I knew it, I knew you

NEW YORK BOTANICAL GARDEN — DAY

It feels almost unreal, being here with him. You’re stepping into something softer than the life you’re used to. There’s so much sky, air, and a multitude of colors; it’s a stark contrast to the Pitt.

November has settled into the Botanical Garden like it owns the place—gold and rust and deep burnt orange spilling across every path. Leaves crunch under your boots, pumpkins arranged in little clusters like someone carefully curated joy itself, vines twisting around archways, the light filtering through branches in a way that makes everything look warmer than it should be.

It’s stupidly beautiful.

The kind of charm that makes your chest tingle with hope because you don’t get to exist in it often.

Robby is with you, completely present, and no longer carrying the weight of an entire emergency department on his shoulders. Simply walking next to you. Close enough that you’re aware of him constantly, like a second heartbeat.

There’s something tentative in the way both of you move. It’s as if you’re learning each other all over again. Like one wrong step might undo this fragile, miraculous thing you’ve found your way into.

It feels ridiculous, but also—like a high school crush. The kind where your hands brush, and it feels like lightning. Where every glance lingers half a second too long. That thought you don’t quite know what to do with your body because suddenly everything feels like it matters.

You stop near a row of pumpkins, laughing softly as you take a photo. “Okay, wait—this one’s cute.”

“Everything here is cute,” he says.

“You’re not helping.”

“I’m just stating facts.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway, adjusting the angle, snapping a picture. At some point, an older couple approaches—gentle smiles, bundled in scarves. “Would you like us to take one of you together?”

You blink before you, then glance at him.

He glances at you, and there’s that flicker again—that quiet, are we really doing this?

You nod and reply, “Yeah, that would be nice.”

You step closer to him, hesitant to touch each other at first. Then instinct—or courage—bridges the gap. Your arm slips lightly around his, while his hand settles at your back. He’s asking permission even in the way he holds you.

“Ready?” the woman calls.

You look up at him just as the photo is taken. The smile that catches your face isn’t practiced; it’s entirely authentic.

After you thank them, watch them walk off hand-in-hand, something soft settling in your bones at the sight.

You and Robby keep walking on the paths, with leaves falling. Conversation is easy, then quiet, then easy again.

Without warning, it happens. So subtle you almost miss it.

Robby’s hand brushes yours twice, then—he makes a decision. His fingers curl around yours, testing. He's prepared for you to pull away. But you don’t; instead, you let your fingers lace with his, and it feels right.

He exhales, almost imperceptibly, that tiny release, a quiet relief.

Then, without thinking, you shift closer and wrap both your arms around his. Tucking yourself into him as you walk, and it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He nearly forgets how to function, and actually stumbles half a step. You laugh softly as you ask, “You good?”

“Yeah,” he clears his throat. “Yeah, I’m good.”

He is, in fact, not good. Because, in all honesty, he is dangerously close to short-circuiting. Because you’re holding onto him like you want to. His arm tightens just slightly, protective. You lean into him, and he leans into you, for a while—you just walk like that together.

Later, softer, he asks, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You look at him, “Tell you what?” 

He hesitates before saying, “Back then… that you…” You tilt your head, a small smile tugging. “Liked you?” 

He huffs a breath. “Well—yeah. That. Or… the other thing.”

You raise an eyebrow at him, “Why didn’t you?”

He exhales. “…Touché.”

You smile, but it fades into something more honest. “Back then…” you begin slowly, “I don’t think I could or should have.” You look ahead. “I wasn’t even sure you liked me.”

“But I did,” he says immediately.

You shoot him a look. “You gave me a verbal order once, I said no, and you got mad.” He winces at that, “Yeah… okay. Not my finest attending moment.”

“Mhm.” There’s a small smile there, but your voice softens after.

“When someone likes me…” You hesitate before saying it anyway. “I get anxious.”

He becomes perfectly motionless next to you.

“I start wondering how they could.” Your voice drops. “If I’m worth it or if I deserve it. I start thinking maybe I won’t be able to love them right. Or back.” You swallow, a little more vulnerable. “I’ve never really… had that before.”

He becomes perfectly motionless next to you, then gently pulls you to a stop with him. You look up, and there’s no teasing in his face now or deflection, only quiet understanding.

“It makes sense,” he says softly. “That you’d be scared.” His thumb brushes over your hand. “But it’s still worth trying. Even if it might not work out.” His eyes hold yours. “There’s always that little part of you that hopes it will.”

A loosening of tension is felt throughout. 

“Kindness is scary,” you admit and he nods, “Yeah.” You laugh softly, shaking your head. “It feels like something that’s gonna disappear.”

“Sometimes it does,” he says honestly. “And sometimes it doesn’t.” A second ticked by before he adds, “Sometimes it stays.”

You look at him, and you don’t immediately brace for loss. Instead, you smile, and you both keep walking hand in hand, with leaves falling around you, talking about nothing and everything, laughing too easily.

Your head tipping back at something he says, laughter spilling out of you. Because you belong here, with him, for the first time in a long time—what’s past is past. Something new, quiet, fragile, hopeful—begins again.

STEPHEN SONDHEIM THEATRE, BROADWAY — NIGHT

Broadway at night feels electric.

The city glows differently here—gold lights reflecting off wet pavement, taxis blurring past in streaks of yellow, crowds bundled in coats and scarves moving together like a current. The marquee for & Juliet shines above the street, bright and dramatic and alive, and you can’t help the grin already stretching across your face before you’ve even made it inside.

Robby notices immediately. “You’re excited.”

You look at him like that should be obvious. “It’s Broadway.”

“I gathered that.”

“Michael,” you whisper, scandalized, “this is culture.”

That gets a warm and easy laugh out of him.

God, he loves hearing you laugh.

Inside, the theater buzzes with energy. Playbills rustling, people talking over each other, the smell of expensive perfume and old velvet seats, and overpriced cocktails lingering in the air. Everything feels grand in that old New York way—ornate ceilings, glowing chandeliers, red carpeting worn down by decades of people coming here to feel something.

Beside him, you’re glowing. You clutch your Playbill to your chest as you both find your seats, leaning close to whisper commentary to him before the show starts. “Oh my God, these seats are amazing.”

“They better be for what I paid.”

You snort. “You sound ninety years old.”

“I feel ninety years old.”

“You are so silly.”

“You work in emergency medicine, too. You’re not exactly a spring chicken.”

You gasp softly. “Wow. Okay.”

He grins, shameless.

The lights dim before you can retaliate, and the entire theater erupts into applause.

Then the music starts, you are gone. Completely, utterly delighted, and Robby spends half the show watching you instead of the stage.

Not because the show isn’t good—it is. Funny and bright and ridiculously entertaining, packed with pop songs that make the audience laugh and cheer and sing under their breath—but because you are impossible not to look at.

You mouth along quietly to nearly every song, not obnoxiously or loudly, but enough for him to notice. Your shoulders shimmy in your seat during the upbeat numbers, your knee bouncing to the rhythm. Sometimes you clap immediately after a performance with this wholehearted enthusiasm that makes him smile before he even realizes he’s doing it.

At one point, you lean over during a song and whisper excitedly, “I love this one.”

“I can tell,” he whispers back, watching you more than the stage.

You don’t even notice him staring.

You’re too busy laughing at a joke, one hand flying to his arm instinctively as the crowd around you bursts into applause, the contact nearly kills him.

You pull away quickly afterward, still smiling toward the stage, unaware of the way his heart just stumbled over itself. He looks at your profile under the soft theater lighting. Your flushed cheeks, the way your eyes crinkle when you laugh, and the tiny sparkle of your necklace when you move. He believes that this feeling is something he could’ve lost forever because of fear or cowardice. 

At intermission, you immediately turn to him, vibrating with excitement. “This is so fun.”

“You’ve said ‘oh my God’ at least fourteen times.”

“And I’ll say it fourteen more.”

He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You’re cute when you’re excited.”

You blink at him, then immediately look away, cheeks warming. “You can’t just say things like that randomly.”

“Why not?”

“Because then I stop functioning.”

That almost takes him out at the knees. He has to look away for a second, rubbing at his mouth to hide the helpless smile there.

By the second act, you’ve relaxed into him more naturally. Your shoulder brushes his constantly now. Thigh presses lightly against his. At one point during a slower song, your fingers absentmindedly curl into the sleeve of his dress shirt while you watch the stage. Like you want grounding, and you trust him enough to take it from him. Robby thinks he could live inside that feeling forever.

The show itself—God, it’s joyful. The audience cheers and laughs and claps along, and you join in without hesitation, head tipped back laughing at one scene so hard you nearly wheeze.

He’s never seen you like this before. Completely alive and not exhausted and running on adrenaline and caffeine. Simply put, you look happy.

You catch him staring eventually. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a lie.”

He smiles to himself before answering honestly. “I just…” His voice lowers. “I really like seeing you like this.”

Your expression softens instantly.

“Oh.”

There’s so much hidden meaning in that tiny word.

The lights from the stage flicker gold across your face as you look at him, and suddenly the moment feels unbearably tender. Two people are carefully learning happiness at the same time.

By the finale, the entire theater is on its feet, including you. You’re clapping enthusiastically, laughing as the cast bows, turning toward him with bright eyes and flushed cheeks. “That was amazing.”

“Yeah,” he says softly.

But he isn’t looking at the stage anymore, he’s looking at you, and for the first time in a very long time, Robby realizes something terrifyingly simple: He wants more of this.

Late-night theater shows with your hand finding his in the dark. Listening to you laugh until his ribs ache from it. Wanting tomorrow with you more than anything.

As you beam at him under the dim Broadway lights, still buzzing with excitement, your fingers slipping into his as you leave the theater together and disappear into the glowing New York night.

DINER — NIGHT

The city is still buzzing by the time you leave the theater.

Broadway lights glow behind you, traffic reflecting off wet pavement, while people pour down sidewalks in coats and scarves and hurried conversations. Your cheeks hurt from smiling so much. You’re still humming one of the songs under your breath when Robby checks his phone for the fourth time. Then he groans, and you look over immediately and ask, “What?”

“The restaurant.” He clarifies, and you tilt your head, asking, “What about it?”

“It closed.”

You blink. “The fancy one?”

“Yes.”

“The one you made reservations for?”

“Yes.”

You stare at him for exactly one second before dissolving into laughter. Head tipped back, hand clutching his arm, while he looks personally offended by modern business hours.

