𝖒– fic recs

“…Jesus. Sorry. Robby.”

He hadn’t thought much of it. Until it happened again. And again. It wasn’t like you. You remembered birthdays, obscure journal articles, nurses’ kids’ names, which residents preferred encouragement over criticism. Your mind was terrifyingly sharp. Lately, though…It seemed like pieces of you kept slipping through the cracks.

“You gonna eat today?” Dana asked one afternoon as she passed the physician workroom.

You looked up from your laptop. “Already did.”

Dana glanced toward the untouched sandwich sitting beside your keyboard.

“You mean that sandwich that’s been there since seven this morning?”

You stared at it.

“…Shit.”

Robby looked over the top of his computer screen. You honestly hadn’t remembered it was there.

******

By the third week, everyone noticed you looked tired. Only Robby knew you looked haunted. He woke up most mornings before dawn because he heard movement downstairs. Not you making coffee. Your grandmother.

Sometimes she’d be opening every cabinet in the kitchen because she was convinced she needed to get dinner started for her husband. Your grandfather had been dead for twelve years. Other mornings she’d already be dressed. Coat. Purse. Shoes. Standing at the front door.

“I have to catch the school bus,” she’d insist.

She was ninety years old. There were mornings she’d look at you with complete confusion.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart… do I know you?”

Those mornings were the hardest. Not because she didn’t recognize you. Because you smiled anyway.

You’d give her your name. “I’m your granddaughter.”

“Oh…” She’d smile back politely. “Well… that’s a pretty name.”

Then she’d introduce herself like you were strangers. Robby had watched it happen enough times that it stopped shocking him. It never stopped breaking his heart.

When you’d first moved your grandmother into the house two years ago, you’d both agreed it was temporary.

“Just until she gets back on her feet.”

Then came the diagnosis. Early dementia. Then moderate dementia. Then rapidly progressing dementia. Somehow “temporary” turned into medication schedules taped to the refrigerator. Doctor appointments. Adult diapers hidden discreetly beneath bathroom cabinets. Installing alarms on every exterior door after she wandered into the backyard at three in the morning convinced she was late for church. Hiring daytime caregivers you could barely afford. Coming home every lunch break to make sure she’d eaten. Sleeping with your bedroom door open so you’d hear her if she got up.

You had become a physician at work. A full-time caregiver at home. A granddaughter somewhere in between.

******

One Thursday evening, Robby walked through the front door after a twelve-hour shift and immediately heard your voice.

“No, Grandma.”

Patient. Gentle.

“The bathroom’s this way.”

“I don’t have to use the bathroom.”

“You told me thirty seconds ago you did.”

“I never said that.”

“You did.”

“I think you’re lying to me.”

There was no anger in her voice. Only fear. Confusion. The kind that came from genuinely believing the world had betrayed her. Robby rounded the corner. Your grandmother stood in the hallway gripping the wallpaper with both hands, glaring at you like you were a stranger trying to kidnap her.

“You leave me alone.”

Your smile never faltered.

“Okay.”

“I want my granddaughter.”

“I know.”

“She’ll know what to do.”

“I know.”

“She takes good care of me.”

Your throat visibly tightened.

“I know she does.”

Robby watched your fingers curl so tightly around your own wrist they left white marks in your skin. Then your grandmother looked at him. Her entire expression changed.

“There he is!” She smiled so brightly it was almost painful. “My handsome doctor.”

Robby couldn’t help smiling back.

“Hi, sweetheart.”

She reached for his hand immediately.

“Tell this woman she’s bossy.”

He glanced toward you. Your eyes were already glossy.

“She is a little bossy,” he agreed.

Your grandmother laughed. A genuine laugh.

“I knew it!”

She patted his cheek.

“I always liked you. You’re good to my granddaughter.”

“I try.”

“You’ll marry her someday.”

Your laugh came out strained.

“We’re already engaged, Grandma.”

She frowned.

“No…”

Then she looked at Robby again.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded gently.

“I’m sure.”

“Well.” She squeezed his hand. “Good.”

Then she leaned in and whispered loudly enough that you could absolutely hear.

“Don’t let her work so much.”

Robby swallowed.

“I’ve been trying.”

Your grandmother smiled, apparently satisfied with his answer, before wandering toward the living room in search of a television show she’d forgotten she’d already watched twice that afternoon. Silence settled over the hallway.

You stood perfectly still until you heard the television come on. Only then did your shoulders finally slump.

“You okay?” Robby asked quietly.

You nodded.

“Babe.”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I said I’m—” Your voice cracked.

You closed your eyes.

“…I’m fucking tired.”

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was almost worse because of how defeated it sounded. Robby crossed the hallway and wrapped his arms around you from behind, resting his chin against the top of your head.

For a long moment, you simply stood there. Neither of you speaking. Then he felt it. Not sobbing. Not shaking. Just one silent tear sliding down your cheek onto the sleeve of his scrub top.

“I miss her,” you whispered.

His arms tightened.

“I know.”

“She’s still here…” Your voice barely existed anymore. “She’s standing twenty feet away, and I miss her so goddamn much.”

There wasn’t a single thing he could say that would fix it. So he didn’t try. He simply held you in the quiet hallway while your grandmother laughed at an old sitcom in the next room, blissfully unaware that the two people who loved her most were already grieving someone who hadn’t left them yet.

******

By the time the next month rolled around, exhaustion had become part of your personality. Not the kind people joked about over coffee. The kind that settled into your bones and stayed there. You were sleeping in fragments—forty-five minutes here, an hour there—because your grandmother no longer understood the difference between day and night. Some evenings she’d fall asleep in her recliner before dinner. Other nights she’d spend three hours convinced someone was trying to break into the house because she could hear voices outside.

There were no voices. Just sprinklers. Wind. The television she’d forgotten she’d turned on. Every morning you still put on your coat, tied your hair back, and walked into the emergency department with that same calm confidence that made residents instinctively trust you.

It was becoming harder to fake. Robby noticed first. He always did.

“You’ve checked that potassium three times.”

You looked up from the computer.

“What?”

“The potassium.” He pointed at the monitor. “You’ve opened the lab results three separate times.”

You blinked.

“…Huh.”

You’d honestly had no memory of doing it. You rubbed at your forehead.

“I thought it looked different.”

“It didn’t.”

A tired smile ghosted across your face.

“Well… that’s embarrassing.”

He didn’t smile back.

“You need some sleep.”

“I need a clone.”

“You need help.”

“I have help.”

“You have caregivers eight hours a day.”

“And I take over the other sixteen.”

He didn’t have an argument for that. Because you were right.

******

He found you in the staff locker room later that afternoon. Not crying. Just sitting on the bench with your head leaned back against the lockers, eyes closed. You hadn’t even realized he’d walked in.

“Hey.”

Your eyes opened slowly.

“Oh.”

Your smile appeared automatically. He frowned.

“How long have you been sitting here?”

“I don’t know.”

“You on break?”

“I think so.”

“You think so?”

You looked around as though searching for the answer yourself.

“…Yeah.”

He crouched in front of you.

“You forgot, didn’t you?”

A small laugh escaped you.

“Apparently.”

You looked so embarrassed that it physically hurt him.

“I came in here to grab something.”

“What?”

“I…”

You stared at the floor.

“I genuinely don’t remember.”

He reached over and rested a hand on your knee.

“You don’t have to be superhuman.”

“I know.”

“You keep acting like you do.”

“I don’t know how not to.”

******

The call came just after nine that night. Robby had barely gotten his shoes off when he heard your voice from upstairs.

“Grandma?”

No answer. Another door opened.

“Grandma?”

Your voice changed.

“Grandma!”

He was halfway up the stairs before you yelled again.

“Robby!”

He found you standing in your grandmother’s empty bedroom. The bed had clearly been slept in. The window was shut. The room…Empty. Your face had gone completely white.

“She’s gone.”

“When did you see her last?”

“I put her to bed.”

“What time?”

“About an hour ago.”

“Front door?”

“Alarm didn’t go off.”

“Back?”

“I don’t know!”

Your breathing was getting faster.

“I don’t know!”

He grabbed your shoulders.

“Hey.”

You couldn’t hear him.

“Oh my God.”

“Baby.”

“If she wandered—”

“Stop.”

“What if she crossed the—”

His voice finally cut through.

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snapped to his.

“We’re going to find her.”

You shook your head frantically.

“This is my fault.”

“No it’s not.”

“I should’ve checked on—”

“Stop.”

“I should’ve—”

“No.” His hands squeezed your arms. “We are wasting time arguing.”

That finally reached you. You both moved. Fast. The next twenty minutes blurred together. Checking every room. The garage. Closets. Neighbors’ yards. Calling her name into the dark.

The neighborhood was eerily quiet. Every second felt like an hour. Your hands were shaking so violently you dropped your phone trying to dial 911.

“I can’t…” You bent over, hands on your knees. “I can’t breathe.”

Robby picked up your phone.

“I’ve got it.”

Before he could hit call a tiny voice floated from somewhere inside the house.

“…Hello?”

Both of you froze. It came again.

“…Is somebody home?”

The attic. Robby looked upward.

“The attic?”

You stared at the ceiling like you’d forgotten the space even existed.

“There…”

The attic pull-down ladder had been left partially open. He climbed first. Flashlight from his phone sweeping through dusty boxes. Your grandmother looked up from an old wooden rocking chair tucked into the corner. She smiled.

“Oh.”

“There you are.”

She sounded delighted.

“I was waiting for my daddy.”

Robby’s heart sank. She wasn’t ninety anymore. Not in her mind. She was six. Maybe seven.

“I didn’t want to miss him.”

He crouched beside her.

“Your daddy knows where you are.”

“Oh good.”

“He asked if I could sit with you until he gets here.”

“That was nice.”

She reached out and patted his hand.

“You’re a good young man.”

Behind him, he heard you climbing into the attic. The moment your grandmother saw you, she frowned.

“Who are you?”

You stopped moving. Every muscle in your body seemed to lock.

“I’m…” Your voice barely worked. “…I’m Y/N.”

“Oh.” Your grandmother smiled politely. “You have kind eyes.”

Robby watched something inside you shatter. You nodded.

“Thank you.”

“My granddaughter has kind eyes too.”

You swallowed hard enough that he could hear it.

“I know.”

“I miss her.”

Three words. That was all it took. Robby glanced back just in time to see you press your fist against your mouth to stop the sound trying to escape. You couldn’t do it. You turned away before either of them could see the tears spilling over. Robby carefully helped your grandmother to her feet.

“Come on.”

“My daddy?”

“We’ll keep looking for him.”

She accepted that answer with the innocent trust of a child. As he guided her toward the attic ladder, he looked over his shoulder. You were still standing exactly where he’d left you. Completely motionless. Staring at an old family photo tucked into one of the dusty boxes. One where your grandmother was young. Strong. Holding a little girl with pigtails in her lap.

You reached out and brushed the frame with trembling fingertips. Then, in a voice so quiet Robby almost didn’t hear it, you whispered into the darkness,

“I miss you too, Grandma.”

******

The emergency department had been unforgiving since six that morning. By noon, every room was full. By one, patients lined the hallways. By two, the trauma pager had gone off three separate times. By three, nobody remembered what sitting down felt like.

The air buzzed with overhead pages, ringing phones, monitors screaming for attention, and exhausted voices trying to keep pace with the chaos. You were usually the calm in the middle of every storm. Today, you felt like you were drowning beneath it. You’d been awake for thirty-four hours.

Not because of work. Because your grandmother had spent the entire night wandering from room to room. She’d accused you of stealing her wedding ring. She’d forgotten she’d already eaten dinner. She’d cried because she wanted to go home while standing in the house she’d lived in for the last two years.

Around four that morning she’d finally fallen asleep. You hadn’t. You simply stared at the ceiling until your alarm went off. Now, standing over a septic patient, your head pounded hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Pressure’s dropping,” Perlah called.

“I heard you.”

Your tone came out sharper than you’d intended. Perlah nodded once before quietly stepping away. You caught the hurt look on her face. Another thing to apologize for later. Another name added to the growing list.

By the time the patient was stabilized, you could barely feel your feet. You ducked into the physician workroom hoping for five uninterrupted minutes. Instead, you found Robby. He looked up from his computer the second you walked in.

“You okay?”

“I’m working.”

“I can see that.”

You ignored him, logging into your computer and pulling up your next chart. He watched you for a long moment.

“You haven’t eaten.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’ve said that every shift this week.”

“I’m busy.”

“So is everyone else.”

“I know.”

He stood.

“Come with me.”

You didn’t even look up.

“No.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“You need fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t have fifteen minutes.”

“You’ll make fifteen minutes.”

You laughed once. It wasn’t amused.

“You gonna write me a prescription for extra hours in the day?”

“I’m trying to help.”

“I didn’t ask for help.”

His jaw tightened.

“No. You never do.”

You slammed your pen onto the desk.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re trying to carry an impossible amount by yourself.”

“I’m handling it.”

“No, you aren’t.” His voice stayed calm. “You’re surviving it.”

Something inside you snapped.

“You have no fucking idea what I’m surviving.”

The room went quiet. Dana, halfway through signing discharge paperwork, slowly looked up. Langdon stopped typing. Santos sitting across the room suddenly found her coffee incredibly interesting. Robby didn’t move.

“I know it’s hard.”

“I don’t think you do.” You stood so quickly your chair rolled backward into the wall. “You don’t.”

He opened his mouth.

“You don’t wake up three fucking times a night because someone you love doesn’t know where she is.”

Your voice was louder now. Too loud.

“I know.”

“You don’t clean your grandmother after she pisses herself because she’s so embarrassed she’s crying harder than you are.”

Silence. No one moved.

“You don’t have someone look you in the eyes and ask where her granddaughter is while she’s talking to her granddaughter.” Your breathing had become ragged. “You don’t spend every goddamn day wondering if today’s the day she forgets me forever.”

Your eyes burned.

“And then I come in here and everybody wants a fucking piece of me.”

The words just kept coming.

“You.”

You pointed directly at him.

“The nurses.”

“The residents.”

“The patients.”

“Everybody needs something.”

“Everybody.”

“I am so fucking tired of everyone needing me.”

Robby stood perfectly still. “I’m not asking you to—”

“Yes you are!” Your voice cracked. “You need me to sleep. You need me to eat. You need me to lean on you. You need me to talk. I don’t have anything left!”

The last sentence echoed through the workroom. For the first time since you’d met him…You saw genuine pain cross Robby’s face. Not anger. Pain. His shoulders dropped just slightly. Like something had physically struck him. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost impossibly quiet.

“I wasn’t asking you for anything.”

That stopped you.

“I was trying to carry something for you.”

You stared at him. He held your gaze for another second before looking down at the floor. Then he nodded once.

“That’s my mistake.” He picked up the chart he’d come in to grab. “I’ll stay out of your way.”

He walked toward the door. No sarcasm. No slammed door. No argument. Just…Resignation.

He disappeared into the hallway. The workroom remained completely silent. You could hear the trauma pager going off somewhere in the department. Nobody moved. Nobody knew what to say. Dana slowly set her clipboard on the desk.

“Honey…”

Your knees suddenly felt weak.

“Oh…” You whispered it to yourself. “Oh, God.”

You hadn’t just yelled at him. You’d watched the man who loved you reach for you…and slapped his hand away.

Not literally. Somehow what you’d done felt worse. You pressed both palms against your face.

“What the fuck did I just do?”

No one answered. Because there wasn’t an answer. Langdon quietly stood from his chair.

“I’ve got your next patient.”

You looked up. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His voice was gentle. “But you’re not walking into another room like this.”

One by one, people quietly drifted out of the workroom. Not because they were uncomfortable. Because they were giving you privacy. Soon it was just you and Dana. She crossed the room slowly until she stood beside you.

“You know…” Her voice was soft. “I’ve worked with Robby for a long time.”

You couldn’t look at her.

“I know you have.”

“I’ve seen him angry.” She nodded. “I’ve seen him frustrated.”

You felt tears pile in your eyes.

“I’ve seen him sarcastic enough to make residents cry.”

She rested a hand on your shoulder.

“I’ve never seen him look like that.”

Your stomach twisted so violently you thought you might be sick. A tear slipped onto the front of your scrub top. Then another.

“I didn’t mean…”

Your voice dissolved.

“I know.”

“I didn’t mean any of it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

You finally looked at Dana. Your face had completely fallen apart.

“I hurt him.”

She nodded honestly.

“Yeah.”

More tears spilled over.

“I hurt the one person who’s been trying to help me.”

Dana gently squeezed your shoulder.

“Then when this shift is over…” She offered a small, sad smile. “…go home.”

“Tell him that.”

The pager sounded again. Life in the emergency department continued as though nothing had happened. Patients still needed doctors. Ambulances still arrived. Monitors still beeped. But for the rest of the shift, every time you caught sight of Robby across the department, he never once looked your way. Not out of spite. Not because he was punishing you. He was simply giving you exactly what you’d asked for.

Space.

And somehow…That hurt even more than if he’d yelled back.

******

The drive home was almost unbearable. Not because of traffic. Because every minute that passed gave you another sixty seconds to replay what you’d done. The way your voice had echoed through the physician workroom. The stunned silence afterward. The look on Dana’s face. The look on Frank’s.

