#stabbing tw

Sent: Are you being serious right now? Sent: Through text? Robby: I’m sorry. Robby: You can still stay at mine. Sent: Asshole

You can’t stay. Despite the offer, you refuse to be the kind of person that haunts the walls of a home you’re no longer welcomed in.

You pack your things and Uber to your place. Keys jammed into the lock, turning, hurled back into your crappy apartment on the third floor. It’s quiet. Motionless and undisturbed.

You wrangle four hours of sleep until your alarm blares from your phone. You perform your morning routine. Albeit, you’ve no time to spare for food.

You don’t think the worse part about heading into the Pitt is seeing your now ex. No, it’s having to face everyone that told you to be mindful of him. You had let him lull you into a false sense of security. Let yourself believe that he was safe. That he wasn’t lying when he said it wasn’t casual.

A clean break before he heads off to sabbatical, you assume.

Fucking asshole.

You’re here an hour earlier than you should be. Another quick meeting with Annalise and Wes. They’re determined. Haven’t lost their resolve to set this right for you.

You’re down in the ED before Robby is due to arrive. Part of you wonders if he also struggled to fall asleep.

Another part of you tries not to care so much.

You smile thinly at the questioning glances thrown your way when you insert yourself into the noise of the ED.

Shen frowns at you when you’re approaching the desk at Central, inspecting the board. “You okay?”

“Yep,” you say, a little too quickly to be believable.

He lends you enough grace to not call you out on the obvious lie. “No boba for your best buddy?”

You snort, expectant of his questioning. “Long night.”

Shen’s face pinches. Disgusted. “Ew. I don’t—ew. That’s too much information.”

You don’t correct him. Shaking your head. “Sorry, dude.” About the boba, more than anything.

“New attending came in today, by the way. Dr Al-Hashimi,” Shen says, tilting the straw to his coffee towards you.

You take a sip. “That’s early. Thought she wasn’t starting until tomorrow.” After Robby leaves tonight.

“She wanted to meet everyone. Got us all bagels. They’re in the break room if you want some.”

You can’t help the grin. Food seems to be the agreed upon way for making a good first impression. You did that. Hell, you’re still doing it.

You join the residents when they’re making rounds. Successfully avoiding Robby when he’s quickly attached to an incoming trauma.

“You should always wear a helmet.”

A new voice.

Mel’s eager greeting lets you know who it is—Langdon. You were meant to be replacing him, and he returns today. A surprise, if everyone’s reaction is any indication.

You share a brief introduction with him before you’re both swept into the chaos of the Pitt.

“So, what’s your deal?”

You angle your head to the side.

Langdon’s there, arms crossed over his chest. Rising to the tips of his shoes, rolling onto his heels, then back again. His attention is on the board above you.

“My deal?”

“Robby’s mad at you, too.”

“Oh.” Too, he said. You assume he’s talking about the icy front that you’ve noticed between he and Langdon. Mirroring the way Robby avoids being in the same room with you, like you’re some inescapable, waking nightmare.

“He’s… not mad at me. He’s just avoiding me,” you volunteer.

“Why?”

You raise an eyebrow. Silent long enough that Langdon looks down at you. “You first.”

He blinks, surprised. “You don’t know?”

“No. I got here after you, so I don’t know what your deal is. Other than the whole ‘prodigal son returns’ thing.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “I—uh, I’ve been in rehab because I was addicted to drugs. I was working while… using. Robby found the drugs in my locker. I betrayed his trust.”

“Holy shit.” You’re staring at him, and his gaze is steady on yours. Like he’s prepared for judgement. “That’s where you’ve been this whole time?”

“On and off, yeah. Rehab’s usually 90 days. I repeated it.”

For ten months, you assume.

“Your turn,” Langdon says.

“What?”

“Why is he avoiding you?”

“He—broke up with me. Last night. Through text.”

“Oh.” Something passes over his face, too quick for you to make sense of. And you’re unfamiliar with interpreting his cues, you think.

“Yeah. Not as dramatic, huh?” you say.

Langdon grins, and it changes his face. From brooding statue to a kind of boyish charm. “Still entertaining. Better than my drama.”

“Oh, I’m so glad my misery is entertaining you, Dr Lang—”

“Doctors.” Robby’s voice is like a startling splash of cold water.

Langdon jolts. “Robby—”

“We’ve got a busy hospital. We don’t need you two slacking off.”

“Got it.” Langdon scurries away.

You stare at Robby.

He looks at you over his glasses. “You too.” His voice is less tense than it was when he was addressing Langdon, but it’s lost the softness that you’re used to receiving.

You let out a breath of disbelief, shaking your head as you grab a tablet from the rack on the desk. “Sir, yes, sir.” Mocking as you walk away from him.

The day passes glacially, at first.

Louie.

The black out.

No air conditioning. The heat makes tempers rise.

When night finally descends, it’s a small reprieve. The evening air proves cool when people step outside for breaks.

Today didn’t feature a MCI, but it’s up there with the crappier shifts you’ve had, inclusive of the shit you’ve experienced in LA. You can’t wait to go home and rely on your fast internet and devices. No more living in analog.

You’re at your locker, waving tiredly to Princess as she passes you to get to hers.

You unlatch your lock, spying an incoming figure from the corner of your eye. Looking up instinctively.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Robby shoves a sheet of A4 paper in your hand.

Frowning, you fold open the paper.

And stare.

A printed photo of you in your bedroom. In the act of taking your shirt off. Curtains drawn. The camera’s from inside the room. Near your wardrobe, if you had to make an informed guess.

Chest hammering. “Where did you get this?”

Robby tugs on the strap of his bag, slung on his shoulder. “In my bag. Where you left it—”

Oh. Oh, fuck, you can’t breathe. “I didn’t—”

“Oooh, what’s this—” Princess’ voice. She’s by her locker.

You run over to her, snatching it from her hands, ignoring her noise of complaint. You’d apologise for being rude, but you can’t think of anything else except the photos.

You, again. On your bed, asleep. “No one touches their lockers,” you say.

“What—?”

“Where’s Gloria?” You run out into the ED. “Gloria!”

She’s at Central, talking to Dana and Abbot. Debriefing after today.

“Gloria!”

You hear Robby calling out to you, following.

Gloria turns, frowning when you come to a stop before her. She says your name.

“The cameras,” you wheeze, trying to collect your breath. “They were offline?”

“Yes. Our whole system went down. You all worked analog tonight, Doctor.”

You’re shaking your head. Pushing the collected photos into her hands. Two of them. You know there’s another one in your locker—you spied the paper but hadn’t gotten around to opening it before Robby interrupted.

“What is this?” she demands.

“Matthew Williams,” you say, and hear Dana suck in a breath. “He was here. He left these here, in everyone’s lockers.”

Gloria crumples the pictures in her hands. Something sorrowful in her eyes, apology heavy in her tone. “Our cameras were down.”

“I know it was him. Those pictures are from my bedroom, Gloria. He knows where I live. He’s been inside my room.”

Gloria’s hands on your shoulders. Her face pinched with sympathy. “I believe you. I do. But without our cameras, we don’t have evidence of him doing this. I am sorry.”

You shake your head. You’re—tired. Angry. He came here to fuck with your head and left without anyone knowing. Took advantage of the chaos left in the wake of taking the system offline.

“Where are you going?” You’re not sure who says it. Ringing in your ears.

“I need a second.” You march towards one of the Behavioural rooms.

Dana and Gloria follow, but stop when the door closes behind you.

It’s silent. The rooms aren’t soundproof, but it’s the closest thing you to privacy.

Abbot and Robby are left standing by Central. Meeting each other’s gazes.

“We can get police to check for prints,” Abbot suggests. “We just gotta block off the lockers until they get here.”

“Yeah, that’s going to be fun. Telling everyone they can’t go home after today.” Despite his biting words, Robby’s the one that finds Ahmad, asking for his assistance in securing the locker bay.

Princess already knows. It doesn’t take long for word to get around to everyone else. No one’s going home unless they’re happy to leave without their belongings in the lockers. Shift change can’t happen unless the incoming staff are okay with leaving their belongings unattended until they can access their lockers.

And in the Behavioural room, you let out a scream of frustration. Something boiling inside. You never considered yourself a violent person, but.

Your closed fist slams against the wall before you can think.

“Whoa, whoa!” Dana shoves the door opened.

“Fuck,” you hiss.

“Jesus Christ, let me see.” She holds your wrist, inspecting your knuckles. “You done now? You feel better?”

Her tone makes you feel ashamed. Embarrassed. You’ve never punched a fucking wall before. “Sorry.”

“South 16 is free. We’ll get it cleaned up. Figure out your next steps.”

Because you can’t go home, you realise.

Dana stays with you in the patient room. You almost fight her about patching yourself up, but the baneful glare she shoots you makes you cede to her ministrations.

“Close your hand for me.”

You do. Your knuckles sting, but that’s all.

“Great. No other damage. You’re still good to work tomorrow.”

Robby knocks on the closed door. Waits until Dana opens it. “Police are here. They’re checking the lockers. Gloria’s talking to them, but…”

A look passed between Robby and Dana, and she leaves too, allowing him a moment with you. “Hey,” he whispers, low.

You’re sitting upright on the bed, the gurney raised to support your back. “Shouldn’t you be on your merry way already?” This marks the first moment alone you’ve had together all day.

He simply stares at you, like the very notion proves ridiculous. “I can’t leave like this.”

Right. Because of the cops checking the lockers, you assume. His belongings are probably considered evidence too, seeing as he had a picture in his bag. “Sorry,” you say, momentarily. Even though you’re bitter about how things have seemingly transpired between you, you don’t wish to inconvenience him any further.

Robby merely gives you another look. One that you can’t quite parse. Shaking his head. “You should… stay at mine.”