“This city used to stay open all night,” he mutters, and you shrug, “COVID killed late-night culture.”

“It’s un-American.”

“Okay, gramps.” You grin and point down the block toward a glowing neon sign. A diner. Open 24/7. “C’mon,” you say. “Breakfast for dinner.”

He looks at you carefully, then, almost suspiciously. “You’re not mad?”

Your face softens immediately. “No.” Because the truth is—you’d eat gas station chips with him on the curb and still be happy right now.

The diner is warm in that old New York way. Slightly sticky menus, cracked leather booths, fluorescent lights softened by time, the smell of coffee and syrup and grease lingering in the air. Somewhere behind the counter, a waitress calls someone “hon” while a tired cook flips pancakes like he’s done it for thirty years straight.

It’s perfect.

You slide into the booth first, but instead of sitting across from him, you tug gently at his hand. “Here.”

His brows lift in question, but you grin, “Sit by the same side as me.”

Robby’s insides twisted at the way you said it. He slides in beside you, thigh pressed against yours instantly in the cramped booth. Your fingers stay intertwined the entire time you look at the menu, and neither of you lets go. The waitress comes by, exhausted but kind. “You kids know what you want?”

Kids.

Robby almost laughs at that.

You order waffles and fries because, apparently, you enjoy chaos, plus milkshakes, pancakes, eggs, and mozzarella sticks. After all, once you started ordering, neither of you knew how to stop.

The second the waitress leaves, you immediately cuddle against his side. It feels like instinct now, as if your body already knows where it wants to be. Your head rests against his shoulder while his arm wraps around you automatically, hand settling warm against your waist beneath your coat.

And Robby—fuck. Robby is completely gone for you. He tries not to make it obvious, but every time you curl closer to him, every time your fingers absentmindedly play with the sleeve of his shirt, every time your perfume drifts toward him when you move—he feels it everywhere.

You’re watching the city through the diner window. People hurrying by under streetlights, the steam rising from subway grates, taxi horns, and New Yorkers somehow managing to look annoyed even at eleven at night.

You mumble sleepily against him, “I kinda love this city.”

“It’s growing on me.”

“That’s because it’s like you.”

He looks down. “What does that mean?”

“Tired. Mean-looking. Secretly soft.”

He huffs a laugh into your hair.

Eventually, you shift, hugging his arm with both of yours instead while he presses a soft kiss to your forehead. Your eyes close immediately, content and happy.

He lingers there a second too long, breathing you in quietly. Your shampoo, perfume, and something warm underneath it that is just you.

Then suddenly—you sit upright. “Oh, my God.”

“What?”

You point animatedly toward the window. “Is that pigeon waiting to use the crosswalk?”

Robby squints and spots the pigeon standing there at the curb beside several pedestrians. Then the light changes, and the pigeon starts walking directly across the street while using the crosswalk. You gasp like you’ve witnessed a miracle. “Holy shit.”

Robby bursts out laughing. “Oh my God, it is.”

“That’s insane.”

“That pigeon pays taxes.”

“That pigeon has somewhere to be.”

You’re both laughing now.

“It’s so New York,” you continue. “The rats here probably have organized crime families.”

“Oh, definitely.” Robby agrees with you as you continue to ramble, “The Bronx rats and the Brooklyn rats are in active gang warfare.”

“Queens rats stay neutral.”

“Absolutely not. Queens rats are laundering money.”

“And Manhattan rats?”

You lean in seriously. “Real estate moguls.”

He laughs so hard he has to lean forward for a second, rubbing at his face. The waitress brings your food, still chuckling at whatever joke she overheard last. “Anything else for you two?”

“We’re good, thank you.”

The food is ridiculous—it’s perfect diner food. Greasy fries, fluffy pancakes, waffles drowning in whipped cream. You immediately start stealing from each other’s plates.

“Try this.” You tell him.

“I have my own.”

“No, this one’s better.” You stab a waffle piece with your fork and hold it toward him, and he opens his mouth obediently. Later, he does the same to you, holding out a bite of pancake dripping with syrup. “C’mon.”

You lean forward automatically, lips wrapping around the fork as you take the bite. Jesus fucking Christ. His brain fully short-circuits because you do it absentmindedly and completely unaware.

Still chewing while reaching for your milkshake.

Meanwhile, he’s suddenly trying very hard not to think about your mouth. You keep talking normally while he stares at his coffee like it personally betrayed him. Then you get whipped cream just above your lip.

Without thinking, he reaches over, thumb brushing softly across your mouth, and the touch stills both of you for half a second. Your eyes flick to his before you very slowly take his thumb into your mouth, your gaze warm and playful as it never leaves his.

Robby nearly loses his fucking mind as his entire body goes tight. “You…” he starts hoarsely.

You only smirk and kiss his cheek sweetly like you didn’t just do that. Pretending you didn’t just set his nervous system on fire inside a diner at midnight.

“You’re trouble,” he mutters as you grin against his shoulder, biting your lower lip, “Maybe.”

He leans closer, voice lower now. “Careful.” While your brows lift innocently. “Hm?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

Heat floods straight into your face. But instead of backing down, you sip your milkshake calmly. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.” He actually laughs under his breath at that and points at your plate. “Finish your food.”

“Bossy.”

“We’re going back to your apartment after this.”

Your stomach flips violently, and you try to look out the window to hide it.

Of course, he notices, but the smug bastard kisses your temple anyway. When the check comes, you automatically reach for your wallet. Robby spots your movement and thinks, absolutely not. He catches your wrist immediately. “I got it.”

“You already paid for Broadway and the gardens.”

“And?”

“You don’t have to keep spending money on me.”

His expression softens instantly. “It’s not about the money.” He adds quietly, “I just like taking care of you.” That shuts you up completely while he pays.

Leaves an absurd tip that makes the waitress blink twice at the receipt, and afterward the two of you step back out into the cold New York night together—warm from diner coffee and laughter and each other—walking shoulder to shoulder beneath the city lights.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — NIGHT

By the time you both get back to the apartment, New York has settled into that strange late-night quiet that only happens after midnight. The soft, distant hum of traffic outside the windows. The occasional siren somewhere far off. Rainwater still shines on the streets below under streetlamps, and your cheeks still hurt from smiling.

Robby shuts the apartment door behind him while you toe off your boots near the entryway, laughing quietly when Bowie immediately trots over, demanding attention.

“Hi, buddy,” you murmur, crouching down to scratch behind his ears. “Did you miss me? Hope you had a good time with Grace today.”

“Traitor,” Robby mutters when the dog immediately abandons him for you.

You grin over your shoulder. “He knows who feeds him.”

“He also knows who dropped half his scrambled eggs this morning.”

“That was tactical.”

“Mmhm.”

You laugh softly and wander toward the kitchen while Robby moves toward the little speaker by the bookshelf. A second later, music drifts through the apartment. Soft indie music, gentle guitar, and the kind you play during night drives or rainy mornings.

You glance back at him immediately. “You remembered.” He shrugs, suddenly shy about it. “You always played this in the ED break room.”

Something warm blooms low in your chest. The apartment lights are dim except for the little lamp near the couch and the warm glow from the kitchen stove light. It makes everything feel safer somehow.

You’re standing by the counter when he walks over, drawn to you. His hands settle carefully at your waist, and your breath catches as he asks you, “Dance with me?”

You smile instantly.

“Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper dramatically, “are you trying to seduce me?”

“Is it working?”

“Unfortunately.”

That gets a laugh out of him, and then he pulls you closer. You sway together in the middle of your sister’s apartment kitchen like two people who almost lost the chance to do this at all.

Your arms loop around his neck while his hands rest low against your waist, warm and grounding. The music hums softly around you while he tells you stories between slow movements.

About the cruise, Greece, and getting sunburned in Naples because apparently an emergency physician with multiple advanced degrees forgot sunscreen existed.

You laugh so hard you nearly bury your face in his chest. “You’re kidding.”

“I am not.”

“You’re a disaster.”

“I’m aware.”

He tells you about the people he met. Older couples traveling together after retirement. Multiple families. A little Filipino grandmother who apparently adopted him emotionally within fifteen minutes.

“She yelled at me,” he says seriously.

You blink. “What?”

“She asked why I looked sad.”

“Oh, my God.”

“And then she fed me.”

You nod at that, “Yeah, that adds up.”

“And then,” he continues, “she told me I was stupid.” You burst out laughing, “She was right.”

“She also told me to stop acting like a martyr and go after the woman I love.”

Your laughter quiets, as your vision softens and focuses on him, “Oh.” He nods once. “They taught me a few words, too.”

Your brows lift, “Oh?” He shifts slightly closer, and then, carefully—as he practiced, he says, “Pasensya na.” (I’m sorry.)

Your breath catches as you realize what he was saying.

“Patawarin mo ako.” (Please forgive me.)

“Salamat.” (Thank you.)

Your eyes already sting. But then he looks directly at you, voice rougher now. “Mahal kita.” (I love you.)

You start crying instantly as that absolutely destroys you. Sobbing as you slap a hand over your face while laughing through it, overwhelmed beyond reason. “Fuck you, Michael Robinavitch,” you cry. “That is so unfairly romantic.”

He laughs softly too, eyes glassy now as you throw your arms around him. You hold him tightly, still afraid this could disappear.

His face buries into your hair, and for a moment neither of you says anything. Only breathing and holding on. Later, quietly, against your temple, “Come back to Pittsburgh with me.”

You pull back just enough to squint suspiciously at him through your tears. “How did you know I’d be back next week?”

That smug little smile appears, a dangerous thing. “I may have asked your sister when she was getting home.”

You gasp softly. “You schemed with my family?”

“She likes me.”

“Knowing her, she probably threatened to murder you.”

“Yeah, but warmly.”

You laugh helplessly again, shaking your head before touching his face carefully. “Michael Robinavitch,” you whisper. Your voice breaks around it as you smile, “I love you too. Mahal Kita.”

The look on his face after you say it—God. All the grief he’s been carrying in his ribs for years, and suddenly there’s room for something else now.

You kiss him first. It’s soft and tender. Then again, longer, and something changes. Maybe it’s the air, the space between you and the wanting that’s been simmering quietly for months—years, suddenly rises all at once.

His hands slide carefully up your back, holding you like you’re precious. Still trying to convince himself this is real. You kiss him deeper, and he makes this quiet sound against your mouth that nearly wrecks you.

Then suddenly he pulls back just slightly, breathing hard. Forehead resting against yours. “We don’t have to do this.”