But none of it compared to the expression on Robby’s. He hadn’t looked angry. He’d looked… wounded. You gripped the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles ached.

“Fuck…” You whispered to the empty car. “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

By the time you pulled into the driveway, your stomach was in knots. His truck was already there. Of course it was. He’d gotten off an hour before you. You sat in your car for another five minutes, staring at the porch light.

Part of you wanted to stay there forever. The other part knew that wasn’t fair to either of you. Finally, you climbed out. The house was quiet. Too quiet. You pushed the front door open slowly.

“Grandma?”

Nothing. Then you remembered. The overnight caregiver. She’d started three nights a week after your grandmother had wandered into the attic. A small mercy. One less thing to fear while you slept.

You slipped your shoes off and rounded the corner toward the kitchen. Robby stood at the stove wearing an old PTMC T-shirt and sweatpants. A pot simmered quietly. The smell of chicken and vegetables filled the room. He glanced over his shoulder.

“Hey.”

No accusation. No cold shoulder. No bitterness. He turned the burner down.

“I made soup.”

You blinked.

“…Soup?”

“You haven’t really eaten anything that wasn’t from a vending machine in about a week.”

You couldn’t speak. He reached into a cabinet and grabbed two bowls.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry, but it’ll keep.”

You just stood there. He looked back again.

“You okay?”

That did it. Your chin started trembling so violently you had to bite the inside of your cheek.

“I’m…” You swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”

He set the bowls down immediately.

“I didn’t—” Your voice cracked. “I didn’t mean…”

“I know.”

“No.” You shook your head hard. “No, you don’t understand.”

You took a shaky step toward him

“I said those things in front of everybody.”

“I know.”

“I humiliated you.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did.” Tears spilled over before you could stop them. “I was fucking awful.”

He closed the distance between you.

“You don’t owe me an apology tonight.”

Your head snapped up.

“What?”

“You owe yourself some grace.”

The laugh that escaped you sounded broken.

“Grace?” You wiped angrily at your face. “I was a complete bitch to you.”

“You were drowning.”

“I still said it.”

“You did.”

“I hurt you.”

“You did.”

Every honest answer landed like another stone on your chest.

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I know you are.”

His voice never changed. Never hardened. Never even wavered. He simply reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“I forgave you before you got home.”

You stared at him.

“…What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why?”

The question came out almost desperate.

“You should be furious with me.”

“I’m not.”

“Why not?”

He sighed quietly.

“Because I know who was talking today.”

You frowned.

“It wasn’t the woman I love.”

That finally broke whatever fragile wall you’d been holding together. Your knees gave out. Not dramatically. They simply…Stopped working. You slid toward the kitchen floor with a strangled sob.

Before you ever hit the tile, Robby caught you. His arms wrapped around you instinctively as he lowered both of you onto the floor. You buried your face against his chest. Then the dam burst. Not quiet tears. Not graceful crying. The ugly kind.

The kind that stole your breath. The kind that made your entire body shake.

“I can’t do this anymore…”

The words were barely understandable between sobs.

“I can’t…”

His hand moved slowly through your hair.

“Okay.”

“I can’t watch her disappear.”

“Okay.”

“I keep thinking…” You sucked in a ragged breath. “What if yesterday was the last day she remembered me?”

Another sob.

“What if she never comes back?”

“I know.”

“I miss her so much.”

“I know.”

“I feel like she’s dying…” You grabbed fistfuls of his shirt. “…and every morning I wake up and she’s still here…”

You couldn’t breathe.

“…and then I hate myself because I wish it would just…”

The sentence died in your throat. Your eyes went wide.

“Oh my God.” You jerked away from him in horror. “I didn’t…”

Fresh tears streamed down your face.

“I don’t mean I want her to die.”

“I know you don’t.” Robby gave you a sad smile.

“I don’t.”

“I know.”

“I just…” You covered your mouth. “I don’t want her scared anymore.”

Your shoulders shook violently.

“I don’t want her wondering where her parents are. I don’t want her crying because she can’t remember my name. I don’t want her apologizing because she wet herself.”

You looked at him with complete devastation.

“And I don’t want to keep praying tomorrow will be better because I know…”

Your voice disappeared into another sob.

“I know it’s only going to get worse.”

For a long time, neither of you spoke. The only sound in the kitchen was your crying and the quiet bubbling of the soup still warming on the stove. Eventually, Robby shifted just enough to cup your face.

“Look at me.”

It took several tries before you managed it. Your eyes were swollen. Your cheeks soaked. He brushed away another tear with his thumb.

“You know what I see?”

You shook your head.

“I see the woman who has spent two years loving someone through one of the cruelest diseases imaginable.”

Another tear escaped.

“I see someone who has sacrificed her sleep.”

He kissed your forehead.

“Her peace.”

Another kiss.

“Her body.”

He gently rubbed one of the fading bruises on your forearm from catching your grandmother during a fall the week before.

“Her career.”

Another kiss.

“And even after all of that…” His own voice grew thick. “…she still thinks she hasn’t done enough.”

Your face crumpled all over again.

“I promised her…”

“I know.”

“I promised I’d never put her in a home.”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“No.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “You promised she’d never be alone.”

You closed your eyes.

“Those aren’t the same promise.”

The room fell silent. Your breathing slowly began to even out. He wrapped both arms around you again, holding you against his chest as if he could somehow absorb every ounce of pain you were carrying. After several minutes, you whispered something so quietly he almost missed it.

“I’m scared you’ll get tired of this.”

His heart broke. He leaned back just enough that you had to look at him. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

“I fell in love with the woman who carries everyone else.”

His hand settled over yours.

“So if she needs me to carry her for a while…” He offered the smallest, saddest smile. “…then that’s exactly where I want to be.”

A fresh wave of tears rolled down your cheeks. Not because he had forgiven you. Not because he’d excused what happened. But because after the worst version of yourself had looked him in the eye and pushed him away…He had come home, made you soup, and loved you exactly the same. You buried your face against his neck again, your voice muffled by his skin.

“I don’t deserve you.”

“Maybe not today.” He pressed a kiss into your hair. “But tomorrow’s another day.”

His arms tightened around you.

And for the first time in weeks, you allowed someone else to hold the weight. Even if it was only for one night.

******

Three weeks later, the silence in the house still caught you off guard. It wasn’t empty. It was… peaceful.

There were no alarms chiming because someone had opened the front door. No hurried footsteps at two in the morning. No frantic searches for misplaced dentures, wedding rings, or a husband who had been gone for over a decade. No crying from the hallway because the wallpaper in the guest room somehow wasn’t the wallpaper from the house your grandmother had lived in during the 1960s.

For the first few nights after moving her into memory care, you’d barely slept. Not because she’d been there. Because you hadn’t. You’d lie awake staring at the ceiling, convinced she’d wake up terrified and alone, calling your name.

Every morning you’d reach for your phone before your eyes were even fully open. No missed calls. No emergencies. No frantic messages.

The guilt remained. But the fear? The fear had finally begun to loosen its grip.

“You ready?”

Robby leaned against the front door, sunglasses perched on top of his head and a paper bag from your favorite bakery hanging from one hand. You smiled softly.

“You remembered the blueberry muffins.”

He shrugged.

“Your grandmother says mine taste like drywall.”

A real laugh escaped you.

“She’s not wrong.”

“I know.” He looked appropriately offended. “I’ve accepted that I’ll never impress her with baked goods.”

“You’ve impressed her with everything else.”

He smiled.

“I’ll take it.”

You grabbed your purse, and together you climbed into his truck. Neither of you talked much during the drive. You never did anymore. Not because things were awkward. Because the quiet had become comfortable again.

It was something you’d almost forgotten how to enjoy. As the assisted living community came into view, your stomach tightened anyway. Robby noticed immediately. He reached across the center console and took your hand.

“You don’t have to be nervous.”

“I know.”

“You can still be nervous.”

You nodded.

“I hate that she’s here.”

He squeezed your fingers gently.

“I know.”

“…But I don’t hate that she’s safe.”

He looked over at you.

“That’s okay too.”

You exhaled slowly.

“I think I’m finally starting to believe that.”

The memory care wing was brighter than you’d expected the first time you’d walked through it. Large windows. Soft music drifting through the hallways. Paintings made by residents hung proudly on the walls. Staff members greeted everyone by name.

There were bird feeders outside every window. Your grandmother had always loved watching birds. When you rounded the corner toward the common room, a nurse smiled immediately.

“Oh good.” She pointed toward the activity room. “She’s been telling everyone her granddaughter’s coming today.”

Your heart skipped.

“She has?”

“Since breakfast.” The nurse grinned. “She also told us to make sure someone handsome came with you.”

Robby smirked.

“That tracks.”

You rolled your eyes.

“She’s shameless.”

“She absolutely is.”

The nurse laughed and walked away. You looked at Robby.

“You ready?”

He nodded.

“As I’ll ever be.”

Together, you stepped into the activity room. Half a dozen residents sat around a large table decorating flowerpots with bright acrylic paint. Your grandmother sat in the middle of them wearing a pale yellow cardigan dotted with tiny blue flowers.

She looked… lighter. Not cured. Not magically herself again. But lighter. She was laughing. Really laughing. One of the residents beside her was arguing that his painted sunflower looked more like a fried egg. Your grandmother cackled.

“It does!”

“It does not!”

“It absolutely does.”

Then she looked up. For one terrifying second, Nothing. Your chest tightened. Then her face transformed.

“There they are!” She pointed at the two of you. “I told you they’d come.”

She pushed herself up from her chair with her walker. A staff member instinctively moved to help.

“I’ve got it,” your grandmother huffed. “I’m old, not helpless.”

The staff member chuckled and stepped back. You met her halfway across the room.

“Hi, Grandma.”

She cupped your cheek.

“My beautiful girl.” Your eyes immediately filled. “Hi.”

She studied your face for a long moment.

“You look rested.”

You laughed through the tears threatening to fall.

“I guess I do.”

“I worried about you.”

Your throat tightened.

“You did?”

She nodded matter-of-factly.

“You looked so tired.”

For just a heartbeat…There she was. The grandmother who had practically raised you. The woman who always knew when something was wrong before you ever said a word.nYou wrapped your arms around her carefully.

“I missed you.”

She hugged you back.

“I know.”

When you stepped aside, she looked at Robby.

“Well?”

He blinked.

“Well what?”

She put a hand on her hip.

“Come give me a hug.”

He laughed.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He bent down and hugged her gently. She patted his back twice before leaning close enough that only he and you could hear.

“You still taking care of my girl?”

His eyes flickered toward you.

“Every day.”

“Good.” She nodded with complete satisfaction. “She forgets to take care of herself.”

“I know.”

“You remind her.”

“I do.”

She smiled.

“I knew I picked the right one.”

He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat.

“I’ll keep reminding her.”

She reached up and squeezed his cheek.

“I know you will.”

The three of you spent nearly two hours there. Your grandmother introduced you both to every resident as though she’d personally founded the place.

“This is my granddaughter.”

“This is her doctor.”

“No, Grandma,” you laughed. “My fiancé.”

She frowned.

“I know what I said.”

Robby nearly choked trying not to laugh. At lunch she insisted he trade desserts with her because “men need feeding.” She beat him soundly at a game of dominoes. Twice. When it came time to leave, the old guilt crept back into your chest.

You hated saying goodbye. You always would. You knelt beside her chair.

“We’ll be back Sunday.”

She smiled. “I know.”

“I love you.”

She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear exactly the way she had when you were little.

“I know.” She kissed your forehead. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

As you stood, she caught Robby’s hand one last time. He turned back.

“What is it?”

She looked between the two of you with surprising clarity. The kind that seemed to arrive without warning and disappear just as quickly.

“You know…” Her voice softened. “Dementia takes a lot.”

Neither of you spoke.

“It took my memories.”

She smiled sadly.

“It took my independence.”

Another pause.

“But it didn’t take knowing who loves me.”

A tear escaped down your cheek. She looked at you.

“You stopped trying to keep me alive…” She squeezed your hand. “…and started helping me live.”

The words stole the air from your lungs. Then she looked at Robby.

“Thank you…” She smiled warmly. “…for making sure my granddaughter finally remembered she gets to live too.”

Neither of you trusted yourselves to answer. You simply kissed her goodbye and walked out together. The afternoon sun was warm against your faces as you reached the truck.

For several moments, neither of you climbed in. You both looked back toward the windows of the memory care wing. Your grandmother stood inside, waving enthusiastically through the glass. You waved back until she disappeared from view. Only then did you finally lean against Robby.

“I still feel guilty.”

He wrapped an arm around your shoulders.

“I know.”

“I think part of me always will.”

He kissed your temple.

“Probably.”

You looked up at him.

“That doesn’t mean I made the wrong choice…does it?”

He rested his forehead against yours.

“No, baby.” His answer came without hesitation. “It means there was never going to be a choice that didn’t hurt.”

A tear rolled down your cheek. He brushed it away with his thumb.

“You gave her dignity.”

He rubbed your side.

“You gave her safety And you gave yourself permission to be her granddaughter again…” His voice grew quiet. “…instead of trying to be her doctor, her nurse, her caregiver, and her entire world.”

You closed your eyes. For the first time since her diagnosis, you let yourself believe him. Not because the guilt had disappeared. Not because the grief was over. But because as you looked back one last time at the woman who had raised you—laughing with new friends, safe, cared for, and loved—you finally understood something your heart had been fighting for months.

“It’s Block Party! You have to go!” Allie insisted, dragging you to your closet. You huffed an argument but she pretended not to hear it. “If Hannah’s coming, so are you.”

“Hannah doesn’t want to go either!” You reasoned, to which Hannah tried to offer an agreement.

“Hannah does want to go because it’s a chance to talk to Justin.” Allie cut in. “You are going because you never go out with us anymore. It’s one night, Y/N/N. It won’t kill you.”

“It might.” You mumbled but sighed in defeat. “Alright, fine. Go on then. Pick my outfit.”

Allie clapped in triumph and focused back on your clothes, flipping through hangers and voicing her internal monologue regarding the selection.

“You definitely need more going out tops.” Allie shook her head. “Remind me to take you shopping this weekend.”

“I don’t need going out tops if I don’t go out.” You countered.

“Or you don’t go out because you don’t have going out tops.”

“Whatever works, Al.”

After a few more minutes of her rummaging in your closet and drawers, she finally found an outfit she approved of. You changed and she insisted on doing your hair and makeup as well. You knew better than to fight her at that point.

When you and your friends got to the block party, it was in full swing. You had pre-gamed at your apartment so there was a light buzz in your head. You still didn’t want to be out but it wasn’t as bad as you were anticipating.

After a while of dancing with your friends, you needed to sit for a bit. You loved Allie and her sense of style, but she managed to pick the most uncomfortable shoes in your closet. They were definitely meant for sitting events, but you had to agree when Allie said they made your legs look nice and long.

“Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.” She had commented when she saw your whole look put together.

You were looking around for an open table when your caught sight of the one person at Briar that you didn’t want to see.

“Fuck.” You whispered, quickly turning so your back was to him.

“What is it?” Hannah asked quickly.

“Remember that guy I’ve been complaining about?” You answered, trying to mask the instant annoyance that came from seeing him. “Behind me.”

You watched as Hannah looked over your shoulder, searching for a moment, then nodded in understanding.

“We can go if you want.” She offered.

“No.” You shook your head a little. “We came for you to finally make a move, so we’re not leaving until you do… I’m gonna get something else to drink cause I’m too sober to deal with this. If I get in trouble, I’ll call you.”

“Don’t hesitate, okay?” Hannah urged.

“Never do.” You flashed a smile before separating from your group.

You snuck through the crowd, keeping your eyes forward. You doubted he would recognize you just from the back of your head so you could at least make it to the drinks. Getting back to your friends would be a separate issue, but at least you’d have some more liquor in your system.

Once you got your drink, you swallowed a mouthful. It burned slightly and you sucked a breath in through your teeth.

“I thought that was you.” A grossly familiar voice came from behind you and you jumped.

“Hello, Eli.” You said tightly, eyes scanning the crowd for an out.

You didn’t care who it was. Allie, Hannah, you’d even settle for Justin.

“I thought you said in class that you weren’t going to come.” He continued.

“I didn’t talk to you about tonight in class.”

“I know. I heard you talking to-”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“A little, yeah.” He laughed, trying to appear embarrassed about it. You looked over at him, a slight curl in your lip. “You look great. Beautiful, even.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back to the crowd.

“Yeah…” You mumbled, not really paying attention.

Where were your friends?

“I uh, assume this outfit is courtesy of one, Miss Allie Hayes.” He continued. Without looking, you could feel he had taken a step closer.

“No, they’re my clothes.”

“I’ve never seen you wear anything like this.”

“Yeah, cause I don’t need a mini skirt for class. T-shirt and jeans work just fine…”

“And your ‘boyfriend’. He doesn’t mind you dressing like this?”

Your head snapped his way and he feigned innocence.

“You did say you were seeing someone. Didn’t you? Why are you here and not with him? Why isn’t he getting your drink?”

