Pr0bsRo§e

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🍒: The Dragon of the West- Iroh

🍒:Goodboy - Avatar Wan

"Hey," he said softly. She tried to answer, but the pain spiked again when she shifted her shoulders.

"Oh my God," she breathed. He sat up immediately, careful not to jostle her.

"Talk to me," he said gently.

"It hurts," she whispered, and this time her voice trembled. "It really hurts."

He knew it would. He still wasn't prepared for the look on her face. She tried to sit up and gasped as her ribs protested violently. The effort of pushing herself upright sent a sharp, searing ache straight through her sternum. Tears sprang to her eyes before she could stop them.

"Okay, okay," he murmured, sliding one arm carefully behind her shoulders. "Don't do that alone."

She let him help her, her pride gone in the face of how weak she felt. Even with his support, sitting upright made her breathing uneven. Every inhale felt like it stretched something torn.

"It feels like someone parked a car on my chest," she choked.

He pressed his forehead briefly to her temple, grounding himself.

"That's the compressions," he said softly. "Deep bruising. Possibly small rib fractures that didn't light up on imaging. Muscle tears. It's going to be ugly for a few days."

She shook her head, and that tiny motion hurt too.

"It hurts to breathe," she whispered.

"I know."

"It hurts to move."

"I know."

She tried to take a deeper breath, determined to prove to herself she could, and the pain flared so sharply that she let out a small cry she couldn't contain. Tears spilled down her cheeks freely now.

"I can't," she said, voice breaking. "I can't do this."

He felt it in his own chest. He wanted to pull her into him and wrap her up tight, but he couldn't compress her ribs. He couldn't press her against his chest without hurting her. So instead, he cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing away tears.

"You can," he said softly. "It's day one."

She cried harder at that.

"I feel so weak," she whispered. "I can't even sit up without crying."

"You coded," he said gently. "Your body went through trauma. Weak is not a moral failure."

Her breathing was turning ragged again, not panic this time, but pain layered with emotion.

"Okay," he murmured, steady and low. "Small breaths. Don't fight it."

She tried to inhale slowly, but the ache was constant, throbbing beneath every movement. He reached for the medication on the nightstand.

"It's time," he said softly. "You don't have to tough this out."

She nodded, swallowing hard. He helped her take the pain medication, holding the glass carefully so she didn't have to lift her arms too high. Even that small action made her wince.

"I hate this," she whispered.

"I know," he repeated.

He adjusted the pillows behind her, easing her back down inch by inch so the motion didn't pull at her ribs. Once she was settled, he placed one hand lightly over her forearm, the only place he could touch without hurting her.

"It even hurts to laugh," she said faintly, tears still slipping down.

"Then I won't tell jokes," he replied quietly.

"It hurts to cough."

"We'll brace when you need to."

"It hurts to lift my arms."

"I'll lift things."

She blinked at him through tears.

"It hurts to hug you."

His jaw tightened slightly, but his voice stayed soft.

"Then we'll sit close instead."

"I don't feel like myself," she admitted. "My brain feels slow. I can't focus. I forget what I'm saying halfway through."

"That's brain fog," he said gently. "Post-arrest. Stress response. Sleep disruption. It clears."

She let out a shaky breath that turned into another quiet sob.

"I don't like feeling fragile."

"You're not fragile," he said. "You're healing."

She covered her face with her hands and immediately regretted it when lifting her arms sent another flare of pain through her chest. He gently lowered her hands for her.

"Easy," he whispered.

The medication would take time to work. For now, he just stayed close, one hand smoothing her hair back, the other resting lightly against her wrist so she could feel him there. She looked at him, eyes red and glassy.

"I'm so tired," she said.

"Then sleep," he answered.

"It's morning."

"Doesn't matter."

Her breathing finally began to steady as the medication took the sharpest edge off the pain. It didn't disappear, but it dulled enough that she could breathe without bracing every second. He eased her fully back into the pillows, adjusting the blankets carefully so they didn't weigh heavily across her chest.

"I've got you," he murmured.

She reached for his hand weakly. He laced their fingers together immediately.

"Stay," she whispered.

"I'm not going anywhere," he said.

She drifted in and out through the morning, crying quietly when the pain spiked, dozing when the medication kicked in, waking again nauseated and overwhelmed. He stayed beside her through all of it, counting her breaths, reminding her that the pain meant her body was alive, that soreness was not danger.

-

day two:

She woke slowly this time, not with panic, but with pain. It was quieter than yesterday's shock, but deeper. The bruising had settled fully into her chest overnight, blooming into something dense and relentless. When she inhaled, it tugged sharply along her sternum. When she shifted even slightly, the soreness radiated out through her ribs like cracks in glass. She lay still for a minute, staring at the ceiling, gathering the strength to move. Robby was already awake. He had learned the rhythm of her breathing overnight. He could tell the difference now between pain and panic without her saying a word.

"You're awake," he murmured softly.

"Unfortunately," she muttered.

He smiled faintly at that. She tried to roll onto her side. It was a mistake. The motion pulled at the bruised muscle along her chest wall and she sucked in a sharp breath before she could stop it. He was up immediately, sliding one arm behind her shoulders without compressing her sternum.

"Don't," he said gently. "Let me."

She hated that she needed the help. She hated it even more when her arms trembled just from pushing herself upright. He moved slowly, coordinating with her, lifting just enough so she didn't have to strain. Even assisted, she winced, breath catching in shallow pulls.

"I feel ninety," she whispered.

"You look twenty-five," he replied softly.

That almost made her laugh. Almost. Sitting upright left her winded. Not dramatically. Just enough that she noticed it. Her body felt heavy. Sluggish. The kind of tired that seeped into her bones. He adjusted the pillows behind her carefully.

"Bathroom?" he asked.

Standing was worse than she expected. Her legs felt unreliable, like the signal between brain and muscle had static in it. She wobbled before she fully found her balance, and he stepped in without making a big deal of it, one hand steady at her waist.

"I've got you," he said quietly.

She leaned into him more than she meant to. Walking the few steps down the hallway felt like crossing a parking lot. By the time they made it back to the bed, her chest throbbed and her breath was uneven again.

"Okay," he murmured, easing her down. "That's enough for now."

She closed her eyes for a moment.

"I hate that that was exhausting."

He brushed her hair back from her face. He brought her breakfast on a tray again, smaller than yesterday. Plain toast cut into squares. A little yogurt. 

"I'm not hungry," she said, though it came out softer than before.

"That's fine," he replied. "Just a little."

She managed half a piece of toast before setting it down, suddenly nauseated. He didn't push. He just swapped the toast for a few sips of water and let it be enough. Most of the day was small things. He kept track of her medication without announcing it. He brought her the heating pad when the ache in her ribs flared. He helped her change positions in bed without pulling at her chest. When she got frustrated trying to lift her arms to brush her hair, he took the brush from her gently and did it for her. At one point she forgot what she was saying mid-sentence and just stared at him blankly. Her eyes filled immediately.

"I hate this," she whispered.

He moved closer without crowding her chest.

"It's temporary," he said softly.

She nodded, but the tears came anyway.

Not dramatic. Just tired tears. She was sore everywhere. Even hugging him was awkward. He had to wrap one arm around her shoulders and keep space between their chests so he wouldn't press against the bruising.

"It even hurts to sit like this," she said quietly, resting her forehead against his collarbone.

"I know," he murmured.

She didn't ask him to explain it. She didn't want a lecture. She just wanted it to stop. By afternoon she slept again. Deep, heavy sleep that came without panic this time. He stayed beside her, answering emails quietly, glancing up every few minutes to watch her breathe. When she woke later, the pain was still there, but duller. The medication had taken the sharpest edge off.

"I feel useless," she admitted softly.

He looked up from where he was sitting on the edge of the bed.

"You survived," he said. "That's not useless."

She stared at the ceiling for a long moment.

"I don't like not being able to take care of myself."

He reached for her hand.

"Then let me do it for a little while."

She squeezed his fingers weakly. By evening, even sitting upright to eat a few bites made her winded. Her ribs burned when she coughed. Rolling in bed still required coordination and his help. Her appetite was barely there. Her emotions hovered close to the surface, rising and falling without much warning. But there was no panic. When she lay back down that night, she didn't fight sleep. She was too tired to.

By the end of the day she was running on fumes, but she refused to admit it. She was propped up against the pillows, a blanket tucked carefully around her waist, shoulders supported so her sternum would not bear too much strain. The bruising across her chest had darkened into deep purples and blues that peeked above the neckline of his oversized shirt. Even breathing looked like work, though she tried to make it seem casual. Robby sat beside her on the edge of the bed with the book in his hand, glasses low on his nose, watching her with quiet suspicion.

"You're falling asleep," he said mildly.

"I am not," she replied instantly, eyes wide in protest.

He raised one eyebrow.

"Your eyes have been closed for the last thirty seconds."

"They were resting."

"Resting," he repeated.

She shifted slightly, then immediately regretted it when the movement tugged at her ribs. She sucked in a careful breath and tried to recover with dignity.

"Keep reading," she insisted. "It's getting to the good part."

He glanced down at the page.

"We can finish it tomorrow."

"No," she said quickly, a little sharper than she meant to. "It's such a good book. I want to hear it."

Her voice was already softer, slower. He studied her face for a second longer. The shadows under her eyes were darker tonight. Her body looked heavy against the pillows.

"Baby," he said gently, "you need sleep."

"I'm not tired."

He let out a quiet chuckle at that.

"You are so tired."

She blinked at him stubbornly. "Keep reading."

He shook his head but complied, settling back slightly and continuing from where he had left off. His voice was steady, low, warm. He did not rush the words. He read the way he did everything with her lately, like he had nowhere else to be. Halfway down the page her breathing changed. It deepened, lengthened, the small tension in her shoulders loosening as her muscles gave up the fight.

"Are you still with me?" he asked softly.

"I'm awake," she mumbled, not opening her eyes.

"Mm," he hummed.

Another few sentences in and her head tipped slightly to the side. Her lips parted just enough to let out a slow, even exhale. Her hand, which had been gripping the edge of the blanket in stubborn resistance, went slack. He finished the paragraph anyway. When he looked up again, she was fully out. It had taken less than a minute. He closed the book quietly, a smile tugging at his mouth despite the ache that still lived under his ribs from the last forty-eight hours.

"So not tired," he murmured under his breath.

He leaned forward carefully, brushing a strand of hair away from her face without jostling her chest. Her breathing stayed slow and steady. He watched her for a long moment before reaching over to switch off the lamp. In the dark, he lay down beside her, careful not to press against her sternum, his hand resting lightly against her back.