You blink.

His thumb strokes gently against your waist. “I mean it.” His voice is low, steady despite the obvious restraint in it. “We can stop. We can slow down. We can sit on the couch and cuddle all night if you want.” Another soft breath as he finishes, “I’ll wait however long you need me to.”

Your heart actually hurts as you stare at him in disbelief. “Do you understand,” you whisper, “how insanely attractive consent is?”

That startles a laugh out of him.

“I’m serious,” you continue, emotional and wrecked and completely gone for him. “I love you.”

Something in his expression crumples, as if the tenderness physically pains him. So, you kiss him again, harder this time. And in response, his hands tighten instinctively at your waist. You climb halfway into his lap on the couch without fully realizing you’re doing it, and he exhales sharply into your mouth like the contact nearly kills him.

The kisses deepen slowly, carefully. He lets you set the pace even now. When his tongue brushes lightly against your lower lip, it’s hesitant, asking.

You answer by kissing him deeper. And fuck, the sound he makes. His hand slides down instinctively, gripping softly at your thigh, then lower—curving over your ass through your skirt.

You gasp softly against his mouth, and pleasure sparks hot down your spine. His forehead falls briefly against yours as he exhales shakily. “You’re killing me.”

You laugh breathlessly, dazed and happy and dizzy on him. His mouth trails once along your jaw, then pauses. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Still okay?”

“Yes.”

He kisses you again immediately after that, like he can’t help himself anymore. Slow, deep, and so very starved. While your fingers disappear into his hair, his grip tightens at your waist, pulling you impossibly closer until there’s barely space left between you.

Somewhere between the soft melodies still playing from the kitchen, the city lights flickering like distant candles outside the windows, and the way he says your name against your mouth—a whisper, a prayer, a sacred invocation—you realize this isn’t just longing anymore. It’s home, a belonging that seeps into your bones, warm and inevitable.

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carries you to your sister’s guest room, his lips never leaving yours. 

Michael lays you down on the bed with a gentleness that makes your heart ache, his eyes tracing every line of your face as if memorizing it anew.

The room is bathed in the soft glow of a streetlamp outside, casting long shadows that dance with the sway of distant trees. His hands, rough and warm, slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt higher as he kneels before you. He looks at you with an intensity that makes your breath catch, his brown eyes dark and hungry under hooded lids as he pulls your underwear down your legs.

“So pretty.” He lowers his head, his beard scratching deliciously against your inner thighs as he takes his first taste of you. A low sound rumbles from his chest, vibrating against your skin as he laps at you with a hunger that leaves you gasping. 

He takes his time, savoring you like a man starved, his tongue circling and flicking against your clit with a rhythm that sends waves of pleasure crashing through you.

His fingers join the dance, slipping inside you with a smoothness that makes your back arch off the bed. The sounds of your pleasure fill the room—the slick wetness of his fingers moving in and out of you, the ragged moans escaping your lips, the hushed murmurs of his voice as he whispers filthy promises against your flesh.

He looks up at you then, his eyes wild and dark, completely lost in the taste of you, in the sounds that spill from your lips. Your orgasm hits hard and fast, your body convulsing as you grip his hair tightly, squeezing his head with your thighs as waves of release crash over you.

You were still panting when Robby’s mouth trailed up your belly, your ribs, resting between your breasts like it was a stopping place. His beard was slick with you, his hands strong and gentle where they stroked your hips, your stomach, your trembling thighs. He kissed your sternum, the valley between your breasts, the scars left by the scabs on your arms, then pressed his ear to your chest like he liked hearing what his work had done to your heartbeat.

He looked up at you, hair mussed and lips wet and so goddamn earnest it hurt. “You okay?”

You nodded, still in the afterglow, still not convinced your body would ever fully coalesce again. “More than okay.”

He grinned that soft, private little smile of his—the one he calibrated only for you, infuriatingly shy and possessive at once. You grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up, kissed him hard so you could taste yourself on his tongue, a feral, greedy thing.

You’re still riding the high, boneless and thrumming, you can barely catch your breath, but you manage a tremulous, “You’re going to kill me.”

He just grins, some pride, some gratitude, none of the usual self-effacement. “You’re tough, Ducky.”

You watch him crawl up your body, helping you remove several articles of clothing. Stripping you naked, he gazes every valley, every inch of your skin in such awe as a man who wholeheartedly desires you, your softness, the natural shape and curves of your body.

“You are so fucking beautiful.” He says, bracing himself above you, arms caging you most thrillingly. He’s still fully clothed, but you can feel the length of him hot and insistent through the fabric of his pants, a tease of pressure at your hip. 

You reach for the waistband greedily, and he lets you strip him down, helping only enough to make you feel like you’re the one in charge.

Robby crawled up your body, gold chain around his neck catching in the light, dangling, as he is bracing himself above you, his presence hot and insistent against your hip. You reached for his waistband, pulling him closer. He was heavy, a promise made manifest. 

You lick your lips as you look up at his heated gaze, “That’s not gonna fit.”

“I’ll make it fit.”

Fucking hell.

“Condom?” He asked, and you shook your head, “If you’re okay with it… I’m clean, and I have an IUD.”

“I recently got tested, and haven’t had sex at all during my sabbatical.” Robby breathes heavily.

“At all?” You widened your eyes in surprise, and he chuckled, “All I could think about was you. I wanted no one else.”

You nearly tear up again, then nod, “Okay.”

You looked up at him, breathless and dazed, and the sudden reality of the situation crashed into your head. "Oh, god," you whispered, eyes widening. "HR is going to kill us."

Robby let out a choked, breathless laugh, pressing a wet, scorching kiss. "Ducky, my love, please don't talk about HR when my dick is about to be inside you."

"Sorry," you squeaked, your brain short-circuiting as he pressed into you, the friction sharp and divine. "My brain won’t shut up sometimes."

He huffed, a sound of pure, possessive affection, and kissed you hard, effectively silencing your thoughts.

Robby moans your name in pure bliss. “Fuck, good—good girl. You’re so fucking tight—fuck.” He began to rock into you, steady and rhythmic, his eyes locked on yours. “You’re taking it so well.”

In the dim light of the apartment, with the city breathing outside the window, nothing else mattered—not the job, not the risks, only the way he grounded you, pulling you impossibly closer until the two of you were moving as one.

The laughter dies in your throat, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of breath as he commits to the motion. It’s a slow, deliberate slide, a physical realization of the hunger that’s been stalking the edges of your perception for years. 

You aren’t ready for the sheer weight of him, the way he seems to displace everything else in the room—the air, the sound of the rain, the lingering anxiety of your jobs.

“Ahhh.” The sound escapes you, not as a cry, but as a shaky, stuttered exhale. He’s stopped, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, watching you with eyes that look like molten copper in the low light. He’s waiting. Always waiting for you to catch up.

"Okay?" he whispers, his voice dropping into that register—the one that usually steadies a crashing patient, but now is meant solely for you.

"Keep going," you manage, your fingers digging into the firm muscles of his shoulders, your legs tangling with his to pull him tighter. "Please."

He huffs, a low, rumbling sound in his chest, and then he moves. It starts slow—a deliberate, agonizingly sweet pace that stretches you, makes you feel full and centered and completely his.

The friction is electric, a heat that builds behind your navel and radiates outward, turning your limbs to water. 

He leans down, and his lips find the crook of your elbow, then drift down to the faded white lines on your forearm. He presses a lingering, reverent kiss there, his beard grazing your sensitive skin. It’s a gesture of such profound acknowledgment—that he sees the history etched into your skin and wants it all—that you nearly lose your rhythm, your breath hitching in your chest.

“Mmm—ah! Please—” You arch your back, gasping as he catches the pace, his hips connecting with yours with a steady, relentless thud. 

He grunts, "That's it, just like that.” The bed creaks, a rhythmic, wooden groan that joins the soundtrack of your night. 

You can feel him everywhere—the heavy, solid presence of his thighs against yours, the heat of his sweat, the way he watches you with an intensity that makes you feel naked even beneath the tangle of sheets.

"I— fuck, oh, Michael—" you babble, but the words dissolve into a fragmented oh as he hits a nerve, a spot so deep and precise it sends a jolt of lightning straight down to your toes.

"You like that?" he murmurs against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. He’s not laughing anymore. The humor from a moment ago has been incinerated by the raw, kinetic energy of the act. He sounds desperate, starved. 

"Michael, please!" you moan, your voice a desperate plea. 

He shifts, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin, anchoring you to the mattress. "I've got you, I've got you.”

He rocks into you, deeper this time, and you feel the way he shudders, the way he’s fighting to hold back for you, even when he’s so clearly on the edge himself.

He makes a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. You’re spinning, the room tilting as the pressure mounts. You can see the veins corded in his neck, the way his jaw is set, his lips pulled back slightly as he battles his own control. 

"Look at me," he commands softly.

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. It’s like looking into a furnace. There’s no ambiguity left, no "HR," no "traitor," no jokes about emergency medicine. Just two people, finally, finally finding each other in the dark.

"I’ve wanted this," he whispers, his voice cracking. "Since the first time you walked into the break room with that stupid coffee mug."

"That was years ago," you gasp, your nails digging into his back as the waves start to crash. 

"I know," he grunts, his movements accelerating, the rhythm becoming a blur of friction and heat. "I’ve been waiting since the first time I saw you smile at a patient. I've been waiting forever."

His words shatter the last of your composure. You stop thinking about the job, the risk, the fallout. You just let go. Your core tightens, pulling him closer, wanting to consume him.

“Ah! Ah, Robby!” You scream his name, a soft, high sound that gets swallowed by the room as your body begins to convulse, the release hitting you like a physical blow.

He doesn’t break his gaze. He watches you fall apart, his face twisting in a mix of pride and fierce possessiveness, and then he gives a final, powerful thrust, letting out a sharp, ragged shout that sounds like a prayer. 

He collapses onto you, his forehead resting against yours, his body heavy and warm, shuddering with the aftershocks.

For a long time, the only sound in the guest room is the two of you—sucking in great, lung-filling breaths, the rapid thump-thump of your heart against his, the soft, distant hum of New York continuing on as if the world hadn't just tilted on its axis.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hair damp against his forehead, his face flushed and wrecked in the most beautiful way. He reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your temple, his touch so light it borders on worship.

"You okay?" he asks again, his voice gravelly, stripped raw.