You shook your head and turned away again. Something about that man made your skin crawl.

Across the party, you saw a different group of familiar faces. Dean Di Laurentis, Garrett Graham, John Tucker, and John Logan. You stood a little straighter at the realization. You had the same class with Eli as you did with Logan. You had talked to him a few times, worked on projects and assignments before. He had even invited you to parties before. Not that you ever went.

You smiled slightly to yourself, mumbled a polite goodbye, then ducked away. You slipped through the crowd, narrowing avoiding spilling your drink as you ducked and dodged couples dancing.

Finally, you popped out on the other side and made it to the guys.

“Logan!” You called for his attention. He looked your way and smiled.

“Hey! I thought you weren’t coming.” He greeted.

“The girls dragged me out.” You nodded. “I hate to do this but I actually came over here for a favor.”

“Pause.” Dean cut in, pointing to you as his eyes raked up and down. Lingering on your legs. “Logan. Who is this?”

“Right, sorry. Guys, this is Y/N. We have Consumer Behavior together.” Logan introduced. “Her work has saved my ass on more than one occasion.”

“Dean Di Laurentis.” Dean bowed slightly and you had to laugh a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are.” You shook your head with a laugh. “Everyone knows who you are, all four of you guys.”

“Which also means she knows what you’re up to.” Garrett told Dean, who was offering you a freshly poured shot.

“I’m not up to anything.”

Your eyes flicked to Logan in question and he gave a small shrug. Dean poured another and Logan took both small cups, holding the other one out to you. You accepted it, nodded in thanks, and tapped the two together in a toast before downing the liquor. You winced slightly and coughed, which earned a laugh from Logan beside you.

“Dude.” Tucker added. “You’re always up to something.”

“I resent that. Just because she-”

“I’m sorry but can this-” You gestured vaguely to Dean, handing the now empty cup back to him. “-wait? I need to borrow Logan.”

“Shit, yeah, my bad.” Logan laughed and gestured for you to go with him. You two walked a few feet away and then he faced you again. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his original drink. “What’s going on?”

“You know Eli from class?” You began, inching a bit closer as if you were telling a secret. You were a little convinced that Eli would pop up as soon as you said his name like some freaky version of Beetlejuice. Well, freakier version.

“Uh, yeah, a little. The guy’s a little…”

“Weird.” You filled in. “He’s fucking weird, Logan.”

“He bothering you?”

“I’ve tried being nice about it. He DMs my Instagram every other day. He likes my old posts. He comments on old posts. I’ve had to delete his comments and restrict his account. He won’t leave me alone. It’s like he thinks I’m playing hard to get or something.”

“You didn’t just block him?”

“I don’t trust that I can block him and he’ll let it go, not when we have a class together.” You confessed. “I’ve even tried telling him I’m seeing someone.”

“And he doesn’t care?”

“He doesn’t believe me! He said that I don’t have anyone posted, that I don’t go out, I’m never walking with a guy, and that none of my friends have posted anything either.”

“That is a bit much.” Logan nodded, looking over your head for a moment.

“He found me when I was getting a drink a few minutes ago. I don’t know what else to do so I just thought…”

“That I could get him to back off?”

“Yeah, maybe.” You shrugged a little. “Sounds a little pathetic now that you say it.”

“So what do you need? Just to hang out and put on a show?”

“Maybe?” You laughed nervously. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, and I wasn’t even sure you would say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s not like we talk much outside of class.”

“Yeah, but that’s cause you never come to anything I invite you to.”

“Oh, come on. You guys invite everyone.”

“I don’t.”

“So I’m special?”

“Yeah, maybe…” He flashed a smile but nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll help you.”

“Really?” You brightened. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“But you owe me.” He pointed at you.

“The times I saved your grade isn’t enough?”

“No, not at all.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll do your next Consumers assignment.” You waved him off. “I appreciate you talking to him.”

“Oh, I’m not talking to him. Not unless he comes to us.” He laughed, taking his empty hand out of his pocket. He gestured for your cup and you offered it to him in confusion. “And you’re not drinking that.”

Without explanation, he dropped it in the nearest trashcan. He came back, offering you his now empty hand.

“My drink.” You frowned.

“I’ll get you a new one.” He offered with an amused smile.

“That one was fine.”

“You ever look away from it?”

You nodded slightly.

“You don’t trust to block the guy. You trust to not see your drink?”

“Fair point.”

You took the hand he offered and he gave you a slight tug to follow him. You did, looking back to try and find your friends. They were still lost in the crowd.

They wouldn’t miss you for a little while, right?

“Shit, Logan.” Garrett laughed as the two of you made it back to his friends. “I think Dean owes you an apology.”

“For what?” Dean spun around. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s not-” You tried.

Logan freed his hand from yours and put his arm over your shoulders instead.

“You two sneak off for a chat and come back… What? Dating?” Tucker asked and you just looked up at Logan.

You felt your phone buzzing in your pocket so you checked it.

Hannah was calling.

Maybe they would miss you.

“Shit.” You whispered and answered, turning slightly away from the boys’ conversation and blocking your other ear. “Hey, Han.”

“Y/N/N! What happened to you? We couldn’t find you.” Hannah answered. Even though she was likely yelling, the music was fighting to drown out her voice.

“Yeah, well. Long story short, Eli.”

“Shit.” She breathed. “Where are you? Allie and I will come help.”

“Another long story short, Logan.”

“Lo- Like John Logan from the hockey team?!”

“Yeah… I’ll explain later.”

“Alright… Call if you need a rescue, okay?”

“Absolutely. Thanks, lovey.”

You ended the call and turned back, shifting closer to Logan and unintentionally leaning some of your weight onto him.

“Everything okay?” Logan asked, looking over at you.

“I let Allie pick my shoes and they are not meant for standing.” You laughed.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Logan laughed. 

“Because Allie was so proud of the outfit she put together despite her hating my closet.” You gestured to yourself and you didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the path of your hand. “She said…”

Logan met your eyes with a silent question.

Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.

“She said the shoes make my legs look longer.” You filled in.

“She was right.” Logan nodded.

“She also said the skirt distracts from my boring shirt.”

“I see what she means.” Logan laughed and you found yourself smiling in response.

“You’re wearing a plain shirt and a Carhartt.” You tugged on his jacket slightly. “But you’re telling me that my outfit is boring?”

“Not the whole outfit.”

“Oh, so just half of it?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“I am regretting coming over here already. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea.”

He laughed as he guided you to the nearby picnic table his friends had claimed. He sat on the table and left a gap between his legs. Again, he reached for your hand.

You accepted, though the questioning look in your eyes didn’t falter. He just winked and smiled, and that was enough for you to go along with whatever plan he had. You took your seat, crossing one leg under yourself and adjusting your skirt accordingly. You leaned back against Logan’s leg and looked over at the stage, watching the band perform. Logan was laughing and joking with his friends. Whatever was so funny, you didn’t know or didn’t really care.

You did realize you liked hearing him laugh.

“Oh, wait. You know her.” Garrett said suddenly, then he showed you his phone screen. “The waitress from Malone’s.”

“Hannah.” You corrected, glancing at the photo of her on his screen. “What about her?”

“What’s her deal?”

You leaned forward, crossing your arms over Logan’s leg. His hand found its way to your back, fingers tracing slight patterns between your shoulder blades that almost made you shiver.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… Okay, I have a class with her and she was the only one to ace a paper.”

“Not surprising.” You shook your head. “She knows her stuff.”

“So I try to get her to help me out so I don’t fail again and she said no.” Garrett lifted his hands for a dramatic shrug.

“Well it could have something to do with you not knowing her name.” You offered. “Or she just doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“No? You sure? Can’t blame her if it is.”

“Couldn’t possibly be that.” Logan joked.

“If it’s not personal, she is usually pretty busy.” You explained. “I think she has three jobs, and then her classes and her music.”

You felt a hand tap your arm and you turned to face Logan.

“I think he’s coming over here.” Logan warned and you frowned, deflating a little.

Logan chuckled, tapping his fingers under your chin. “Trust me, okay?”

“What other choice do I have?” You gave a small shrug.

“Yo, Dean!” Logan called and the blond came over, a slight wobble in his step from too much to drink too fast. “You see that guy coming over?” Logan shamelessly pointed at Eli. That seemed to make him hesitate and change course. “Would you think he has a shot with Y/N?”

“Fuck no.” Dean answered with a laugh and no hesitation. “Logan, you barely have a shot with her. No offense.”

You scoffed in offense and whacked at Dean’s arm, earning a laugh from him and Logan.

“Does he seriously try?” Dean asked you.

“Relentlessly.” You nodded. “I can show you the DMs. It’s at least twice a week.”

“Please do.” Dean laughed and sat near you on the bench.

“Once, he commented ‘be my waifu’ on an Instagram post from two years ago.”

You pulled your phone, seeing a series of texts from Allie.

WTF!?!?!

LOOK UP!!!!

YOURE KIDDING ME

!!?!?!??!?!

You swiped the messages away before opening the one sided thread in your Instagram DMs. You passed Dean your phone before looking towards the last place you saw your friends. Allie had found something to stand on and was waving frantically towards you. You smiled and offered an awkward wave. She looked down for a moment, head moving as she was likely typing an aggressive message, then she looked back up. Her eyes were wide and her hands were swinging wildly still when you felt Dean tap you with your phone.

“That’s sad, actually.” Dean said, fake empathy in his voice. “Oh, also Allie is very confused.”

“You read my text!?” You snatched your phone and saw it was open to yours and Allie’s messages.

IS THAT JOHN FUCKING LOGAN!?

YOURE DATING JOHN LOGAN?????

WHEN DID THIS START!?!?

Y/N Y/L/N STOP IGNORING ME

“She’s gonna kill me.” You sighed.

“She’ll get over it.” Logan answered.

“No.” You shook your head as you thumbed your response.

don’t make this a thing. i’ll explain later… call if hannah goes to make a move tho and i will come RUNNING

“This is gonna be her go-to for quite literally anything. ‘Remember when you didn’t tell me about you and John Logan?’ Allie will definitely hold a grudge over this.”

“Yeah, but is it something?”

You shifted to look up at him. His head was cocked slightly, his cup abandoned beside him and both hands bracing the way he leaned back on the table.

“Just a favor...” You answered after a hesitation. That was the truth, but it still felt suddenly wrong.

Before either of you could say anything else, there was a new presence beside you. You expected to turn and see Allie had stomped her way over to demand answers or Hannah had come with some excuse to whisk you away. Instead, you turned and saw Eli standing there.

Immediately, you tugged the hem of your skirt down and shifted to be facing straight. Logan leaned forward, an arm coming across your chest and pulling you slightly closer. You reached up and put one hand on his arm, the other going for his hand. His thumb ran gently back and forth over your knuckles. A heat raced up your neck as your cheeks burned but you tried not to acknowledge it. Prior to the last few minutes, you hadn’t considered anything with Logan but now that the thought had been planted…

Now that you knew how easy it was to be around him…

“This’ll be good.” Dean mumbled.

“Hey, man.” Logan said casually. “You’re in our Consumers class, right? Elliot.”

“Eli.” Eli corrected sharply. “I just wanted to talk to Y/N about something.”

“Up to her.”

“Can’t we talk here?” You asked politely, offering an easy and comfortable smile. “It’s not like we’re telling secrets or anything.” You laughed a little.

“I was hoping to save some embarrassment.”

“For who?”

“Fine… I just wanted to see why you lied to me.” He said sharply, as if you had offended him.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you said you weren’t looking for anything.”

“Wasn’t.” You shrugged. “But I did also say I was already seeing someone.”

“Why are you here, Y/N?” He asked, nearly desperate. You tried to keep your face neutral. “You talk and you tempt me but then you leave.”

“I’ve never given you that idea.” You had to laugh.

“You expect me to believe you, a beautiful and innocent and sweet and kind and smart woman, would date him?”

“Have you been bothering her outside of class?” Logan cut in, a new edge to his voice.

“No.” Eli said quickly.

“No, I've seen the way you try to corner her.”

“Yeah and I’ve seen the messages.” Dean added with a small, almost pitiful laugh. “You bother the fuck outta her. She’s just too nice to tell you to fuck off. We, on the other hand, aren’t. So fuck off.”

“Who was talking to you, blondie?” Eli turned on Dean. 

“Wrong fucking answer, buddy.”

“Don’t you have some other girl to make question her morals?”

Dean went to stand but Logan grabbed his friend’s arm.

“Blondie here can still kick your ass. I wouldn’t pick a fight with hockey players.” You commented, squeezing Logan’s hand slightly. “You won’t win.”

“I like her.” Dean smiled to Logan, who gave a small chuckle in return.

Garrett and Tucker had now come closer, as if recognizing the tension. Eli took a step back.

“Just leave her alone, alright?” Logan said calmly. “She doesn’t want shit to do with you.”

“But she suddenly wants you?” Eli snapped.

You didn’t bother trying to keep your expression neutral. Your brows raised and you let out a quiet “wow”.

“Why are you here, Eli?” You asked plainly. “You don’t respect anything I tell you. You don’t believe I’m seeing someone. You literally see me with him. But you come over here and… What? Think I’ll run off into the sunset with you? I see your DMs. I see the comments. You ever think that maybe there’s a reason I ignore all of them?”

“You’re better than this, my darling.”

“Alright.” Logan announced. You felt him lean forward, his chest against your back. “You heard her. It’s time for you to go.”

“Or what?” Eli lifted his chin, almost trying to challenge Logan.

Part of you wondered if Logan would’ve moved differently had you not been sitting in front of him, tucked under his arm. Would he have been more like Dean, ready to fight? Would he have been like Garrett and Tucker, a quiet but strong presence? Or would he be the same he was, tense but in control?

“What more proof do you need that I don’t want anything to do with you?” You said sharply. You moved Logan’s arm and stood, coming nearly eye to eye with Eli thanks to the lift of your heels.

“It won’t last. He will break your precious heart and toss you aside like you’re worthless.” Eli nearly pleaded. “I will treat you like a princess. Like a queen. You deserve so much better.”

You looked over at Logan, at Dean, then Tucker. Garrett had disappeared.

“I like where I am.” You gave a small, nonchalant shrug. “Take a fucking hint and-”

You were cut off by your phone buzzing. You looked down at it, ignoring the pleas from Eli.

It was Allie.

“No fucking way.” You said when you answered. “Is she really?!”

“Yes, get your cute ass down here now!”

“Okay, yes, coming!”

“You’re not off the hook for whatever that is with Logan.”

You laughed and hung up the phone. Still ignoring Eli, you turned and grabbed Logan’s hand. You didn’t need to bring Logan with you. Surely, if Eli still tried to follow and talk to you, the boys would block him, but you just wanted to bring him along.

“Come with me!” You said in excitement and gave a slight tug.

He laughed, said something you weren’t listening to, but gave in to your efforts. He stood, waved to his friends, and followed you back towards the main party. As you reached the crowd, you had to slow down.

Logan was close behind you, one hand still in yours and the other was now on your hip. You glanced down at it and felt the heat on your cheeks again. With the people around you, there was no way Eli could see much. He didn’t have to put on a show for anyone, yet he still went out of his way to keep hold of you.

You liked it.

When you finally got through the crowds, you found Allie and Dexter already watching Hannah.

“Girl. I thought you were kidding.” Dexter told Allie, offering a double take as you approached with Logan in tow.

“John Logan, this is Allie and Dexter. Allie and Dexter, John Logan.” You introduced quickly, though it was likely they knew who he was. “We have Consumer Behavior together and he is my savior tonight.”

“Okay.” Dexter gave a nod of approval.

“Shut up! We can talk about that later.” Allie insisted, smacking yours and Dexter’s arms. “She’s doing it.”

You turned and saw Hannah making her way to Justin. Her attempt was cut short by someone knocking into her and spilling their drink. You turned and dropped your head against Logan’s arm, huffing in defeat. He laughed a little and patted your back.

“Oh, hell no!” Allie said firmly and you looked back up. Dexter pulled her back and when you followed their focus, you saw Garrett Graham offering Hannah his jacket.

You turned back to Logan.

“What the hell is he doing?” You asked in shock.

“I have no idea.” He laughed a little, though his expression was just as confused. “Guess that’s why he was asking about her.”

“Huh…” You nodded slowly. “I guess rejection is the way to Graham’s heart.”

“Or he just really wants help with that next paper.” Logan joked.

You smacked his chest slightly but laughed a little bit.

“The things we do for our grades, huh?” You teased.

“Hey, I’m doing this for more than a grade.” He put his hands up in surrender.

“Are you?” You cocked your head.

The sun had fully set by now and there was a slight chill in the air. A chill ran down your spine, making you regret agreeing to the skirt. As cute as it was, it was not weather appropriate.

“Oh, shit. Here.” Logan noticed, quickly taking off his jacket. He offered it to you, but you tried to push his hands away.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t think I’ll stick around much longer anyway.” You tried.

“Shut up and take it.” He urged gently, pushing the jacket back at you.

With a sigh, you did. It was already warm and you could smell his cologne on it.

“Thank you.” You said, shoving your hands in the pockets. “For all of it, tonight.”