-

day three:

The pain had settled into something more predictable by the third morning, which did not make it easier, only different. It was no longer sharp and shocking like the first twenty-four hours, but it was everywhere. A deep, layered soreness that wrapped around her ribs and anchored itself behind her sternum. Breathing still required intention. Rolling over still took planning. Even lifting her arms to tie her hair back left her winded. But she was steadier on her feet. She had made it from the bed to the couch that afternoon without needing him to lift her. He hovered anyway, one hand at her lower back, the other near her elbow, but she did it.

"I walked," she said quietly when she sat down.

"You did," he agreed softly.

By evening, her muscles were trembling again from fatigue. The emotional weight of the last seventy-two hours had not lessened. If anything, it was settling into her in waves. The reality of what had happened. The fact that she had stopped breathing. That her heart had faltered. That hands had pressed into her chest hard enough to bruise bone. She stared at the bathroom doorway for a long moment.

"I want to try the bath," she said.

He studied her face carefully.

"Okay," he answered.

He ran the water slowly, testing the temperature twice before helping her walk in. Steam curled softly against the mirror. The room felt warm and quiet in a way that the hospital never did. Undressing was still an exercise in patience. She moved slowly, wincing when fabric brushed over the bruising on her chest. He did not rush her. He did not look away either. There was no embarrassment left between them. When the tub was ready, he stepped in first and sat down, then helped her lower herself carefully between his legs so she would not have to brace against the sides. The warm water wrapped around her like a second skin. The exhaled slowly. Her back rested against his chest, carefully positioned so her sternum did not press too hard against him. His arms came around her, loose at first, then closer once he was sure he was not hurting her. The water held most of her weight. For the first time since it happened, she did not feel like gravity was pressing into her injuries. She let her head fall back against his shoulder.

Neither of them spoke for a long time. His hand moved slowly along her arm, just a grounding touch, tracing small circles into her skin. After a while, her breathing changed.

"I keep thinking about it," she whispered. He tightened his hold slightly. "I didn't even know it was happening. I thought I was just tired."

She swallowed, and her shoulders began to tremble.

"It's so stupid," she said quickly. "I work around this stuff every day. I should've-"

"Don't," he murmured against her hair.

The tears came anyway. Just quiet, steady crying that shook through her chest, and he felt every tremor of it. He closed his eyes and lowered his face into the curve of her neck, pressing his nose there like he was trying to anchor himself to something real.

"I thought I was careful," she whispered. "I double-gloved."

"I know," he said again, his voice rougher now.

The image of her on that stretcher still lived under his skin. Pale. Slack. Blue at the lips. He had not let himself fully sit with it yet. He had been too busy keeping her stable, getting her home, making sure she ate, watching her breathe. Now, in the quiet of the bath, with warm water lapping softly around them, it hit him all at once. She twisted slightly, as much as her ribs would allow, and reached back to touch his cheek. His face was wet. He had not realized he was crying.

"Robby," she whispered.

He shook his head once, unable to form anything coherent. He just pulled her closer, carefully, like he was afraid she would dissolve if he did not hold her tight enough. His breath stuttered against her skin. Her fingers slid into his hair. He pressed his forehead into the side of her neck, inhaling slowly, like he was making sure she was real. They stayed like that, both crying silently, the water cooling gradually around them. After a while, her breathing evened out again. The tremor in her shoulders softened.

"I'm so tired," she murmured.

"I've got you," he said quietly.

-

day four:

Day four felt quieter in a way she had not expected. The pain was still there, steady and deep along her sternum, blooming outward into her ribs whenever she inhaled too fully or shifted too quickly, but it no longer startled her. It had become something she anticipated rather than something that ambushed her. The bruising across her chest had darkened into dramatic shades of violet and blue, the kind that would make anyone else wince on sight, and even lifting her arms above shoulder height sent a pulling ache through muscle that had not been meant to endure compressions that forceful. Still, she woke without fear. That alone felt like progress.

Robby was already awake when she stirred, as he had been every morning since it happened. He did not hover in a way that made her feel watched, but he was present in a way that made her feel steadied. When she sat up, slower now but more confident than the previous days, he shifted the pillows behind her back without a word and handed her water before she even asked. She managed to swing her legs over the edge of the bed on her own this time, though she paused halfway through to let the lightheadedness settle.

"Take your time," he said softly.

"I am," she replied, and there was a small spark of pride in her voice.

She made it to the kitchen again that morning, moving carefully but without trembling. The fatigue was still heavy in her limbs, the kind that made even standing feel like mild exertion, yet it was not as consuming as it had been on day one or two. She lowered herself into a chair at the table and rested her hands in her lap, breathing evenly while he moved around the kitchen. He kept the breakfast simple again. Toast, a small portion of scrambled eggs. Water and ginger tea for the nausea that still crept in at unpredictable moments. She ate more than she had the day before, not much, but enough that he noticed.

"That's better," he said quietly.

She gave him a look that was half warning, half amusement.

"Do not turn this into a victory chart."

He smiled but did not push further. She was tucked into the corner of the couch with a blanket over her legs and one of Robby's sweatshirts swallowing her frame when Samira called again. The house was quiet except for the soft clink of dishes in the kitchen where Robby was pretending not to hover. She let the phone ring once before answering, just to gather herself.

"Hi," she said, her voice softer than usual.

"Okay," Samira said immediately, "before you say anything, I need visual confirmation that you are upright."

She huffed a careful laugh. "You want a FaceTime?"

"I will demand it."

"I'm upright," she said. "On the couch. Like a Victorian woman recovering from fainting."

"Do you at least have a dramatic shawl?" Samira asked.

"Blanket," she corrected. "And tea. I look deeply fragile."

"Good," Samira replied. "Lean into it. Make him bring you grapes."

She glanced toward the kitchen where Robby was pouring hot water.

"He already cut my toast into squares this morning."

Samira gasped theatrically. "He is down catastrophic."

"Shut up," she said, smiling despite herself.

"I'm serious," Samira continued. "The man is feral about you."

She rolled her eyes but the warmth in her chest had nothing to do with bruising. "He's just worried."

"Yeah," Samira said gently. "Because you almost died."

The humor softened into something steadier. There was a small pause.

"I wanted to come," Samira admitted quietly. "I asked. He said you weren't up for visitors yet."

"I wasn't," she said honestly. "Yesterday I cried because I dropped a fork."

"That tracks," Samira replied without missing a beat.

She laughed carefully again, pressing a palm to her sternum.

"Still hurts to laugh."

"Then I will keep you mildly amused only."

They drifted into easy conversation for a few minutes. Samira filled her in on minor department drama, exaggerating details in a way that made it feel safe and distant. She told her about Mateo trying to reorganize the supply closet and somehow losing an entire box of central lines. She told her about Dana threatening to lock the coffee machine if one more person left the pot empty.

"It's chaos without you," Samira said.

"It's been four days."

"Four very loud days."

She smiled faintly, then went quiet. Samira noticed immediately.

"Okay," she said more seriously. "Talk to me."

"I don't know how to feel," she admitted. "Physically I'm sore and tired and that's fine. But it's like... I blinked and everything shifted."

"You went through something awful."

"I know that," she replied. "But I work around it every day. I'm supposed to be the one steadying other people."

"You are steady," Samira said firmly. "Steady people still get hurt."

"Are they okay?" she asked quietly.

"Who?"

"The department."

Samira exhaled slowly. "It's been hard. You and Robby both being gone at the same time? That's noticeable. You two anchor the shift whether you realize it or not."

"I don't want them drowning because I'm not there."

"They're not drowning," Samira assured her. "But they miss you. We all do."

There was another pause. Samira shifted her tone carefully.

"They've been pulling people."

She frowned. "Pulling who?"

"Staff. One by one."

"For what?"

"For interviews," Samira said.

Her stomach dropped.

"Interviews about what?"

There was hesitation on the other end.

"You don't know?" Samira asked quietly.

"Know what?"

"About you and Robby."

Her hand tightened around the phone.

"They're doing an internal review," Samira continued gently. "HR's been calling people into Gloria's office. Asking when it started. Whether anyone noticed favoritism. Whether there was anything inappropriate."

"Robby didn't tell you?" Samira asked carefully.

"No," she said, the word thin.

Samira let out a quiet breath. "I haven't gone in yet. They've talked to a few of us already. It's... formal."

She stared at the wall, feeling something sharp and unsettled rise in her chest.

"Are people saying things?" she asked.

"No," Samira replied immediately. "Everyone I've spoken to has said the same thing. That you're professional. That if anything, he was harder on you than anyone else."

"That's not comforting."

"It kind of is," Samira said softly. "It means nobody thinks you got special treatment."

"I hate that this is happening while I'm not even there," she whispered.

"I know," Samira said. "But listen to me."

Her voice shifted again. Stronger now.

"You are good at your job. You are respected. And whatever they're looking for, they're not going to find anything messy because there isn't anything messy."

"I didn't want this to blow up," she admitted.

"It was always going to be complicated," Samira said gently. "He's chief attending. You're on his shift. That's reality."

"Are you mad?" Samira asked carefully.

"I don't know," she replied honestly. "I'm just... tired."

"Tired you can handle," Samira said softly. "Angry you can handle later. Right now you focus on healing."

She nodded even though Samira could not see it.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

"For what?"

"For not making this weird."

Samira snorted. "Please. I've known for months. You think you two are subtle? I've been waiting for HR to catch up."

She almost laughed again.

"I love you," she said instead.

"I love you more," Samira replied. "And when you're ready for visitors, I'm bringing soup and judging your man's cooking."

"Please do," she murmured.

They hung up slowly. When she lowered the phone, Robby was standing in the doorway, watching her carefully. And the weight of what Samira had just told her settled in. But for a few minutes, at least, she had laughed. She sat there for a long moment after the call ended, staring at nothing in particular, the phone still warm in her hand. The house felt too quiet suddenly. The kind of quiet that hums. Robby walked in from the kitchen with her tea, studying her face immediately.

"What?" he asked softly.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?"

"What are you talking about?"

She set the phone down carefully, her movements slower than the frustration building under her skin.

"Why am I finding out from Samira that there's an internal investigation going on because you told Gloria about us?"

He placed the mug on the table deliberately before answering.

"I told you I went to Gloria."

"You did not tell me they're pulling people into HR interviews," she shot back.

"They were going to find out," he replied evenly. "I got ahead of it."

"By deciding for both of us?"

His jaw tightened slightly. "I didn't decide for both of us. I disclosed the relationship. That was inevitable."

"Inevitable when?" she demanded. "On your timeline?"

He exhaled through his nose. "On reality's timeline."