You can only nod, unable to string a coherent sentence together. You feel boneless, melted into the mattress, your skin humming with the memory of him. 

He chuckles, a low, exhausted sound that vibrates in his chest against yours. He shifts, rolling onto his side but refusing to break contact, dragging you with him so you’re flush against his side, his arm draped possessively over your waist. 

"HR," he mutters, his voice heavy with sleepiness and smug satisfaction. "You were worried about HR."

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him—soap, rain, and the faint, musky scent of sex. You laugh, a soft, bubbly sound that feels lighter than air. "Shut up," you murmur.

"No, I’m just saying," he teases, kissing the top of your head. "If they have a problem with it, they’ll have to get through me first."

"You're a doctor, Michael. You're supposed to save people, not threaten the administration."

"I can do both," he whispers against your hair. "I'm a multi-tasker."

You drift into a haze, the reality of the night settling over you like a warm blanket. You’re in your sister’s guest room. The city is still breathing outside. And beside you, the man you’ve been pining for is finally, truly, yours. 

The silence that follows isn’t empty; it’s thick with the unspoken promises of the hours to come. You close your eyes, the exhaustion of the shift and the emotional vertigo of the last hour finally pulling you under. 

"Ducky?" he whispers just before you drift off.

"Hm?"

"Stay," he says. Not a command, just a plea. 

You snuggle closer, tucking your hand under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere."

He sighs, a sound of profound relief, a soft whoosh of air against your ear, and pulls the duvet up higher over both of you, cocooning you in warmth. In the darkness, you can still feel the echo of him, the phantom pressure of his skin against yours, a map of where you’ve been and where you’re going.

A moment of blissful quiet passes, then a new thought surfaces, cutting through the dreamy haze. “But I do need to pee,” you mumble, a slight groan escaping you, “cause UTI is not particularly fun.”

Michael’s hand, which had been resting gently on your hip, gives a soft squeeze. “Smart girl. Don’t want any nasty infections ruining our glow.” He shifts, and you feel the cool air momentarily as he moves to the bedside table. A warm, damp cloth is gently dabbed between your legs, cleaning you with an unexpected tenderness. 

His fingers are careful, reassuring. “There,” he murmurs, his voice low, “all clean. Now go do your business.”

You untangle yourself from the sheets, the sudden coolness of the room a stark contrast to the warmth of his body. A small thump as your feet hit the carpet. You pad across the room, the floorboards creaking softly under your weight, and slip into the adjoining bathroom. The familiar flush of the toilet sounds remarkably loud in the quiet apartment.

When you emerge, Robby is already sitting up, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Feel better?”

“Infinitely,” you sigh, stretching your arms above your head. “Now what?”

“Now?” He pats the spot beside him. “Now, we get properly clean.” He swings his legs out of bed, the duvet sliding down with a soft swish. “Shower?”

You nod, a grin spreading across your face. “Definitely shower.”

He takes your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours, and leads you into the bathroom. The air is cool, but a moment later, the shower starts, a steady stream of water hitting the tiles. Steam begins to curl, blurring the edges of the mirror. You step in first, feeling the initial cold spray, then the welcoming warmth as the water adjusts.

Robby steps in behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you against his front. The water cascades over both of you, a comforting roar. He presses kisses to your shoulder, his lips warm and wet. “Mmm, you smell good,” he hums, a deep, resonant sound in your ear.

His beard, a soft brush of dark hair with those intriguing silver strands at the temples, tickles your skin as he trails kisses down your neck, then along your collarbone. The giggle you let out is a light, airy sound, as his beard brushes against a particularly sensitive spot. “Stop, you’re tickling me!” You squirm playfully in his embrace, but he only holds you tighter.

“Am I?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. “Good. I like your giggles.” He continues his assault of soft kisses, his hands moving over your skin, soaping your back with slow, deliberate strokes. You lean back into him, letting the warm water and his ministrations wash away any lingering tension.

You reach for the soap, then gently take his hands, turning to face him. You begin to wash his chest, your fingers tracing the firm lines of his muscles, the softness of his belly, feeling the rise and fall of his breath.

He closes his eyes, a soft moan escaping his lips as your fingers glide over his skin. “Mmmph,” he sighs contentedly, leaning his head back against the tiled wall, letting you take control.

You work the soap into his hair, feeling the thick strands between your fingers, the soft grey at his temples contrasting with the darker brown. He lets out a soft groan of pleasure as you massage his scalp, his body relaxing completely against yours. “That feels… incredible, Ducky.”

“Only the best for my favorite doctor,” you tease, rinsing the shampoo from his hair. The water streams down his face, washing away the suds. He opens his eyes, droplets clinging to his dark lashes.

His gaze is intense, full of a raw, tender emotion that makes your breath catch. He reaches out, cupping your face in his hands, his thumbs gently stroking your cheeks. “You know, I’ve been in love with you for so long, Ducky.” His voice is a low rumble, earnest and raw, barely audible over the shower’s spray.

“Since that first day you tripped over your own feet in the ER and spilled coffee all over my scrubs.” He chuckles softly, a deep, rich sound. “I thought, ‘Well, that’s just adorable.’ And then you apologized for about five minutes straight, looking like a drowned kitten.”

You remember that day, a wave of heat rising to your cheeks. “I was mortified!” you protest, a soft laugh bubbling up. “You just stood there, looking all… stoic and intimidating with your perfectly pressed scrubs.”

“Stoic, maybe,” he corrects, a playful glint in his eyes. “Intimidated? Never. Fascinated? Absolutely.” He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours, the water still cascading over both of you. “You’re everything I didn’t know I was looking for.”

A tremor runs through you, a delicious shiver that has nothing to do with the temperature of the water. “Oh, Robby,” you whisper, using the affectionate nickname that feels so right on your tongue, a name you’ve never dared utter before tonight. “You’re so in love with me, aren’t you?”

He pulls back slightly, a wide, genuine smile breaking across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Hmph,” he grunts playfully, a sound of pure affection. “Is it that obvious?” He leans in again, his lips finding yours under the spray, a long, deep kiss that tastes of water and passion and a future you’d only dared to dream of.

After the shower, wrapped in thick, fluffy towels from your sister’s linen closet, you pad back into the guest room. The city outside is beginning to stir, a faint increase in the distant traffic hum. Michael sits on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair dry, his gaze fixed on you as you search for clothes.

“What are we going to tell Dana?” you ask, your voice a little shaky as you pull on a soft t-shirt. “She’s going to flip.”

Michael throws his towel over a chair. “We tell her the truth,” he says, his voice calm, but with an underlying steel. “That we’re together. That it’s serious.” He stands, walking over to you, his hands finding your waist. “She loves you like her own kids, Ducky. She’ll understand, and besides… pretty sure she won everyone’s money with Ahmad’s betting board.”

“But… the hospital,” you murmur, the worry creeping back in. “HR. Our jobs. It’s a huge conflict of interest, Michael. We both know the rules and how this looks.” A knot tightens in your stomach. The thrill of the night was giving way to the cold reality of your professional lives.

He pulls you closer, his warmth a comforting presence against your growing anxiety. “I know the rules,” he acknowledges, his voice softer now. “And we’ll navigate them. We’ll be discreet. We’ll be smart.” He cups your face, forcing you to look at him. His eyes, usually so serious and focused in the operating room, are now filled with a tender resolve. “Are you regretting this?”

You shake your head, a quick, emphatic movement. “Never. Not a single second. I’ve wanted this for so long, Michael.” Your voice cracks slightly. “It’s just… scary.”

“I know,” he whispers, pulling you into a tight hug, his chin resting on the top of your head. “Shhh, Ducky. I know. But we’re in this together, okay? We’ll figure it out.” He presses a soft kiss to your hair. “I wouldn’t trade last night, or any future night with you, for anything. Not a promotion, not a perfect record, nothing.”

You bury your face in his chest, inhaling the clean scent of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear. “Mmmph,” you hum, a sound of both comfort and lingering worry. “I’m glad you said that.”

He pulls back slightly, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Besides,” he says, his voice dropping to a teasing whisper, “who’s going to tell HR that Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Chief Emergency Medicine, is madly in love with the best emergency nurse in the hospital? I’d like to see them try.” He winks. “They’d have to get through a very protective Robby first.”

You laugh, a nervous but genuine sound. “Still threatening the administration, are we?”

“Only when it comes to you,” he says, his smile softening, his gaze full of adoration. He gently strokes your cheek with his thumb. “I’m not letting you go, Ducky. Not now, not ever.”

The sun begins to peek through the curtains, casting long, pale streaks across the room. The city outside is fully awake now, a symphony of distant horns and the rumble of delivery trucks. The world was moving on, oblivious to the momentous shift that had occurred in your small corner of it. But for you, nestled in Michael’s arms, the future, with all its challenges, suddenly felt less daunting. You had him. And that, you realized, was everything.

The day before your sister and her boyfriend are due back from their trip, Michael asks you out again.

You are standing in the kitchen in fuzzy socks and one of your oversized sweaters, sleep-mussed hair clipped back badly while coffee brews beside you. Bowie is sprawled upside down across the floor nearby, watching you with the intensity of a Victorian child dying of consumption because breakfast is thirty seconds late.

The apartment smells like coffee and cold November air drifting through the slightly cracked kitchen window.

Michael leans against the counter across from you, arms folded loosely over his chest. He’s freshly showered, wearing a dark Henley with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and he’s looking at you with that soft, hopeless expression he gets now when he forgets to guard himself.

“So,” he says casually. Immediately, your eyes narrow. “That tone means trouble.” A grin pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth. “Go on another date with me?”

You pretend to think very seriously about it while stirring cream into your coffee. “Hm,” you hum thoughtfully. “Depends.”

“On?”

“What’s the date?”

“A picnic.”

You blink once.

“A picnic?”

“In Central Park.”

There’s something so earnest about the way he says it that your chest hurts a little. This is a man who spent years speaking in trauma protocols and dry sarcasm, and now he’s standing in your sister’s kitchen asking you on a picnic like a teenager with a crush.

You stare at him for another second before smiling helplessly into your mug. “That’s disgustingly cute.”

“I’m trying very hard here.”

“You really are.”

He is, that’s the thing. Michael Robinavitch has always loved intensely. Like a flood. Something all-consuming and frightening in its depth. But now—after the burnout, after the grief, after the running and finally turning around and coming back—he’s learning how to love gently too.

