looking at himself, no mask, no clothes, loving every slow change as it came. He was slowly starting to love himself, a feeling he thought would be impossible for someone like him. Then the bar incident happens.

"Hey, pretty girl, why are you all by yourself?" Simon blinks owlishly at the woman sliding into the booth with him, almost choking on his whiskey. "You okay, sweetheart?"

"I'm, uh, not a woman. I'm Simon." She mutters, though she can't help but pitch her voice slightly. It feels nicer to talk like this, instead of her usual gruff manner. The woman smiles softly at her, sliding a hand into her thigh, just above her knee.

"Do you want me to call you a man?" The question hangs in the air for a few moments before Simon slowly shakes her head no. "Did you like it? When I called you pretty girl?" She nods again, swallowing hard as she tries to ignore the lump growing in her throat. "Have you ever told anyone this? Or am I the first person to notice?"

"You're the first." Simon gives her a hesitant smile, fiddling with her whiskey glass. "I, uh... I'd love to talk, but I have something I need to do."

"That's fine, baby." The woman slides her number carefully into Simon pocket. "Just give me a call later, okay?" Simon waits for a few minutes before she leaves the bar without telling anyone. That wasn't unusual. It was unusual to find her inside John's office before the captain.

"Morning, Ghost. Something you want to discuss?"

"I think I might be a woman." John pauses before he can fully settle into his seat.

"Taking the estrogen finally got some sense in you, hmm?" Simon's eyes flicker in surprise, and John chuckles softly, giving her a reassuring smile. "Let's get the paperwork done, love. You've got a name picked out?"

"Can I use my mom's name?" She asks nervously as she fiddles with the drawstring of her sweatpants.