"You should have told me," she said, her voice sharpening despite the tightness in her sternum. "It's my career too. They're interviewing people about me."

"They're reviewing conduct," he corrected. "It's procedural."

"Procedural?" she repeated, incredulous. "They're asking about favoritism. About inappropriate behavior."

"There hasn't been any."

"That's not the point."

He ran a hand through his hair.

"I handled it," he said. "I told them the truth. That we've been professional. That there was no preferential treatment."

"You handled it," she echoed again, her voice rising. "Without me."

He took a step closer, lowering his tone.

"I was trying to protect you."

"From what?" she demanded. "From knowing what's happening in my own workplace?"

Her breathing was picking up now, shallow and quick. The emotional volatility that had been simmering all week flared sharply, the aftershock of trauma amplifying everything.

"You were in a hospital bed," he said. "Recovering from coding. I wasn't going to walk in and add HR politics on top of that."

"I'm not fragile," she snapped.

"I know you're not fragile."

"Then stop treating me like I am."

She pushed herself up straighter on the couch, anger giving her a burst of adrenaline her body could not sustain. The movement pulled violently across her sternum. The pain hit fast and bright. She sucked in a sharp breath and clutched at her chest instinctively. Robby was in front of her immediately.

"Hey. Stop."

She tried to inhale deeper and winced.

"Don't do that," he said urgently, his hands hovering but not touching the bruised center of her chest. "Be mad at me. Yell at me later. But do not hurt yourself doing it."

Tears spilled down her cheeks, sudden and hot.

"I hate this," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I hate feeling like everything is happening around me and I'm just... stuck."

"I know," he said, softer now.

"I didn't want it to come out like this," she continued, her breathing uneven. "I didn't want it dragged into HR interviews while I'm not even there to defend myself."

"You won't need to defend yourself," he said firmly.

"You don't know that," she shot back, then winced again at the pull in her ribs. He crouched in front of her so she wouldn't have to strain her neck.

"Look at me," he said quietly. She did, though her vision was watery.

"You are not in trouble," he said. "You have done nothing wrong."

"That doesn't stop them from making it messy," she whispered.

"I was trying to get ahead of it before someone else did," he admitted. "If they heard it as gossip first, it would've been worse."

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed. Her emotions were close to the surface all week, unpredictable and intense. Trauma did that. The adrenaline crash, the medication, the exhaustion. It made everything feel sharper.

"I can't do this right now," she said finally, her voice smaller. "I can't fight about HR politics when I can barely breathe without it hurting."

He nodded immediately.

"Okay."

"I'm exhausted," she whispered.

"I know."

She pulled the blanket tighter around herself.

"I need to be alone for a bit," she said, not meeting his eyes.

The words landed harder than the argument had. He swallowed but nodded.

"Okay," he said quietly. "I'll be in the kitchen."

She leaned back slowly against the couch, careful this time, breathing shallow but controlled. He stood there for a second longer, wanting to pull her into him, wanting to fix it, wanting to rewind the last hour. Instead he stepped back and gave her space. She closed her eyes, tears still slipping down her temples, chest aching in more ways than one.

-

The rest of the afternoon passed in a quiet that felt different from the peaceful ones earlier in the week. This quiet had edges. She stayed curled into the corner of the couch, blanket wrapped around her shoulders, staring at nothing in particular while her mind replayed everything Samira had said. HR. Interviews. Gloria's office. People being called in one by one to talk about her relationship like it was a case study. Robby moved around the apartment carefully, almost cautiously. He washed dishes that did not need washing. He wiped down counters that were already clean. Every few minutes he glanced toward her, wanting to say something, wanting to bridge the gap that had opened between them. Finally he came and sat on the opposite end of the couch, leaving space between them.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked gently.

She kept her eyes on the wall for a second longer before answering.

"I'm trying to process," she said quietly. "Please let me."

He nodded immediately. "Okay."

He sat there anyway, not touching her, just present.

A few minutes later he tried again, softer this time. "I should have told you sooner."

"I know you think you were protecting me," she said, still not looking at him. "And I love you for that. I do. I appreciate that you're trying to shield me from everything."

Her voice trembled slightly, more from exhaustion than anger now.

"But I don't want to talk about it anymore tonight," she continued. "I don't have the capacity. My chest hurts. My head hurts. My brain feels like it's been wrung out. I just... I need to sleep."

He let out a slow breath.

"Okay."

She finally turned her head and looked at him.

"I'm not shutting you out," she said softly. "I'm just overwhelmed."

"I know," he replied.

"I love you," she added, the words quiet but firm. "And I appreciate what you did. Even if I'm mad about how I found out."

He nodded, his eyes softening.

"I love you too."

They moved to the bedroom slowly. She was careful this time, not letting frustration rush her movements. He helped her ease into bed without commentary, adjusting the pillows behind her back so she would not strain her sternum. The routine of it felt almost normal now. He turned off the lamp and lay down beside her, keeping a careful distance so he would not press into the bruising along her chest. He wanted to reach for her, but he didn't. Instead he lay on his back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment before finally turning his head toward her.

"I love you," he said softly into the dark.

She did not open her eyes, but her voice came back steady.

"I love you too."

That was all they said. The space between them was not anger anymore. It was exhaustion, and slowly, quietly, they both drifted off to sleep.

Day Five

She woke up before him on day five, which in itself felt like progress. The apartment was quiet, early light slipping through the curtains in soft gray bands across the ceiling. For a few seconds she just lay there, breathing slowly, testing her body the way she had been doing every morning since discharge. The ache in her sternum was still present, heavy and bruised, but it no longer felt sharp. Her ribs protested when she shifted, but they did not seize. Her head felt clearer. Tired, but not foggy. More importantly, the storm from the night before had settled. She replayed the argument in her head without the rush of adrenaline this time. Without the spike in her pulse. Without the immediate defensiveness. She could see it more evenly now. The fear under her anger. The loss of control. The fact that her body had betrayed her earlier that week and then her career had felt like it was slipping into someone else's hands without her consent. She heard him stir beside her. He rolled onto his side slowly, cautious even in half-sleep, like he was still protecting her ribs from accidental contact.

"Morning," he murmured.

"Morning."

He blinked at her, searching her face instinctively for signs of distress.

"How are you feeling?" he asked quietly.

She considered the question more carefully than she had been able to the previous days.

"Sore," she admitted. "But... okay."

He nodded slowly, studying her for a moment longer.

"And?"

"And I'm not mad at you." She exhaled softly.

"Okay," he said carefully.

She shifted, wincing only a little this time, and propped herself up against the pillows.

"I thought about it," she continued. "About HR. About you telling Gloria."

He sat up too, leaning back against the headboard, giving her his full attention.

"I overreacted," she said quietly.

"No." He immediately shook his head.

"I did," she insisted gently. "Not about being upset. That part was real. But the way I went at you. I was already wound tight. I felt out of control in my own body all week. Then I found out something else was happening that I didn't know about, and it just... tipped."

He watched her carefully.

"I couldn't regulate it," she admitted. "It was like everything was amplified. I felt cornered and I lashed out."

He let out a slow breath.

"That's normal," he said.

She gave him a small look.

"You don't get to validate me and also absolve yourself entirely."

His mouth twitched slightly despite the seriousness of the conversation.

"I'm not absolving myself," he said. "I should have told you sooner. You deserved that."

She nodded.

"Yes. I did. But..." she added, softer, "I understand why you didn't. You were trying to protect me."

"I was trying to take one thing off your plate," he admitted. "You were recovering. I didn't want HR politics in your hospital bed."

"I know," she said.

They sat in silence for a moment, the kind that felt thoughtful rather than tense.

"I hated feeling out of control," she said finally. "Physically. Emotionally. And then finding out people were being pulled into interviews about us... it felt like more of that."

"That makes sense."

"I'm not ashamed of us," she added. "I just didn't want it dragged out like that."

"Neither did I," he said. "But if it was going to come out, I wanted it on our terms."

"And now?"

"Now," he said evenly, "we let them review it. We cooperate. We stay professional. And we deal with whatever comes."

"Are you scared?" She studied his face carefully.

"Yes." He said as he held her gaze.

"I don't want you losing your position because of me," she said quietly.

"You are not something that happened to me," he replied firmly. "You are someone I chose."

"I know," she said softly.

"Your feelings last night were valid," He said. He reached for her hand carefully, mindful of her ribs, and laced their fingers together. "Even if they came out sideways."

"They came out aggressively sideways."

"You went through something violent," he continued. "Your body is still recalibrating. Your brain is still recalibrating. Emotional spikes are expected."

"Look at you, being rational... look I don't want to fight with you," she said more seriously. "Especially not about this."

"We're not fighting," he said. "We're navigating."

"Okay," She nodded and she squeezed his hand. "Then we navigate together next time."

"Next time I walk into Gloria's office?" he asked lightly.

"Yes," she replied. "You tell me first."

"Deal."

She shifted slightly closer to him, careful of her sternum, and rested her head lightly against his shoulder. Her body was still sore. Her chest still bruised. Her appetite still unpredictable. Recovery was far from over. But emotionally, something had steadied.

"I'm glad you told them," she said quietly after a moment. "Even if I didn't like how I found out."

"I'm glad I don't have to pretend anymore." He kissed the top of her head carefully.

-

Day Six

She woke up on day six with the first flicker of something that almost resembled normalcy. The pain was still there, rooted deep behind her sternum like a bruise that refused to fade, and her ribs still complained if she shifted too fast or laughed too hard, but the fog had thinned. Her breathing felt less guarded. She could take a slightly deeper inhale without bracing for impact. It still hurt, but it did not terrify her. Robby had insisted on breakfast in bed that morning, which she would have protested a week ago and now accepted without argument. He carried in a tray like he was presenting a five-star meal, even though it was just scrambled eggs, toast, fruit cut into manageable pieces, and coffee for him, tea for her.

"You are milking this," she said, adjusting her pillows carefully.

"I absolutely am not," he replied, setting the tray down. "You nearly died. I'm leaning in."

She smiled faintly and picked up a piece of toast. They ate slowly. She still tired easily while chewing, but it no longer felt like an endurance sport. He watched her in that subtle way he had perfected, making sure she was actually swallowing, actually breathing, actually okay.

"So," he said casually, like he was not about to start something, "when you're done resting today, we're watching a movie."

"Oh?" she replied, sipping her tea.

"Yes. A real movie."

She narrowed her eyes slightly. "Define real."

"A classic."

"That could mean anything," she said. "You think The Godfather is light viewing."

"It is light viewing," he argued. "It's cinema."

She rolled her eyes gently, careful not to laugh too hard.