CENTRAL PARK — DAY 

The afternoon is freezing in that crisp November way that bites at your cheeks and turns your nose pink, no matter how deeply your hands stay shoved in your coat pockets.

Central Park looks unreal.

Burnt orange leaves blanket the walking paths. Trees glow gold against the pale sky while bundled-up New Yorkers wander past with scarves tucked up to their noses and coffee cups in mittened hands. Somewhere nearby, someone is playing a saxophone badly enough to be charming.

Michael insisted on carrying almost everything.

Which means he currently has the picnic basket in one hand, blanket tucked under his arm, and your tote bag slung over his shoulder because apparently this is now his personal romantic pilgrimage.

“You know,” you say while walking beside him, “I actually do have functioning arms.”

“I’m aware.” He hums. You gesture to everything that he’s holding, “You’re literally carrying all the bags.”

“Correct.”

“You’re being weirdly macho about this.”

“I’m courting you.”

You bark out a laugh loud enough that a woman walking her poodle glances over, while Robby only looks smug. 

“You say courting like you were born in 1942.” You teased, and he smirks, “Maybe I was.”

“You absolutely were.”

By the time you settle near the water, your coffee is lukewarm, and your fingers are freezing, but you don’t think you’ve stopped smiling once.

The blanket is spread beneath a tree dusted in orange leaves. Around you, the park hums softly with life. There’s distant laughter, joggers, and dogs barking somewhere farther down the path.

The picnic itself is almost offensively thoughtful.

Sandwiches from the deli you mentioned liking once in passing. Pastries from the bakery he dragged you into earlier because, according to him, “You looked at the cinnamon rolls too long.” Fresh fruit. Coffee. Little packets of hot chocolate were shoved into the basket “for emergencies.”

You sit cross-legged beside him while he opens containers and hands you food with the kind of quiet attentiveness that makes your chest ache.

Then there’s the touching. Dear God. Dr. Michael Robinavitch cannot keep his hands off you. Not necessarily in a vulgar way or intentionally, really.

It’s worse than that.

Hopelessly affectionate.

His hand settles automatically on your thigh while you talk. Fingers rubbing absent circles through your tights while he listens to you complain about Mateo nearly setting a microwave on fire one time in the break room.

Then later, while you’re laughing, his hand drifts to your waist beneath your coat. He just needs contact. 

Because being near you has become instinctive now. Every so often, he kisses you absentmindedly during conversation. Your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your jaw. Those little touches of affection that still make your brain short-circuit every single time.

You’re halfway through telling him another story about Dana bullying Langdon when Michael suddenly leans over and presses a kiss against the side of your neck.

Your entire sentence dies instantly, and you stop talking mid-word and slowly turn to stare at him. “Michael.”

“Hm?” he asks innocently, mouth still dangerously close to your skin.

“We are in public.”

“No one’s looking.”

You gape at him. “Sir, there are literally children fifteen feet away.” He glances over briefly, shrugs, “They seem busy.”

You smack his shoulder lightly, horrified laughter escaping you. “Michael Robinavitch.”

He only grins against your cheek, utterly shameless now.

Somewhere in the last few days, he’s become almost drunk on being allowed to love you openly. But honestly? You think maybe he deserves to be.

Then somehow—somehow—his hand slips lower beneath your coat until his warm palm settles over your ass possessively through your skirt.

Your mouth actually falls open against his shoulder. “Michael,” you whisper, scandalized and breathless all at once.

“What?” he murmurs, not even pretending innocence very well anymore.

“You are being insane right now.”

“You started it.”

“I absolutely did not.”

He gestures vaguely toward you. “You wore this skirt knowing I’m weak.”

You burst into laughter so suddenly that you nearly choke on your own coffee. “Oh my fucking God.”

You hide your burning face against his shoulder while he looks unbearably pleased with himself, arm tightening around your waist as your laughter shakes against him.

And the thing is—he’s happier now. You can feel it in every small thing. He’s not magically healed. Some mornings, he still goes quiet in ways that worry you, and some nights he still wakes up tense from dreams he won’t fully explain.

But he’s lighter, more present. He’s finally allowing himself to imagine a future again instead of just surviving one shift at a time.

One of the things he wants in that future is very obviously you. The realization still startles you sometimes. The fact that someone can look at you—with your scabs, scars, your anxiety, your messiness, your tendency to pull away when things become too real—and still choose you this completely.

Robby catches you staring at him.

You hadn’t even realized you were doing it. Your head resting against his shoulder while the wind coming off the water turns colder by the minute, leaves skittering across the grass around the picnic blanket. The late afternoon sun hangs low now, all honey-gold and soft around him.

He looks back at you, brows lifting slightly. “What?” You shake your head softly before you can stop the smile spreading across your face.

“I love you.” Your voice comes out quieter than expected, shy despite everything. “Mahal kita.”

The words settle between you tenderly. For a second, he just looks at you. It physically hurts him to be loved this much. Then your hand reaches for his instinctively across the blanket, and he takes it immediately, fingers slotting between yours like they were always meant to fit there.

His gaze searches your face carefully, almost reverently. Then he says your real name. Not Ducky or some teasing nickname. Your actual name, spoken with that unmistakable American roughness still clinging to the syllables. Imperfect accent and all. “Mahal kita.”

Your breath catches, because he says it carefully. Just as he practiced. He wanted to get it right for you, and maybe that’s what destroys you most.

You laugh softly through sudden tears, and then he’s kissing you before either of you can say anything else. Slow and wholehearted. The kind of kiss that feels less like heat and more like surrender. You kiss him back just as fully, your hand sliding up into his hair while his palm cups your jaw like he still can’t quite believe you’re real and all you can feel is him.

Later, you’re curled together on the picnic blanket beneath his coat, your legs tangled with his.

Robby’s arm is wrapped around your waist while the fingers of his other hand move absently along your skin, tracing. His thumb brushes lightly over the faint scars near the creases of your elbows. Pale marks mixed among healing patches from recent flare-ups.

His touch slows.

“How’d all this happen?” he asks quietly. There’s no judgment in it, only concern. You glance down at your arms for a moment before shrugging lightly. “Atopic dermatitis,” you say. “Skin asthma basically. Had it my whole life.”

His brows pinch slightly while you continue softly, “It gets worse with stress sometimes. Allergies too. I only recently started immunotherapy for it.”

His thumb traces carefully along one of the faded scars like he’s trying not to hurt you. “Does it hurt?”

“Sometimes.” You shrug again. “Mostly during flare-ups. It burns more than anything. Feels like my skin’s angry at me.”

His expression tightens immediately at that. You know that look. It’s the physician in him cataloguing symptoms automatically. The man in him hates that you’ve suffered quietly beside him for this long. “When do you go next?”

“Next Saturday.”

He nods once, thinking, then, “Can I come with you?”

You blink at him.

“It’s literally upstairs from the ED,” you say with a small laugh. “One of the outpatient allergy clinics.”

“I still want to come.”

The answer comes immediately. He presses a kiss against the side of your head while his hand stays warm over your arm.

You look at him for a second before sighing fondly. “It’s not a huge deal, Robby. They give me the injection, then I wait around for observation afterward to make sure I don’t have a reaction bad enough to send me downstairs to the ER.” You grin slightly. “Which, thankfully, hasn’t happened.”

His face does not look reassured.

“Atopic patients can still develop anaphylaxis during immunotherapy,” he mutters automatically. “Oh my God,” you laugh. “You sound like Uptodate.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

His hand tightens around yours slightly.

“Then I’ll wait with you,” he says quietly. “I don’t ever want to be downstairs working a shift and suddenly see you come through those ambulance doors as my patient.”

The sincerity in his voice knocks something loose in your chest, and you smile softly at him. “We’d have to disclose the relationship by then,” you point out gently. “People are gonna be confused why the Chief Attending of the PTMC ED is hovering upstairs during my allergy appointment.”

Robby doesn’t even hesitate. “Then we do the paperwork.”

You stare at him, and he shrugs lightly. “Our relationship didn’t start in the hospital anyway. It happened during your leave and my sabbatical. HR’s probably just gonna make sure there’s no favoritism or conflict with staffing.”

You pick at the sleeve of his coat thoughtfully.

“Worst case scenario,” you murmur, “they transfer me somewhere else in the hospital.” His jaw tightens instantly. Because you both know how these systems work sometimes. Especially for women. 

You look at him carefully. “You know how it is.” Robby nods once slowly, eyes darkening. Then, very calmly says, “I’ll fight the whole board if I have to.”

You snort. “Even Gloria?”

“Especially Gloria.”

That gets a real laugh out of you, “My hero.”

But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he turns toward you more fully, expression serious in that devastatingly earnest way he gets sometimes now. “‘M serious, Ducky,” he says quietly. “I’ll step down as Chief Attending if I have to.”

Your eyes widen immediately.

“What—Robby, wait.” You push yourself upright to look at him properly. “That’s your whole career.”

“And you’re you.”

The answer comes so simply that it nearly steals the air from your lungs. As if it’s obvious. Plain as day. There was never even a choice.

His hand slides into yours again.

“I spent my whole life thinking the job was the only thing in my life worth keeping,” he says softly. “I’m not doing that anymore.”

Emotion climbs painfully into your throat. Because this man—this impossible, stubborn, honest man—is looking at you like loving you is not a burden or a sacrifice. But something sacred enough to rearrange his life around.

You shake your head a little, overwhelmed. “You can’t keep saying things like that to me.” A tiny smile pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Why?”

“Because eventually I’m gonna believe you.”

The look he gives you then—warm, wrecked, completely certain—feels a little bit like standing in sunlight after surviving winter.

“Good.”

Your chest aches because your feelings always come out sideways when they become too overwhelming. You murmur against his shoulder, “And then we’re gonna end up with a house by a pond.”

His brows furrow instantly. “How did you—”  You grin immediately. “Samira.” His eyes widen slightly in betrayal. “She told you?”

“She told me before she left Pittsburgh for her fellowship,” you say smugly. Then his expression changes completely. “She left?”

The amusement softens from your face, and you nod gently. “Mhm.”

A cold breeze rustles through the trees overhead while the light over the park deepens more softly and gold.

“She finished residency,” you continue quietly. “We had a whole goodbye party in the staff lounge. I cried first, obviously. Then Dana started crying because I was crying. Then everyone else followed.”

Robby huffs out a faint laugh at that, but it fades quickly.

“I thought she would’ve…” He trails off, gaze drifting toward the water. “I don’t know. Stayed in Pittsburgh.”