“I’m not—”

“Come on,” he insists. “Be smart about it. You’re not going back to your apartment. Not when you know he’s been there.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Maybe book a hotel room, or an Airbnb, or rely on the goodness of your coworkers’ hearts to spare you their couch until you get your shit together. Hopefully, if they’re not pissed off by not being able to leave after the wild shift that marked the fourth of July.

“You don’t have to go.”

A wry chuckle, a slow shake of your head. You should be telling him that. “It’s not your business anymore, Robby.”

His jaw tenses, a bland smile across his face. “Right.”

“You made that choice for us. You don’t get to be angry at me for it.”

“I’m not angry,” he says, angrily.

You give him a look.

“I’m…” He blows out a breath. “Just stay at my house. You’ve already been living there.”

“Because we were together. I’m not going to stay if we’re not together anymore.”

“I’m not going to be there.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what—?”

There’s a knock on the door. Silence ensues between the two of you until it opens.

“Hey,” Langdon says, poking his head through. “Uh—Gloria’s after you, Robby.”

Robby grits his teeth. “Fine.” Takes two steps out of the room before throwing a quick “Thanks, Langdon” over his shoulder. Things are definitely still frosty between them.

“How’s it going out there?” you ask, before he can question your wellbeing.

Langdon tilts his head. “I think everyone just wants to go home.”

“Yeah. Me too.” But you can’t. There’s an easy solution, but you’re stubbornly debating with Robby about it. Logically, it’s the simplest answer. A space that’s rent free and already familiar to you.

A sympathetic expression purses his lips. “I heard. It really sucks. It—genuinely sounds like something out of a horror movie.”

You snort. “Yeah. Um—welcome to my life for the past… nine months?” It’s quiet again. Langdon lingers in the room. You assume he’s been recruited into your babysitting detail that occurs when something Matthew Williams related pops up. “Did you see the pictures?”

Immediately shaking his head. “No. No one saw them. Well—no one else saw them.”

Robby, Princess, Gloria. Maybe Dana and Abbot, since they were with Gloria when you gave her the photos. But you know word spreads fast.

“Hey, I…” Langdon starts.

You look at him. Wait for him to construct his thoughts, whatever they are.

“I have a spare room.”

You blink. “Like a guest bedroom?”

Langdon’s eyes shut, chin dropping to his chest. Raising his head. “In the spirit of vulnerability—um, Abby and I were on the rocks even before I went to rehab. And when I actually had to go, she was suddenly a single mother to two kids. She didn’t sign up for that. So we’ve been… officially separated since then. Once we get to twelve months, we’re filing for divorce.”

“Jesus. I’m sorry you’re going through this.”

“Well. It’s not as dramatic as yours,” he says, lips curving into a smile.

“I don’t—”

“It’s fine.”

You frown. “You didn’t tell anyone about you and Abby, did you?”

Langdon’s attention drops to the ring he still bears on his left fourth finger, twisting it. “No. I was kind of hoping to pretend things were normal when I got back here.”

You watch him, now that his focus on elsewhere. “You know—I don’t know you very well, but I have a feeling you’re being strangely vulnerable with me.”

“I’m a strange man that’s inviting you to live with him. The least I could do is give you some ammo over me.”

You breathe a laugh.

“And you don’t seem to have a good track record with the men in your life. So, I’m throwing you a bone.”

“Ah, there it is. Thank you, asshole.”

He grins. “You’re welcome.”

The banter is nice. It feels like some semblance of normalcy on a capsizing boat.

“I’m still paying rent for my apartment,” you say. “I don’t know if I can afford to pay you too.”

Langdon shakes his head. “That’s not an issue for me.”

“Seriously?”

“I was planning on living solo anyway. The guest room was…” He trails off, clearing his throat. “Doesn’t matter. It’s yours now.”

The guest room for his kids, you assume. Your chest twists, not at the idea of taking it, but because he’s already settled on giving it up.

“It’s one bathroom only, though,” he adds.

“I can live with that. And, just so you know, I did just punch a wall.” You raise your hand to him.

“Okay.”

“Just because we’re sharing our vices.”

He chuckles wryly. “I think I can live with that.”

Someone knocks on the door. It opens seconds later, Ellis popping in.

You blink at her, having forgotten she was still here in the midst of the busy day.

“Hey, you. I heard what happened. Do you need a place to stay?” She gets straight to the point, tugging you into an one-armed hug.

She doesn’t assume you’ll be at Robby’s because she had cornered you in the bathroom, demanding to know what you two were obviously fighting about. You had to come clean about the abrupt breakup through text.

“Uh, I’m good. I’m staying with Langdon.”

She pulls a face, brown eyes flicking to him, then back to you. “I mean, he’s not the worst company, but I thought we were friends.”

“We are,” you say.

“Hey,” Langdon grouses at the same time.

“I like you too much to live with you. You’d get sick of me, and it’s the last thing I want.”

Ellis tuts, humoured. “I just wanted your cooking all to myself.”

You poke her side. “I swear you’re just using me for food.”

“Take it as a compliment—it’s good cooking.”

“I hate you.”

“You don’t.” She looks over to Langdon, who’s leaning against the wall by the door. “Didn’t know you had a fancy guest room.”

Langdon smiles. “Residency money helps. So does Abby’s.”

Your brows knitting together, hidden from Ellis’ line of sight. He’s still maintaining the lie.

“Yeah, I’ll bet.” Ellis pauses, like she’s debating something. “Hey, I don’t know if you know, but I wanted you to hear it from me—I ended up getting that fellowship we were both going for.”

He blinks. “That’s great, Parker,” Langdon says. Genuine. “This place needs you. You’re a great doctor.”

“So are you.”

The corner of Langdon’s lips tick upwards.

“Alright. That’s enough of my break. This double’s killing me.” Ellis squeezes your shoulder, before heading out.

The police clear what they can so that staff can go home. Outside of personal belongings, the lockers are emptied for evidence.

Robby still hasn’t left.

You spot him when you leave through the ambulance bay, trailing after Langdon, feeling steadier than before. When you had left the patient room and didn’t see him, you assumed he was eager to depart. Something ugly and heavy sitting inside your chest.

Except, he’s here. Wearing that thick jacket of his, missing the backpack. Leaning against that bike of his.

When he sees you, he pushes up, striding towards you. “Hey.” Eyes slicing towards Langdon, then to you.

“I’ll—yep. Getting my car.” Langdon makes quick work in escaping.

“Here.” And looped through Robby’s finger are his house keys.

You shake your head. “I don’t—”

“Just take them. You need a place to stay—”

“I’m staying with Langdon.”

Robby frowns. Lips pursing. “With Langdon,” he echoes, affronted.

“He—has a spare guest room.” And now you’re lying to keep his lie. You owe him that much, you think.

An internal debate that you know wars within; grooves lining Robby’s forehead. “Whitaker will have the keys if you change your mind,” he decides on, clasping the keys into his fist.

“Why would Whitaker have your keys?”

“He’s house-sitting for me.”

“Right.” You hadn’t realised they were that close. You were blind to a lot of things about Robby, it appears. You could be mad. You have every right to, you think, about a lot of things. Instead, the day has worn you down.

You compose your energy into something amiable. “Have fun, Robby. It’s not going to be the same when you’re gone.”

Robby’s jaw works, gaze travelling away. Down, then over your shoulder, to the doors behind you. Then down again. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I didn’t…” His words waver.

The silence grows. He doesn’t fill it, merely shaking his head.

You feel disappointed, but you don’t know why. Maybe you wanted an explanation. Even something as infuriating as ‘It got too real and I panicked’ would be preferable to his reticence.

But he provides nothing.

“I’ll see you when you get back, Robby.” And before you can overthink it, your uninjured hand lands on his forearm. Squeezing. “I don’t know what you’re searching for, but I hope you find it out there.”

Robby’s eyelids shutter closed. Like your words have wounded him. He says your name. Swallows thickly, before changing tactics. “Goodbye,” he whispers instead, hoarse.

A honk of a car. Close enough that you can only assume it’s Langdon idling by the curb, waiting for you.

“Goodbye, Robby,” you say.

He lifts a hand, hesitating. Then it latches on your cheek. “I’m sorry,” he says again. Shifting his hand so his thumb brushes against the circular scar on your cheek. “For everything.”

“I don’t need you to be sorry. I just—” You cut yourself off, sighing. “We could have made it work. Long distance, or whatever.”

“I know.” He sounds like he truly believes it, and it confuses you even more. Because if he did, then why would he feel the need to break up with you?

“Robby—”

“I love you.”

“Don’t. Don’t do that.”

His head drops into a nod. So gingerly, his lips to your forehead. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, lingering.

You sniffle. “I’ll see you when you’re back.” You step away, adjusting your bag.

Walk to Langdon’s car. It’s silent when you buckle yourself in, and he pretends he doesn’t notice you wiping away your tears. The road is empty at this time of night as he drives, the radio filling the space between you.

“Do we need to get your things?” Langdon asks.

The unspoken knowledge that your things are in your apartment. Where you know Matthew now has access to. You stare at the dashboard ahead of you. “Um. Is—do you have anything you could spare me? For… tonight?”

“Yeah. ’Course.”

“Thank you.” For his understanding. For his offer of a home. For the ride.

It’s roughly a twenty minute drive without the rest of Pittsburgh traffic to get to his place. He’s renting out a small house.

“The bathroom’s the second door here.” He directs you down the hall, at the tail end of a half-hearted tour of his place.

“Oh—you can shower first. It’s your place.”

“Uh. Sure. Your room’s this one. It’s not really set up, yet.” He flicks the lights on to the room, the both of you hovering by the pushed opened door.

You assume his room is the one at the end, further away from the bathroom between your rooms.

“I can do that,” you say. “Unless you have a problem with me going through your linen cupboard.”

“Nope. No secrets in there. Learnt my lesson with hiding contraband in small spaces.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Jesus Christ. Did they teach you about shitty, self-deprecating humour in rehab?”