"What is this life-altering classic you're about to subject me to?"

He leaned back against the headboard like he was preparing to deliver important news.

"Casablanca."

She blinked at him, and shrugged her shoulders. 

"You've seen Casablanca," he said automatically.

"...No." She hesitated. He stared at her like she had just confessed to a felony.

"No?" he repeated.

"No," she confirmed.

His jaw dropped slightly. "You've never seen Casablanca."

"Is that the black-and-white one where everyone smokes and says dramatic things?"

He clutched his chest in horror. "That's not- I cannot believe this."

She tried not to laugh because laughing still tugged at her ribs.

"It's old," she defended.

"It's timeless," he corrected immediately.

She shrugged carefully. "I was busy watching better things."

"Better things?" he echoed, scandalized.

"Yes."

"Like what?"

She set her tea down thoughtfully. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind."

"Of course," he muttered.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You like that sad shit."

"It's beautiful," she shot back. "It's layered. It's about memory and grief and love."

"It's depressing." He squinted at her. "Have you even seen The Sting?"

"No."

"Rear Window?"

"No."

"Roman Holiday?"

"No."

He dropped back against the headboard dramatically.

"I have failed you."

"You have not failed me."

"I have not cultured you at all." 

"You're assuming I need culturing."

He turned his head slowly to look at her. "You've never seen Casablanca."

"You've never seen Little Women," she countered immediately.

He blinked. "Which one?"

"All of them."

"Okay," he admitted, "that might be fair."

"And you've never seen Who Framed Roger Rabbit," she added.

He frowned. "That cartoon thing?"

She gasped softly, then winced because gasping still hurt.

"Do not call it that."

"It's a cartoon."

"It is a groundbreaking blend of animation and live-action noir, its increible!"

"You're defending a looney tunes movie."

"Hell yeah I am," she insisted. 

He shook his head slowly. "I cannot believe this is the hill you're dying on."

"Damn..." she trails off looking at him with a smile. She laughs slightly and he puts his hand on her thigh, squeezing her to assure her that he was kidding. 

"You like weird movies." He grumbles. "You told me Saltburn was a mystery."

"It is a mystery,"

"Yeah the mystery is why the hell people like it." he responds.

"Okay well you like movies where men stare at each other in dim lighting, thats kinda gay honestly."

He barked out a laugh and held his chest. She joins him laughing slightly, he basks in the small sound he'd been craving to hear since this whole disaster. However she cuts herself off instatnly and holds onto her chest, trying to calm herself so she didn't inhale as deeply. 

"You okay?"

"I'm fine," she said, pressing her hand lightly against her sternum. "Just don't make me laugh like that."

He reached over and brushed his thumb gently along her wrist.

"So what you're telling me," he said, "is that I've been dating you for six months and I haven't made you watch any of the films that shaped my personality."

"I'm not sure that's something to brag about," she replied.

He pointed at her. "We are correcting this."

She lifted her chin slightly. "Fine. But we alternate."

"Alternate." He narrowed his eyes.

"Yes. One of yours. One of mine."

"Casablanca first."

"Eternal Sunshine next."

He grimaced. "You're going to make me fall asleep."

"You're going to make me sit through two hours of trench coats."

He leaned over carefully, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple, avoiding her sternum entirely.

"Movie marathon," he said decisively. "All day."

"All day," she agreed.

He helped her shift more comfortably against the pillows, adjusting the blankets so her chest was supported and not compressed. And he threw on the movie, determined to show her what she'd missed out on.

-

Day seven

The day began with her sitting by the window, a book open in her lap and unread, her eyes fixed not on the page but on the street four stories below where ordinary life continued without hesitation. The late morning light washed over her face, catching the faint yellowing bruise along the top of her sternum and the darker shadows beneath her eyes, and from a distance she might have looked peaceful, but up close there was something brittle in the way she held herself, as though she were afraid that one wrong movement might splinter her further. Cars passed, people laughed, a delivery truck idled at the curb, and she watched them with the quiet, disoriented feeling of someone observing a world she had briefly left and only partially returned to. The book rested uselessly against her thighs because the words would not stick, her concentration dissolving the second it tried to form, her mind instead circling the same relentless thought that had begun the moment she woke.

"I died," she said finally, not turning around when she heard him enter the room.

Robby stopped mid-step, taking in the way her shoulders were set too high and how long she had been motionless. He did not correct her immediately this time, because he could hear that this was not a semantic argument, it was a wound she was trying to name.

"You coded," he said gently after a beat, moving closer but not crowding her space.

She shook her head faintly, her gaze still fixed on the pavement below. "I stopped breathing. My heart stopped. People did compressions on me. They pushed epi. I've said those words to families for years, and now I'm the one who needed them."

He crouched beside her chair so he was level with her rather than towering over her, resting one hand carefully along her knee, mindful of how even small movements still made her wince. "You survived," he replied quietly.

She swallowed, and when she finally turned to look at him there was shame threaded through the fear in her expression.

 "It's embarrassing," she admitted. "People are going to look at me differently. They already do. After everything with my ex, after the assault, I already hated the way some of them looked at me like I was fragile or tragic. I don't want that again. I don't want to be the nurse who overdosed."

"You did not overdose," he said calmly, but with a firmness that anchored the air between them. "You were exposed to a lethal substance while doing your job."

"But that's not how it's going to sound," she shot back, her voice trembling. "They're interviewing people. They're pulling everyone in one by one. They're talking about us. About whether I got special treatment. I worked so hard to be respected. I don't want sympathy. I don't want whispers."

He could see the spiral forming, not just emotionally but physically, because her breathing had already begun to quicken in a way that tugged painfully against her sternum. The deep bruising from compressions was still raw, and every sharp inhale dragged across tender muscle and fractured cartilage, amplifying both the physical and emotional ache.

"You being injured does not erase your competence," he said steadily, brushing his thumb lightly across her knuckles. "And being loved by me does not negate your skill."

She laughed weakly, but the sound dissolved into a wince as the movement hurt. "I don't like being helped," she confessed. "I'm supposed to be the one helping. I don't like needing you to cut my food. I don't like that I couldn't even handle Samira visiting for long. I don't like feeling breakable."

"You are not breakable," he said softly.

"I feel like I am," she whispered. "Every time my heart skips, I think it's happening again. Every time I fall asleep I'm scared I won't wake up. I count my breaths without meaning to. I keep waiting for something to go wrong."

He shifted closer, careful not to jar her chest, and rested his forehead briefly against the side of her arm. 

"That hyper-awareness is your nervous system trying to protect you after trauma," he explained quietly. "It's common after cardiac arrest, after hypoxia, after resuscitation. Your body is on high alert. It doesn't trust stability yet."

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I know that. I have explained that to patients. That's what makes this worse. I know what's happening and I still can't stop it. It's like I know nothing, which I fucking hate."

He exhaled slowly, choosing his words carefully. "Knowing the physiology doesn't exempt you from the experience. This is your brain recalibrating after a catastrophic event. Memory glitches, emotional swings, fear of sleep, shame, panic at benign heart palpitations, all of it fits the pattern. That doesn't make you weak. It makes you human."

She shook her head, tears slipping down her face. "Think about yesterday," he added gently. "We had a good day."

Her brow furrowed. "What did we do yesterday?"

He paused, surprised. "We watched our favorite movies. Casablanca. Eternal Sunshine. You made fun of Humphrey Bogart for hours."

She stared at him, confusion turning to fear. "I don't remember that."

His stomach tightened. "You don't remember any of it?"

She shook her head, panic rising fast. "I remember breakfast. Talking about movies. And then it's just blank. Oh my God."

"It doesn't mean there's new damage," he said quickly but calmly. "Short-term memory disruption after hypoxic events and stress is common. You're exhausted. Your brain is healing."

"Fuck this," she whispered, her breathing accelerating again. "This sucks so bad. I've seen this in patients and I always thought I understood it. I don't. I don't understand it at all."

Her chest began to heave before she even realized she was losing control, each breath dragging sharp and electric across bruised cartilage and the tender ridge of her sternum, the pain flaring bright enough to make her vision blur as her body tried and failed to regulate itself. The faster she breathed, the more it hurt, and the more it hurt, the more frightened she became, until the fear was no longer a thought but a full-body surge that locked her muscles and stole any sense of rhythm from her lungs. She pressed a hand against her chest as though she could physically hold her ribs together, but the pressure only made her gasp harder, and when the first sob broke free it came out jagged and loud, startling even her.

"I can't," she choked, shaking her head violently. "I can't do this."

Robby was in front of her instantly, but he did not grab her, did not cage her in, because he knew the wrong pressure against her sternum would only make the pain worse and feed the panic further. He crouched so his eyes were level with hers, his own already glassy from the sheer helplessness of watching her unravel in front of him.

"Look at me," he said gently, steadying his voice even though his throat felt tight.

She couldn't. Her gaze darted wildly, unfocused, tears spilling unchecked down her face as her breathing spiraled into short, shallow pulls that barely expanded her chest before collapsing again. Every inhale was a knife, every exhale incomplete, and the physical agony layered over the psychological terror until she was sobbing in a way that sounded almost animal.

"It hurts," she cried, clutching at the front of her sweatshirt. "It hurts so bad."

"I know," he whispered, his hands hovering near her shoulders without squeezing. "I know it does."

Her body pitched forward slightly with the force of another sob, and she winced hard, a broken sound escaping her as the movement sent a fresh wave of pain radiating through fractured ribs and torn muscle fibers that were nowhere near healed.

"Slow down," he urged softly. "You're safe. Your heart is steady. Your oxygen is fine. You are safe."

"I don't feel safe," she gasped, her words tumbling over each other. "I don't feel safe in my own body."

The admission cracked something in him, and for a split second he had to blink hard against the tears burning his own eyes because this was his worst nightmare unfolding in real time, not the clinical emergency he could manage with protocol and medication but the emotional aftermath that had no algorithm to follow. He wanted to pull her against him, to shield her from whatever invisible threat she felt closing in, but he knew that a tight hug would crush her sternum and amplify the agony she was already fighting.

"Okay," he said, grounding himself so he could ground her. "We're going to interrupt this."

She shook her head frantically, her hands trembling. "I'm so stupid. I know better. I know what this is and I still can't stop."

"You are not stupid," he said, more firmly now, his voice catching despite his effort to keep it level. "You are overwhelmed. That's different."

Her breathing deteriorated further, verging on hyperventilation, and he could see the edges of lightheadedness creeping in, her fingers curling and uncurling uselessly as she lost any sense of control. The panic was no longer just emotional; it was physiological, a cascade of adrenaline and cortisol surging through a body already taxed by trauma.