You felt a tap on your shoulder and looked over to see Dexter pointing between him and Allie. He took her wrist and began to pull her away, despite Allie’s protests. Dexter gave you a pointed look, to which you rolled your eyes, then they blended into the crowd.

“They are gonna have a field day with this.” You laughed.

Logan took hold of the front of his jacket and pulled you closer, flush against his chest. You let out a small noise of surprise at the action and he just smiled at you.

He had a very pretty smile. How had you not noticed it earlier?

“Can I tell you something?” Logan asked, his voice low as if he was telling you a secret.

“Sure.” You nodded.

“I’m glad you came up to me tonight.”

“I’m glad you agreed. Otherwise, I would’ve had to sick Allie on him and that would not have been pretty.”

“You still can, I mean…” He shrugged and you laughed. You drew your hands out of the pockets and rested one on his arm while the other fiddled with the chain around his neck. “Y/N…”

“John.” You titled your head back to meet his eyes.

“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.” He nodded slightly.

“Seriously?” Your brows raised. “Shit, not- Not that I don’t want to, just… It’s kinda out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, a little, but…” He smiled but he almost seemed nervous.

“John Logan, am I making you nervous?” You laughed.

“Do you want to go or not?” He laughed, ignoring your question.

“I’m just saying man, how fitting that Graham is hooking up with Delaney’s sloppy seconds.” A guys says, his St. Anthony’s shirt sticks out like a sore thumb.

“Di Laurentis and Logan sure did score with their puck bunnies too.” The other laughs. You listen in on the conversation as you and Allie wait for your drinks. Hannah is currently tucked into Garrett’s side across the bar, neither one of them drinking tonight. Logan and Dean are playing a heated game of pool, not aware of the two St. Anthony’s players that have somehow made themselves welcome in a Briar University bar.

“I’m just saying I’d love to have five minutes alone with one of them, bet they’d forget all about their little boyfriends.” The first guy says, laughing at his own statement. You turn, sneering your nose up at him. You let out a short laugh.

“Oh, please.” You look him up and down. “You don’t look like you could find the clit if it was waving a flashlight at you.” A few people nearby choke on their drinks. The guy looks at you, face red. He’s probably had way too much to drink.

“What the fuck did you just say to me, bitch?” He says, getting in your face. Beside you Allie pales. Little do you know Dean and Logan have stopped their game of pool and are standing by for backup. You don’t so much as flinch.

“You heard me.” You say. A humorless smile tugs at your lips as you fold your arms across your chest.

“Besides, it’s a little pretentious to walk onto our campus and assume you’d ever have a chance with one of us in the first place.” You say glaring up at him.

His jaw tightens.

“Yeah?” He laughs, taking a step closer. “Well, our boy Delaney got your captain’s girl way back in high school.” He shrugs. “You puck bunnies are all the same. Easy little sluts.”

Rage clouds your train of thought and your arm moves on instinct tossing the contents of your cup into the guys face.

“You crazy fucking bitch!” He yells. His next move takes the entire bar off guard. He drops his shoulder slamming you into the bar, hard, deliberate, and most definitely hockey-style. You’re a little stunned, around you the bar erupts in outrage.

“What the fuck!” Allie screeches. Logan is already busting through the crowd trying to get to you. Dean pulls Allie behind him. You regain your balance, hurting like a mother fucker. But that sure as hell isn’t going to stop you. As the guy is rattling something off to his friend you shove him.

“Woah, woah, woah!” Logan chants, grabbing you as the guys arm raises no doubt aiming for you.

“Control your bitch man!” The guy’s friend yells. Dean and Logan share a look. You’re practically vibrating with rage. The guy who shoved you sticks his finger in your face.

“You’ve got a real fuckin’ attitude problem.” He turns to Logan. “She always run that damn mouth?” He asks, eyeing you, a disgusting grin on his face.

“If you were mine, I’d keep that pretty little mouth busy.” He says looking to Logan for his reaction. You feel him tense, his body practically shaking with rage.

“Not worth it man, we’ll kick his ass on the ice tomorrow.” Garrett calls. Hannah is tucked behind him like a baby animal hiding behind their mom. You don’t blame her after everything she’s been through. Dean puts a hand on his shoulder, getting him to disengage from the guy.

“Yeah that’s right 22! Walk away!” The guy calls. Logan pauses, his jaw set. He closes his eyes for a second and you can tell he’s debating turning back around, you grab his arm.

“Let’s just go, baby.” You mutter. You feel bad for causing a scene but no way were you going to let some guy talk about your best friends like that.

Loading up in Garrett’s Jeep everyone is a little too quiet for your liking. You know the guys are trying to let Logan simmer down. You sit in the back seat between Dean and Logan, Allie perched on Deans lap. Hannah rides shotgun next to Garrett.

“Are you okay?” Logan asks, turning slightly to look at you. You nod, you’re sure your back is bruised but he doesn’t need to know about that right now.

“I’m fine, I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to start anything.” You say, your apology intended for the whole car.

“What did that guy say to you? I’ve never seen you that mad?” Garrett, asks. You bite your lip, before recounting the conversation. Your friends are quiet for a moment.

“Okay, I totally would have thrown my drink in his face too.” Allie says, breaking the silence.

“You could have gotten hurt.” Logan says beside you.

“I’m okay.” You sigh.

“You got checked into a bar.” Logan states. You sigh.

“I know.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You don’t get it.”

You roll your eyes. Though you doubt he can see it in the darkness of the back of the Jeep. “Logan..” You trail off.

“Are you hurting anywhere?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“My back.” You mumble. The entire Jeep goes quiet. Logan angles himself toward you as best as he can in the tightly packed Jeep.

“Your back?” Logan asks.

“It just feels sore.” You say. The Jeep pulls into the drive of the hockey house and as the lights come on Logan’s eyes are scanning your body in concern. Everyone files out of the Jeep and heads for the house.

“Come here.” Logan says, gesturing for you to get out of the Jeep.

“Logan, I’m fi-“ you say but he cuts you off.

“Humor me.” He says as you climb out of the Jeep. He gently guides you into the living room of the house.

He reaches for the hem of your sweatshirt. His brown eyes looking into yours.

“Can I?” He asks, warm fingers gripping your shirt. You nod. He carefully lifts the fabric just enough to expose your lower back. His entire body goes still.

“Fuck…” he mutters.

“What?” You ask, trying to get a glimpse of your back.

Dean walks into the living room, a fresh bottle of beer in his hand.

“Damn.” He says taking a sip. Garrett follows behind him before muttering, “Holy shit.”

“What?” You ask again.

A massive bruise is already spreading across the right side of your lower back, the skin turning an angry mix of purple, blue, and dark red. You can almost make out where the edge of the bar caught you.

Allie winces.

“Y/N…” she says.

“It’s that bad?” You ask. Sure it was a little sore, and you’d planned on taking some advil but surely it couldn’t be that bad already.

Logan gently lets your shirt fall back down, before rubbing a hand over his face.

“I should’ve killed him.” He says plainly.

“Logan.” You say.

“I’m serious.” He counters.

“You are absolutely not serious.” You say.

“I should have beat his ass.” Logan says. He lets out a dry laugh.

“John.” You say seriously, snapping his attention back to you. “I’m okay, baby.” You say.

“He put his hands on you.” His voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“He put his fucking hands on you.” He says. The anger that had been simmering all night suddenly melts into something else entirely. Fear. He steps closer, carefully placing his hands on your hips, avoiding the bruise completely.

“Hey…” You reach up and cup his cheek.

“I’m okay.” You assure him.

“You won’t be tomorrow.” He says.You frown.

“What?” You ask.

“That bruise is going to get a hell of a lot worse before it gets better.” He says. He would know, he was used to getting banged up like that but at least he was the same size as the guys slamming into him. That guy was nearly two of you.

“It already looks pretty bad.” Logan says. Dean whistles from the couch.

“Pretty bad? Honey, that thing is going to look like modern art by morning.” He says.

Despite everything, you laugh. Allie smacks Dean’s arm.

“Read the room, dingus.” She says.

“What? I’m trying to lighten the mood.” Dean offers.

“You should get some ice on that.” Garrett offers, moving into the kitchen to grab one of the many gel ice packs the boys kept in the freezer.

Logan nods, taking the ice pack from Garrett.

“I’ll take care of her.” He says. You smile softly as he guides you up the steps to his room, practically your shared room at this point. You change quickly, slipping out of your jeans and top and into one of Logan’s t-shirts. He finally looks at you, his eyes still full of guilt.

“I’m not mad at you.” He clarifies, as you lay down on the bed, wincing as your back hits the soft surface.

“You kind of seem mad.” You reason.

“I’m mad…” He pauses. “Just not at you.” He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I’m mad because someone thought they could hurt you.”

You lean forward, resting your forehead against his.

“I’d still do it again.” You say. He groans.

“I know you would.” He says. “Roll onto your belly let me ice your back.” He instructs. You do as he says, hissing slightly when the cold pack hits your back.

“And you’d still love me anyway.” You tease. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“Unfortunately.” He says, leaning down to kiss your forehead. You grin.

“Unfortunately?” You ask.

“I was hoping for someone with a stronger sense of self-preservation.” He jokes.

“You got me instead.” You say.

“I sure as hell did.” He laughs. “I wouldn’t want anyone else.” He adds, laying beside you and holding the ice pack in place for you.

“No more bar fights though, okay?” He says with a laugh. You roll your eyes.

It was almost comical, you had to admit. Nine large boxes covered in dust with god knows what inside. Three duffels and two backpacks full of clothes and miscellaneous hygiene products. A disassembled bed frame with no mattress. An L-shaped olive green velvet couch that came with the apartment. The massive trunk Kalista had just helped you drag upstairs. And a few other odds and ends sitting static in a living space that was, by any measure, far too large for what you'd brought to fill it.

The apartment was nice, genuinely nice. A long hallway from the entrance opened through a wide arch into the living room. The kitchen and eating area sat beyond that, and covering the entire back wall was a gigantic semi-circle of windows that caught the afternoon light in a way that had sold you on this place before you'd even finished the tour.

You loved the sun. It gave you a kind of peace you couldn't fully articulate, just a steadiness, like being reminded the world was still turning. Large windows had been your only non-negotiable when you were searching. The balcony was through the sliding glass doors, and on a clear day you imagined you could stand out there and feel almost normal.

There were two bedrooms. The master had an ensuite. The second sat on the opposite end of the apartment with its own bathroom and a standing shower. Both had decent closets. Laundry was in-suite. You could walk a straight line from the front door all the way through to the balcony without turning.

You liked it. You did. But it felt strange, all this space, just for you. You weren't used to that. You weren't sure you'd ever been used to that.

"I just got back," you say, setting your keys on the kitchen counter. "I've been away for a while. Couldn't carry much with me on the road."

You look at the girl still standing in your doorway. Light brown hair, blue eyes, olive skin. A few dainty floral tattoos running up her forearms, nothing heavy, just delicate lines and small blooms. She was dressed in blue denim and a fitted white top with ARMY printed across the chest in block letters.

Ironic.

Something stirred in you that you didn't want to name. A small, irrational heat moving up through your chest. You recognized it before it could get any further. Your therapist had a word for it, something about intrusive emotional responses, about how the brain codes certain stimuli as threats long after the actual threat is gone. You knew the theory. That didn't always make it easier.

Unjustified. She doesn't know. You have no right to be upset with her for wearing a shirt.

Before it can build, you breathe in through your nose and let it go slowly. You scan the room the way Dr. Osei had taught you. One, boxes. Two, duffels. Three, the grey walls. Four, the balcony door. Five, the kitchen counter. You feel your pulse settle.

"You said you just got back?" Kalista interrupted your thoughts, tilting her head. "From where?"

Your mouth moved a half-second before your brain caught up. "Afghanistan. Iraq. Kuwait for a stretch. South Sudan. Most recently Syria." You paused. "I spent the last three years doing my residency embedded with a forward surgical team. It's like a Forward Operating Base. Salerno was my primary, but we moved around a lot. Combat medicine, mostly trauma." You glanced down. A breath snagged somewhere in your chest. "I got sent home."

"Sent home?" She said it carefully, like she wasn't sure she was allowed to ask.

"I was a medical intern when I deployed… made it through two and a half years of my physician residency." You kept your voice even. "Then I was involved in an incident and I lost it a little." A short, humourless sound escaped you that wasn't quite a laugh. "Honourably discharged. Sent home three-quarters of the person I used to be." You felt the tears threaten the back of your eyes and looked deliberately past her until the feeling passed. "My sergeant major, she's the one who convinced me to come to Pittsburgh. Said she had connections here, that she'd find me something. So here I am."

"So you're a doctor," she said slowly, "and a soldier." Her eyes had gone wide, the way people's eyes went when they were recalibrating everything they thought they knew about a conversation. "What happened to you?"

And then, before you could even form a beginning, she pulled it back.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't mean, I--" She was already backtracking, hands up, eyes apologetic. She'd clearly clocked something in your face you'd been trying to hide.

"It's okay," you said, and meant it, more or less. "You're the first person I've actually talked to in this city. Aside from the airport clerk at baggage claim and a taxi driver."

True. Completely true.

You didn't have anyone in Pittsburgh. You didn't have anyone anywhere, not anymore. Not after--

"Are you okay?" she asked. "Now, I mean." A beat. "You don't have to answer that either."

You considered it honestly. Were you okay? Right now, at this moment, you were distracted by the moving, by the boxes, by the task of standing in a new city in a new apartment and figuring out what came next. That counted for something.

"I think so?" It came out more like a question than a statement. "I'm still adjusting." You reached down and lifted the hem of your left pant leg, just enough. The prosthetic caught the light, cool gunmetal, carbon fibre casing below the knee, a replacement for what had been amputated eight months ago on the second worst day of your life.

"Woah--" Her eyes went wide. "Sorry, I didn't mean to--"

"It's okay," you cut her off, not unkindly. "That's the look I give it too."

She was quiet for a moment. Then something shifted in her face, not pity exactly. Something more like recognition of the weight of it, without pretending to understand the specifics. You appreciated that more than you could explain.

Kalista was the first person, outside of medical staff and your commanding officer, who knew about the leg. And that small honesty, those two sentences and a lifted hem, was probably the most vulnerable you'd allowed yourself to be in months. You weren't sure why you'd done it. Maybe because she'd helped carry your trunk without being asked. Maybe because the city felt enormous and you had no one in it.

You didn't notice the tears until you felt her arms around you. Quick and warm and a little fierce, like she'd decided and acted before she could second-guess herself.

"Sorry if that was weird," she said, already pulling back. "I just thought you might need a hug." She looked at you then, direct and unhesitating. "Okay, listen. You're new to the city. You're clearly an incredibly cool human being. You're a doctor and a soldier and--" she gestured at you in a way that managed to be both sincere and ridiculous, "honestly you're a little intimidating to look at. And I know what it's like to show up somewhere alone and not know a single person." She held her phone out. "Give me your number. Text me. Let's be friends."

You let out a breath that was almost a laugh. "I don't need a pity friend."

"Not a pity friend. Your first friend in Pittsburgh." She smiled, wide and bright and genuinely warm.

"I don't even know your last name."

"Okay, fine." A dramatic sigh. "Hi. My name is Kalista Reid. I'm 28, I live in unit 601 across the hall, and I am currently offering you my very limited and highly sought-after friendship." She looked at you expectantly.

The wall you'd been quietly reinforcing for months, the one you'd rebuilt piece by piece since the field hospital, since the flight home, since all of it, gave a single, audible crack.

"Hi," you said. "My name is Y/N. I'm 28. I live in unit 600." The corner of your mouth moved against your will.

"So you don't have a last name?" Her eyebrow lifted.

"Y/N Abbott."

"Y/N Abbott." She grinned. "It's very nice to meet you."

Four Days Later

Over the next few days, you and Kalista got to know each other with the particular intensity of two people who had stumbled into each other's orbit at exactly the right moment. She told you about working her way up through Pittsburgh's restaurant kitchens over the last decade, starting at the bottom, learning every station, building the kind of skill that only repetition and stubbornness could produce. She was a sous chef now at a place downtown that she described as "fancy but not pretentious, there's a difference." She told you about her family, her exes, her running roster of hobbies, and the exhaustive, occasionally unhinged details of her most recent love affair, which had ended with her walking out of a restaurant mid-entree and not looking back.

"So I couldn't take it anymore and I left him," she finished, landing the story with the satisfaction of someone who had told it several times and still enjoyed it.

"I would have left too," you said, still laughing.

The more you learned about her, the more it became clear that you could not have been more different. Her life was spontaneous and colourful and moved fast, with a particular kind of warmth that filled whatever room she was in. Yours had been structured and precise and governed by protocol for so long that you'd nearly forgotten what the alternative felt like. Maybe that was what made it easy. She was unlike anyone you'd spent real time with in years.

Four days in, you'd unpacked almost everything. A mattress had arrived. Kalista had strong opinions about throw pillows and had escorted you, somewhat against your will, to a home goods store where she'd made several executive decisions on your behalf.

The apartment was starting to look inhabited.

She stood up from the couch and wandered toward the last unpacked box, sitting near the far wall.

"You still haven't touched this one?"

"It's just books," you said, a little too quickly. You gestured for her to leave it.