You shake your head a little. “I don’t think you realized how competitive PTMC got for fellowships.”

“Yeah,” he mutters softly. “Damn.”

There’s something sad about the way he says it, wistful. He blinked and suddenly the residents he trained are becoming attendings somewhere else. Building lives outside the hospital halls where he first met them.

You squeeze his hand gently. “She was one of your best.” He nods immediately. “Yeah.”

You lean over and kiss his cheek softly, smiling when his beard tickles your lips.

“She’s smart,” you murmur. “Resilient. Kind. Every bit as hardworking as she thinks she has to be.” You smile a little. “She’ll be okay.”

Robby stares quietly at the river for another moment before admitting softly, “I wish I wasn’t such an asshole to her last shift.”

The Fourth of July shift. You both know the one, the shift that cracked him open. You lean back slightly to look at him properly. The regret on his face is real, and you brush your thumb along his wrist gently.

“We were all trying to survive that day,” you say quietly. “Some of us just did it better than others.”

His eyes flick toward yours.

You shrug softly.

“We make choices with the version of ourselves we have at the time. Sometimes they’re messy. Sometimes we hurt people.” Your voice gentles further. “That doesn’t mean we stop deserving the chance to become better afterward.”

Something in his expression falters at that. Because he still doesn’t fully know what to do with forgiveness when it’s offered freely.

Especially yours.

The silence that settles afterward feels comfortable, the kind you don’t need to fill.

You curl closer beneath his coat, tucking your face against his chest while his arms close around you automatically. The steady weight of him surrounds you instantly, grounding and safe.

You can hear his heartbeat as it slows down to a rhythmic calm. His chin rests lightly on top of your head, listening to the ambience that Central Park provides

After a while, almost without thinking, you begin humming softly against him. Just a little melody under your breath. Quiet enough that anyone else would miss it beneath the wind and distant traffic.

But Michael notices immediately, because you always sing when you’re content. He figured that out months ago during rare late-night shifts when you’d hum absentmindedly while organizing meds or charting at three in the morning.

Now, wrapped up together while the city glows gold around you, he closes his eyes briefly just to listen.

Your voice is soft, sleepy, and tender around the edges. Suddenly, he’s struck with the terrifying realization that this—this right here—is the closest he’s ever come to peace.

You in his arms, humming softly while the world keeps moving around the two of you. His hand slides slowly up your back, holding you closer, and quietly, against your hair, he whispers, “I could listen to you forever.”

You smile faintly against his chest. “Forever seems like a really long time.”

He leans back just enough to look at you, then the expression on his face is so unbearably tender it almost hurts to hold. The kind of look that makes you understand, all at once, why poets used to write themselves sick over love.

His thumb brushes softly beneath your eye. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s kinda the point.”

Your breath catches a little because he says it so simply, as if forever isn’t frightening to him anymore if it includes you.

The wind shifts colder around you, but his coat is wrapped around both your shoulders now, his warmth completely surrounding you. “I used to think forever sounded exhausting,” you admit softly.

Michael hums quietly. “How come?”

You shrug a little against him.

“I don’t know. I think…” Your fingers twist lightly into the fabric of his sweater. “I think when you spend most of your life waiting for good things to disappear, you stop trusting permanence.”

His face changes immediately at that, since he understands that feeling too well. So instead of trying to argue with it, he just presses a slow kiss against your forehead and says quietly, “Then we’ll take it one day at a time.”

Your eyes sting unexpectedly. No promises too huge to carry or impossible guarantees. Only choosing each other again and again for as long as you can. Something about that feels even more romantic than forever ever did. You smile shakily. “That sounds suspiciously healthy.”

“I’ve been to therapy now,” he says dryly. “I’m insufferable.”

You laugh softly, and the sound lights something warm inside his chest immediately. The terrifying, miraculous realization that happiness still exists for him after all.

He wraps his arms tighter around you instinctively, burying his face briefly into your hair. And quietly—so quietly you almost miss it—he says, “I really thought I lost my chance with you.”

Your heart squeezes painfully.

You pull back enough to look at him fully. The evening light catches in his tired brown eyes. The faint silver at his temples. The softness he spent years trying to bury beneath competence and exhaustion and grief.

You touch his face gently. “You came back.” A pause, then his forehead rests against yours. “Yeah,” he whispers. “I did.”

Later, after the picnic is packed away and the blanket folded up unevenly because Michael absolutely refuses to let you help, he carries nearly everything despite your protests.

The basket hangs from one hand while the tote bag digs into his shoulder. “You’re gonna throw your back out,” you warn.

“I’m fifty-three, not eighty.”

You snort immediately. “You made a dad noise standing up earlier.”

“That was on purpose.”

“Mhm.”

“It was.”

You give him a skeptical look while walking beside him through the glowing November evening. Then, without missing a beat, he adds, “Besides, you liked the noises I made last—” You choke on your own spit. “Okay!” you yelp loudly, scandalized. “Calm down, ER Cowboy.”

Michael looks entirely too pleased with himself. “You started it.”

“I literally did not.”

“You looked at me in a manner.”

“Oh, my God.”

He laughs then, open and warm and surprised out of him. The sun begins to set slowly by the time you make it to the Hudson River promenade. The skyline stretches across the water in shimmering gold and glass. Sunset melts through the sky in layers—orange fading into pink, fading into deep bruised blue. The river catches all of it, liquid fire rippling beneath the wind.

People pass around you bundled in coats and scarves, couples walking hand in hand, joggers slowing as evening settles in. Michael walks slightly closer to the street side automatically. You notice that quickly, the tiny unconscious things he does now that scream care louder than words.

When the wind gets sharper, his hand settles against your lower back. You shiver slightly, and he immediately asks, “You cold?”

“I’m Filipino,” you deadpan. “Anything below seventy degrees feels like psychological warfare.” He huffs a laugh through his nose and immediately starts unwrapping his scarf. You try to protest, “Michael, no.”

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m literally fine.”

“You’re lying.” Before you can argue further, he loops the scarf gently around your neck anyway, fingers brushing your skin in the process.

Your cheeks warm instantly.

“There,” he says softly, adjusting it once. “Better.”

“You know this is how old men flirt, right?”

His mouth twitches. “Good thing I’m ancient.”

You glance over at him then. At the softened lines around his eyes now. The healthier color in his face from months away. The way he doesn’t seem quite so haunted standing still anymore. Somehow, the sight of it makes your chest ache worse than the sadness ever did.

Because this version of him—hopeful, trying, letting himself want things—feels unbearably precious. “You okay?” he asks quietly after catching you staring again.

You blink. “Yeah.” He studies your face for another second like he’s checking whether you mean it. Before he gently bumps his shoulder against yours. “C’mere.”

You move closer immediately, your arm slipping through his while you continue walking beside the river.

The city glows around you, alive and bright. The kind of evening that makes even strangers seem softer somehow.

Michael starts telling you another story from the cruise, then. Something about accidentally ending up at a family karaoke night in the Philippines section of the ship because a Lola physically dragged him there after hearing him say he knew one Filipino word.

You’re already laughing before he even finishes. “She made me sing.”

“Oh no.”

“I didn’t know the song.”

“What song?”

“I don’t know,” he says defensively. “It had emotions.” You laugh so hard you nearly walk into the railing. “And then,” he continues with growing offense, “they scored me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“How bad?” You asked, and his silence answers for him, while you gasp dramatically. “Robinavitch!”

“I was set up.”

“You lost karaoke to Filipino titas?”

“They were vicious.”

You are fully doubled over laughing now, clinging to his arm while he watches you with that helplessly fond expression again, because the truth is, your joy itself is something sacred to him.

Eventually, your laughter softens into quiet again as you both stop near the railing overlooking the water. The sun hangs low now, huge and golden, while the skyline burns softly beneath it.

You lean against the railing beside him, shoulders brushing lightly in the cold. Softly, almost without meaning to, you say, “I’ve never really liked sunsets.”

Michael looks over immediately. “Why?”

You shrug a little, eyes fixed on the horizon. “They always made me sad.” The wind lifts your hair gently. “Like…” You pause, searching for the right words. “Endings, I guess.”

Your fingers curl together against the cold metal railing.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. Then quietly, you add, “But today…” You glance toward the water again, sunset painting everything gold and amber. “…today I like it.”

Michael’s expression softens instantly.

“It’s beautiful.”

He steps closer behind you then, both arms wrapping loosely around your waist while his chin settles lightly against your shoulder. The kind of closeness that quiets something restless inside you.

The river glows ahead in streaks of molten gold while the sun slowly sinks behind the skyline, buildings turning amber at the edges as evening settles over the city.

You lean back into him instinctively, and somewhere between the cold air and his heartbeat against your back and the way his fingers absentmindedly trace slow patterns against your coat, you realize something has changed inside you, too.

Ever since Robby showed up at your sister’s apartment, soaked from the rain, heart cracked open in his hands, asking you to come back, mornings have stopped feeling so heavy.

You used to wake up with dread sitting quietly in your chest. The kind that came from too many shifts, too much grief, too many years spent surviving instead of living. Even good things used to feel temporary. Fragile. Like happiness was something borrowed that would eventually be taken back.

But now—now you catch yourself looking forward to things.

Waking up to coffee in the kitchen while he stands there, sleepy and warm and annoyingly handsome. Hearing him shuffle down the hallway in the morning. To the way he always reaches for you first without thinking. To sunlight creeping through apartment windows while New York wakes up around the two of you.

You started looking forward to the sunshine greeting you every morning.

Because for the first time in a very long time, tomorrow no longer feels like something you have to endure alone.

Robby presses a soft kiss just beneath your ear.

“What’re you thinking about?” he murmurs.

You smile faintly, eyes still fixed on the sunset. “That maybe life doesn’t feel as scary anymore.”

His arms tighten around you slightly at that, while you turn your head slightly toward him.

“And I think…” Your voice softens. “I think you ruined me a little.” That earns the quietest laugh from him, warm against your skin. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“How?”

You glance up at him finally, and fuck, the tenderness in his face nearly undoes you again. “You made me want things.”

You can actually see the impact your words have on him happen. His expression falters slightly, emotion moving across his face too fast to fully hide. Because he knows exactly what you mean. Wanting things again is terrifying. It means hope, risk, and imagining a future and caring enough that losing it would hurt.

Robby’s hand slips into yours carefully, fingers threading together while the last light of sunset catches against the silver strands of his beard. For a moment, he just looks at you, and then quietly, honestly, he says, “Good.”