"I'm going to give you something small," he said quietly. "Just enough to help your nervous system reset."

"I don't want to need it," she sobbed.

"Needing support while healing is not weakness," he replied, his voice breaking slightly at the edges because watching her crumble like this hurt in a way that felt almost physical inside his own chest. "It's treatment."

She nodded blindly, tears soaking into the collar of her sweatshirt.

He moved with deliberate gentleness, helping her shift without jarring her ribs, murmuring reassurances as he administered the medication. Even in the middle of the storm, his hands were steady, his touch feather-light where it needed to be, as if he were handling something irreplaceable and fragile, which in his mind she was.

"Stay with me," he whispered, brushing his thumb lightly along her forearm. "You're not alone in this."

She clung to his voice like it was a rope thrown into deep water, her sobs gradually losing their violent edge as the medication began to soften the sharpest spike of panic. Her breathing remained uneven, but it slowed incrementally, each inhale stretching a little farther before the pain forced her to stop. Tears kept sliding down her cheeks long after the worst of the hyperventilation passed, her body trembling in small aftershocks that left her looking utterly spent.

"I hate this," she whispered hoarsely. "I hate feeling like this."

"I know," he said, and this time he did not hide the tears pooling in his own eyes. "I would take it from you if I could."

She leaned toward him instinctively, careful of her chest, and he adjusted immediately, letting her rest against him in the only position that did not hurt, one hand cradling the back of her head without pressing her forward. He pressed his nose gently into her hair, breathing her in as though reassuring himself she was still solid and here and alive.

"You are not glass," he murmured again, softer now, almost to himself. "You are healing. This is ugly and loud and painful, but it is healing."

Her breathing evened out gradually, though it remained shallow from the persistent ache in her sternum. The meltdown had drained her completely, leaving her limp and exhausted in his arms, her body still sore and fragile but no longer spiraling at the same frantic pitch. Outside, the world continued without pause, but inside the apartment the air felt thick with the raw aftermath of fear. He stayed there long after she stopped crying, long after her pulse settled under his fingertips, holding her as gently as he possibly could, his own eyes stinging because seeing her this undone carved into him in a way he would not admit aloud. He did not rush her to be stronger or calmer or better. He simply stayed, steady and soft, until the storm inside her finally receded to something survivable.

That night the apartment was quieter than it had been all week, the kind of quiet that settles after a storm has burned itself out and left everything damp and fragile. She was propped carefully against the headboard with pillows bracing her ribs, a heating pad draped low across her chest where the ache never fully disappeared, and he was sitting beside her with his back against the wall, close enough that their shoulders touched but not pressing in a way that would hurt her. The lamplight was soft and warm, and for the first time all day her breathing was steady, though still shallow, each inhale measured and deliberate.

She had been quiet for a long time.

"Robby," she said finally, her voice hesitant in a way that made him look at her immediately.

"Yeah sweetheart?"

She stared down at her hands folded loosely in her lap, thumbs rubbing together absentmindedly.

"I don't know if I can go back."

He did not pretend not to understand what she meant.

"To work?" he asked gently.

She nodded, and then shook her head, as if even admitting it felt ridiculous. "I feel dramatic saying that. I sound ridiculous. I've gone back after worse shifts. I've treated worse cases. But this..." She swallowed. "I don't know if I can walk into that department again and not hear the monitor flatlining. I don't know if I can walk past that bay and not see it."

He stayed very still, giving her space to finish.

"I've spent my entire career being the steady one," she continued, her voice thinner now. "The one who keeps it together. The one who helps. And now I'm the one who coded. I'm the one who needed compressions. I'm the one who scared everyone. I don't know if I can go back and stand in that room and feel like I belong there."

Her eyes lifted to his, vulnerable and searching.

He reached for her hand slowly, careful not to jar her ribs.

"It's not dramatic," he said quietly. "It's honest."

She let out a shaky breath. "I don't want to quit. I love my job. I love taking care of people. But I don't know if I can handle the panic every time an overdose comes in. Or the way people might look at me."

"If you went back," he said carefully, choosing his words with intention, "it would feel different. There's no way around that. You would walk in with a perspective you didn't have before. You would recognize things in patients that you used to understand clinically but not physically."

She listened, eyes glossy.

"You would know exactly what it feels like when someone says they're scared to sleep," he continued. "You would understand the shame and the hyper-awareness and the anger at your own body. That perspective doesn't make you weaker as a nurse. It makes you deeper."

She blinked, processing that.

"You'd speak from experience," he added gently. "And that matters."

She nodded faintly.

"But," he went on, his thumb brushing over her knuckles, "if you decide you don't want to go back, I will support that too. I am not pushing you toward anything. This has to be your decision. Not fear's. Not pride's. Yours."

Her throat tightened.

"Baby, if you don't think you can go back, I support you with whatever you decide," he said softly. "You look within yourself and you make that call. I won't love you less if you walk away. I won't respect you less. I won't think you failed." Tears welled in her eyes again, but they were quieter this time.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He leaned closer, resting his forehead lightly against hers, careful of her sternum. "I'm sorry for the mood swings," she said after a moment, her voice trembling with vulnerability. "I know I've been... a lot."

"You almost died," he said softly. "You're allowed."

She gave a small, tearful smile. "I just... I've never been loved like this," she admitted, the words tumbling out now. "I didn't think I could be. Not after everything. And every day you show up for me like this and it feels unreal. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I feel it every single day. Even on the bad ones." He went very still. Her honesty landed hard, cracking something open in him that he usually kept guarded.

"I'm so grateful you're the one taking care of me," she continued, her voice breaking. "I never thought I'd have this." He swallowed, blinking against the sudden burn in his eyes.

"You're not lucky," he said quietly. "I am." She shook her head faintly, but he leaned in and kissed her before she could argue, the kind of kiss that was soft and unhurried and reverent, careful of her bruised chest and tender ribs, but full of something deeper than urgency. When he pulled back, his hand lingered against her cheek. "I love you more than anything," he said, his voice low and steady despite the emotion in it. "You being here is the only thing that matters to me."

Day 10

The morning of her follow-up appointment felt heavier than it should have for something so routine, and even though her vitals had been stable for days and her oxygen saturation had not dipped below normal since discharge, walking back into the hospital as a patient instead of a nurse made her stomach twist. Robby insisted on the wheelchair despite her halfhearted argument that she could manage the distance from the parking garage, and while she rolled her eyes at him and muttered that he was dramatic, she did not fight very hard because the truth was that even short stretches left her winded and the deep bruising across her sternum still flared sharply if she moved too quickly. He pushed her slowly through the sliding glass doors, one hand firm on the handles and the other occasionally brushing her shoulder as if to remind himself she was still there, and she kept her gaze forward, trying not to think about how many times she had walked through those same doors on the other side of the badge scanner. They had not made it more than twenty feet into the lobby before Dana spotted them.

"Oh my God," Dana breathed, abandoning whatever clipboard she had been holding and striding toward them with the kind of authority that had intimidated interns for years. "Look at you."

She crouched immediately in front of the wheelchair, hands landing gently on her knees.

"How are you feeling?" Dana asked, her voice soft but steady.

"I'm okay," she replied, offering a small smile. "Sore. Tired. But okay."

Before she could say more, Samira appeared from behind Dana, eyes already glossy, and she dropped down beside her without hesitation.

"You look good," Samira insisted, even though her voice wobbled. "You look like you, which is all I care about."

Mateo jogged up next, slightly out of breath, followed closely by Whittaker and Santos, who hovered awkwardly for a second before crowding in too, the space around the wheelchair filling quickly with familiar faces and overlapping concern.

"Are you allowed to be out?" Mateo asked, eyebrows raised.

"She has a cardiology follow-up," Robby answered evenly from behind her, though there was a quiet edge of protectiveness threaded through his tone.

Javadi slipped in beside Samira, reaching carefully for her hand. "We've all been waiting to see you," she said softly. "The department feels weird without you."

"And quiet," Jesse added as he approached, giving Robby a brief nod before focusing on her. "Too quiet."

She laughed faintly at that, though the movement tugged at her chest and reminded her she was still very much healing.

"I'm not that loud," she protested.

"You are," Santos replied immediately. "In the best way."

They kept talking over each other, asking how her breathing was, whether the bruising was fading, if she was sleeping at all, if she needed anything from home or from work or from anyone, and for a moment she just sat there absorbing it, the wheelchair surrounded by people who were not whispering or pitying but genuinely relieved to see her upright. It was overwhelming in the best and worst way, because she could feel the emotion building behind her ribs and she did not trust her sternum to handle another crying spell in public. Robby let it go on for a minute, watching her face carefully to gauge whether the attention was comforting or too much, and when he noticed the faint strain in her breathing and the way her shoulders were beginning to tense, he cleared his throat lightly.

"Okay," he said gently but firmly. "As much as I love the fan club, we're going to be late for her appointment."

A chorus of groans answered him.

"We'll stop by later," he added. "You can interrogate her then."

Dana pointed at him. "You bring her back down here before you take her home."

"Deal," he replied.

The appointment itself was calm and clinical in a way that soothed something inside her. Her blood pressure was steady. Her heart rate, though still slightly elevated at rest, was within expected range for post-trauma recovery. Oxygen saturation held at ninety-nine percent on room air. No fever. No new murmurs on auscultation. The cardiologist reviewed her hospital labs, listened carefully to her account of the panic episodes, and scheduled an echocardiogram to rule out any structural or functional damage from the arrest and compressions, though he reassured her that given the brief duration of pulselessness and rapid return of circulation, he did not expect to find anything concerning.

The ultrasound gel was cold against her chest during the echo, and she winced when the probe pressed too firmly against the bruised center of her sternum, but the tech adjusted quickly, murmuring apologies, and the grainy gray images of her heart flickered across the screen in steady rhythm. Chambers contracting. Valves opening and closing. Muscle moving with stubborn, reassuring consistency.

"Function looks good," the cardiologist confirmed afterward. "We'll finalize the report, but I'm not seeing evidence of lasting cardiac injury."

She exhaled a breath she had not realized she had been holding. They discussed gradual activity increases, pain management for rib and sternum recovery, warning signs to monitor, and the importance of follow-up with primary care and occupational health before any consideration of returning to work. Robby listened intently, asking pointed but calm questions, clarifying timelines, advocating for realistic pacing, while she sat quietly absorbing the fact that her heart, despite everything, was still doing exactly what it was designed to do. When they left the office, he knelt briefly in front of her wheelchair in the hallway, brushing a hand lightly over her knee.

"You did good," he said softly.

"It's weird being on this side," she admitted.

"I know," he replied.