"I like to read." She picked it up. It was heavier than it looked, and you knew that. She set it down closer to you, just out of arm's reach, and opened the flaps.

Everything in you went still.

Your heart rate spiked before your brain had time to explain why. The room began to contract slightly at the edges. You could hear your pulse in your ears, low and fast and rhythmic. The urge to reach over and close the box, to put your body between Kalista and whatever was inside it, rose up so sharply it took real effort to stay seated.

"These are so cute," she said, already lifting one of the photo books. "Is this baby Y/N?"

Breathe.

"Yeah," you said. "Baby Y/N." You reached out and pulled the cardboard gently toward yourself. Inside were at least fifteen photo albums, stacked in neat rows. A careful, chronological documentation of a life. "Oh, look at this one, you're naked!" She turned the book around, and there was a two-year-old version of you sitting in a bathtub with a rubber duck, completely unabashed.

The laugh that came out of you was real. "My dad never put his camera down. He was a photographer." You dug through the box, dug was generous, you knew exactly where it was, and found a photo of him taking a picture of himself in a mirror, grinning at his own reflection.

"Aw, that's your dad?" Kalista's face softened. "He looks nice. Where does he live?"

The smile left your face before you could catch it.

You stood up, shifted your weight, you still caught yourself compensating with the prosthetic when you moved too quickly, and walked to your room. You came back with a small box, the size of something you could hold in both hands. Solid dark oak, hinged at the back, with ABBOTT engraved across the lid in clean block letters surrounded by delicate filigree work. You set it on the cushion between you and unclasped the lid.

Red velvet lining. Three small urns, each a different size, sitting in fitted recesses. Nestled beside them, a small photo book, normal paperback size, worn at the corners, filled with pictures from before. Before everything. And beside that, a small chocolate brown leather box.

"Kalista," you said quietly, "this is my family. My mom, my dad, and my brother."

"Y/N--"

"My parents died when I was nine. Car accident." You said it the way you'd learned to say it, evenly, without pausing, because pausing let other people's grief into the room and you didn't always have space for it. You opened the small photo book and began turning pages slowly as you talked, not really seeing the images, just needing something to do with your hands. "A drunk driver ran a red light and hit us hard." You could close your eyes and still be there, upside down in the back seat, the airbags deflating around you, the smell of gasoline and something metallic, glass covering what should have been the ceiling. "My mother died on impact. My dad survived the crash itself but a steel rod had come through the windshield. It tore through his diaphragm, the left lobe of his liver, his stomach, his pancreas." A pause. "The abdominal aorta. I know now that he could never have survived that kind of injury. Nobody could."

Kalista had gone very still.

"My brother Hunter was fourteen. He woke up before I did. I don't know how long he was conscious in that car before anyone came." You turned a page. Hunter at seven, squinting into the sun. "He was never quite the same after. There were good stretches, real ones, where he felt like himself again. But he got into drugs." A slow exhale. "When I was sixteen, his girlfriend called me. She said he wasn't moving. I didn't have a car so I got on my bike and rode as fast as I could. I don't know why she didn't call 911, maybe she panicked, maybe she was scared because of the drugs, but he was gone by the time I got there." You reached the last page. The four of you, smiling, in a photo taken by a stranger outside some restaurant you couldn't remember the name of. You closed the cover. "I'd seen him come back from an overdose before. Not this time."

"Fuck," Kalista said softly. A tear ran down her chin.

"Yeah." You looked at the small wooden box. "But I've got them all here." You pressed your hand flat against the centre of your chest.

She hugged you again, tighter this time, like she was trying to hold something together. This time, you let yourself lean into it. Just slightly. Just enough.

She sniffed, swiped at her face, and looked deliberately at the stack of photo books with the energy of someone actively choosing to change the temperature of the room. "Okay. What about all of these? Are these all from the military?"

"Some." You pulled a few toward you and passed her one. "Military, university, med school, residency. A lot of years."

You flipped through pages slowly, giving her the shorthand version of each face. Your first squad, the five of you in a circle shoulder to shoulder like you're a football team huddling in between downs. The commanding officer, Sergeant Major Sawyer, who'd cornered you after a particularly gruelling week in your second year and told you flatly that you were too smart to be doing what you were doing and that if you didn't apply for the HPSP scholarship she would personally make your life difficult until you did. Pages and pages filled with years of memories with friends who'd become family across three deployments.

Then you turned a page and stopped.

The photo was taken outside in harsh midday sun, both of you in full kit. Operational camouflage pattern. Modular Scalable Vest loaded with ballistic plates, MOLLE-mounted magazine pouches, a radio pouch, an IFAK strapped along his side. His combat helmet was on the ground at your feet, discarded, technically against protocol, and absolutely characteristic. Your med kit sat next to it, enormous and overstuffed. Both of you had M4 carbines hanging on two-point slings across your chests. He was bent toward you and you were on your toes. Most of his face was turned away from the camera, but what was visible was enough, a jaw, the line of a neck, the particular way his whole posture changed when he was looking at you.

"Who," Kalista said slowly, "is THAT."

"It's a sensitive subject," you said, the words coming out before you'd made any conscious decision to speak.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you don't have to--" She was already pivoting, alarmed that she'd pulled on something load-bearing.

The doorbell rang.

You both looked up.

"Be right back." You got up carefully and crossed to the door.

A delivery driver stood in the hallway, scanner in hand. "Package for Abbott?"

"That's me."

"First name?"

"Y/N."

"Sign here." He handed over the clipboard. You scrawled your name and took the box from him. The size of a briefcase, heavier than it looked. You turned it over in your hands, searching for a return address, and found the sender's name printed in the top left corner in black block letters.

F. SAWYER.

Your sergeant major.

You stood in the hallway for a moment, just holding it.

You passed back through the living room and went to the kitchen, looking for scissors. Your hands were steady. That was something.

"Who is it?"

"A package from... an old friend."

"Ooooh, is it the old friend in that picture?" Kalista's voice carried around the corner, and you could hear the raised eyebrow in it.

"No, he was..." you trailed off, finding the scissors and cutting the tape. "Not the same person." You carried the box to the couch and sat down.

You folded back the cardboard.

A breath you hadn't known you were holding left your body all at once.

The tears came before anything else. Not the slow, manageable kind, the kind that blur everything immediately, that make the walls feel closer and the air feel thinner. Your pulse was in your ears again. A high thin ringing started up somewhere behind your eyes.

And then, just as fast, you shut it down.

Not here. Not right now.

You pulled each feeling back as it surfaced and pushed it down into the place you kept things like this, deep in the pit of your stomach, that quiet abyss where you could put the things that would break you if you gave them room. You sealed it. Breathed. Wiped your face with the back of your hand.

When you exhaled, you were steadier. You looked at Kalista, who was watching you with the careful expression of someone who understood she was witnessing something she hadn't been given the full context for yet.

"Holy shit," she said quietly, leaning in.

The box was packed with photographs. Hundreds of them, four-by-six glossy prints, stacked in loose rows, sorted into stacks. In the centre on top of all the photos sat two envelopes. One large tan envelope, stamped:

CONFIDENTIAL SGT. A. HANDSCOMBE

The other a letter-sized white envelope with your name written on the front by hand. Sawyer's handwriting, tight and slanted and unmistakable.

You picked both envelopes up and held them together. Something slid loose from between them and landed on top of the photographs.

A small clear plastic bag. Inside it, a ring. White gold, plain textured band, solid and unadorned.

"Oh my god--" Kalista stopped herself.

You reached up and found the chain around your neck, thin white gold, and pulled it out from beneath your shirt. Hanging from the end of it, a marquise-cut diamond in a white gold setting, delicate, distinctive, completely itself.

A perfect match for the ring sitting in the bag.

Kalista didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

"I'll give you the short version," you said, before she could ask.

And so you told her about him.

Adam Handscombe. Everyone who'd served with him for more than a week called him Corporal Handsome, a nickname that had attached itself to him when he was promoted to E-4 and refused to leave even after he'd made Sergeant. He'd introduced himself by the wrong name, or so you'd thought, the very first week you enlisted.

You met him at eighteen. He was twenty, two years in, already PFC and moving fast. He was assigned to show new arrivals around the FOB.

"Private Handsome?" You'd stared at him.

"Hands-combe." He'd said it the way you said things to someone who'd asked you to repeat themselves three times, efficient, not unkind, with the particular cadence of a man who had corrected this exact misunderstanding many times before. "But it doesn't hurt the ego either way."

You'd laughed. You weren't sure why, except that something in his delivery had been so entirely, disarmingly certain of itself.

You were flipping through photographs with Kalista as you talked. Sawyer had organized them, of course, dated on the back, sorted chronologically.

You'd always documented your life the way your father had, snapping pictures and getting them printed, building a physical record the way other people kept journals. You hadn't met anyone who understood that impulse until Adam. He'd kept a small digital camera in a pocket he'd sewn into the inside of his vest, completely against regulation, a rule he'd made peace with on the grounds that he wasn't photographing anything "classified". He'd photograph the sun going down over the base perimeter, the way the light turned everything amber at a certain angle. He'd photograph you looking at that same sunset, unaware, and you wouldn't find out until later.

You hadn't looked at most of these pictures in a very long time.

Then you turned to a spread and there the two of you were, surrounded by soldiers, white confetti paper thrown in the air, both of you laughing in the middle of all of it. Married. You looked at the place on your hand where the rings used to sit, the engagement ring now on the chain at your throat, the wedding band in the small chocolate brown leather box inside the oak box with your family.

"How did he..." Kalista started, and couldn't finish it.

"We didn't work together directly," you said carefully. "The Army discourages married couples from serving in close proximity, but in practice it didn't mean much. He was a Ranger with the 75th, I was attached to the forward surgical unit, our days rarely crossed." You paused. "He came by the medical centre at the end of his shift. We'd been married for seven days." You stopped. Swallowed. "He'd gotten hold of a small bouquet of flowers somewhere. I still don't know how, out there. Maybe a dozen, wrapped in brown paper. He called it a seven-day anniversary. We left through a back exit and walked toward a section of the perimeter wall that wasn't heavily monitored, hard to approach from the road, off to the side. We used to go there in the evenings sometimes. Just to talk." Another pause. "It was the perfect spot for an ambush."

"So, Mrs. Handscombe," he'd said, pulling himself up onto the wide ledge at the top of the gate, laughing as he said it.

"I haven't changed it yet," you told him, taking the hand he offered. "I love Abbott. I don't want to lose it."

"Then don't change it." He said it simply, like it was the easiest decision in the world. "We can be Sergeant Handscombe and Resident Physician Abbott, the perfect team that everyone is jealous of."

Then he kissed you. His hand came up to your jaw, tilting your face to his, and his lips met yours with the kind of certainty that never got old, soft at first, then fuller, like a sentence that started quietly and meant everything by the end. You felt it the way you always felt it with him: the particular warmth that moved through your chest, the way the rest of the world went a little quieter. You'd been in love with this man for years and it still felt like the first time someone had decided to choose you, completely, without reservation.

You loved him.

The thought moved through you clean and simple and enormous.

And he loved you back. You had never doubted that, not for a single day. He knew you the way very few people ever get to know another person: the way you thought before you spoke, the thing you needed before you asked for it, the difference between the silence that meant you were okay and the silence that meant you weren't. You knew him just the same. You were the same shape, the two of you, just made differently.

"I love you," you said, into the space between you.

"I love you too." He pressed his forehead to yours, that wide ridiculous smile breaking across his face. "Okay, I have to tell you what happened with Rosenberg today. We were out in the--"

BANG.

One tear fell from your face and landed on the photograph in front of you. Adam on one knee, brown leather ring box in his right hand, digital camera angled upward in his left, documenting the moment from both sides at once, because of course he was. The next photo was his, taken from below, looking up at your face. Ring box in the lower frame. Your expression: a smile so wide it had taken over everything else, tears already streaming, clearly mid-yes.

That had been one of the best days of your life.

You and Kalista sat together for a long time after that. You told her stories about Adam, about the life that had existed before FOB Salerno and everything that happened there. At some point food was ordered and wine was opened, and somehow, without either of you quite deciding it, you had found yourself in a real friendship.

You didn't mind.

Three Days Later

Kalista had, through what you could only describe as a sustained campaign of low-grade social pressure, convinced you to go out.

You had agreed reluctantly, conditionally, with the caveat that you weren't going to wear anything that made you feel like a different person.

She took one look at your wardrobe and vetoed the entire premise. "We're going to my place first," she said, already walking across the hall.

She found you a pair of low-rise flared black leather jeans that sat just right, no chance of the prosthetic showing unless you lifted the pant leg, and a shimmering silver top that fell a couple of inches above the waistband and caught the light when you moved. Black leather jacket over the top. Your Docs already on your feet, needing no intervention.

"Okay," she said, stepping back to look at you, "I need you to know that you are genuinely unfair to look at."

You laughed and grabbed your keys before leaving the apartment complex.

You drove. You weren't planning on drinking much.

The bar was loud and close and warm in the way bars got when they were packed, bodies everywhere, music you could feel in the floor more than hear through your ears, the particular energy of a Friday night in a city that took its Fridays seriously. You'd been to a bar maybe four times in medical school, most leaving before midnight. This was different. Kalista moved through it like she'd been coming here for years, which she probably had.

For a while, it was good. Better than you'd expected. You had a drink in your hand and your mind was occupied in the way it only got when there was enough sensory noise to crowd out the other things. You stood at the edge of the dance floor for a while, watching. A couple grinding against each other like they'd already decided where the night was ending. A group of women taking photos. A very large man being walked out by a bouncer with the resigned expression of someone who had done this many times tonight.

Kalista reappeared through the crowd with two drinks.

"I don't know if I should," you said, leaning in to be heard. "I drove."

"A couple of drinks won't kill you," she said, touching the bottom of your glass and tilting it upward. "Chug."

You didn't question it. You chugged. Cold and sweet, ice hitting your teeth at the end.

Somehow you ended up on the dance floor. Your body moved to the beat and for a while your brain was mercifully, completely quiet. A fine layer of sweat started at the back of your neck. You didn't know how much time had passed. You danced, you drank, you let go--just for a second. Eventually, Kalista tilted her head toward the exit and you followed her out through the front doors into the night air.

It hit you all at once, cold and clean, and you both stood there for a second, breathing it in.

"Oh my god you're so fun," Kalista said, arms spread wide, face tipped to the sky. She turned to you. "I am so happy you moved into my building."

"Me too," you said. And meant it.

To the left, a designated smoking area. A small cluster of people. You hadn't smoked since... you caught yourself. In a long time. The craving arrived the way it always did: specific and patient and completely uninterested in being reasoned with.

Kalista had already spotted someone. "Any chance we could bum a couple?" she asked, and a guy produced two without hesitation.

You thanked him quietly, lit yours, took a slow drag.

The nicotine moved through you in one clean wave.

Fuuuck. You'd missed that.

You weren't listening to the conversation next to you. You were just standing in it, watching the ember at the end of the cigarette, letting your mind go silent for the first time in days. That was the thing about cigarettes, the thing nobody liked to admit: they forced you to stop. To stand still. To breathe on a count.

"Shut the fuck up."

The words ripped you back instantly.

You turned just in time to hear the crack, the hard flat sound of a fist connecting with a face, and see Kalista go down.

You didn't think. That was the truth of it, and you would examine that truth later in the quiet of your apartment with a certain amount of unease. You didn't think. You just moved.

Kalista was on the ground, hands to her face. The man was enormous, well over six feet, broad through the shoulders, clearly drunk, which meant slower but also less predictable. You'd had a a few drinks, you'd been dancing for you don't know how long, and the adrenaline flooding your system was now at a concentration that made the alcohol irrelevant.

"Hey -- what the FUCK."

You hit him centre mass with your shoulder, driving your weight into his ribs. He staggered, more than you expected. His arms came up to push you back but you followed his arms and ripped them down before he could get the leverage, a defensive manoeuvre as automatic as breathing. He was stronger than you and you couldn't stay in a stationary grapple with someone this size. He recovered faster than you wanted. His fist came back and connected across the side of your face. You turned your head with it, an old reflex that saved you from the worst of it, but it still landed hard.

You saw red.

You hit his face. You drove a short jab to his midsection targeting the liver, then a sharp cross to his kidney. You couldn't feel the skin on your knuckles tearing apart as you hit him, blow after blow. He was drunk, which was the only reason this "plan" worked even slightly in your favour. You took him to the ground. You were on top of him, and somewhere between the first hit and the last you stopped counting, stopped thinking, stopped being in Pittsburgh entirely.

Someone grabbed you from behind, both arms around your torso, hauling you upright. You kicked and swung on pure reflex and they let go immediately. You could hear sirens under the ringing in your ears.

Kalista.

You ran to where she was sitting on the pavement, knees pulled to her chest.

"Let me look," you said, crouching beside her, two fingers tilting her chin upward. Doctor's hands now, steady, efficient, separated from everything else. Her nose had taken the full force of it. Deviated, visibly swollen, already darkening at the bridge. The shape was wrong. "We're going to need to go to the hospital," you told her, as gently as you could manage.

Behind you: "The one in the leather pants?"