End Notes:

writing smut and fluff with my mood being all over the place is a testament to my meds and my therapist, so gg on that

lol sorry for not updating as frequently as before but I told you guys I was gonna take it slow for a bit cuz brain go brrrr and that one anon pmo lol

The whole pigeon and rat convo is based on an actual convo I have with my older sister, so… yeah.

^^It’s because we have to be smart all the time, so it’s fun to sometimes shut down your brain and think of silly, whimsical, “stupid” things.

Halfway through the haze of smut, I wrote I was like “OH SHIT PROTECTION WAIT—”

When they mentioned Ho'oponopono during S1 of the Pitt, I was like, oh my god I KNOW HOW I'M GONNA MAKE EM ADMIT THEY’RE IN LOVE— ahem anyways, Chekov's gun.

“Who took care of Bowie while you guys went out?” - Answer: The dog walker/ neighbor. Me. I am the dog walker. Just imagine me, Grace is the dog walker. He’s fine, guys dw. I, the author, deem him fine and alive. Gave him belly rubs, too.

Been switching back and forth with this, my Jack Abbot fic, and then the soulmate au I’m still cooking up on…

Anyways, yay, HR mess is gonna be fun. Dw, it’s light angst. I’m sure irl if this were to happen, HR would be unhappy! Cause ethics or whatever 😔

But I am the author, therefore I say… HR can eat my ass—

Ok, I’m tired. Thank you for reading my ramblings. If you made it this far, you get a cookie and a gold star.

Taglist: @orodaeh @karleyyjaee @allenajade-ite @glitterspark @bumbl3-b33z @sarahhxx03 @mirandarockin @sourmooonlight @sunflower911 @tedmustache @wastingspaces @princessesareforsuckers @anykent-grayson @brucewaynegfreal @katethedilfhunter @barnes70stark @kneelforloki @imonmykneessir @emneedshelp @darlingimafangirl @silas-aeiou @rei-scorpio @redhooduwu @thesnugglingduck @blondedlvfe @blackwidownat2814 @pagesaftermidnight @soyelfleureon @battyvonkreep @mscreativity @ravyn94 @jeshomie @follows-the-life-ahead @sommywithluv @whatupbuttercup2019 @calytrixsworld @twizzlelutz @mikariell95 @lilykillco

You nod and pull up your Notes app, scrolling through the messy bullet points you’ve been keeping since that night.

“Okay. Um.” You clear your throat. “I was able to talk through with a patient. He’s in outpatient therapy now. He actually thanked me last week.”

Neil smiles. “That’s big.”

“Yeah.” You scroll. “Robby found out about my birthday.”

You can’t help the small smile that creeps in.

“And?”

“It wasn’t the worst thing in the world.”

Neil tilts his head knowingly.

“He sang to me on the rooftop and then walked me home.”

You don’t add how you cried. How he walked you home. How you replayed it in your head more times than you’d admit.

“Losses?” Neil prompts gently.

You swallow.

“Leah.” The name still stings. “Jake still won’t talk to Robby.”

You inhale slowly.

“The MCI.” You don’t elaborate. You don’t have to.

“And one of our Senior Residents is on leave,” you add. “Substance use. It… hit the department harder than we expected.”

Neil lets the silence sit respectfully.

“Do you still think of him?” he asks softly.

You don’t pretend to misunderstand.

“Every day.”

Maybe grief and love have started sharing the same hallway in your chest.

“What do you think would happen,” Neil asks carefully, “if you did ask Robby out?”

You lean back in your chair, staring at the ceiling.

“I don’t know if I can risk ruining one of the most important relationships I have, Neil.”

You say it simply. Just truth.

The ED is chaos.

Your life is chaos.

He is one of the best things to happen to you.

You don’t know who you’d be without that.

“What are you doing after work?” Neil asks. “How’s the hobby situation?”

You huff softly.

“I still read. Take long walks by the park. Journal every now and then.”

“You seeing friends?”

“Sometimes. Dana forces me out.”

He smiles.

“And him?” Neil asks.

You look away from the camera.

“We’re… good.”

Not closer. Not further.

Just orbiting.

6 MONTHS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

The board is finally manageable.

Not empty. It never is. But manageable.

Day shift gathers at Central for sign-out, coffee cups half-finished, gloves snapped off and stuffed into pockets. Night shift filters in, trading tired looks and quick updates.

“Room 12’s abdominal pain is actually a gallbladder,” Shen says.

“Called it,” Dana mutters.

“You did not,” Robby shoots back.

“I absolutely did.”

The banter is back. Sharp, playful, and occasionally irritating.

But it’s back.

You lean against the counter, listening, chart open but forgotten. Six months ago, the room felt fragile—like one loud word could crack it open again. Now the sarcasm has teeth again. The teasing has rhythm.

It feels… normal.

Robby bumps your shoulder lightly as he reaches for the coffee pot. “You’re on nights tomorrow?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll survive without me?”

“Barely.”

He smirks.

It’s in the small things now.

He hands you coffee without asking how you take it.

You slide his reading glasses across the desk before he realizes he’s misplaced them.

He notices when you tug at your sleeve—the tell that means your heart rate is climbing.

You notice when he presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose—the tell that means he hasn’t slept.

It’s never spoken.

But it’s there.

A quiet catalog of details that says I see you.

Later that week, you’re on the rooftop again.

The city hums below like it’s breathing—low engines, distant sirens, the metallic sigh of buses turning corners. The hospital’s exhaust fans whirr behind you. The air smells faintly like rain and asphalt.

Robby leans against the railing, sleeves pushed up, tie long abandoned somewhere downstairs. The skyline glows against the dark like a pulse you can see.

“You’re smiling,” you accuse, nudging his shoe lightly with yours.

“I am not,” he says immediately.

“You absolutely are. I made you smile.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You squint at him. “You can’t gaslight me on this. I will never forget.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but there’s a laugh trapped behind his teeth, fighting to get out.

“You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” you reply softly.

And yet you’re here.

And yet you keep coming up to this rooftop like it’s neutral territory—no attendings, no nurses, no titles. Just Michael and you, and the city that doesn’t care what either of you are carrying.

He crosses his arms. “What exactly did you say that was so funny?”

“Oh, so you admit you laughed.”

“I did not admit anything.”

“You did that nose thing.”

“What nose thing?”

“That thing.” You mimic him, scrunching your face slightly. “Like you’re trying not to smile because you think it makes you look unprofessional.”

“I do not—”

“You do. It’s the same face you make when Dana wins an argument.” You say as you squint your eyes at him.

He stares at you.

You hold the look.

Your heart is doing something reckless in your chest—like it’s trying to outrun you.

“Okay,” he says finally, conceding a little. “Maybe I smiled.”

“Ha.” You point at him like you’ve won something. “Knew it.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You still came up here.”

That one lands softer than you meant it to. Not teasing or triumphant. Just… true.

He doesn’t answer right away.

A helicopter passes overhead, blades thudding heavily against the night. The vibration hums through the concrete beneath your shoes, rattling something loose in your ribs. You both look up instinctively, following it as it disappears toward the river.

The wind picks up. The city keeps breathing.

When he finally speaks, his voice is different—quieter, like he’s stepping around something fragile.

“Teach me something in Tagalog.”

You blink at him.

“What?”

“Tag-a-log,” he says carefully, over-enunciating each syllable like he’s defusing a bomb.

You burst out laughing. “Oh my God.”

“What? That’s how you say it.”

“It’s Ta-ga-log,” you correct, trying—and failing—not to grin.

He groans. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not!” You wipe at your eyes. “It’s just endearing.”

He narrows his eyes. “Endearing.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a loaded word.”

“Relax,” you tease. “You’re the one asking for language lessons.”

He leans his elbows on the railing, closer now. “Then teach me something.”

There’s something about the way he says it.

Not flippant. Not joking.

Like he wants in.

Like he’s asking for a door to open.

“What do you want to say?” you ask.

He thinks about it seriously, which makes your heart do something reckless again.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Something useful.”

“Useful like ‘where is the bathroom’ useful? Or useful like ‘I would like extra rice’ useful?”

“Definitely the rice one.”

You laugh softly.

“Okay. You can say, ‘Gusto ko ng kanin.’”

He repeats it slowly. “Goo-sto co nang… ka-neen.”

You shake your head, stepping closer without thinking. “No, no. Not ka-neen. Kanin.”

You reach up instinctively, touching his jaw lightly, angling it.

Your fingers brush the beard along his cheek.

You freeze.

So does he.

Your hand is still there.

His skin is warm, real, and solid.

Your pulse slams in your ears.

“Kanin,” you say again, softer.

He swallows.

“Kanin,” he tries.

“That’s better.”

Neither of you move.

You drop your hand first.

“What does it mean?” he asks, voice lower now.

“I want rice.”

He snorts. “Romantic.”

“You asked for useful.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary.

“What’s something less… culinary?” he asks.

You hesitate as your brain offers up a hundred safe options.

Magandang gabi. Good evening.

Ingat ka. Take care.

Instead, your heart betrays you.

“Pwede ba kitang samahan?” you say quietly.

He frowns slightly. “Pweday bah kee-tang…?”

You smile. “Pwede ba kitang samahan.”

He tries again, careful. Concentrated.

“Puwede ba kitang… samahan.”

Your chest tightens.

“That’s good,” you say.

“What does it mean?”

You hesitate just long enough that he notices.

“What?” he presses.

“It means… ‘Can I walk with you?’ or ‘Can I go with you?’”

He doesn’t laugh this time.

He just looks at you.

The city noise feels distant now. The rooftop smaller. The air is thinner.

“Can I walk with you,” he repeats quietly, testing the shape of it in English.

You nod.

He leans a little closer. Not touching. But close enough that you feel the heat of him.

“You already do,” he says.

It’s simple.

Casual.

But it lands like a meteor.

You look away first, staring at the skyline like it holds instructions for what to do next.

“Okay,” you say, pretending your voice isn’t shaking slightly.

“Teach me how to say… something else,” he adds.

“Like what?”

He thinks about it while his fingers drum lightly against the railing, restless energy wrapped in restraint.

“How do you say… ‘I’m glad you’re here’?”

Your heart stumbles.

You swallow. “Masaya ako na nandito ka.”

He repeats it carefully.

“Ma-sa-ya ako na nan-di-to ka.”

You nod. “That’s really good.”

“What does it literally mean?” he asks.