Langdon makes a disagreeing hum. “That one’s all me.” He takes a step backward, down the hall to his room.

“Hey, um—thank you. Really. I know this is a lot for a stranger.”

His knuckles rap on the doorjamb twice, lips flattening into a smile. “Don’t mention it.”

You busy yourself in the kitchen while he’s in the shower. Something quick and easy with what he has in his fridge and pantry.

“You don’t have to do that,” Langdon says, when he’s done. Freshly showered, wearing a t-shirt and sleep pants.

“It’s the least I can do,” you say, plating up dinner for the two of you. “Can I take your car tomorrow? Mine’s still in evidence.”

“Evidence?”

“Oh shit, you don’t know that part.” You explain what happened in the hospital’s parking lot—to Ahmad, to your car; gesturing to the circular scar on your cheek left behind from the gun.

“What the fuck?” he says emphatically, when you’re done.

“Yeah. Anyway,” you dismiss, “car, please?”

Langdon blinks, trying to regain his bearings after your abrupt change of topics. “Yeah, of course. What do you need to get done?”

“I wanted to go to mine. Get some stuff. Mainly rice.”

“I have some.” He heads for his pantry next to his fridge, opening it. Takes out the instant rice.

You had seen it while perusing his pantry before, electing to ignore it. You make a face at his offer. “Don’t insult me.”

“Oh, come on. We’re doing rice elitism, now? You’re too good for instant rice?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Is it because I’m white?”

“Well, now that you mention it…”

A sneer with no heat behind it, aimed at you. “Okay, maybe you should have taken Parker up on her offer.”

“No, you can’t get rid of me, now. On that note, can we be a shoes off household?”

“Seriously?”

“I also have house slippers I can get from my place.”

A resigned drop of his head, lips twitching as he shakes his head. “Sure. Whatever.”

“Thank you,” you chirp.

After the first night you spend at Langdon’s place and at the end of your shared shift, he had driven you to your apartment after you told him your address. He went up with you, even with your insistence that you were fine to go alone.

Your things had already been in a bag from when you had taken them from Robby’s place to yours the night of the 3rd. Langdon’s the one that unplugs your rice cooker while you’re grabbing everything you need from the bathroom.

You don’t touch the bedroom, even though logic tells you that other places in the apartment could be monitored as well.

You’re in and out in less than ten minutes.

The next weekend after the 4th of July, you ask Santos for self-defence lessons. You don’t want to sign up to a gym, since it meant giving another corporation your personal information. Maybe you’re being paranoid, but Santos eventually agrees—her apartment suddenly has an empty room.

The first time Langdon drives you to her place, they both stare at each other, until he blinks, relenting. “I didn’t realise this was your place,” he says.

Some boundary crossed. You don’t quite know what their issue is, just that they’re hostile to each other, even with some efforts of professionalism.

“You’re living with Langdon?” Santos asks, after twenty minutes of practising deflections of punches.

“I needed a place to stay,” you say. You feel wrong-footed—Santos is your friend. When you first started in the Pitt, she was one of the only ones that didn’t seem to measure you up against Langdon. You don’t want her to feel slighted. But he opened his home up to you when you needed one.

“Robby’s place is free. Whitaker’s in there right now,” Santos points out.

“Robby broke up with me.”

“Since when?”

You chuckle, dry. “On the 3rd of July. Before his sabbatical. He texted me.”

“He texted you?” Even she sounds surprised by it.

“I’m assuming he wanted a clean break to fuck whoever he wanted for three months.” The punch you throw is sloppy.

Santos easily catches your arm, tugging you in to lightly tap her knuckles against your sternum. The evident winner. “Doesn’t sound like him.”

“I didn’t think so either.”

She lets go of you. Rocks onto the balls of her socked feet. “If you need to escape your new roommate for a few days, I’ve got a spare room.”

You study her. The way the offer is genuine, but her own kindness makes her uncomfortable. “Thanks, Santos.”

“Whatever,” she dismisses. “I’m done for today. Let’s get some takeout.”

You text Langdon to let him know you’re having lunch with Santos, and you receive a thumbs up in return.

Once a week, on the weekend that you’re all not working, Langdon continues driving you to Santos’ apartment. Hanging back by the steps to the stoop, waiting until the door shuts before he heads back into his car.

They’re not friendly. But more often than not, Santos simply nods at Langdon in a lacklustre greeting. During the weekends when you’re both at her front door; when they see each other after clocking in in the Pitt.

The day you find out about his bad back, you swap lockers with him by the end of that same shift. You refuse to take no for an answer. You inadvertently have access to each other’s lockers, since you have to memorise his code, now that you’ve swapped.

Living with Frank is interspersed with moments of friendship and an incident that you force yourself to wipe from memory.

A random rise to consciousness in the middle of the night. Blearily rubbing your eyes.

And you hear him.

Bedsheets rustling and then the unmistakable sound of a moan. Bitten off. Muffled.

Shit.

You should not be hearing this. A quick check of the time lets you know that it’s well past 3 AM. Neither of you should be awake. Especially when you both have work.

Remaining awake and hearing him feels voyeuristic. But you can’t fall asleep. And you feel like you can’t move because if you do, you’re alerting him to the fact that you’re awake. Which is the last thing you want to be doing.

You feel trapped. Shutting your eyes. Attempting to tune him out. You’re an adult—he’s an adult. This is a normal thing. Bodies have needs. He probably hasn’t been with anyone in a while, seeing as he’s been through rehab, separation, and now an essentially random roommate.

The least you can do is grant him some grace. Right?

You even out your breathing. Try to focus the sound of your breath leaving your body alongside the rise and fall of your chest.

Definitely do not concentrate on the noises from the room next to yours. The walls are—they’re not thin, but they’re not soundproof, either. You don’t know what the layout of his room is. If his bed is close to yours on the other side of that wall.

He’s quiet enough that if you were asleep, you wouldn’t have been disturbed.

But you can still hear him.

The movement of sheets. The squeak of the bed frame.

A drawn out groan. Ragged breathing.

Stop listening. Stop listening.

It’s quiet.

Then the rustle of fabric. Footfalls. His door opening. The bathroom door opening.

You eventually fall back asleep.

The next morning passes normally. He, obviously, had no idea what transpired. You’re stopped at a red light, sitting in the passenger seat when you ask, “What’s the roommate policy on bringing a home a date?”

Frank blinks. Casts a quick, inquisitive look in your direction before his attention returns to the road. “Uh, go for it? I don’t really care.”

“Cool,” you say. “Um—same goes for you. If you… want to bring dates home.”

He snorts, driving once the light is green. “I’m meant to avoid big changes during my first year of recovery. That includes new relationships.”

You look over at him. “We’re getting close to your first year, right?” It’s August—next month would make it 12 months since his departure from the Pitt, and the start of his rehab.

“Shit,” Frank huffs. His knuckles blanch against the steering wheel. Licks his lips. “Um—December 31st is my one year.”

You almost ask what that means. But you process it. Benzos would need to be detoxed from his system. There was probably a withdrawal process, since cold turkey isn’t a safe option. “It still counts.”

“Not to me.”

Your lips twist, unhappy. But you’re not going to try and argue with him about it. “Isn’t—moving houses and being separated considered a big change?” you ask.

“Yeah, I guess so,” he says, casually. “But it was a long time coming. Can’t say it came out of nowhere.”

“Jesus, Frank.”

“I’m handling it. I’m still sober.” And like he can still feel your eyes on him, he shoots you a look. “Would you feel better if I gave you my sponsor’s number?”

“I didn’t mean it like I don’t trust you.”

“I know,” Frank says, simple. “But you also deserve to feel safe when you’re living with someone that was an addict.”

You swallow. “I knew your circumstances going in, though. You didn’t randomly spring it on me.”

He hums. “I would feel better if you had my sponsor’s number. And probably my therapist’s too.”

Your mouth is agape. “Seriously?”

“Yeah. I’ll send them to you.”

And you both know it’s decided, because this is the kind of decision that only he can make.

“Thank you,” you say. It feels like some kind of monumental step towards the burgeoning—friendship, or roommate, or whatever label you two share.

Frank makes a noise of acknowledgement. “So are you seeing someone at the moment?”

You frown. “What?” His question feels like a non-sequitur.

“You asked about bringing dates home.”

You did. But only because you heard him pleasuring himself last night, and wanted him to know that it was okay for him to bring people home if he needed to. But you can’t fucking admit that to him.

You clear your throat. “Um. No. I’m not—seeing anyone. I don’t think I’m built for the… casual dating game that everyone seems to be doing right now.”

Frank side-eyes you. Brow furrowed. “You were with Robby.”

You can feel the judgement emanating from him. “And?” you ask, slightly terse.

“I’ve never seen him go seven weeks with the same person. Casual is all he does, especially after…” He trails off.

“Adamson,” you finish. You know this. Dana’s told you.

He frowns. “No. Well—Collins. But I guess it happened at the same time.”

“What?”

“What?”

“Collins?” you echo. “Heather Collins? They were a thing?”

“Crap.” Frank pulls into the parking garage. Slowly drives to find an empty space to park. Long fingers drumming against the steering wheel. “You didn’t know about them?”

“Robby didn’t say anything.” No one had said anything, but they did try to warn you about… entangling yourself with Robby.

“It was a while ago. Back when we were still med students and Robby wasn’t chief attending yet,” Frank explains.

“And Adamson was alive.”

“Yeah. They—Robby hasn’t really been the same since Adamson passed. And it wasn’t Heather’s job to make them work if Robby wasn’t going to try either.”

You can’t help but wonder what version of Robby you got. Not completely healed, but seemingly ready to go the distance. Or was pretending to give you everything the same brand of cruelty that everyone tried to warn you of?

“Sorry,” Frank offers. The car’s parked. He tugs the handbrake.