A female officer. Calm, professional, expression giving nothing away. She had the particular stillness of someone who'd seen a lot of nights like this one.

"Ma'am. Can you come with me, please."

You stood and followed. Before she could start, you asked for the paramedics to go to Kalista first and gave them your initial assessment in a dozen words. Then you turned back to the officer.

"I can explain what happened."

"I'd appreciate that."

"We were in the smoking area. He started talking to her. I wasn't paying close enough attention." You kept your hands loose at your sides, your weight centred, your voice level. Your split and bloodied knuckles turned discreetly away. "I turned around when I heard him scream and she was already on the ground. I'm a combat physician. I reacted before I thought it through and I'm aware of that. But he broke her nose."

The officer looked at you, not at your face, but at the way you were standing. The way your weight was distributed. The way your hands were positioned. She'd seen this posture before, you could tell.

"Walk me through the part where you took down a man twice your weight and beat him bloody."

"He hit her. I reacted. I lost track of where I was for a moment." A pause. "That's not an excuse. It's what happened."

She studied you for a long beat. Then she glanced at your face, the bruising already darkening around your eye where his fist had landed, and something in her stern expression shifted. Not softness. Recognition.

"You took a hit too," she said, less like an observation and more like she was making a decision. "You should get that looked at."

"I'll be fine."

"You'll get it looked at," she said, and it wasn't a suggestion. She looked at the ground for a moment, working something through. "Multiple witnesses all put him as the one who threw first and her as the one who went down." She chose her next words carefully. "My read is he won't want to complicate this for himself. Not with that many people watching."

"That's not fair to her."

"No," the officer agreed, quietly. "It's not."

A pause.

"Am I being arrested?"

"Not tonight." She held your gaze for a moment. "Thank you for your service."

You nodded once and turned away.

Your feet didn't move immediately. You stood there, shoulders square, feet at shoulder width, hands loose at your sides. Alert. Waiting for a command that wasn't coming.

At ease.

You weren't sure if she'd said it or if you'd just needed to hear it. Either way, it was enough.

You made yourself walk to where the ambulance had pulled up. Kalista was on a gurney, pressing gauze to her face, looking simultaneously miserable and deeply unimpressed with how the evening had gone.

"Hey," you said, resting your hand on the edge of the stretcher. "How are you doing?"

"I'b been beder," she said, nasally, through the gauze.

You turned to the paramedic to her left. "Can I ride with her?"

He nodded. You climbed in.

The ambulance moved through downtown Pittsburgh, lights going, and you watched the paramedics work without interfering. You checked Kalista's vitals on the monitor, heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation, all within acceptable range, and let yourself exhale slowly.

Then you looked at her again.

Something was slightly wrong.

Not wrong in the way that showed up on a monitor. Wrong in the way you had learned to read in places where the monitors weren't always available, where you had trained yourself to look at a person and take the information directly. The subtle asymmetry in her chest rise. The way she kept tilting her chin fractionally forward without seeming to notice.

Compensation.

Her airway was narrowing.

"Can you breathe okay?" you asked.

"Ib fine," she said.

"Kalista. Is your nose blocked on one side or both?"

A pause. "Both."

There it is.

"I need a penlight," you said to the paramedic on your right.

He looked at you properly for the first time. "Sorry, who are you exactly?"

"I'm her friend, who also happens to be a doctor. Something is wrong. I need a light."

He crossed his arms. "We're eight minutes out. Whatever you're thinking, it can wait until we're at the ED."

"It actually cannot wait." You kept your voice flat, clinical. "She's compensating. Her airway is narrowing. I can see it. Penlight. Please."

He looked to his partner looking for an answer, and you took action.

Fine. 

You reached past him, pulled a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall, and snapped them on. "I'm going to need an 18-gauge needle and an angiocath when you're ready to be helpful." You didn't wait. You used your own phone light, leaning in to check the inside of Kalista's nose, pressing gently along the septum.

There.

A dark, taut, blood-filled swelling just inside the nasal passage on both sides. A septal hematoma, and a growing one. Another couple minutes and she'd have no airway left before they reached the ED.

"She has a septal hematoma," you said, turning to him. "A blood clot forming inside the nose that's pressing on her airway. I need an 18-gauge needle. Now."

"That is not a procedure we perform in the rig--"

"Now!" You held his gaze. "I'm asking you to hand me a needle. I've drained these in a tent in the desert with a headlamp and no backup. I will take every ounce of responsibility. Hand me the needle or stand there and watch this get worse when it doesn’t have to. Your call."

He looked at you, at the blood stains peaking through the blue latex of the glove, at the bruise forming around your eye, at the expression on your face that had nothing uncertain in it.

He handed you the needle.

You worked quickly and gently, the kind of efficiency that doesn't look like speed but gets everything done. A clean puncture, the pressure releasing in seconds. Kalista made a small involuntary sound and then exhaled through both sides of her nose for the first time since she'd been hit.

"Oh," she said, blinking. "Oh, that's so much better."

"I know." You pressed a small piece of gauze into place. "Don't touch it."

The paramedic on your right was quiet for a moment. Then: "We're supposed to wait for the ED on something like that."

"Sometimes you have to think about the life in front of you and not the rules," you said. "That's how we did it over there. Quick and dirty, whatever keeps the patient breathing."

He nodded slowly, like something had been filed away.

The ambulance pulled into the bay. As the doors opened and the gurney came out, he turned back to you.

"This is going to be a lot of paperwork."

"Yeah," you said. "It usually is."

The paramedics handed Kalista off to the ED staff, rattling off vitals and status, and she disappeared through the doors on the gurney. You trailed behind, knowing you couldn't follow her into the trauma bay. You stopped at the threshold and watched her go.

The paramedic who was driving appeared at your shoulder. "You good?" He was looking at your face, specifically at the bruising around your eye and the cut at your temple, which you hadn't thought much about until right now. You lifted your hand to it and your fingers came back wet.

Oh. He'd hit you hard enough to break skin. 

You genuinely hadn't noticed. You looked down at your knuckles, split and still faintly seeping. You tried to remember what the guy looked like by the end and found you mostly couldn't.

That is not good.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you said, unconvincingly even to yourself. "I'll get a bandage or something."

"You should check in at the front desk." He gestured toward the waiting room doors.

"Yeah." You peeled away and turned left, and then your knee buckled.

Not all the way. You caught yourself on the way down, one hand out, taking a knee like you'd stumbled on uneven ground. And you were already pushing back up before you'd fully registered what had happened, both hands pressing off your right leg, forcing yourself upright through sheer stubbornness.

You'd be damned.

The prosthetic had slipped slightly in the socket, too much impact, too much movement, and somewhere in all of it you'd forgotten for a second that it was there. The paramedic was already at your elbow.

"Hey, are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah." You locked your knee, felt the fit settle. "Just, yeah. I'm--."

"Who? Where is she."

The voice cut through the ED like something thrown hard at a wall. Sharp, loud, carrying the particular authority of someone who didn't raise their voice often and meant it when they did.

Both your head and the paramedic's snapped toward it.

Across the bay, near the nurses' station, a small crowd had formed. You could see the other paramedic from the ambulance talking rapidly to an older man, late forties maybe, with salt and pepper hair that curled slightly at the ends. His face was stoic. His jaw was set, his brow sharp, his posture absolutely squared. He was built like someone who had earned it over a long time and then kept it. Handsome in a way that caught you slightly off guard given the grey at his temples, the kind of face that had lived in it.

Wait. Did you just--

The thought dissolved because he was already moving toward you, and the paramedic beside you was making the face of a man who had just remembered somewhere else he urgently needed to be.

"Good luck," he said, and walked away before you could respond.

The man crossed the bay in firm, deliberate strides, not storming exactly, but with the kind of momentum that made people step aside without being asked. Something about the way he moved reminded you of Sawyer. The authority of it. The way his presence arrived just before he did.

Without thinking, you rolled your shoulders back. Feet--

Foot. 

Shoulder width apart. Hands behind you, right clasped over left.

He stopped in front of you. He looked you over in one full pass, head to toe and back up--assessing, cataloguing, and landing finally on your eyes.

"You were the one who drained a septal hematoma in a moving ambulance?" His words were measured. He was sizing you up, you could feel it, the same way you were sizing him up.

"Yes," you said. "And I would do it again."

Direct. No qualifier, no apology. He'd expected defensive and gotten something else entirely.

"And who gave you the authority to do that?"

You have to be kidding me.

"I did," you said, "when I saw her compensating while we were still eight minutes out from the ED with a narrowing airway." You held his gaze.

Something shifted in his face. Barely. You'd have missed it if you weren't watching.

"You saw her compensating," he repeated, flat. Testing whether you'd move.

You didn't. "She's my friend. What was I supposed to do, sit there and watch her struggle to breathe?"

He was angry, you could see it contained behind his eyes, carefully managed, the anger of someone who ran a tight ship and didn't appreciate unplanned variables. But he didn't blow.

"And you think," he said, "in this state—" he gestured, briefly, at your face, at the clear bruising forming around your eye— "you were making sound medical decisions?

You almost laughed. "Is she dead?"

He didn't answer right away.

You didn't let the silence sit. "No. She's not. Because I performed a clean field drainage of a septal hematoma." You held his gaze. "In a moving ambulance." You took one step toward him, ignoring the dull ache at your residual limb that you'd deal with later. "I knew exactly what I was doing and I can walk you through every decision I made. Or maybe," a beat, short and deliberate, "you weren't paying attention in medical school."

That landed. You could see it in the fraction of a second where his expression went from controlled to genuinely caught off guard.

He is attractive thou-- Stop. Absolutely not. Move on.

You held your ground. He held his. The two of you stood close enough that you could feel the air between you shift slightly. Neither of you looked away.

"Do not leave this hospital." He said it quietly, which was somehow worse than loud. He turned his head slightly without breaking eye contact. "Ellis."

A woman appeared just behind his left shoulder, a small smile already on her face like she'd been watching this unfold with great personal enjoyment.

"What's up."

"Take her to South 7. Check her out." Still not looking away from you. "Don't let her leave. Come get me when you're done." A brief pause. "And don't forget the knuckles."

How did he?

Your hands were behind your back. He couldn't have seen them. You kept your face perfectly still.

"Yeah, no problem." Ellis looked at you. You clocked her in your peripheral vision but didn't break eye contact. "Wanna follow me?"

You inhaled through your nose, slow and deliberate, and let it out the same way. One more second. Then you let it go, turned, and followed her.

The ED at night was its own world. As you followed Ellis through the bay you took it in without meaning to, gurneys lined against the walls, monitors beeping in overlapping rhythms, the low constant murmur of medical shorthand passing between staff. A full trauma centre, stocked and staffed and humming. You passed a medication cart that alone probably held more than your entire FOB pharmacy at Salerno. Supply closets with closed doors that you knew, without opening them, were full.

People here would not believe what we were working with over there.

You tucked it away.

Ellis held a door open and gestured to the bed inside. You sat, your feet dangling off the edge.

One foot. One... fucking atrocity.

"So," she said, turning to you with an expression that was openly, cheerfully curious. "You want to tell me what happened?"

"I got hit," you said. "And things got away from me."

She moved closer, tilting your face toward the light, probing carefully around your temple and cheekbone with two fingers. "That hurt?"

"Yeah."

She pressed gently at the back of your skull. "That?"

"Less."

"Follow my finger." She held up her index finger and moved it slowly left, then right. You tracked it. "Any nausea? Ringing in the ears?"

"Some ringing earlier. It's mostly gone."

"Blurry vision at any point?"

"No."

She made a small sound and reached for a dressing from the cabinet, pressing it carefully over the cut at your temple. "Looks like a mild concussion. Nothing alarming but nothing to dismiss. Someone should be checking on you every couple of hours tonight. Is there someone?"

"Yes," you said, a lie. You know concussion protocol and you know what happens if you say no, and you were in no mood to sit in a hospital hallway all night. 

She turned to her supplies. "I'd hate to see the other guy."

That made you laugh, a real one, small but genuine. "I think he actually beat me here."

You looked down at your hands, made two loose fists, watched the split skin across your knuckles where scabs were trying and failing to form. "Big white guy. Over six feet. Dragon tattoo on his neck. Drunk."

Ellis went very still. Then she turned around slowly, gauze in hand, and stared at you. "No. No way." She shook her head with the delighted disbelief of someone whose night had just become considerably more interesting. "I think I know exactly who you're talking about. He came in maybe five minutes before you, looked like he'd been through a car wash face-first."

That sat in your chest in a way that wasn't entirely comfortable. Even if he deserved it. Even if some part of you, somewhere dark and unfamiliar, had wanted to. You weren't someone who hurt people.

"Like I said," you said quietly. "It got away from me."

She worked while you talked, cleaning the cut at your temple, assessing your knuckles, asking questions in the easy unhurried way of someone skilled at making people forget they're being examined. You told her about Kalista. About the bar. About the ambulance.

"Okay, I have to ask," she said, not looking up from your hand. "How did you drain a septal hematoma in a moving ambulance?"

"I've done scarier procedures with less," you said. "It needed to be done. So I did it."

"Now I am hoping... you're a doctor?"

"Technically an R3." You looked at the ceiling for a second. 

She glanced up. "Technically?"

"I was completing my residency overseas. Afghanistan, Syria, a few others. I was on track to specialize in surgical trauma, combat medicine." You watched her close a small stitch across your knuckle. "Plans change."

"So you're back here now." She was quiet for a moment, reading what you didn't say. "Does that mean you were discharged?"

You let the silence answer for her. She got the message.

"Okay." She didn't push. "So what's next? Big plans for Pittsburgh?"

"No. I landed about a week ago. I've been setting up my apartment. Before that I was in Washington for a few months." The VA hospital in DC, the rehabilitation unit, the physical therapy ward where you'd learned to walk again, twice. You didn't say any of that. "My sergeant major told me to come here. Said she had connections. I'm hoping that turns into something."

"Something… meaning work?"

"Something meaning work."

Ellis looked out through the room's interior window into the bay for a moment, something turning over behind her eyes. "Because," she said, with the careful casualness of someone floating an idea they're pretending is a joke, "these jokers out there are getting predictable, and I have about fourteen follow-up questions about what happened to that guy in North 17." She turned back to you. "If you're an R3 and you know the right people, you might be able to get a position here. Theoretically."

You looked at her. She looked at you. Neither of you said anything for a second.

"What is this place called?" you asked.

She stood, set down her supplies, and performed a small formal bow. "Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Centre." She said it with ceremony. "But everyone calls it The Pitt."

You let out a breath that was close to a real laugh. "I like that."

She moved toward the door, then paused with her hand on the frame. "Seriously though, I was told to not let you leave. Can I trust you to stay put?"

"Yes." You looked at her, and she raised an eyebrow, and you raised your right hand. "Scout's honour."

She laughed. 

"I am waiting for the doctor I upset earlier, right?" 

"He's a good guy," she said, and she meant it. "You just caught him on a bad night. And whatever you said to him out there, definitely hit a nerve." She shook her head, still smiling. "Okay. I need to start you a chart. What's your name?"

"Y/N," you said.

"Last name?"

"Abbott." You spelled it out of habit. "A-B-B-O-T-T."

She didn't move right away. A smile was forming on her face, slow, like she was trying to hold something back.

"A-B-B-O-T-T?" she repeated.

"Yeah."

"Your… Dr. Abbott?"

"...Yeah? Why?"

"No reason," she said, too fast. Then she walked out the door, and you watched through the window as she made it approximately six steps before she started laughing.

You stared after her.

What on earth was that about?

Jack Abbot's POV

It had been a bad night before the ambulance pulled in.

It had been a bad day before that, if I was being honest, which I generally tried not to be when the alternative was getting through a shift. The ED was running at capacity, one of my attendings was out sick, and somewhere around hour nine I'd made a call I wasn't entirely sure about and had been quietly replaying it ever since, the way you did when you knew the outcome was fine but couldn't stop examining the path that got you there.

I was at the nurses' station when Kowalski came in off the rig.

I watched him approach and clocked immediately that he had something on his face. Not urgency. Something closer to preemptive apology.

"What," I said.

"So the patient we're bringing in has a broken nose, possible fracture… and a drained septal hematoma."

"Drained?" I said, turning to the chart.

"We drained it in the rig."

I looked up.

"Eighteen-gauge," Kowalski said. "Clean drainage, gauze in place, patient's airway is clear."

"And tell me why you would drain a septal hematoma in the rig."

"It wasn't me."

I put the chart down. "What do you mean it wasn't you."

"There was a woman with the patient. Friend of hers. She saw the compensation pattern before I did, before Jackson did, and she asked for the needle."

"You gave a civilian--"

"She said she was a doctor."

"You gave someone who said she was a doctor--"

"She knew what a septal hematoma was, she saw the compensation, she asked for specific equipment by gauge size, and she drained it clean in under thirty seconds in a moving vehicle." Kowalski paused. "I didn't exactly let it happen. She grabbed the gloves before I'd finished deciding. She saw it first. If she hadn't done anything--"

"Who." I cut him off. "Where is she."

Kowalski pointed.

I looked.