When they rolled back into the ED after cardiology, it felt less like walking into a workplace and more like walking into a family gathering that had been waiting impatiently for her to arrive. The second the doors slid open and the familiar chaos of monitors, voices, and overhead pages washed over her, she felt something in her chest loosen that had been tight all morning. Dana spotted them first again, of course, because Dana noticed everything, and she clapped her hands once like she had just won a bet.

"There she is," Dana called out. "Cardiology clear you to terrorize us again?"

"Mostly," she replied with a grin, even though her ribs protested the movement.

Samira hurried over and crouched beside the wheelchair without hesitation, brushing a hand carefully over her forearm. "How was it? Tell me everything. Did they say your heart is perfect? Because I've been saying that for years."

"They said it's structurally sound," she laughed. "Which is apparently the highest compliment a cardiologist can give."

Mateo leaned against the nurses' station, pretending to wipe away a tear. "I always knew you had a good heart. Emotionally and anatomically."

"Oh my God," she groaned. "If that's the level of humor around here now, I need to come back immediately."

Whittaker hovered awkwardly for a second before stepping forward and giving her a careful side hug that avoided her sternum entirely. "It's been weird without you," he admitted. "No one corrects my charting nicely the way you do."

"Give me a few weeks," she replied. "I'll be back to insufferable."

Javadi squeezed in next, handing her a small bag. "I brought you muffins. Dana said you needed bland food but I figured you deserved something good."

She peeked inside and her face lit up. "You're my favorite person."

"Excuse me?" Samira interjected.

"Second favorite," she corrected quickly, grinning.

Jesse approached more quietly, offering her a fist bump that she returned gently. "We kept your locker exactly the same," he said. "Even yelled at someone who tried to borrow your pen."

"Oh my god thank you," she said sincerely. "I'd be so pissed if someone stole my gel pens."

"We know." he muttered.

For a moment she just looked around at all of them, at the familiar scrubs and messy hair and coffee cups and the faint undercurrent of organized chaos that had defined her adult life, and the happiness that swelled in her chest was almost as overwhelming as the fear had been days before. She had missed this. Missed them. Missed the rhythm of it all.

"I really missed you guys," she said softly.

Dana's expression softened immediately. "We missed you too, kid."

Robby stood slightly behind the wheelchair, watching her face more than listening to the words, and he saw the shift happen in real time. The fear that had clung to her all morning was being replaced by something steadier. Something rooted.

"You're not allowed to rush back," Dana warned, pointing at her sternum. "We need you healed properly."

"Yes, ma'am," she replied, mock saluting.

Samira leaned in close. "Text me later," she whispered. "We still have gossip to catch you up on."

"Oh, I'm counting on it."

Eventually Robby cleared his throat gently. "Alright, that's enough stimulation for one morning," he said, though his tone was warm. "We're going home before she gets mobbed again."

"Bring her back soon," Santos called out.

"Doctor's orders," Dana added.

As he wheeled her back toward the exit, she twisted in the chair to wave at them one more time, her smile wide and genuine, and for the first time since the overdose she felt something stronger than fragility. In the car, the quiet settled between them comfortably as he drove, one hand resting loosely over hers on the center console. She watched the hospital shrink in the rearview mirror before turning to look at him.

"I have to come back," she said softly.

He glanced at her briefly, not surprised. "Yeah?"

"I didn't know how I was going to survive without them," she admitted. "Or without the job. I love it. I love them. I love what we do. Even on the worst days."

He smiled, a slow, proud curve of his mouth.

"That's great to hear," he said. "You're an incredible nurse. It would be a loss for the hospital to lose you."

She rolled her eyes lightly but couldn't hide the pleased expression that followed. "You're biased."

"Absolutely," he agreed without hesitation. "But I'm also telling the truth."

She squeezed his hand gently, careful of her ribs, and leaned her head back against the seat.

"I'm not rushing it," she added. "But I think that seeing everyone reminded me of how much love is in the Pitt even on the bad days, we're a family."

"You're right." He nodded. "If you choose to go back, then we'll make it happen, only when you're ready. Not before."

-

day 13

Her laptop is balanced carefully on the kitchen table, angled just right so the camera does not catch the clutter behind her. She has changed into a neutral sweater instead of one of Robby's old hoodies, hair pulled back, posture straighter than she feels. The link Caldwell sent is still open on her screen, the blue "Join Meeting" button staring back at her. She clicks it and the screen flickers, then splits. Gloria appears first, seated in her office with the blinds half drawn behind her. Caldwell joins a second later from what looks like a conference room, a hospital logo faintly visible on the wall behind him. Both of them are composed, framed neatly from the chest up.

"Good afternoon," Gloria says.

"Hi," she answers, adjusting her camera slightly.

"Can you hear us clearly?" Caldwell asks.

"Yes."

"Good. Thank you for making yourself available," Gloria continues. "We know you're still recovering."

"I'm fine," she says automatically, then catches herself. "I mean, I'm available."

Caldwell nods and glances down at a digital folder on his tablet.

"This is a standard internal review," he says. "Given that you are in a relationship with Dr. Robinavitch, who holds a supervisory position within your department, we are required to assess for potential conflicts of interest, power imbalances, and any concerns regarding consent or professional boundaries."

She nods slowly. "I understand."

Gloria leans slightly closer to her camera. "We're going to ask direct questions. Please answer honestly. This is confidential."

"Okay."

"Is your relationship with Dr. Robinavitch consensual?" Caldwell begins.

"Yes," she answers immediately.

"At any point did you feel pressured to enter into the relationship?"

"No."

"Did you feel that declining a relationship would negatively affect your employment status, evaluations, scheduling, or professional growth?"

"No," she says again, steady.

Caldwell's expression remains neutral. "Did he initiate the relationship?"

She pauses for a second, choosing her words carefully.

"It was mutual. We had feelings for each other for a while. We both hesitated because of the hierarchy, but it was me who initiated it officially."

"So there was an awareness of the power dynamic," Gloria says.

"Yes."

"And how did you navigate that?"

"We kept it private and remained professional at work," she says. "We made sure that work never changed after we made it official."

"What does official mean in this context?" Caldwell asks.

"It means we had a conversation and decided that we were in a relationship."

Gloria nods once.

"During the time you were in a relationship but prior to disclosure, was there any inappropriate behavior on the floor?" Caldwell asks.

"No."

"Any public displays of affection within hospital spaces?"

"No."

"Private meetings that could be interpreted as personal rather than professional?"

"No."

"Changes to your shift assignments that could be considered preferential?"

She shakes her head. "He scheduled me the same as anyone else. If anything, he was more careful with me."

"More careful?" Gloria asks.

"He made sure I wasn't favored," she clarifies. "I was just on a last minute night shift schedule before the exposure."

Caldwell types something into his tablet.

"Did you ever feel uncomfortable challenging him clinically because of the relationship?" Gloria asks.

"No."

"Did you ever feel your performance evaluations were influenced?"

"No."

"Did he ever imply that your job security was connected to the relationship?"

"Never."

Gloria's tone shifts slightly, more personal now.

"There is an inherent power dynamic when an attending enters into a relationship with someone who works under their supervision. Even if both parties feel it is equal."

"I understand that," she says calmly. "But I was not coerced. I wasn't vulnerable. I chose him."

Caldwell looks up at that.

"Can you elaborate on that choice?"

She inhales.

"I am not someone who would enter a relationship because I felt obligated. I had every opportunity to say no. He made that very clear, he fought it up until the day we got together."

"What do you mean he fought it?" Caldwell asks.

"He was scared," she answers honestly. "He didn't wanna damage my career, and he tried to keep distance and eventually I was able to convince him that he deserved to be happy and that he should let himself be cared for."

"And how did he respond?"

"He respected it, and eventually agreed."

"After the recent medical incident," Caldwell continues carefully, "do you feel any pressure to protect Dr. Robinavitch from institutional scrutiny?"

"No."

"Do you believe your medical incident was in any way connected to your relationship?"

"No, he wasn't there, this was during night shift."

"Do you feel your position in the department is compromised by continuing to work under his supervision?"

"No, I've been doing it for two years, he's the best doctor I've ever seen, he's taught me and every other person in that ED everything they know."

Gloria studies her face for a long moment through the screen.

"If at any point you feel pressured, uncomfortable, or treated differently because of this relationship, you are obligated to report it."

"I would," she says.

Caldwell closes his tablet.

"This review is procedural," Gloria adds. "It does not assume wrongdoing. It ensures transparency."

"I understand."

There's a brief silence, the kind unique to Zoom calls where no one is sure who should speak next.

"Do you have any concerns you'd like to raise?" Caldwell asks.

She thinks about it.

"No."

Gloria nods. "Thank you for your time, and we hope you are resting and healing."

"Thank you, I've got a good doctor caring for me." she nods.

"Good, get well soon. We'll be in touch."

The Zoom screen goes black and for a moment she just sits there, staring at her own reflection in the dark monitor, feeling wrung out in a way that has nothing to do with her body and everything to do with answering questions about something that feels personal and fragile and very much hers. She closes the laptop slowly and exhales, rolling her shoulders back like she is trying to shake off the sterile tone of the meeting.

A few minutes later she hears him in the kitchen, the quiet clatter of plates and the low hum of the microwave. He moves differently at home than he does at the hospital, less sharp, less clipped. The smell of something warm drifts into the living room before he appears in the doorway holding a plate and a glass of water.

"How'd it go?" he asks, setting the plate down on the coffee table before sitting beside her.

She shrugs lightly. "It was fine. Procedural. A lot of very direct questions."

He studies her face carefully. "About consent."

"About consent. About pressure. About special treatment. About whether you've ever dangled my job over my head like some evil villain."

He huffs faintly. "And?"

"And I told them the truth," she says. "That it was mutual. That you respected me. That I chose you."

He nods slowly, absorbing that.

She hesitates slightly. "There were a couple things I didn't expand on."

His brow furrows just a bit. "Like what."

She looks down at her hands. "There were a few moments where we had private conversations on the clock. Not... inappropriate. Just me breaking down once or twice in an empty room. You checking on me."

He exhales quietly. "I've done that for other staff."

"I know."

"And I've broken down too," he admits after a second. "Just not as visibly."

She looks at him at that.

"But that isn't their business," he continues calmly. "The truth is if I saw Samira, or Whittaker, or Mateo falling apart, I would've pulled them aside too. You're just much prettier when you cry," 

She lets out a soft giggle before she can stop herself. "Well you sure see it a lot."

He leans back against the couch and gives her a sideways look. "Cry baby."

She gasps in mock offense. "Sorry I feel my emotions unlike other people I know."