“No, it’s—don’t be sorry.” You feel like this is something you needed to hear. To tamp down the thoughts that have been straying to Robby whilst he’s on sabbatical. “You’re not his keeper, Frank.”

“Still. You’re my friend. And Robby’s—kind of still my friend, even if he’s fucked off and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“You too, huh?” You’re both out of the car. Walking towards the elevators that’ll bring you up to the ED.

“Honestly, I’m not surprised. I feel like Abbot’s the only one that’s lucky enough to get updates from Robby. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

You spare a thought to wonder if Santos or Whitaker would also be receiving updates. You’ve watched Robby embrace Santos’ presence, especially when you first started. And despite Whitaker’s temporary presence during his rotation, he’s close enough to Robby to be offered house-sitting duties.

“That’s mature of you, Langdon.”

“Don’t get it messed up,” he says, smirking. His arms grazes against yours, a gentle bump. A soft and familiar touch. “That’s just the therapy talking. Not all of us can be perfect angels like you.”

“Has anyone ever told you that your therapised self is annoying?”

“No, actually. A lot of people have said they like me better like this.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

Frank grins.

Two months into living with Frank, Abby Langdon shows up on the front porch at 9 PM, manila envelope in hand.

This isn’t the first time you’ve met her.

No, the first time you met her was when Frank still wanted the kids to visit him, even with his new living arrangement with you. Since their separation, Tanner and Penny stayed over every second weekend.

Abby wasn’t a cruel person; Frank had access to the kids at her place, so long as he called ahead if he wanted to see them more than a fortnight. More often than not, he would use his weekends to see them, after driving you to Santos’ place.

Almost immediately after you had moved in, Abby wanted to meet you. Even though you passed every police check required to work in the hospital, she didn’t personally know you. She wanted to know who was living with the father of her children.

And you couldn’t begrudge her that.

You had spent the night leading up to meeting her worried. Too worried to sleep. Worried that you were going to make such a bad impression that Abby wouldn’t let Frank’s kids visit anymore. You weren’t sure. You just knew that it would be disastrously bad.

You tossed and turned so much that Frank ended up outside your door. Knocking.

You contemplated feigning unconsciousness. But decided against it. Shuffled towards your door, opening it. “Sorry,” you say. You know exactly why he’s here.

“You’re stressed,” he observes.

“I don’t want to fuck it up for you,” you admit. It’s been two weeks of living here with him. Your interactions mostly made up of cordial conversations interspersed with rare moments of vulnerability. Like this. Like when he first asked if you were okay meeting Abby.

“You won’t,” Frank says. “Honestly, after my fuck ups, I’m surprised I haven’t lost all access to them.”

“You’re being too hard on your—”

“It’s fine.” He waves away whatever argument you were preparing to make in his defence. Instead, he takes a step backwards, beckoning you. “C’mon.”

“What?” Despite your question, he doesn’t answer. Merely walks out the hallway, into the kitchen. And you follow, the light flicking on.

You watch, and it only takes a few moments for you to realise what he’s doing. “Hot chocolate,” you say. “Really?”

“It helps my kids when they can’t sleep.”

“Do you think I’m twelve?”

Frank frowns, stirring the contents in the saucepan. “My kids are three and five.”

“So you think I’m five years old?”

“You said it. Not me.”

You flip him off when he looks at you.

Frank laughs, soft.

A few minutes later, there’s two mugs of hot chocolate on the kitchen counter. Topped with mini marshmallows.

“I know you’re worried for my sake,” Frank says.

Your fingers closed around the mug. Seeping the heat of it. “Because it means a lot to you. And you were nice enough to let me live here. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’ll be fine.”

Idle conversation and two hot chocolates later, Abby is at your doorstep in the morning. You’re still incredibly nervous. You had woken up earlier than necessary for your day off. Filled with an intense need to appease her through cookies.

You don’t know how many times Abby has been to this house prior to you moving in. But she walks around, inspecting the decor. Pauses by picture frames that Frank has up.

She’s wearing socks; her loafers are by the front door. You have no idea when Frank told her about your no shoes preference.

“Are these your parents?” Abby studies the lone picture you have of them. A framed photo that you took out of your room and placed at the mouth of the kitchen when Frank noted that there was space for more pictures.

“Yeah. They’re in LA.” You don’t quite know how much information to offer. You don’t know how transparent Frank was when telling her about your situation. “I miss them.”

“I would too,” she says. Heads into the kitchen where you are. “But you can’t see them.” Not a question.

“No.” But you answer anyway. “Maybe when it’s all settled. When he’s behind bars. I know it’s not a great situation but I promise you, he doesn’t know that I’m here, and if your kids come by, they’d be safe, and—”

Abby smiles, dipping her head in a way that reminds you of Frank. “I know,” she says. “Frank’s not perfect, sure, but he’s a great father. I never wanted to take that from him. Or my kids.”

You’re nodding. Rapidly. “Of course.”

“With everything that happened with him—it’s…”

“It’s not what you signed up for,” you say.

She sniffs, fingernails tapping across the counter.

“I don’t know if it’s worth anything, but any time he talks about you, he defends you. He doesn’t hate you for the separation. He still cares about you.”

“I care about him too,” Abby says, wistful. “We were in love, once. But sometimes love isn’t enough.”

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me. You don’t owe me that.” You think about Robby. Feel something twist in your chest at the reminder. You were completely blindsided by the breakup, and now you don’t have any means of closure with him on sabbatical.

Abby stays for two hours. You talk with her, and by the end of it, you send her away with containers of cookies that she gladly takes.

Every two weeks, she shows up on your doorstep with Tanner and Penny. Stays for fifteen minutes, taking home any other baked goods or meals you decide to give her.

So. Abby at your door again.

You nod, something sad and understanding twisting your face as you step back to let her in.

You make yourself scarce in your room. She leaves after the better part of an hour. You don’t hear Frank shuffle into his room, so you head out into the kitchen. “Let’s go,” you say, his car keys dangling from your hand.

He’s sitting one of the kitchen stools, staring at the unopened envelope on the counter. Barely looking at you. “I’m not in the mood.”

“We’re going to get ice cream. And a bunch of shit to make mocktails.”

“We can just get it delivered.”

“That’s not the point.”

“I don’t really want to go.”

“Are you seriously going to make me go by myself?” It’s a low blow. In the time that you’ve essentially moved in, he’s always accompanied you. Almost like a dog, alerted of your departure by the front door opening. Even when you just need a short walk to clear your head, he insists on trailing after you in silence.

“Oh my God, you are annoying,” Frank groans, pushing off the kitchen stool.

You grin. “You’ll live.”

In the car, at a red light, you cast him a glance. “I can try and call Garcia. Maybe she can join our pity party.” From what you can extrapolate from their interactions when she’s on traumas, you’re sure they get along.

Frank snorts, a derisive sound. “Don’t bother.”

“I thought you were friends.”

“I was gone ten months,” he says, “and I didn’t hear from anyone.”

You frown, silence ensuing as you drive under the green light. Frank was an R4 when he left. Which means he’s been working in the hospital for four years. You can’t imagine working somewhere for that long and not caring about them when they disappeared for ten months.

You can’t help but think of your friends back in LA.

“What about you?” Frank asks.

“What about me?”

“You talk to anyone back home?”

“I changed my number,” you say. And you stayed off social media. At Javadi’s insistence, you made new accounts, pretending you lost access to your older ones. Small, private. No pictures of you on there. You hadn’t wanted to give Matthew a chance to find you. And yet, he still had.

“I—uh. Thought that if I reached out to anyone back home, he’d know where to find me. He found where my parents lived. That’s why I left in the first place.”

Frank stays quiet. You like that he doesn’t rush to offer condolences. Eventually, he says, “Sounds lonely.”

You park the car outside of a brightly lit grocery store. “Sounds like we both were. C’mon. Snacks and mocktails.”

You end up on the couch together, invading his personal space, limbs outstretched. Three different flavours of mocktails, six between you, scattered across the coffee table. Watching an exorbitant amount of trashy shows.

You show up to work the next day lacking sleep, but you think it’s worth it.

Robby comes back from his sabbatical on a Monday.

If you’re being honest, you can’t say that you had ever forgotten his return date. A heavy thing that you couldn’t unshed, regardless of how much you wished to.

He seems—mellow. Even after everything, you’re glad he took a break from the Pitt, because he seems more relaxed. The first time he’s happy to defer to Dr Al-Hashimi regarding an incoming trauma, she blinks in shock before resuming her lead.

You’re the one that has to hunt him down. “So we’re not going to talk about it?”

Robby pauses, tucking the tablet under his arm. “I was trying to… create a professional boundary by not bringing it up at work.”

“You don’t think we’re a little too late for professional boundaries?” you bite out.

He sighs. “I’m not trying to be difficult.”

“Right. Of course.” The implication there is that you’re the difficult one.

The professionalism established. From whatever you were, to this. The distance clearly helped him.

“Look, we can—”

“No. It’s—it’s okay.” You walk away before you can think too deeply into it.

You spend most of that day presenting cases to Al-Hashimi rather than Robby, despite knowing that her presence in the Pitt is only temporary with Robby’s return.

There’s a moment when you leave a patient’s room. You see Robby and Frank. Talking to each other. You’re not close enough to eavesdrop. It could be about anything. It could be about a case. But.

You’re already familiar with Frank’s expressions. You live with the man. It’s not impersonal enough to be about a patient.

It makes something in your stomach twist. Robby’s willing to talk to Frank, but not to you.

By the end of the day, Robby finds you again at the lockers.

“I thought you had a higher one,” he notes, casual. Leaning against the slab of them.

You shove your things into your bag. “I swapped with Frank,” you say.

“Frank.” He remembers it was ‘Langdon’ when he left.

You zip up your bag. Closing the locker with a sigh. “He’s got a bad back.”