There was a woman standing with her back to me, talking to the other paramedic off the rig. Young, mid-to-late twenties. Dressed up, which meant she hadn't been working, which meant she was exactly the civilian I'd feared. She was bleeding on my floor, I noticed, a slow drip from her hands pooling faintly on the tile. I tracked it up: her knuckles.

Alright, Rocky.

Then my eyes went back to her posture. The way she was standing. Something registered that I didn't have words for immediately, just a small internal flag, the kind you made when a detail in a chart didn't fit the pattern and you didn't yet know why it mattered.

She had the posture of someone who'd been trained to have it.

My feet were moving before I'd consciously decided to move. She turned as I got close, and when she squared up to face me I saw the rest of it. Black eye, already darkening. A cut at the temple. Someone had hit her tonight, and by the look of those knuckles she'd returned the favour.

I also noticed, the way I noticed things I didn't mean to, that she was--

Stop.

"You were the one who drained the septal hematoma in a moving ambulance?" I kept my voice measured and looked her over once, head to toe, clinical, logging.

"Yes," she said. "And I would do it again."

Direct. No qualifier, no apology in it.

"And who gave you the authority to do that?"

"I did," she said, "when I saw her compensating while we were still eight minutes out with a narrowing airway."

She saw her compensating. 

I let that sit for exactly one second. Specific phrase, used correctly, by someone who knew what it meant.

"You saw her compensating," I repeated, testing the edge of it.

"She's my friend," the woman said, and there was no apology in that either. "What was I supposed to do, sit there and watch her struggle to breathe?"

I was angry. I was aware of being angry and aware that some percentage of that anger was not entirely about this specific situation. I kept it behind my teeth.

"And you think," I said, gesturing briefly at her face, "in this state, you were making sound medical decisions?"

She looked at me with an expression I had not anticipated.

"Is she dead?"

The question hit the air and sat there.

Who the hell does this girl think she is talking to me like that.

I knew the answer, obviously I knew the answer, but she wasn't waiting for me to give it.

"No. She's not. Because I performed a clean field drainage of a septal hematoma." Behind her gaze was a burning she was trying to hard to hide. "In a moving ambulance." She took a step toward me. I don’t step back. "I knew exactly what I was doing and I can explain every decision I made if you'd like. Or maybe," a beat, short and deliberate, "you weren't paying attention in medical school."

I stared at her.

She did not just say that to me.

I had been a lead attending physician in this ED for several years. I had been told difficult things, wrong things, offensive things, things designed to rattle me and things not designed to rattle me that did anyway. I could count on one hand the number of times someone had genuinely caught me off guard.

She was looking at me with the absolute stillness of someone who had nothing left to lose and had made a kind of peace with that. It was not performance. I'd seen performance. This was something else, a particular quality of calm that lived in the eyes and didn't waver.

She stands the way I stand.

The thought arrived before I could stop it. Not a memory. Not a comparison to anyone else. Just the plain, clear observation: the squared shoulders, the weight distributed exactly right, the hands, the particular stillness that wasn't passivity but its opposite, something coiled and learned and earned.

She holds herself like I do. Did she-- Wh--

I shut down my thoughts before it could go any further.

I was still angry. I was also, beneath that and more quietly, something close to impressed, which I had absolutely no intention of showing her.

"Do not leave this hospital." I said it once, quietly, which was how I said things I meant. I turned my head slightly without breaking eye contact. "Ellis."

Ellis materialised at my shoulder with the expression of someone who had watched this whole exchange with barely concealed enjoyment and was going to be insufferable about it later.

"What's up."

"Take her to South 7. Check her out. Don't let her leave. Come get me when you're done." I pause. "And don't forget the knuckles."

I could see that the woman's face registered something at that, a fractional shift, there and gone. She walked away before she could comment on it.

I was forty minutes further into the night when Ellis reappeared.

I was standing at the board when I heard her laughing across the bay near the admit desk, where Mateo was saying something with his hands and the wide grin he wore when he'd found something he couldn't keep to himself. Ellis covered her mouth. Mateo was shaking his head like he couldn't believe it either.

I watched with the patience of a man who had learned his staff generally arrived at the point if you waited long enough.

Ellis clocked me watching and peeled off from Mateo, crossing toward me still holding down a smile that was losing the fight.

"She's fine," Ellis said, leading with business. "Temple cut is dressed, mild concussion, knuckles cleaned and closed. Nice bruise forming around the eye but nothing structural."

"Good."

"She's a doctor," Ellis said. "R3. Residency overseas, Afghanistan and Syria, combat trauma surgery. Army. Discharged, from the sounds of it."

I looked up from the board. "Army?"

"Army," Ellis confirmed.

There it is. She holds herself like a soldier--like me. 

I held her gaze for a moment, then looked back at the board.

"Also," Ellis said, with the careful timing of someone who has been waiting to deliver the main event, "she's the one who put the guy in North 17 in the condition he's currently in."

I set the marker down. "She did that."

"Apparently he was the one who broke her friends nose, and then things, quote, got away from her." Ellis's expression was doing something complicated. "She’s got some crazy strength that guy outweighs her by at least what, like, eighty pounds?"

Eighty, maybe ninety pounds. He was a big guy--she wasn’t that big.

"And," Ellis continued, pressing her lips together briefly, "her name is Abbott."

I took the chart from her. I looked at the name for a moment longer than was strictly necessary.

"Abbott." Ellis pointed at her name. There it was in clean block letters: ABBOTT, Y/N. "She spelled it out for me. A-B-B-O-T-T. Two T's."

Abbott.

Not a common name. Not a coincidence I could file away and ignore.

I handed the chart back.

"She has no idea," Ellis said, watching me carefully. “She does not know your name yet." I pause for just a second too long. "You should go talk to her. And I don't mean for documentation purposes."

"I intend to talk to her," I said. "It is for documentation purposes. She performed an unsanctioned field procedure on a civilian patient."

"Absolutely," Ellis said pleasantly.

"I need the incident on record."

"Of course you do." She tilted her head. "Go on then, Dr. Abbot, one T. Go introduce yourself to Dr. Abbott, two T's.” Her eyes widen and she releases a laugh, “Abbot squared." She was already turning away, raising her voice just enough for Mateo to catch it. "I'm telling everyone, by the way."

"You're not telling anyone."

"I'm telling everyone," she said cheerfully, and was gone.

I stood at the board.

Abbott. Two T's. Army. I would put my money on combat physician. Eight minutes out and she saw the compensation pattern before a trained paramedic did. And she beat the shit out of a man nearly twice her size.

I set the marker down. I looked at the chart I was supposed to be reviewing, and set that down too.

Then I turned and walked toward South 7.

The door to the room was open. I knocked on the frame anyway.

She was sitting on the edge of the bed, her feet dangling off the side. She turned when she heard me. Something moved across her face, not quite the wariness from earlier, not quite a smile. Something in between. She was reassessing, same as me.

"I owe you an apology," I said, which was not what I'd planned to open with, but it was true so it came out first. "I came at you hard out there without the full picture."

She watched me for a moment. "You had enough of the picture."

"I had Kowalski's version."

"Which was…"

"Which was accurate," I let that settle. "Your friend is going to be fine. They've got her in imaging now, precautionary, but the nose is straightforward. She was asking about you."

Something moved through her face at that, soft and fast and gone as soon as it appeared.

I pulled the chair from the corner of the room and sat, which I could tell surprised her. I'd intended to stay standing. I wasn't entirely sure why I'd sat down, except that this felt like a conversation that deserved it.

"I'm Jack Abbot," I said. "Attending physician. I run the ED."

She looked at me. Then she looked at the name badge clipped to my coat, which she clearly hadn't clocked until this moment.

A-B-B-O-T.

One T.

"You're kidding me," she said.

"I'm not."

The corner of her mouth moved. Not a smile exactly, but the beginning of one. "Y/N Abbott," she said. "Two T's."

"I noticed."

"Of course you did." A quiet exhale through her nose that might, in another life, have been a laugh. "Of course the man who yelled at me in the middle of a trauma bay is named Abbot."

"I didn't yell."

"You raised your voice."

"It's a loud room."

She looked at me with an expression that was both tired and faintly, reluctantly amused. I found that I didn't entirely mind being on the receiving end of it.

"It's been a long night," I said, which was the closest I was going to get to explaining myself.

"Yeah," she said. "It really has."

We sat with that for a moment, the particular quiet of two people deciding whether a bad first impression was going to be the whole story.

“You know you’ve set off a domino effect of paperwork for me to complete tonight between your friend's broken nose, your impromptu procedure in the ambulance and the sad sap in North 17.”

“Are you looking for my official statement?” There is a slight smile on her face, amused.

I look at the forms in front of me on her chart and click my pen in an exaggerated way ready to report the events of tonight, “I’m ready when you are.” 

"On it," you murmured. Your voice sounded a little distant, even to your own ears, but you forced a reassuring nod and grabbed an IV kit.

Inside Bed 6, you prepped the tourniquet and tore open the alcohol wipe. Your hands were usually rock solid, it was why Jack always asked for you on difficult sticks. But as you brought the needle down toward the patient's arm, your fingers violently jerked.

The needle slipped from your hand. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through your chest.

You gripped your right wrist with your left hand, trying to steady it, but an involuntary spasm rippled through your forearm. Your muscles tightened up, rigid and uncooperative.

No, no, no. Not right now.

You knew the signs. You lived with this reality every day. The entire shift knew it, too. But the velocity with which your blood sugar was crashing caught you entirely off guard.

"Sarah," you choked out, catching the eye of another nurse who was checking the monitor. Your voice was barely a whisper. "Can you... can you take over? I c-can't... I can't get the angle."

Sarah looked at you, confused. "Yeah, sure. I got it."

You stumbled backward out of the cubicle, your right arm tight against your chest as another spasm wracked the muscles.

You needed glucose. Now. Urgently.

You had a strange sensation, a tingling, in your legs, although you could still walk to the break room only because of muscle memory.

From across the floor, Jack catched you exit Bed 6. He frowned. It wasn't like you to hand off a procedure, especially not an urgent one. He stepped away from the central desk, his eyes tracking your swaying stride as you turned the corner into the staff breakroom.

"Hey," Jack called out softly, following you in and closing the door behind him. "Are you alright? Did you—"

You turned to face him, intending to tell him you just needed a fast acting carb, but your body betrayed you. Your neck stiffened slightly, and a small tic appeared, convulsing into a series of uncontrollable muscle spasms. You tried to reach for the cupboards, but your hand was shaking too much.

Jack froze, his medical instincts kicking in instantly.

He knew your diagnosis. He knew what a rapid drop looked like.

"Jesus, baby," he breathed, lunging forward just as your knees buckled.

He caught you before you hit the floor, guiding your trembling body down until you were sitting in one of the breakroom chairs.

"Hey," Jack commanded, cupping your face with his hands. "Look at me, doll."

You were awake. Your eyes were wide open, your gaze still fixed on him, your tics still twitching, but you weren't there. Your gaze was completely lost, glassy and unfocused. An involuntary whimper escaping your lips as another spasm gripped your hand.

"Hey, stay with me. Keep your eyes open," Jack pleaded, his fingers gripping your jaw firmly. He searched into his pocket, grabbing a tube of oral glucose gel he kept strictly for you.

"I'm going to put this in your mouth, okay? Don't swallow. Don't waste energy. Just let it absorb," he muttered, his hands shaking slightly, a rarity for Dr. Abbot. He gently parted your lips and squeezed the gel into your mouth, his eyes locked on yours, desperately searching for a flicker of recognition.

Your eyes remained swimming in an unfocused void, your head still twitching rhythmically against his hand.

The oral glucose gel was in, but your body wasn't responding. Jack knew the gel would take too long to turn this around.

He couldn't risk waiting.

"I need help in here!" Jack shouted toward the door, his voice cracking with urgency. Within seconds, the door burst open. Sarah and a resident rushed in, pausing for a fraction of a second in shock at the sight of the lead attending holding you tightly.

"She's crashing. Severe hypoglycemia, early seizure activity," Jack ordered. "Get a gurney. I need an IV kit and a bag of D50, now!""

The team moved fast. They wheeled a gurney right to the breakroom door, and Jack insisted on lifting you himself, his arms straining as he carefully laid you onto the mattress. They rushed you into an empty trauma bay, pulling the curtains shut to give you whatever dignity they could save.

"Starting IV," Sarah said, her fingers flying as she prepped your arm.

Jack didn't step back. "Baby, can you hear me?" he muttered, holding your head so you wouldn't hurt yourself. He didn't care about who listened to him calling you nicknames in a moment like this. "Are you with me?"

As Sarah successfully flashed the vein and pushed the concentrated dextrose into your IV, the violent twitching in your muscles finally began to subside. Your jaw relaxed and your eyelids grew incredibly heavy.

Your eyes closed completely. Your head rolled slightly to the side against the pillow.

"Hey, hey, no. Stay awake," Jack said sharply. He tapped your cheek, his pulse skyrocketing. "Goddammit, doll."

Jack felt nervous but he felt your breathing deep and even, your body completely limp.

"Fuck, her blood sugar is going to take a few minutes to register a rise in her brain. She’s just exhausted," Jack said gently, he didint know if he was trying to ground Sarah or himself. A patient losing consciousness after a neurological event was never just sleeping. His mind raced through every worst-case scenario: prolonged cerebral hypoglycemia, a postictal coma, a secondary head injury he hadn't seen.

"Get a fingerstick. Check her glucose levels," Jack demanded. He grabbed a penlight from his pocket, peeling back your eyelid to check your pupils. They were reactive, but you didn't even stir from the light. "Come on. Wake up. You can't sleep right now."

Seeing you completely unresponsive was tearing him apart.

"Don't do this," he whispered. "Please, wake up."

Long minutes later, the first thing that roused you from your deep sleep was the sound of the door closing. Your head felt as if it were being pressed tightly between two hands; you felt a great pressure on your temple.

"Hey..." a rough voice made you open your eyes, but the harsh lights of the trauma bay made your vision blur. Before you could even formulate a word, a violent wave of nausea surged from the pit of your stomach.

You gagged, instinctively trying to sit up.

Jack moved fast, grabbing an emesis basin from the bedside table and sliding his arm behind your back to support your weight as you threw up. He held you firmly, his hand rubbing your back as you retched, your body trembling from the sheer exhaustion of it all.

"I've got you," Jack murmured. "Breathe through it."

When it finally stopped, you sank heavily back against the pillows, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

You felt entirely disconnected from your own body.

Jack quickly set the basin aside, grabbed a damp washcloth, and gently wiped your mouth. Then, he picked up his blood glucose meter from the bedside. "I need to check your sugar again, okay?"

You nodded as he pricked your finger, and a moment later, the machine beeped. Jack sighed, a mix of relief and frustration washing over his face. "Two hundred and eighty four. It's high. The D50 overcorrected you, but we can manage that. We'll give you a small correction dose of insulin in a bit."

You blinked at him, the numbers not quite registering. Your brain felt like it was swimming in confussion. You looked around the trauma bay, the familiar sights of The Pitt looking completely foreign to you.

"Jack?" your voice was barely audible.

"Mh? I'm right here," he said, taking your hand and squeezing it tightly. "How do you feel?"

"Tired..." You said, sighing. "Did... did I miss my shift? What time is it? Do I need to clock in?"

Jack’s brow furrowed. He leaned closer. "Doll, you were already working. You collapsed in the breakroom."

You shook your head slightly, confusion hitting your chest. "No… no, it's… it's Thursday. We had the day off yesterday and had a date. I need to clock in."

Jack froze, his eyes scanning yours. Postictal disorientation was common after a severe hypoglycemic episode, but hearing you sound so lost cut right through him.

"It's not Thursday," Jack said softly, his voice was tending as he tried to reason with you. He raised his hand to gently cup your cheek. "It's Friday, love. Well, technically Saturday morning now. It's 5 AM."

"Saturday?" you whispered, your eyes filling with sudden tears as you realized just how blank your memory was. "I don't... I don't remember."

"Hey, it's okay," Jack rushed to soothe you. "It's completely normal to be confused right now. Your brain just went through a war. We're gonna run some studies to check your brain."

After your blood sugar began to stabilize, he ordered a full workup. He personally walked your labs down to the desk, demanded a priority read on your chem panel, and stood over the monitor while you were monitored for any residual cardiac ectopy.

Two hours later, the results were back.

"Good news," Jack said. He sat on the edge of your mattress, taking your hand back into his, intertwining her fingers with yours. "Physically, you’re completely cleared. Your body handled the crash beautifully, all things considered."

You looked down at your lap. "I still can't remember it, Jack. I remember walking into Bed 4 with an IV kit, and then... nothing. Just waking up and throwing up on you."

"You didn't throw up on me," he corrected gently, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "And the amnesia is normal. The neurologist on call confirmed it’s just localized retrograde amnesia from the seizure activity. It happens when the brain is deprived of glucose so quickly. It might come back in pieces, or it might not. But you are okay. That’s all that matters."

You let out a sigh, leaning your head forward until it rested against his shoulder. He immediately wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your hair, holding you with protective tightness that spoke volumes about how terrified he had actually been.

"You scared the hell out of me, you know?" he whispered into your hair, his voice cracking slightly. "Don't do that to me again."