He scoffs and shakes his head. "I feel my emotions."

"You compartmentalize your emotions," she corrects gently.

He reaches over and squeezes her thigh, grounding and reassuring all at once. "It's all going to be okay."

She studies him carefully. "You really think so."

"I do," he says without hesitation. "We've never betrayed our oaths. We don't cut corners. We don't use people. We dedicate our lives to the job and anyone in that department would say the same."

She nods slowly, letting that settle in her chest.

"This review doesn't change who we are," he continues. "It doesn't change how we work."

She leans closer to him, her shoulder brushing his.

"It still feels weird," she admits softly.

"I know."

He takes her hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles, slow and deliberate.

"It'll be just fine," he says again, quieter this time.

She watches him for a second longer, then lets her head tip against his shoulder. He shifts slightly so she fits more comfortably against him, his arm sliding around her back in a way that feels automatic and protective without being suffocating.

She exhales and closes her eyes.

For the first time since the meeting ended, her body feels settled.

And he sits there with her, steady and certain, like he always does.

-

day 14

Two weeks looked different than the first few days, but not normal. The deep, bone-heavy ache in her sternum had dulled from something sharp and constant to something background and manageable, like a bruise you were aware of but no longer flinched from with every breath. The purple had faded into yellowing edges, and the swelling along her ribs had gone down enough that she could roll onto her side for short stretches without wincing. The sharp pain still came if she twisted too quickly, if she laughed too hard, if she forgot and coughed without bracing herself first, but it no longer stole the air from her lungs the way it had in week one. She had stopped the stronger pain medication five days ago.

Now it was mostly alternating ibuprofen and acetaminophen, heat in the evenings, ice if she overdid it. She could walk around the block with him in the mornings, slow but steady, and she could stand long enough to make coffee without needing to sit halfway through. Climbing two flights of stairs still left her breathing heavier than she liked, and if she pushed through a long errand she paid for it the next day with a heavy, bone-deep fatigue that felt disproportionate to the effort. But she was upright. Functional in the mornings. Clear-headed most of the day.

By late afternoon, though, she felt it. The quiet crash. Not the catastrophic exhaustion of week one, but a mental thinning. Sustained concentration took more effort than she was used to. Occasionally she would pause mid-sentence, searching for a word that had once come automatically. It unsettled her, even though she knew, clinically, that brief hypoxia followed by resuscitation often left mild cognitive fatigue that improved gradually.

She knew all of this. That was part of the problem. The therapy appointment was at eleven. It had been required by occupational health before clearance to return to the emergency department. A standard part of post-critical-incident protocol. Psychological evaluation. Trauma screening. Fitness-for-duty clearance. She had agreed to it easily on paper. Sitting in the waiting room felt different.

Robby had offered to come inside, but she had shaken her head. "I can do this," she told him, though her fingers had lingered in his longer than usual before she stepped out of the car.

The office was quiet in the way therapy offices always were. Soft lighting. Neutral art. A faint scent of something herbal that was meant to be calming. She sat on the edge of the couch rather than leaning back, hands folded tightly in her lap, shoulders still slightly guarded. The therapist introduced herself gently and began with standard questions. 

"Pain is improving. Mostly positional now. No longer requiring opioids."

"Sleeping six to seven hours. Occasional nighttime waking."

"Appetite back to baseline."

"Resting breathing normal."

She sounded like she was presenting a case. The therapist let it go for a few minutes.

"And how are you feeling about returning to work?" she asked eventually.

"I want to," she said quickly. "I miss it."

"That's not quite what I asked."

The silence stretched. She stared at her hands.

"I'm fine," she said.

The therapist smiled gently. "You're not."

Her jaw tightened slightly.

"I'm functioning," she corrected.

"Functioning and processing are not the same thing."

She shifted in her seat, ribs pulling slightly at the movement.

"I know what this looks like," she said quietly. "Hypervigilance. Intrusive recall. Panic when breathing feels off. Fear of sleep. Shame. I've seen it in patients."

"And in yourself?"

That one landed. She inhaled slowly, testing her sternum, bracing lightly with her palm like she had learned to do.

"In myself," she admitted carefully, "it feels humiliating."

The therapist didn't react, just waited.

"I don't like being the patient," she continued. "I don't like being the one who coded. I don't like knowing that everyone down there saw me unconscious. I don't like that they're interviewing people about my relationship. I don't like that this happened in my department."

"Do you feel responsible?"

"No," she said immediately, then paused. "Yes. Not logically. But emotionally."

The therapist nodded. "Tell me about the fear."

"I'm not scared all the time anymore," she said. "But sometimes my heart skips and I feel it in my throat and for a second I think it's happening again. Sometimes when I lie down at night I wait to see if I'm still breathing. It's better. It's not constant. But it's there."

"And what do you do when it happens?"

"I correct it," she replied reflexively. "I run through the differential in my head. Anxiety. Benign PVC. Post-trauma hyper-awareness. I use breathing exercises."

"And emotionally?"

"I don't... sit with it."

"Why not?"

Because sitting with it felt like weakness. Because if she let herself feel it fully, it might swallow her. Because she was supposed to be the one steadying other people.

"I don't want to make it bigger than it is," she said finally.

The therapist leaned forward slightly. "Avoiding it doesn't make it smaller. It just keeps it unprocessed."

Her throat tightened unexpectedly.

"I'm scared that if I walk back into that trauma bay and there's another overdose, I won't be able to separate it," she admitted quietly. "I'm scared I'll freeze. Or that I'll overcorrect."

"That's an honest fear."

"I don't want to be fragile."

"You're not fragile," the therapist said gently. "You're recovering."

She exhaled shakily. They talked through it slowly. Not dramatically. Not in a flood of tears. She was still guarded, still measured, but as the hour stretched on she found herself saying things she had only whispered to Robby in the dark. The embarrassment. The anger at her own body. The disorientation of not remembering parts of day seven. The way the hospital lobby had felt like walking into a memory she both loved and feared. By the end of the session, her posture had softened slightly into the couch.

"You are improving," the therapist said plainly. "Your physical recovery is on track. Cognitively you are intact. What you're describing emotionally is consistent with acute stress response, not post-traumatic stress disorder at this stage. You are self-aware. You have support. That's protective."

She nodded slowly.

"I will recommend clearance with a graduated return," the therapist continued. "Not full twelve-hour trauma shifts immediately. Modified schedule. Continued therapy weekly for now. That's not a punishment. That's scaffolding.".

She liked that word better than restriction. When she walked back out to the car, she did not look devastated or euphoric. She looked thoughtful. Robby straightened in the driver's seat when he saw her.

"How was it?" he asked.

She slid into the passenger seat carefully, bracing her chest automatically before pulling the door closed.

"She didn't let me hide," she admitted.

He smiled faintly. "Good."

"She thinks I can go back," she said. "With modifications. Not full shifts yet."

He nodded slowly. "That sounds reasonable."

"She said I'm not fragile," she added quietly.

"You're not."

She looked at him then, really looked at him, and for the first time in two weeks the fear in her eyes was not dominant.

"I'm not baseline," she said honestly. "But I'm not broken either."

He reached across the console and took her hand, squeezing gently.

"No," he said. "You're healing."

-

day 17

By day seventeen, the sharp edges of pain had dulled enough that she could almost pretend she wasn't still healing. The deep bruising across her sternum had faded from violent purple to a yellowed shadow, and while twisting too quickly still pulled sharply along her ribs, the constant ache no longer dominated every movement. She could sit up without bracing. She could roll onto her side and stay there. She could laugh carefully. She felt stronger. Not fully healed. They were lying in bed that night, facing each other, the room lit only by the low lamp on his nightstand. His hand rested warm against her hip, absentmindedly tracing slow circles through the soft fabric of her sleep shorts while they talked about nothing important. The conversation drifted, and somewhere in the quiet she stopped listening to his words and started watching his mouth.

"What?" he asked, the corner of his mouth lifting.

She didn't answer. She leaned forward and kissed him instead. His hand immediately came up to cradle her jaw, the way he had been doing since the injury, cautious without thinking about it. He kissed her back gently at first, but she deepened it without hesitation, her fingers sliding into his hair, pulling him closer until he made a low sound in his throat that vibrated against her lips. She shifted closer. He could feel the change in her energy instantly. This wasn't tentative affection. It wasn't recovery gentleness. It was hunger. Her knee slid over his thigh, and she swung her leg across his hips slowly, carefully, settling herself over him. The movement was deliberate, controlled. She was paying attention to her body. But there was something urgent behind it.

"Hey," he murmured against her mouth, his hands instinctively landing at her waist to steady her. "Be careful."

"Stop talking," she breathed, kissing him again, deeper this time. "Just kiss me."

There was heat behind the words. Not reckless. Not careless. Just intense.

He kissed her back, and this time he didn't hold back as much. His hands slid up her sides, palms warm against her skin, fingers splaying across the curve of her back before stopping short of the center of her chest. He was still thinking. Always thinking. She rolled her hips slowly, experimentally, and the friction drew a sharper inhale from him.

"Please," she whispered against his mouth. "Stop thinking and just be here with me."

God, he wanted to. He let himself sink into it for a moment. His mouth moved from her lips to her jaw, to the sensitive place just beneath her ear, and she shivered, her fingers tightening in his hair. His hands slid down to her hips, thumbs brushing the bare skin where her shirt had ridden up, and the intimacy of it made her pulse quicken in a way that felt grounding instead of frightening. She needed this. Needed to feel alive in her body in a way that wasn't clinical. Needed to feel wanted. Needed to feel something that wasn't fear or recovery or vulnerability. Her hands moved down his chest, slow and deliberate, tracing the lines of him as if reacquainting herself with something familiar and safe. He let out a shaky breath when she pressed closer, the heat between them building steadily.

"You feel okay?" he asked quietly, even as he kissed her neck again.

"Yes," she insisted, though her voice was already breathless.

She moved again, this time a little less controlled, hips shifting with more confidence, and for a few perfect seconds everything felt almost normal. His grip tightened on her waist. He kissed her like he'd been holding back for weeks, slow and deep and certain. It was subtle. A slight turn to reach for his mouth again from a different angle. But the movement compressed her ribs in a way they weren't ready for, and the pain flared sharp and immediate across her sternum. She gasped. He froze instantly.

"What?" he asked, hands already lifting away.

She tried to shake her head, tried to power through it, but the ache pulsed hot and insistent, and her face betrayed her.

"Okay," he said firmly, sitting up slightly to support her weight. "We're done."

"No," she protested, frustration flashing in her eyes. "I need this."

His jaw tightened. He wanted it too. More than he'd let himself admit.