Robby flattens his features into a smile. “Yeah, ’course.”

You stand, twisting the strap to your bag on your shoulder.

“Do you have a second? I wanted—to talk,” he says.

“I think Frank’s waiting for me.”

“Please.”

You pause. His eyes crease in the corners, tilting his head in a silent appeal.

With a sigh, you incline your head in wordless agreement, and the two of you make your way outside to the ambulance bay. You can’t help but look around. “No bike?”

Robby rubs the back of his neck. “I got rid of it.”

You can’t help the raise of your eyebrow. “Wow, changing it up after three months. Must be a record for you.”

Robby levels you with a look. No anger to it, but accepting. Like he’s deserving of your barbed words. “I didn’t see anyone during the three months I was away.”

“That’s not any of my business, Robby. You can do whatever you want. You made that really clear when you broke up with me.” But still. Part of you feels relieved. Another part of you still wants to know why he broke up with you in the first place.

“That was never the reason why we broke up.”

“That’s not the point. There was—nothing. You just broke up with me out of nowhere.”

“You didn’t ask me to stay.”

“You—you wanted me to ask you to stay when you already had one foot out of the door? I loved you, Robby, but I’m not that desperate.”

“Loved? It’s only been three months—”

“Don’t try to do this—”

“Three months isn’t that long—”

“Everything okay here?” Frank.

His easy assertion makes you realise that your voices had been rising in volume. You had gotten dragged into Robby’s orbit. An ever-consuming black hole.

Your eyes remain on Robby. Waiting.

But he doesn’t say anything. Jaw clenches, turning away. Hands shoved into his hoodie pockets.

You can’t help the disappointment that afflicts your features. You feel stupid for it. “Yeah, we’re okay,” you assure Frank. “I’m done here. I was just leaving.”

“’Kay. Let’s go, then.” Frank stands aside.

You go first. Frank follows after you.

Once again, like those three months ago, Frank turns the radio up so neither of you need to fill that silent void. You burn the afterimage of the passing streetlights on the inside of your eyelids.

Dinner happens on the couch, in front of the TV. Some kind of trashy show playing. You’re not quite paying attention enough to remember why they’re screaming at each other. Frank reheats the food you’ve prepared for the week, and drops down next to you.

Close enough that his thigh is almost on top of yours.

“You,” you start, “have the whole couch to sit on, asshole—”

“I need to get the remote—”

“Nuh uh, I chose this. I was here first—”

“I was getting you food. I do one nice thing—”

You smack the remote into his chest.

“Ow,” he huffs, grabbing it from you.

Halfway through the second episode of whatever Frank chose to watch, your head’s already resting against his side. Slid halfway down the couch in your mindless quest to get comfortable.

Frank’s hand rests on your furthest shoulder. “You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” you yawn.

His hand strays from your shoulder to the back of your neck, squeezing gently. “Just so you know, this comforting thing’s more for you than me.”

You bring your elbow back enough to prod him. “Just when I thought you were such a good friend.”

“Hey, hey, whoa, this is abuse.”

“I will show you real abuse if you keep this up.”

“Whatever happened to ‘do no harm’?”

“It never applied to you.”

“Oh wow, so much for the Pitt’s precious, little angel—”

“Fuck off with that—”

“Okay, okay, wait—” Frank wrangles you back down.

You settle against him again. His fingers ghost over your shoulder. Down to your collarbone, then back to your shoulder. Distracted and repetitive motions.

“Sorry about… him,” Frank says, softer.

“Did he talk to you at all?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

He stays quiet for a moment. “Yeah.”

“What did he say?”

“We don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to know.”

A heavy sigh. “He wanted to apologise.”

“Really?”

“Hm,” Frank hums. “For brushing me off on my first day. Didn’t realise how difficult the whole—rehab and coming back thing must have been for me.”

“I’m glad you got that from him.”

“Yeah,” he says. “’S weird. That was all I wanted from him on my first day, but now… I don’t know. I feel indifferent.”

“Is it because I’m still mad at him?”

“No. Well—maybe? I think I just realised how—highly I thought of him. And how embarrassing it was. I was trying so hard to get out of coworker jail and didn’t realise he was only ever going to see me as a resident.”

“’M sorry, Frank.”

“I think that’s just how he is.”

You wonder if that’s how Robby’s going to perceive you now. Just a resident, now that he’s done with the relationship.

The fast pace in which the weeks pass make it easy to fall into that coworker void with Robby. You can’t help but feel disappointed, despite being eager to accept that you two were done. You still feel his eyes on you, watching when you’re working together.

By the start of November, your 12 month lease in your vacant apartment contractually ends. You don’t renew it. You officially live with Frank, able to contribute to the rent.

“How about we celebrate, roomie?” You lean against the desk next to Frank, placing your tablet down.

He takes it, slotting it back into the holder. “What’re you thinking?”

“Either we do takeout or go somewhere for a proper dinner.”

“Takeout,” he decides, almost immediately.

More often than not, post-shift dinners are quiet and comfortable in your kitchen. The idea of expending more energy to go out after a shift would make any sane person want to cry.

“Pick a cuisine.”

Frank deliberates. “Sushi.”

You hum. “Alright. Surprising, but let’s do it.” You hold out a fist for him.

He bumps it. “Here’s hoping we get out of here on time.”

“Don’t jinx it, asshole.”

“If anything goes wrong,” McKay says, looking up from the computer she’s sitting in front of, “I’m blaming the two of you.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” you defend.

“Guilty by association.”

Your mouth drops open.

Frank laughs.

“McKay, I thought you liked me.”

“I do,” she says. “But you’re slacking on the food you bring into the ED.”

You tsk. “That’s because Frank eats most of it before I can bring it in.”

“Wow, the angel’s really throwing me under the bus?” Frank asks, affronted by your betrayal.

“If it means getting McKay to like me again, yes,” you say to him, flipping him off for the nickname. And to McKay, “I swear, it’s all his fault.”

McKay laughs, shaking her head, clearly humoured by your bickering.

“You guys alright?” Robby draws close, clearing his throat.

And that’s another thing.

You can feel the eyes watching you, and Robby tends to make appearances when you’re getting too chummy with Frank in the ED. You’ve picked up on it. Frank’s picked up on it. You’re pretty sure half the ED’s picked up on it, if the way McKay hides a grin into her propped up fist is of any indication. She eyes the three of you like it’s reality TV levels of entertainment.

You shoot Frank a look.

He meets your gaze, eyebrows arching up, lips twisted into a smile.

The unspoken communication that says Here we go again.

“Just peachy, boss man,” Frank says.

Robby tilts his head, eyes narrowing.

“I’m going to check on my patient,” you say. You don’t need to, but it’s better than hanging around whilst Robby is on some kind of disrupting warpath.

Robby has been less likely to bite someone’s head off because of their pacing—Mohan was the first to notice after he came back from sabbatical—but he still snaps when he gets prodded too far. You don’t want to be the one that does that.

“Let me know which sushi place,” Frank says.

You hold out a hand to Frank as you pass.

He slaps it, fingers sliding against each others.

“Your patients are waiting,” Robby says, if not a little terse.

Another look shared between you and Frank.

Yeah, you two getting along is definitely something that Robby hates. You’re not quite sure what part of it he dislikes the most—that you’ve attached yourself to the once scorned resident, or that Frank no longer chases after Robby’s presence in the ED.

Hours later, your dinner is picked up from a small sushi joint on the way home. It’s evidently cheaper than getting it delivered.

Dinner in the kitchen, a random channel flicked on on the TV, quiet and low in the background. Peaceful and comfortable.

It’s normal. It’s routine.

Until you’re both done and you’re crouched in front of the cupboards, rummaging for a container to pack the leftovers in.

On the way up, you smack your head against the edge. “Fuck,” you hiss, already pressing your hand against the area along your hairline.

“Oh—shit.” Frank very clearly heard the sound. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you grumble, more embarrassed than anything.

“Let me see.” He draws close.

Your hand drops as you turn, leaning against the kitchen counter.

He’s crowded in front of you, fingers prodding at your head. “You got any concussion symptoms?”

“Nope, I’m fine.”

This kind of closeness is a familiarity already known to you. It’s not any different to winding down on the couch together, your feet in his lap, or his arm around you.

And yet.

“You sure?” he asks. Concentration lines his face, his hands coming up to stabilise your head, scrutinising your pupils.

“Very. Just feeling stupid,” you say. Your eyes darting between his, like you don’t quite know where to focus.

“Well, you’ve certainly knocked out the very few brain cells you have left,” he teases, once he’s determined that you’re not hurt.

“Hey, we both know I’m your senior, which means I have more brain cells than you.”

“You’re only my senior because I had to repeat my R4.”

“Oh, boohoo. And who’s fault was that?”

Frank half-sneers, ducking his head to laugh.

You angle your head up. Suddenly aware of how close he is.

His fingers still cradling your face. His thumb brushes against your cheek.

You don’t know who makes the move to get closer. But you are, and the kitchen feels so quiet outside the pounding of blood between your ears.

You think Frank breathes out your name. A hand trails down your jaw; his tongue peeks out to wet his lips.

“We—” you breathe, swallowing heavily, “we shouldn’t do this.”

Frank’s eyes track the movement of your throat. Slender fingers resting above your racing pulse. “Right,” he agrees, chin tucked to his chest. Dark strands of his hair fall in front of his eyes.

Instinct making you brush it aside.

His eyelids flutter shut at the almost there touch. Capturing your wrist between his digits. Lowering your hand, your knuckles ghosting against his lips.

Your breath hitches.

He releases your hand.

You step back. Your back hits the kitchen counter. “Frank…”

“Nothing changes,” he says, swallowing thickly. You watch his Adam’s apple bob with the action. “I—really like being your friend.”

You nod, tucking your hands behind you. Gripping the edge of the counter. Stabilising or restraining yourself. “I care about you, Frank. I don’t…”

“I know,” he offers.