"I'll try not to, baby," you murmured against his shoulder. "Thanks for catching me."

"Always," Jack said, pressing a warm kiss to the side of your head. "You're my favorite, I always be there to catch you."

-

Jack entered the room later as the distant sounds of the early morning shift change began to filter through the curtains.

"Alright," he said, his voice was in authoritative tone. "I’m pulling you off the schedule for the rest of the weekend, and you are going home to sleep."

You groaned slightly. "You know I have a double scheduled for Sunday. The floor is already short handed."

"I don't care if the entire hospital is short handed," he countered. "I'm the attending here, and I'm putting my best nurse, my girl, on mandatory medical leave. Arguments denied."

You couldn't help the smile that tugged at your lips. "You're very bossy when you're worried, Jack."

"I am your supervisor, and your soon to be boyfriend. It’s my job to be bossy," he murmured as you blushed.

He reached over, placing a small paper bag carefully in your hands.

"Here. Open it."

You frowned, peering into the bag. You pulled out a brand new glucose monitor sensor box, along with a pack of pink patches meant to secure it.

You blinked, memory suddenly sparking. "Wait... my old sensor..."

"When we were cutting your sleeve to line you, the shears caught your sensor," Jack explained. He rubbed the back of his neck. "It completely ripped it off. I had pharmacy pull a replacement from the emergency stash immediately, and I grabbed these extra-strength overlays from the supply closet so it doesn't budge during your next shift."

You looked from the box up to him, your heart swelling. Even in the middle of an emergency, he was anticipating exactly what you would need to recover.

"Thank you," you whispered, running a finger over the smooth box. "Though I'm pretty sure using hospital supply overlays for personal use is a protocol violation, Abbot."

"Consider it an attending-approved override for an exceptional nurse," Jack smoothly replied, a smirk playing on his lips. "Once we are officially off, I am taking you to my house. I'll help you with the new sensor, and then you are going to rest. I'll even cuddle you to sleep. Deal?"

You looked at him, the perfect blend of your demanding mentor and your devoted partner, and nodded. "Deal. But only if you promise not to critique my sensor placement technique."

Jack chuckled softly, leaning down to give you a warm kiss on yur cheek. "I'm not promising anything. I know you're not exactly… delicate with that."

"Shut up, Abbot, and discharge me."

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

The argument from the night before had settled over the apartment like smoke. It had started over something stupid. Most of your fights did. Two impossible schedules. Another missed dinner. Another week where your conversations revolved around patient lists and shift changes and whether one of you remembered to pay the gas bill. But then, like always, the real problem had emerged.

You.

Or perhaps, more accurately, your inability to stop. Three shifts in a row. Two committee meetings. A peds lecture you insisted on giving. Covering for another attending because you felt guilty saying no. Robby had come home after twenty hours in the ED to find you answering emails at midnight.

“You know you’re allowed to sit down, sweetheart.”

“I am sitting down.”

“You know what I mean.”

And you had. You always knew what he meant.

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle.”

“No, but I get to decide when I think my wife is running herself into the ground.”

“I am not running myself into the ground.”

“Then what would you call it?”

“I’d call it doing my damn job.”

He had laughed at that. Not because it was funny. Because he was frustrated. Because you had missed the point.

“You know, for someone so brilliant, you’re really good at pretending.”

That had earned him your full attention.

“Pretending what?”

“That everybody needs something from you every second of the day.”

“People do need things from me.”

“And somehow the entire world would collapse if you took one night off?”

“You know what, Michael? I don’t need your permission.”

“And I don’t need your approval every time I tell you to take care of yourself.”

You had stood then, crossing your arms.

“No. What you need is control.”

The second the words left your mouth, you saw the hurt flash through his eyes. Not anger. Not irritation. Hurt.

Because after everything, after all the years, after all the things he had trusted you with, that was the accusation that cut deepest. Control.nHe rose from the couch, towering over you, broad shoulders tense beneath a faded black t-shirt.

“That is bullshit and you know it.”

“Is it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, you know what? Maybe you’re just more comfortable being Chief Robby.”

His jaw tightened.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that sometimes I think you forget you’re my husband.”

The room went completely still. His dark eyes narrowed.

“Excuse me?”

“Everything is orders. Everything is instructions. Everything is fixing. Maybe I don’t always need to be fixed.”

“And maybe I don’t enjoy watching the woman I love work herself to death.”

“I am not dying.”

“No, sweetheart, you’re just disappearing.”

You had blinked.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

His voice had softened then. Too soft. That dangerous softness that always hurt more than shouting.

“You disappear, and I get whatever scraps are left. Thirty minutes here. A couple hours there. I go to bed alone because you’re charting. I wake up alone because you’re already answering emails. And every time I tell you I miss you, somehow I become the bad guy.”

His voice cracked. Just slightly.

“So forgive me for wanting my wife.”

You should have stopped then. You should have crossed the room and kissed him. You should have wrapped your arms around his neck and reminded him that he was your favorite place on earth.

But you were tired. And he was tired. And tired people say cruel things.

“So this is about you.”

His face changed. Not dramatically. Not loudly. But you watched something retreat behind his eyes. The same eyes that had looked at you with so much tenderness only hours before.

“No,” he said quietly. “This is about us.”

“Sounds like it’s about you.”

Silence. Long. Painful silence. Then he nodded once.

“Fine.”

That one word terrified you. Because Michael Robinavitch never said “fine.” He ran a hand through his hair, exhaled heavily, and walked toward the bedroom. You followed him.

“That’s it?”

“What exactly would you like from me right now?”

“I don’t know. A conversation.”

“I’ve been trying to have one.”

“You know what? Forget it.”

“No,” he said softly. “Apparently that’s exactly what we’re both very good at.”

He slept on his side of the bed. You slept on yours.nNeither one of you touched.nNeither one of you slept. And somehow that had hurt more than any argument.

By morning, the silence remained.nYou stood at the coffee maker while he tugged at his shirt. He looked devastatingly handsome, annoyingly so, gray in his beard more pronounced in the sunlight, dark eyes shadowed with exhaustion.

God, you loved him. Even angry. Especially angry. You wanted to apologize. You knew he wanted to apologize too. You could feel it.

But pride was such a stupid thing. He grabbed his keys. You grabbed your bag. Neither one of you moved. Neither one of you left. Because neither one of you wanted to be the first. Finally, he spoke.

“Have a good shift.”

Not sweetheart. Not baby. Not honey. Just the words. Professional. Polite. Cold. You swallowed.

“You too.”

He nodded once. Then he walked out. And for the first time since you’d married him, Michael Robinavitch left for work without kissing you goodbye. You stood alone in the apartment long after the door closed. Something deep in your chest twisted painfully.

Because the argument itself didn’t scare you. Nothing about Michael scared you. Not his temper. Not his stubbornness. Not his silence.

What scared you was that small voice whispering inside your head. Go after him. Call him. Fix this. Because life is short. And pride isn’t worth it.

But you ignored the voice. And neither of you knew that by the end of the day, both of you would have traded anything on earth to go back to this moment and say one more thing.

******

By ten that morning, the argument had settled into something far worse than anger. Distance. Neither of you had called. Neither of you had texted. Not because either of you was still furious. The truth was almost more ridiculous than that. You both knew exactly how this would end. One of you would apologize. The other would apologize. You would end up tangled together on the couch, half-laughing at how stubborn you’d both been.

That was the thing about your marriage. You never questioned whether you would find your way back to one another. You always did. Still, there was pride. There was exhaustion. There was the unspoken agreement that perhaps a few hours apart would do you both some good.

By noon, you almost sent him a picture of the disastrous cup of coffee Mel had made in the physician’s lounge.

By one, you had typed out I’m sorry. Then deleted it.

By two, you imagined he was doing the exact same thing. And somewhere across PTMC, Michael Robinavitch sat in his office staring at his phone for so long that Dana finally leaned against the doorway and frowned.

“Either ask your wife if she wants Thai tonight or stop glaring at that thing.”

Robby looked up.

“I wasn’t glaring.”

Dana snorted.

“Robby, I have known you for years. You look like a Victorian widow.”

He sighed heavily.

“We had an argument.”

“Ah.”

“Nothing major.”

“Those are always the worst ones.”

He rubbed his eyes.

“I hate this.”

Dana smiled sympathetically.

“You’ve hated every fight you’ve ever had with her.”

“Because they’re stupid.”

“Then fix it.”

“I’m trying to give her space.”

Dana burst out laughing.

“You? Giving space?”

His expression darkened.

“Apparently, that’s what she wants.”

Dana’s smile softened.

“No, Michael. That’s what hurt people say they want.”

He looked away. The truth was he had drafted three texts.

One said, I’m sorry.

Another said, I miss you.

The last one simply said, Come back to me.

He had deleted all three. Because maybe she needed time. Because maybe he needed time. Because maybe neither of you had been fair. And because despite everything, he trusted you.

He trusted the two of you.nThere would be tonight. There would always be tonight.

At three thirty-seven in the afternoon, every phone in the department exploded. Cassie appeared from Trauma Two at the exact same moment Mel ran out of another room.

“What the hell?”

Dana was already reaching for her tablet.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

Robby stood immediately.

“What?”

“A Gateway Clipper.”

Everyone froze. Cassie blinked.

“The tour boat?”

Dana nodded grimly.

“Collision near Station Square. Preliminary reports say it hit a maintenance barge. People in the water. Unknown number of injuries.”

The room erupted into motion. Trauma alerts. Bed assignments. Surgery notifications. Transport. Residents running. Nurses moving. Overhead pages beginning to scream. Robby’s voice instantly transformed.

“Mel, open overflow. Dana, coordinate with EMS. Cassie, I want every trauma bay cleared. Langdon, where are you?”

“Right here.”

“We’re going to need every damn body we’ve got.”

More information poured in. Multiple casualties. Children involved. Dozens injured. Unknown fatalities. And then someone said your name. You appeared in the doorway already pulling on your trauma vest.

“Peds team is heading to Station Square.”

Robby turned. And for just a second, everything else disappeared. God. You were beautiful. You were exhausted and irritated and still slightly angry with him, but you were beautiful. His wife. His favorite person. The woman who had somehow become the center of his universe.

You hadn’t spoken all day. And now chaos surrounded you. He wanted to kiss you. He wanted to apologize. He wanted to tell you that he’d been an idiot. Instead, years of professionalism stood between you.

“You’re going?”

You nodded.

“We need pediatric attendings on scene.”

“Langdon’s heading out too.”

“I know.”

His dark eyes lingered on yours. Too many words trapped behind them. Too many apologies. Too much love. For one dangerous second, neither of you moved. The world around you was screaming. People rushed past. Phones rang. Overhead pages echoed. But the two of you simply stared.

Because neither of you wanted your last conversation to be a fight. Neither of you wanted to walk away. He stepped closer. Close enough that no one else could hear. His voice dropped.

“Sweetheart…”

The endearment almost undid you. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed hearing it.

“I’m sorry.”

You swallowed.

“Michael—”

“Not now,” he said softly. “We’ll do this later.”

You nodded. Your eyes burned.

“We will.”

His hand almost reached for yours. Almost. But a nurse called his name. And Mel shouted yours. Duty. Always duty. You smiled sadly.

“Save me some coffee.”

His mouth twitched.

“Terrible coffee?”

“The worst kind.”

He shook his head.

“You have terrible taste.”

“And yet you married me.”

“Still trying to figure out how that happened.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. And there he was. Your husband. Your Michael. Not Chief Robby. Not Dr. Robinavitch. Just the man you loved.mThe man who looked at you like you were his home.

You started to turn away. Then stopped. Something in your chest tightened. Something strange. Anxiety.nFear. The overwhelming need to touch him. To kiss him.mTo tell him you loved him.nYou almost laughed at yourself.

Maybe Dana was right. Maybe hurt people said stupid things. Maybe life was too short. So you turned back. He was watching you. Always watching you. And in front of half the emergency department, you crossed the distance and wrapped your arms around his neck.

Surprise flashed across his face. Then warmth. Then relief. His arms immediately circled your waist, pulling you against his broad chest as though he’d been waiting all day for permission.mHe buried his face briefly in your hair and exhaled. The sound almost broke your heart.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

“So am I.”

You felt his lips brush your forehead.

“So we’re okay?”

His answer came immediately.

“We’re always okay.”

Tears stung your eyes.

“I love you.”

His arms tightened. Dark eyes soft and tired and so incredibly full of love.

“I know, sweetheart.”

You laughed.

“You know?”

“I know.”

“That’s all I get?”

A smile touched his mouth. And suddenly, for the first time since last night, Michael Robinavitch looked like himself again.

“No.”

He kissed you. Not deeply. Not passionately. Just slowly. Tenderly. His hand cupped your cheek. His thumb brushed beneath your eye. And for one perfect moment, the rest of the world disappeared. When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“I love you too.”

You smiled.

“See you later.”

“See you later.”

The words felt ordinary. Safe. Certain. Because later was guaranteed. Later was dinner. Later was bad television and falling asleep tangled together. Later was forever.

You walked toward the ambulance bay with Langdon and the others. Robby watched you go. And without realizing why, he kept watching. Long after you disappeared from sight. Long after Dana called his name. Long after he should have turned away. Something sat uneasily in his chest. Not fear. Nothing so dramatic. Just a feeling. An irritating, persistent feeling.

As though he should have kissed you again. As though he should have held you longer. As though some instinct deep inside him was begging him not to let you go. He finally forced himself back to work. And thirty minutes later, while chaos exploded along the Monongahela River and terrified passengers screamed on the docks near Station Square, Michael Robinavitch had absolutely no idea that his entire world was about to slip beneath the water.

******

Mass casualty incidents always possessed their own kind of madness. Not panic. Panic was sloppy. Chaos was emotional. This was different.

This was organized insanity. The kind Michael Robinavitch had spent his entire career preparing for. The emergency department moved like a machine. Trauma bays filled and emptied. Nurses sprinted between rooms. Blood coolers arrived. Residents barked out vital signs. Surgeons argued with radiology. Parents cried. Children screamed. And through the center of it all stood Robby. Steady. Calm. Commanding.

His voice cut through the noise like a knife.

“I need Trauma Three cleaned now. Langdon’s team should be bringing another round in. Mel, stop fighting with surgery and just tell them they’re getting what they’re getting. Dana, where are my peds beds?”

Nobody questioned him. Nobody ever questioned him. Because Michael Robinavitch was the eye of the storm. Always. Cassie had once told a resident that if nuclear war broke out, she wanted Robby in charge. The resident had laughed. Cassie hadn’t. And so when the radio traffic started getting stranger, nobody thought much of it.

Secondary injuries. Patients in the water. Hypothermia. Near drownings. Robby heard the updates. Filed them away. Moved on. There wasn’t time to dwell. There were too many people to save.

Still, he found himself glancing at the ambulance bay every few minutes. Not consciously. Not intentionally. Just enough to see if maybe you’d come through the doors. Maybe your team had returned. Maybe he’d catch your eye. Maybe he’d steal thirty seconds and kiss your forehead. Tell you dinner was his treat. Tell you he’d missed you. Tell you he was sorry. Tell you—

“Chief?”

Robby blinked.

“What?”

Mel frowned.

“Trauma Four?”

He nodded immediately.

“Right. Sorry.”

Mel’s eyebrow rose.

“Thinking about your wife?”

“No.”

“Robby.”

He sighed.

“Yes.”

She smiled.

“Good. Means your head’s still attached.”

Then another ambulance arrived. Then another. Then two more. The emergency department swallowed them whole.

Children. Broken bones. Chest injuries. Lacerations. And still no sign of you. Which wasn’t unusual. Not enough to concern him. Not yet. Then Dana appeared beside him.

“Have you heard from her?”

He shook his head.

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“No.”

Dana frowned slightly.

“That’s odd.”

“She’s busy.”

“She’s married.”

Robby smiled despite himself.

“You’re one to talk.”

Dana shrugged.

“You know I’m right.”

He did. You always texted. Not paragraphs. Not novels. Just little things.

Alive.

Busy.

Miss you.

Something. Always something. He reached for his phone. No messages. He told himself not to be ridiculous. You were fine. Of course you were fine. You were probably knee deep in blood and paperwork and rolling your eyes at Langdon’s jokes.

The thought almost made him smile. And then the ambulance doors opened. Robby turned automatically. His eyes landed on Frank first. Which made no sense. Because Langdon looked terrible. Absolutely terrible. His dark hair plastered to his forehead. His clothes soaked. Not wet. Drenched. River water streamed off him. His hands were bloody. His face pale. And for one strange second, Robby’s mind focused entirely on that.

Why the hell is Langdon soaked? Then he saw the stretcher. And his world stopped.

No.

No.

No.

No.

The sound disappeared. Completely. Voices vanished. Monitors vanished. Everything vanished. Because lying on that stretcher…Motionless. Blue. Unconscious. Was you.

Someone was bagging you. Another nurse was performing compressions. Your hair was soaked. Your skin gray. Blood mixed with river water. And for several long, horrible seconds, Michael Robinavitch’s mind refused to understand what his eyes were seeing. It couldn’t. It absolutely could not.