"You're not ready physically," he said gently.

"You don't know that," she shot back, stubborn and emotional and still slightly breathless.

"Yes," he said softly. "I do."

She huffed, blinking back tears that surprised her with how quickly they formed.

"Please," she whispered, and this time it wasn't just about sex. It was about normalcy. About reclaiming something. He cupped her face gently.

"I want this more than you could imagine," he admitted, voice low and honest. "But I'm not going to hurt you."

"I just wanted to feel normal, I miss you." she said quietly.

"You are normal," he replied. "Normal doesn't mean pushing your body past what it can handle."

He adjusted them carefully, guiding her to sit against his chest instead of straddling him fully, his arms wrapping around her in a way that avoided pressure on her sternum. He pressed his lips to her hair, then her temple, then her cheek, slower now. Intimate without being urgent.

"This is temporary," he murmured. "You're getting stronger every day. I see it. But your ribs are still healing. Your sternum is still healing. I'm not risking setting you back for something that can wait."

She leaned into him, breathing evening out as the pain settled into something dull and manageable again.

"I hate that my body still feels like it belongs to recovery," she admitted.

"It belongs to you," he corrected softly. "And right now it needs time."

She kissed him again, slower this time. They stayed like that for a long while, tangled together carefully, hands exploring in ways that didn't strain her ribs, mouths meeting and parting and meeting again. It wasn't the full intensity she'd chased at first, but it was close enough to feel alive. And when she finally rested her forehead against his shoulder, her pulse calm and her breathing steady, she realized that what she had needed wasn't the act itself. And as he kissed her gently one more time and whispered

"We'll get there," 

-

day 20

By day twenty, the world no longer felt like something she had to survive minute by minute. Her chest still carried a faint, tender ache when she pressed her palm against the center of her sternum, and twisting too quickly or lifting anything heavier than a grocery bag made her ribs remind her sharply that they were not finished knitting themselves back together. Deep breaths no longer felt like glass, just tight at the edges. She could sleep through the night most evenings now without jolting awake in a panic over whether her lungs were still working. Her appetite had returned fully. Her mind felt clear. Not perfect, but hers again. That morning, the milestone was simple and enormous all at once.

She was going to drive. They stood by the car for a second longer than necessary, the keys cool in her hand, the late-morning air crisp and bright around them. Robby hovered without meaning to, his body angled protectively toward her even though she was upright and steady and breathing just fine.

"You don't have to," he said quietly, watching her face for any flicker of doubt.

"I know," she replied, unlocking the door. "That's why I want to."

He searched her expression carefully, the way he always did now, scanning for fatigue, for dizziness, for that faraway look she'd had during week one. He found none of it. What he saw instead was a grounded steadiness that had come back slowly and deliberately over the last few days.

"Okay," he said finally, moving to the passenger side. "But if you take a corner like you're in Fast & Furious, I'm taking over."

She rolled her eyes, sliding into the seat and adjusting it automatically. The familiarity of the dashboard, the way the wheel fit beneath her palms, the muscle memory of checking mirrors and buckling her seatbelt made something in her settle. She started the engine and paused, just for a breath. She pulled away from the curb slowly, not out of fear, but because she wanted to feel every second of it.

"You're doing great," he murmured lightly.

"I know," she teased. "You don't have to narrate."

But he was smiling, and she could see the relief written across his face in ways he probably didn't even realize. The farmer's market was busy without being overwhelming, sunlight glinting off glass jars and bright produce stands. She parked without hesitation and turned off the engine, letting out a slow breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

"You survived," she said solemnly.

"Barely," he deadpanned.

They stepped out together, and she didn't feel fragile walking through the entrance. She felt... almost normal. Not ready for a twelve-hour shift, not ready to run compressions or lift a patient, but capable. Present. They wandered slowly through the stalls, her pace steady and comfortable. She didn't need to sit. She didn't need to brace her chest with every laugh. When they reached the honey stand, she stopped automatically, fingers grazing the edge of the table.

She laughed. "The first time we came here, I talked your ear off about honey."

"You did," he confirmed. "Wildflower versus clover versus orange blossom. I learned more about bees than I ever intended to."

"You were so sweet to do that for me," she said softly, studying the jars like she wasn't also studying him. "I knew it was probably the last place you wanted to be."

He shrugged slightly. "I didn't particularly care about a farmer's market."

She shot him a look.

"But," he added quickly, "I knew you did. And I couldn't handle seeing you that upset."

"So you asked me on a date," she said casually.

He immediately shook his head. "It wasn't a date."

"Yes it was."

"No," he insisted. "How was that a date?"

She turned fully toward him, hands on her hips. "Wait. Really? You just did it to be nice? You didn't actually ask me on a date?"

"Oh fuck."

She burst out laughing.

His shoulders sagged as realization hit him. "You're kidding."

She grinned. "I'm kidding."

He exhaled dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "Jesus. For a second I thought I just earned a night on the couch."

"You were so obvious," she teased. "You kept pretending you didn't care about the market but you carried my flowers the entire time like they were fragile glass, it was kinda like a date, but no I didn't think it was on the day either, in fact I was convinced you just felt bad for me."

"I did feel bad, but it wasn't about pity, it was about not being able to help you more," he corrected. "And you ended up convincing me to buy flowers for my place."

"Yes I did, you despratly needed color."

"It did not."

"It absolutely did."

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Oh speaking of, Fish knocked the vase over two days ago."

She gasped. "No."

"Found them slightly wilted on the counter."

She laughed, slipping her hand through his arm as they moved to the flower stand again. The contact was easy now, natural, not something she had to calculate around her injuries.

"You need more," she declared, scanning the bouquets.

"My current ones are barely surviving."

"We'll find some fresh ones."

He let her choose something bright and ridiculous and cheerful. He carried it without protest, along with the honey she absolutely did not need but bought anyway, along with fresh bread and produce and herbs. They had just turned down another row of stalls, sunlight catching on glass jars and bright bundles of wildflowers, when she heard her name called again. She turned, expecting another vendor, but instead saw Mateo weaving through the crowd toward them, one hand lifted in an exaggerated wave like he was flagging down a helicopter.

"Well I'll be damned," he called out, grinning. "Look at you two out in civilization."

She laughed immediately, that easy sound that had been coming back more and more these past few days. "Mateo."

He reached them and pulled her into a careful hug without hesitation, but with awareness, one hand braced lightly at her upper back and the other hovering just enough that he wasn't putting pressure on her chest. He smelled faintly like coffee and hospital sanitizer, which somehow made the entire interaction even sweeter.

"Easy," Robby muttered automatically.

"I know, I know," Mateo shot back, rolling his eyes affectionately. "I've been briefed."

He stepped back and looked her over in a way that wasn't clinical but protective, his expression softening.

"You drove?" he asked.

"She did," Robby answered before she could.

Mateo's eyebrows shot up. "Okay, big deal. That's huge."

"It felt good," she admitted, smiling.

"Yeah?" he asked gently. "How are you actually?"

She considered it honestly, not deflecting the way she might have two weeks ago.

"Better," she said. "Still sore if I twist too fast. Still get winded if I climb stairs like I'm invincible. But I'm... mostly myself."

Mateo nodded slowly. "Good. That's really good."

He glanced between them, something warm settling in his expression.

"It's good to see you guys like this," he said, gesturing loosely between them. "Together. Happy. I mean, we all had our suspicions."

Robby sighed quietly.

She laughed. "You did not."

"Oh please," Mateo scoffed. "You think we're blind? The way you two hovered around each other? The way he looked like he was trying not to look at you?"

Robby scrubbed a hand over his jaw, muttering, "Jesus."

Mateo ignored him. "But seeing it for real? It's great. I hope you know how happy we all are for you."

That caught her off guard in the best way. The sincerity in his voice wasn't teasing. It was steady and genuine.

"Thank you," she said softly. "That means a lot."

Mateo's mouth curved into a crooked grin. "And before you ask, yes, I've been interrogated."

She winced. "They interviewed you?"

"Oh yeah," he replied dramatically. "Sat me down like I was about to confess to a federal crime."

Robby stiffened slightly beside her.

"They tried to ask about favoritism," Mateo continued, waving a hand dismissively. "Inappropriate behavior. Whether anyone got special treatment."

She cringed. "God."

"And I said," Mateo went on, unable to stop himself from smiling, "'Have you met these two? The two most overworked, overcommitted, chronically exhausted people in the entire Pitt? They barely have time to eat, let alone scheme.'"

She laughed despite herself.

"And for the record," he added, nudging Robby lightly, "he gave you a harder time than most for a long time."

She nudged Robby's shoulder immediately. "Yeah, he did."

Robby let out a low breath and rubbed the back of his neck. "Not my finest moment."

Mateo snorted. "Understatement."

There was no malice in it, just the easy teasing of someone who had seen them both at their worst and their best.

"You guys will be fine," Mateo said more seriously. "They've talked to nearly everyone at this point. It's procedural. Annoying, but procedural."

She nodded, absorbing that. "I hate that it's a thing."

"Yeah," Mateo agreed. "But you two are solid. Anyone with eyes can see that."

They drifted into lighter conversation after that, talking about the current chaos in the department, the rotating night shifts, the way the board had been filling up faster than anyone could clear it.

"I go back in two days," Robby said at one point.

Mateo blinked. "Thank God. We've been fighting for our lives."

Robby raised an eyebrow. "You're dramatic."

"No, I'm serious," Mateo insisted. "Never leave us again. I had to run a trauma with Santos and Jesse at the same time and I aged ten years."

She laughed, the sound full and warm. "I missed you guys."

"We missed you more," Mateo said easily.

Across the way, Mateo suddenly froze mid-sentence and squinted.

"Oh, shit."

"What?" she asked.

"My girlfriend," he said, already stepping backward. "She is absolutely losing a fight with a bouquet."

They turned just in time to see her struggling to balance an armful of flowers, one stem slipping sideways dangerously.

"Go," she laughed.

Mateo pointed at them as he walked away. "See you soon. And seriously, it's good to see you both. Like this."

"See you at work," Robby called after him.

"Can't wait," Mateo shot back sarcastically as he jogged off.

Robby muttered under his breath, "Same," equally sarcastic.

She slipped her hand into his as they watched Mateo rescue the bouquet and get dramatically scolded for laughing about it.

"See?" she murmured. "That's why I have to go back."

He looked down at her.

"I don't know who I am without that place," she said softly. "Or them."

"You don't have to decide anything today," he reminded her.

"I know," she replied. "But I love it. Even when it's awful. I love it."

He squeezed her hand gently. "You're an incredible nurse. It would be a loss for the hospital to lose you."