You don’t think he does. Both of you having different conversations.

“Good night,” he whispers, and he leaves to the hallway. His bedroom door closes.

You let out a shaky breath. Fuck.

Nothing changes, he had said. Except you’ve been in bed for what feels like hours and you can’t fall asleep. You can’t do anything except toss and turn and think about how close you were to him. The blue of his eyes. The length of his fingers as they encircled your wrist. The soft of his lips against your knuckles.

You’re so fucked.

You know this, even as your hand delves under the elastic of your underwear. Applying pressure to your clit. Your bottom lip tucked between your teeth. You can’t make a noise, because it’d be too obvious what you’re doing.

It’s been a while. The last time you had done anything was with Robby.

And yet, all you can think about is what it would have been like if you had both allowed the moment to continue, instead of stopping it short. What kissing Frank would feel like. How far he would have wanted to take it. If he would sound anything like that time you heard him through your walls.

Your breath is hitched in the darkness of your room. Your fingers gathering your slick. Smearing up and down your slit. Up towards the bundle of nerves.

You wonder if Frank’s also struggling to fall asleep. If he can hear you. If he’s doing the same thing as you.

You’re so so fucked.

An established fact, and yet, when you’re sweating and riding your fingers, you keep going. An escaped gasp, two fingers buried inside you. Curling up, massaging against that soft spot within. Your other hand rubbing against your clit.

You’re a mess. You know. Wondering if Frank would be good at this—he probably would be. He was married. Had two kids. Probably knew what he was doing.

You make yourself cum on your own fingers to thoughts of him. Too weak limbed and tired for a proper cleanup after your efforts.

The morning after, it’s the same routine. Nothing changes.

Frank still rises early than you, prepares breakfast and coffee, timing it so it’s still hot when you’re showered and dressed. Shuffling into the kitchen.

“Thank you,” you say, and try to compose yourself into someone that hadn’t just thought of their housemate while touching themself.

Frank hums. “There’s still leftovers if you want it for lunch.”

“Yeah. I’ll pack them.”

He heads to the bathroom for his shower.

Nothing changes. Last night was an outlier. This is a return to normal.

“SVA incoming! One driver. Three minutes out,” Dana alerts.

“Let’s prep Trauma 2,” Robby instructs. He scans the available faces.

“Whitaker—with me.” And he knows he needs a resident. Flickers between you and Frank—Mohan’s already on her own case with Santos in Trauma 1.

Robby decides on you. “You ready?”

You nod. Look over at Frank, who settles into a smile.

He holds a fist out to you. You bump it with your own.

“Get a move on.” Robby’s brows are furrowed, gaze sweeping between your hands.

You try not to grin as you leave with Whitaker. Out into the ambulance bag, preparing for the rush.

You think you’re ready. But.

The doors of the ambulance open. You and Whitaker on the gurney.

And when you see the driver—

Ringing in your ears. You recognise her.

“Mrs Tran,” you call out in Vietnamese, “Mrs Tran—Huong, can you hear me?” Your knuckles against her sternum, rubbing to rouse her.

“You know her?” Whitaker asks, across from you.

“Her daughter was here. I treated her before.” Lily Tran. From the top of your head, you recall it being a stomach ache.

You both push the gurney into the trauma room. Robby following. Princess and Vivi already in there.

Mrs Tran groans. Eyelids fluttering.

“Huong, you had a car accident. You’re at the hospital now.”

Vivi and Princess bustle around you. Hooking Mrs Tran up to the machines.

A complaintive sound, hoarse. “Lily…” she utters, struggling with her words.

“Was she in the car with you?” One driver. No mention of a passenger involved. If she was in the car…

You don’t know why in the wake of potential bad news, your eyes seek Robby. He’s already looking at you, face set. Frowning.

“No…” Mrs Tran huffs, and your attention drops back on her, “at school.”

“Lily’s at school?” Today’s a weekday, you remind yourself. She should be safe.

She nods. Struggles to swallow.

“Car… following…” Is all Mrs Tran manages before her eyes roll up. The monitors beeping. Alerting.

“Huong!”

“BP’s crashing!” Vivi.

The room flies into action.

“Shit. Did you catch what she said?” Eyes already darting up to Princess as you scramble.

“A car was following her,” Princess offers.

You spend 20 minutes in Trauma 2. Working on her. She’s unconscious, but not in a life-threatening position. Her vitals are stable.

“Good work,” Robby says to the room. A fist out in Whitaker’s direction, who bumps it.

You nod in their direction, letting out a steadying breath. “I’m going to chart her up,” you say. Snapping off your gloves, heading out from Trauma 2.

“Robby!” Dana’s voice at Central.

The sharp tone makes you straighten instinctively. Robby’s gentle hand on the small of your back before he bypasses you.

Two cops at Central.

Frowning, you get closer. Place yourself near Dana, the both of you close enough to Robby. Hospital staff outnumbering the police. You see Whitaker at the computer, pretending he’s busy typing, but attention focused on the cops.

“We need to take a statement,” one of the cops says.

“She’s stable but she’s not awake,” Robby explains slowly.

“Can you let us know when she is?” the other one speaks.

“Is she in trouble?” you ask, frowning. Your arms are crossed over your chest.

“No, nothing like that. She was on call with dispatch at the time of the accident.”

“She was worried. She said another car was following her.”

The cop inclines her head. “We’re investigating the cause of the crash, and the claims of there being another driver.” She takes a card from her pocket, passing it over to Robby. “Give us a call when she’s awake.”

“Will do, officers,” Robby says.

You watch them walk away before you head over to Dana. “Have you called her emergency contact yet?”

“Yeah. About ten minutes after she got in,” Dana says.

“Thanks. You know who it is?” You have no idea who her emergency contact would have been—from what you’ve gathered from conversations with her when she was here, she’s alone in Pittsburgh with Lily. No other family. And Lily wouldn’t be listed as an emergency contact; she wouldn’t even have a phone.

“Her neighbour. An older lady. Had to use translating services.”

It reminds you of your parents, alone in LA. Creating their own family when all their siblings and cousins are overseas. Finding a community within neighbours, people that speak your own language.

“Hey.” Dana’s hand on your shoulder. Squeezing. “You need to know how to put them away.”

You chuckle, dry. “You’re one to talk.” You know Dana’s the type to carry the patients home with her, even if it’s a standard case.

“That’s exactly why I’m telling you. You don’t want to end up like me, kid.”

“You act like it’s the worst thing in the world—it’s not.”

You both fall silent, studying the overhead board.

“How’s your case going?” she asks, eventually.

“We’re making progress,” you tell her. “Real progress.”

“Good. I’m glad. Really need to see that bastard behind bars.”

“Yeah, you and me both. It’s certainly been a ride.”

“Why don’t you take ten while it’s qu—”

“No!” you interrupt. “Don’t finish that sentence.”

“Jesus, kid. Get out of here.”

You leave for the break room with a call to page you if you’re needed.

“Hey.” Frank’s at the table, stuffing his face with food.

“Hey—is that my noodles?”

“You said you weren’t feeling them since we have them at home,” he defends.

You tsk, opening the fridge. “I was going to give it to Parker.”

“Give her something else. I wanted your noodles.”

“You could have packed your own. We have more than enough at home.” You make a habit of meal prepping on Sundays—he insists on taking part.

“I could demolish another for dinner.”

You shake your head. You don’t know how he can do it. You could have the same thing for dinner every day, but God forbid you have it twice in one day.

Grabbing the communal dish of fried rice you made for everyone. Portioning a serving for yourself, then microwaving that instead. Companionable silence as you both eat, reminiscent of your months inside the walls of the house. Some meals shared on the table, others haphazardly eaten while he drives to or from the Pitt.

“You okay?” he asks. He absentmindedly grabs your finished bowl, washing the dishes in sink.

“Yeah.”

“How’s Trauma 2?”

“Stable. I’m worried about her, though,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

“Police are waiting for her statement. She was being followed when she crashed.”

“Followed? By who?”

“Don’t know yet. They’re still investigating who it was.” You eye the clock high on the wall, getting up. “Gotta go. I’ll see you out there.”

Frank hums his affirmative answer. “Nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You make it to Central, intending to check the board. You hear you name called.

Dana and Kiara. Another older woman. Greying strands amongst dark hair. And—

“Lily,” you breathe.

Lily Tran runs up to you. Fingers twisting into the straps of her backpack. Rocking back and forth on her feet. “They said Mommy’s here.”

“She is,” you say. “We’re taking care of her right now.” A hand rests on the top of her head.

“This is Van,” Dana introduces. “She’s Mrs Tran’s neighbour. And you already know Lily.”

You move your hand to shake Van’s, introducing yourself in Vietnamese. You talk to her—she barely works, hence why she was at home when she got the call. Her husband is the moneymaker. She picked up Lily from school when she got the call. She’s never been called into the hospital like this before, so she wasn’t sure what to do.

“It’s okay,” you reassure. You smile at her, then redirect to Kiara.

“Why don’t we head to the family room?” Kiara suggests.

“Yes, it’ll be better in there.” You let Kiara lead the way with Van.

Lily snags your hand, swinging as you both walk. “Are you one of the doctors helping Mommy?” she asks. Her head’s swivelling, inspecting every inch of the hospital.

“I am, yes. I’m doing my best to help her,” you say. You know you’re not supposed to make promises, as much as you want to.

“Okay,” she says. “Mommy will be okay. You helped my tummy feel better. So you’ll help her too.”

You barely clear the doors that lead to the nurses’ station in North.

“I’m—”

“Need some help in here!”

You whip around, seeing Whitaker pop back into Trauma 2.

No.

You turn to Kiara.

“Go,” she urges. “Lily, why don’t you come with me, okay?”

You barely look back when you run into Trauma 2.

“What happened?” you ask over the tones of the machines. Alerting. Frantic beeping.

“She just crashed! I was checking on her!” Whitaker says.

Nurses and doctors filing into the room around you. Another fifteen minutes in Trauma 2 with Mrs Tran.

“We need Robby,” you say.

“He’s with Dr Mohan,” Princess says.

You scan the room. You, Frank, Mel, Whitaker, Princess, Vivi. You can handle this, you tell yourself. You have to.

The seven of you try to get her stable. You think you have it.

Until that insistent flatline of her heart.

You lower the gurney, starting compressions on her chest. “Come on. Huong, come on, you can’t do this.”

It’s not enough.

“Swap out,” Frank says, after the first pulse check.

Another round of epi. Another check.

You swap again. Fingers interlocked over her chest.

“Pulse check.”

The whine of asystole.

Frank again.

“Should we—?”

“No,” you snap around heaving breaths. You can’t even tell who was talking. Your turn on compressions again “More epi.”

Frank says your name.

“No! We need—I need—”

You don’t see the look that Frank shoots Mel. Mel scurries out of the trauma room.

Princess’ lips thin out. “Dr Langdon?” she defers.

Frank observes you. “Five more minutes.”

It falls on deaf ears. You’ll take as long as you need to with this.

Robby enters, Mel following. Sees Frank standing by, arms crossed. Princess at the computer. Whitaker lingers, unsure what to do. He’s been here before, with Milton. Unable to give up.

At some point, Vivi had left too, but you didn’t realise. Efforts concerted on Mrs Tran.

Robby positions himself across from you. Says your name. Soft.

It makes you look up. He’s not here as Robby—he’s Dr Robinavitch, the senior attending. “No.” Shaking your head, arms burning. Sweat dotting along your hairline. The back of your neck.

“How long has it been?” Robby’s eyes cast over your shoulder.

“Eleven minutes,” Frank answers.

“We have to call it.”

You can’t help the cry. “No, no, I have to—”

Robby hand closes over one of your wrists.

It makes you stop.

The flatline drags. You’re staring at Mrs Tran’s chest. At your hands. At Robby’s on yours. Everything’s blurry.

Robby calls the time of death. Princess notes it on the computer. Frank steps in to turn off the monitor so the flat tone stops.

“Let’s take a moment of silence,” Robby says, quiet.

The room feels too hushed, despite the people in it. You step away from the gurney. Robby’s hands falls to his side. You’re staring at Mrs Tran’s face. Slackened. Pale. Incredibly still. This isn’t your first loss—no, you’ve been through this before in your previous med student and residency years, but this. It feels like a fresh wound. Something anew.

The silence reigns. Suffocates. You can barely draw a breath.

A moment of silence with Lily in the family room. Waiting. Convinced that you were going to make her mother feel better. Instead, you let her die. Couldn’t do enough.

Robby opens his mouth, probably ready to dismiss everyone.

You’re out as soon as you hear the intake of breath as he was preparing to speak. The door shoved open.

You want to escape. A little moment to break down. But you can’t.

Dana calls your name. Steps in front of you. Hands grabbing your upper arms. “You don’t have to do this,” she says. Soft but firm.

“I have to,” you say, voice already shaking. “I have to tell her.”

“You don’t. It’s not your job, okay? I can do it. Kiara’s can. Robby can. It’s not up to you.”

“But she—Lily said—”

“I know. I know, honey. Just let us handle this part, okay? We’ll get Perlah to prepare Mrs Tran for the viewing room. Take a break.”

You drop your head into a nod, even though you know you won’t take a break. You need to do something for Mrs Tran—for Lily.

Dana squeezes your arms before dropping her hands. “You ready?” she asks, attention moving to someone behind you.

You shift to the side, keeping your attention on the ground. You can’t look at him.

Robby sighs. “Yeah.” Takes a step to follow Dana when she goes. Stops in front of you.

You still don’t look at him. Back to the furtive demeanour from when you started working here. You can see his hand move, like he wants to touch you. But he doesn’t.

“Take twenty,” he says instead. Then he walks away.

Only when he’s gone, do you move. To Trauma 2. No breaks. You need to get this done.

“Hey,” Princess says, shocked when you’re back in the room. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I need to,” is all you say. You busy yourself, divorcing your mind from your body. You need to finish this. If you can’t be the one to tell Lily, then the least you can do is help her see her mother one last time.

Princess ends up requiring more of something. You don’t quite remember, but you’re the first to volunteer yourself to get it. The need to feel useful, even if it’s something as simple as fetching materials.

You’re near the nurses station when it happens.

A door bangs open. A clamouring of voices.

Footsteps running.

“Whoa—”

“Lily—”

“Stop—”

You barely have time to catch her around the shoulder. “Lily.”

“No! Let me go!”

Half-bent, trying to keep your hold on her. “Lily, listen to me—”

“No! Mommy! Mommy!” Struggling to escape.

“I’m so sorry, Lily—”

“You said you were helping her!” she yells. Face red and wet with tears.

“I know. I know, I’m so sorry.” You feel her words sink in your stomach. You drop to a crouch in front of her.

“No.” Her voice cracks. The lack of fight crumples her body against yours.

You wrap your arm around her, a hand on the back of her head. You refuse to look anywhere else. If you meet anyone else’s gaze, they’ll behold your failings.

She shakes. “Mama,” she wails. Hiccuping, sobbing.

And you hold her.

Bite your lip to stop yourself from crying too. This is not the time for your grief, you tell yourself. This is not about you. You gather yourself enough to lift her up. Walk towards the family room that she ran out from.

The door is still opened. Dana touches your shoulder when you pass by to sit on one of the chairs. Lily stays in your lap, head against your shoulder, sobbing. She remains otherwise unresponsive to Kiara’s and Van’s attempts at talking to her.

You feel like you have no choice but to stay. Hand intermittently rubbing her back.

You sense Robby’s presence rather than see him. Next to you, hovering. Not sitting—he hasn’t sat down since he, Kiara, and Dana tried to chase after Lily. A hand leaning on the top of the backrest of the chair.

The chair creaks as he moves.

“Robby.” Your hand reaches before you can consider the action.

His hand falls away from the chair.

Yours land on the now warmed backrest.

“Yeah?” he asks, quiet.

You tilt your head up to look at him. Trying to justify asking for him. In a way that isn’t just you being selfish and asking him to stay for you.

And he would. He doesn’t have the courage to permit the words to spill from his lips, but if those syllables left your mouth, he’d stay. Would do anything if you asked.

“I—left Princess in Trauma 2. She needed something. I didn’t have time to grab it,” you say instead. A coward’s way out.

Robby nods, corners of his eyes creased with worry. “I’ll handle it.”

“Thank you.”

His gaze flickers between your face, to your hand on the backrest. Then he steps away.

Robby and Dana leave. Kiara stays for a few more minutes, talking to Van. Then she leaves too, her expertise needed among the rest of the Pitt. You’re alone with Lily and Van. Lily barely talks. You and Van make aimless conversation.

You don’t know how long you sit here. Your legs grow numb, but you don’t contemplate budging.

“Can I see her?” Lily asks eventually, voice hoarse.

Van takes the water bottle from Lily’s backpack, letting her sip at it.

“Are you sure?” Your gaze flickers between her and Van.

Van slips the bottle back into the mesh pocket on the side of the bag. She nods.

“I want to see her,” Lily affirms, more steady.

“Okay,” you tell her. “I need to see if they’ve finished getting her ready. Can I get up?”

Lily nods against you. You guide her down to her feet. Van helps you stand up. Your legs tingle as feeling floods them again. Pins and needles.

You wait until it goes away before you exit the room. The door closed behind you. Leaning against it, watching the hospital flow around you.

“Perlah,” you call when you see her, straightening from the door.

“Hey,” she says. Sympathy scrunches her face. “You okay?”

You nod. “Is—is Mrs Tran in the viewing room yet?”

“Yeah. She’s ready for visitors.”

“Her daughter wants—” Your voice cracks, and you clear your throat. Rapidly blinking to dispel the sting in your eyes.

“Do you want me to take her?”

“No,” you say, “I can take her. Can you let Dana know where we’ll be?”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Perlah.” You draw in a steadying breath before opening the door behind you. “She’s ready. Come on.”

Van holds Lily’s backpack as they walk. Lily takes your hand. You guide her past the nurses’ station. Through the doors. Past Central. You spy Robby and Langdon treating a new patient in Trauma 2. Turning towards the stairwell doors, then into the corridor. To the viewing room.

Opening the door.

The gurney. Mrs Tran’s face is covered, but her hand remains outside the sheet.

You let Lily step forward. Guiding you in. She lets go of your hand to take her mother’s.

You move the chair that’s by the door to the gurney. Lily stands on it, and Van stays next to her, supporting.

The door closed as you hover by it, still inside the room. Giving them space. Lily cries, softer and quieter than before.

Van occasionally speaks, addressing both Lily and Mrs Tran.

You stay.

In your head, you apologise for not being able to save her. You apologise to Lily. You wonder if Van can take her in.

It makes you miss your parents.

You squeeze your eyes shut. You’ve never been religious, but you pray that Lily will be okay.

Once again, you stay until Lily says she’s ready to leave. The slow shuffle out of the viewing room, leading them back into the main ED. You catch Kiara still hanging around. You meet her gaze, nodding at her.

“Lily,” you say, turning. You lower yourself until you’re level with her. “Kiara’s going to talk to you about something really, really important, okay?”

Lily sniffles, nodding. Quieter now—despondent. Energy low.

“I need you to listen to her.”

“Can you come with me?”

Your lips thin out. “No,” you say, kind but firm, “I can’t be there when Kiara talks to you.”

Wet, brown eyes move to Kiara, then return to you. “Will I see you again?” Like a last ditch effort for some comfort.

And you can’t even give that to her. “I don’t know. I hope so, but I don’t know, Lily.”

“Okay,” she says. She crowds into you for a hug.

You embrace her until she moves away from you.

You stand.

Van squeezes your shoulder. “I know you tried your best.”

It still wasn’t enough. “Thank you,” you say.

“I’ll do my best to take care of her, too.”

You nod, feeling the sting of tears in your eyes. “It was really nice to meet you, Van.”

“You too, Doctor.”

Lily sticks close to Van as they both follow Kiara. You watch, statuesque until they clear the doors to the nurses’ station.

Until Mohan inserts herself next to you. “Hey,” she whispers, gentle.

You clear your throat. “Hey. Um—d’you have a case for me?”

Her lips purse, like she knows you’re desperate for a distraction. “I was looking for Dr Langdon.”

“I can help. I’m a senior too—”

“He’s already on it. Continuity of care for the patient,” she explains. “I think I saw him going to the ambulance bay. Can you get him for me?”

“Okay.” You know she’s allowing you a kindness. A break. You’re not even sure if Frank’s out there. You haven’t been present in the ED for the past however long you’ve spent in the viewing room with Lily. You leave towards the ambulance bay.

Outside air, the noises of traffic further away.

And Frank.

Back to the brick wall, phone to his ear. “—talk to her.”

Silence ensues. Frank runs his hand through his hair. Evidently stressed.

“Please. Abby—just for two seconds. I just need—no, I’m not trying to—”

Oh. Tough pediatric cases in the ED tend to lead staff to getting in touch with their loved ones. This is something you know, something you’ve seen. In LA, in the Pitt. Staff calling their families for comfort.

Your fingers flex. You used to be able to call your parents in LA.

“Frank,” you say.

His attention snaps up to you. Phone still by his ear.

“When you’re done here, Dr Mohan is looking for you.”

He nods. Then, “Penny,” he breathes. Angles his body away from you. “Hey, baby, I just wanted to hear your voice…”

You leave. You can’t stay here.

You’re back into the ED. For a second you entertain heading to the break room, or the rest rooms. But. You know you don’t have time. Back into the stairwell. The doors pushed open. Stagger to a stop when you see the viewing room door.

You know she’s behind there. Is it worth going in there just to say you’re sorry? Would she even want to hear that from you? She knows you failed.

Pacing the length of the corridor until you feel like you can’t breathe. The heel of your palm pressed against your sternum. You stumble with blurry eyes, dropping to your haunches. The viewing room to your side, a hand pressed against the wall.

The day catches up to you.

Shuddering breath released. Tears leaking.

Bordering on the verge of breaking down. Fuck.

Mrs Tran and Lily.

You don’t hear the door opening behind you.

“Hey.” Robby’s voice.

“Just—give me a minute.” Still hunched over, wiping at your face like it can stop the tears. Trying to recompose yourself now that you’re not alone anymore.

“No, I’m not—I just wanted to check on you.”

You let out a derisive laugh. You feel exhausted. “You get your answer?”

He sighs. His footsteps getting closer. He’s near, but doesn’t touch you. “I’m sorry. Losing someone never gets easy.”

“Shut up, Robby,” you bite out. You draw in steadying air. “Why are you even here?”

“I’m your attending.”

You let out a wet laugh. No humour in it. Shifting so you’re sitting on the ground, back against the wall. Knees tucked against your chest.

Robby takes it as an invitation to occupy the space across from you, against the staircase wall. Revolving planets, unable to drift close. “It’s not your fault.”

You’re automatically shaking your head.

“It’s not,” he insists.

“You heard her, Robby. I was supposed to—” Make it better. Help her. You wipe at your eyes again, finger nails pressing into your palms when you close your fists.

“She’s a kid,” Robby says. “A grieving kid. It doesn’t mean that she’s right.” He’s internalised it. Learned it from himself when it came to Jake after Leah.

You push yourself up, pacing again. You can’t stay sitting. “But she is. I couldn’t even help Mrs Tran, and who the fuck knows what’s going to happen to Lily because her only family in Pittsburgh is dead—”

“That’s not your fault.” Robby’s getting to his feet too.

“It is! It is my fault. I was the senior on the case, and I couldn’t even catch what happened to her.”

“I was there, and so was Frank. These things happen. You’re still a good doctor—”

“I’m not.”

He says your name. Steps closer to you.

“I’m not a good doctor. I’m not a good anything.”

“That’s not true.”

“I couldn’t even make you stay.”

Words you hadn’t meant to confess. Robby’s jaw clenches, brows furrowed. Expression pained, like you had just punched him.

“You lied, Robby. You said we weren’t casual, and then you dropped me for your sabbatical. You were gone for three fucking months, and you didn’t even try to reach out to me. And now you’re back, and you’re acting like we’re just coworkers and I didn’t matter to you.

“I didn’t get any closure. I got nothing. And all I can think about is that I still don’t know what I did to fuck things up. And none of this matters anyway, because I’m still fucking things up, and someone is dead because of me—”

“No, okay, hey—come here.” Nonsense reassurances. Robby drags you into him. Arms wrapping around you.

You don’t fight. If this was a panic attack, then maybe you would have. But this—a buildup of everything you’ve had to push down because of circumstances. Because you feared for your life after the shitshow of the 4th of July. Because you moved in with Frank, and didn’t have a moment to spare a breakdown. Because you’re still trying to balance the fucking court case and work.

“I’m sorry,” Robby whispers against the top of your head. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t you.”

You can barely hear him. Fingers curled into his shirt, sobbing. Every concept of composure evaporating in this instance.

And Robby’s aware of what this is. An expert in compartmentalising until the dam breaks. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, honey.”

His lips pressed to the top of your head. You clinging onto him, in search of comfort. And he gives. He gives and gives in spades like this could amount to a modicum of forgiveness.

Until you’re stable enough to pull yourself away from him. Until you feel embarrassed by what transpired. You clear your throat, tugging the sleeves of your undershirt down to wipe at wet cheeks. “Sorry,” you say, eventually.

“Don’t be,” he says. Watching you with concerned eyes.

“You should—go back in. The ED needs you.”

“We need you too.”

“I just need another minute.” You can’t tell if it’s a lie. A means of obfuscating.

“Okay,” he says, low. Granting you this, even if he doesn’t believe it. So he disappears back into the ED where he’s needed.

You sit and decide if emergency medicine is really for you. If you’ve just wasted the past eight years of your life on this, just to burn out near the finish line.

By the end of your shift, your feet feel weighted.

Your eyes feel dried out from the amount of crying you’ve accomplished during the day. Lily ended up leaving the hospital; you were too busy to see her one last time.

You can’t tell if the rest of the shift was anticlimactic, or if you were numb the entire time.

Donnie brushes by you. “Lupe said someone was asking for you in triage.”

You blink slowly, like life is gradually imbuing in you again. “Me?” You frown.

“Yeah. I’m just the messenger. I don’t know what it’s about.”

“Alright. Thanks, Donnie.” You head off towards reception. Too tired to ruminate further on it. If someone’s asking for you, it must be someone that you’ve treated previously. It’s not the first time it’s happened.

“Lupe,” you greet when you pass yourself through the doors. A tiny nod of acknowledgement to Olsen.

“Hey,” she returns.

“Donnie said a patient was asking for me?”

“Yeah. In the corner,” she says, waving towards the inner wall, closest to the entrance to chairs. “I don’t know how long he’s been here for, but he just took a sign up sheet with him a few minutes ago. Should still be filling it out.”

You straighten up, trying to peer through the crowd of sitting bodies to see if there’s a face you recognise. “You know what he looks like?”

“Uh—Caucasian. Male. Blond hair. He had a cap and a… dark jacket. Navy blue, I think? A bit banged up but said he was happy to wait since he knew we were busy.”

“Okay.” Frowning, still, but you walk out into the lobby. Meet Olsen’s eyes, and gesture down the length of the chairs with your chin. You hope he gets the message—keep an eye on you.

Olsen nods.

You walk down, keeping a polite smile on your face as you pass the crowd of people seated.

And in the corner, you find—nothing.

An abandoned clipboard with the intake papers and a pen attached. You frown, looking around. No one else seems to be wearing a navy jacket. “Excuse me,” you ask the person closest to the seat, “are you filling this out?”

“I already filled one out. Someone else was sitting here,” the woman says.

“Do you know if he’s coming back?”

“He didn’t seem like it.”

“Thank you.” Brows remain pinched as you pick up the clipboard. Leafing through the papers show that all the fields are empty.

“Do you know how long it’s going to take until I get to see a doctor?” the woman asks. “I’ve been here for hours.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “we’re going as fast as we can.” A cursory answer, you know, but you take the clipboard with you and use your badge to pass yourself back to the desk with Lupe. “He’s gone. Left this behind.”

Lupe tuts, taking the clipboard from you. “He didn’t fill it out?”

You shake your head. “He didn’t tell you his name?”

“No. Sorry, darling.”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

“Oh—what’s this?” Lupe unclips the clipboard, turning the pages over. On the back of the very last page is a rudimentary drawing of a car. “A car?”

You step closer. You didn’t even think to check it—it’s a blank page. Nothing for patients to fill out. You feel your mouth dry. A simple illustration in pen of a car. You know it could mean nothing. But…

The last you heard, they’re still looking for the other driver from Mrs Tran’s accident.

“You okay?” Lupe’s voice shatters the buzzing in your ears. “You look worse for wear.”

“There was a SVA today. The driver that came in—she didn’t make it. But they’re still looking for the other driver that was following her.”

Lupe blinks, looking down at the drawing. “And you think this was him?”

“How bad did he look?”

She can only shake her head. “I couldn’t tell.” Lupe gives you a sympathetic squeeze of your forearm. “Go home, honey. I’ll handle this.”

“Thanks, Lupe.” You give her an one-armed hug before you leave. Peer out the windows into chairs as if you can summon the person back.

Continue on AO3.