“It means… I’m happy that you’re here.”

Silence.

The kind that isn’t empty.

The kind that feels like standing at the edge of a cliff and realizing the ground beneath you is very, very high.

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“Masaya ako na nandito ka,” he says again.

You can’t breathe for a second.

You force a smile to keep it light. “You’re just showing off now.”

“Am I saying it right?”

“Yeah.”

He nods once, satisfied.

The wind pushes your shoulder against his slightly.

Neither of you step away.

Your heart is racing so loud you’re convinced he can hear it.

It feels like spoken word poetry written in muscle memory. Like two magnets held just apart. Like the moment before rain when the air turns electric and everyone pretends they don’t smell it coming.

He clears his throat lightly.

“So,” he says, tone shifting back toward safe ground. “Next lesson next week?”

You nod.

“Sure.”

Because if you keep teaching him the language of where you come from—

Maybe one day he’ll understand the language of how you feel.

And maybe—you won’t have to translate it at all.

“You still reread that same book when you’re stressed?” He asks.

“It’s predictable. No surprises.”

“You’re an ER nurse. Your entire life is surprises.”

“Exactly.”

He nods like that makes sense.

“And you still need white noise to sleep,” he adds.

“You sent me that stupid rain app.”

“You said it helped.”

“It did.”

You don’t say that you think about him every time it rains now. He doesn’t say he downloaded it, too, to try to stop sleeping with the TV on.

The wind lifts a strand of your hair and pushes it into your face. He reaches out automatically, tucks it behind your ear without thinking.

His fingers brush your skin.

It’s barely anything, but your pulse spikes like someone just called a code.

He seems to realize what he’s done a half second later. His hand lingers just a breath too long before dropping.

“You tug your sleeve when you’re nervous,” he says quietly.

You freeze.

“I do not.”

“You are right now.”

You glance down.

Your fingers are twisted in the cuff of your scrub jacket.

You release it like it burned you.

Silence settles—not awkward. Just charged.

It feels like standing too close to an open electrical panel. Like one wrong movement and something will spark.

“You know,” you say carefully, eyes on the skyline instead of him, “if we ever went on some weird game show where you had to answer questions about each other to win money, we’d crush it.”

He smirks. “What, like Newlyweds but with trauma?”

“Exactly.”

He huffs a laugh. “We would.”

The word hangs there.

Would.

The city keeps humming. The rooftop lights flicker on automatically, and it feels dangerously close to something.

Like a sentence that wants to finish itself.

Like a bridge neither of you are brave enough to step onto.

He clears his throat. “It’s late.”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you move as your shoulder brushes his again when you both adjust your weight. This time, neither of you steps away.

You can feel the warmth of him through cotton and worn fabric. Solid. Steady. Familiar in a way that feels dangerous.

Before you can overthink it, you lean your head against his shoulder.

It’s tentative at first. Like you’re testing gravity.

He goes still.

Not stiff.

Just aware.

The space between you feels smaller than it used to. Or maybe you’re just finally noticing how small it’s become.

The city stretches out in front of you—bridges lit gold, headlights threading through streets like veins. Somewhere below, an ambulance siren rises and falls. The world keeps happening.

“You made me smile,” he admits quietly, not looking at you.

The words vibrate through his chest before they reach your ear.

Your heart trips over itself. Stumbles. Recovers.

“I know,” you say.

You can hear your own pulse, loud and traitorous.

He glances down at you then—just a quick look—but it lingers long enough to make the air feel thinner. His jaw softens. His mouth almost curves again.

You wonder if he can feel how fast your heart is beating where your temple rests against him.

It would be so easy.

So easy to lift your head and say it.

To tell him that you think about him when it rains. That you’ve memorized the cadence of his footsteps in the hallway. That you can tell which version of his sigh means exhaustion and which one means guilt. That your chest feels like a house with the lights left on whenever he’s near.

It would be so easy to say, I think this is more.

Instead, you stay quiet.

He shifts slightly, and his arm brushes yours. Not an embrace. Not quite.

But he doesn’t move away.

“You’re cold,” he says after a moment.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. Your hands are freezing.”

He says it like a fact. Like something he’s observed and cataloged.

He slides his jacket off one shoulder and drapes it over you without ceremony.

You inhale automatically.

It smells like him. Laundry detergent and coffee and something faintly metallic from the hospital.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

He shrugs. “You’d do the same.”

You would.

You already have, in a hundred different ways.

A helicopter passes again, farther this time. The thudding blades echo through the sky like a second heartbeat.

“You ever think about leaving?” he asks suddenly.

The question lands between you.

“Leaving the hospital?” you ask.

“Leaving… here.”

You know he doesn’t just mean the building.

You lift your head slightly to look at him.

“No,” you say honestly. “Not anymore, anyways. Do you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “On bad days.”

“Today wasn’t bad.”

“No.”

You both know what a bad day looks like.

You settle back against him as if his shoulder fits under his like it was measured. Two people standing shoulder to shoulder, cataloging the details of each other like they’re collecting evidence.

It feels like building something out of glances and shared coffee and rooftop air. Like laying bricks without calling it a house.

He clears his throat softly.

“You’re heavy,” he mutters.

You gasp. “Excuse me?”

He smiles without looking at you. “Emotionally.”

You swat his arm lightly. He laughs—low and warm and close enough that you feel it in your bones.

You stay like that longer than you should. Not naming it or defining it. Just two people pretending this isn’t already something that matters.

9 MONTHS LATER…

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — DAY

“What do you think of Noelle?” Robby asks casually, like he’s asking about the weather.

Like it doesn’t matter. Like your answer won’t land anywhere important. You don’t miss the way he doesn’t quite look at you when he says it.

He’s staring at the board. At a potassium of 6.2. At anything but your face.

Your heart misfires once. Then keeps beating like nothing happened.

You paste on the most convincing smile you’ve ever manufactured. If the Academy Awards committee were hiding in Trauma Two, you’d have a statue by now.

“Noelle Hastings?” you say lightly. “She’s great.”

She is.

She’s pretty. Effortlessly so. The kind of pretty that doesn’t need angles or lighting. Confident. Smart. The kind of woman who doesn’t hesitate before she laughs.

The kind who laughs with her whole mouth open. The kind who doesn’t overthink whether someone is looking back.

You noticed them early.

The way she lingered by his workstation longer than necessary. The way she leaned in just a little too close. The way his voice changed half a pitch when he said her name.

The way they both pretended it wasn’t happening.

“She’s sharp,” he says, finally glancing at you. “Good instincts.”

“Mhm,” you hum, charting something you don’t actually read.

You keep your tone even.

“She keeps pushing for more trauma exposure,” he adds.

“That’s good,” you reply. “She should.”

Your mouth is moving. You’re saying the right things. Inside, something sour blooms, and you hate that part of you.

You count how many times he says her name in a shift. You notice when she touches his arm, and he doesn’t pull away. You want to be better than this.

“She asked about that pelvic case from last week,” he says. “The one we packed.”

You nod. “That was a good call.”

“We,” he corrects automatically.

You look at him.

He doesn’t realize what he just did.

We.

Your heart lurches traitorously.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “We.”

You watch from the corners of rooms now.

In Central. In the ambulance bay. Outside Trauma One.

You watch him laugh with her and it feels like your heart is stretching toward sunlight it will never reach.

Like a plant pressed against glass.

Close enough to see warmth.

Too far to feel it.

She says something you can’t hear. He throws his head back and laughs.

You memorize the shape of it anyway.

“Hey,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t make movie night.”

“Oh?” You keep your eyes on the med cart.

“Something came up.”

You don’t ask what.

“Yeah, of course it’s okay if you reschedule,” you say lightly. “I hope you two have fun.”

You make it sound generous.

You are not generous.

You are bleeding quietly behind your sternum.

“Thanks,” he says. “We’ll catch it next week.”

We.

You nod, “Yeah. Sure.”

It starts slowly as it always does. A drink after shift. Then two becomes a habit. He stays later again. Finds reasons to linger, to debrief cases that don’t need debriefing. He buys a motorcycle and refuses to wear a helmet.

You hear about it secondhand.

“They closed the bar,” Dana mutters one morning.

“Who?”

“Robby and Noelle. Apparently, they’re unstoppable.”

You laugh like it’s funny.

It isn’t.

He misses a department wellness meeting he swore he’d attend.

“I just forgot,” he says, shrugging.

You remember the night in Peds when he said he’d do better. You remember the way he meant it.

“I’m fine,” he says when Abbot corners him in the supply room.

You’re restocking suture kits. You hear it all.

“I’m fine.”

The lie is so clean it could pass as sterile.

Abbot doesn’t look convinced, and neither are you.

He throws himself into trauma cases like penance. Volunteers for the worst ones. The messy ones. The ones that leave blood under your nails even after you scrub.

You watch him choose vices over growth.

Over rest, over himself, and it shouldn’t matter to you. Technically, it doesn’t concern you. You are not his partner. You are not his girlfriend. You are not even—

Whatever that rooftop thing was.

But every time he picks apathy over progress, it feels like he’s choosing a world that doesn’t have room for you.

Because the version of him that wants to get better? That version looked at you like you were worth trying for. This one looks through you.

“Hey,” he says one afternoon, catching you in the hallway. “You good?”

You nod automatically. “Always.”

He studies your face like he almost believes you.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“You’ve been busy.”

He smiles faintly. “Yeah.”

With her.

You don’t say it.

Instead, you say, “Trauma Two’s ready.”

Professional and polite.

Dying a little.

The shifts continue, and the board fills. Codes get called.

People live. People don’t.

You move through it all like muscle memory, handing him instruments without looking.

He says “thanks” without thinking.

You know the exact moment he’s about to snap at a resident.

He knows the exact moment you need a break.

None of it changes.

And yet everything does.

At night, in your apartment, you stare at the ceiling and replay the rooftop.

The Tagalog lessons. The jacket. The way he said, You already do.

You hate that you still want him. You hate that jealousy crawls up your throat like bile or that you measure yourself against her in mirrors you didn’t know existed.

You hate that you’re waiting for something that might never come.

In the ED the next morning, he laughs again at something Noelle says.

You look away before your face gives you away.

You adjust your sleeves, check your patient’s vitals, and swallow the ache like it’s just another symptom to manage.

Because none of it ends, and you are very, very good at functioning through pain.

PTMC, ROOFTOP — NIGHT

This time, you come up alone.

The city is quieter tonight, or maybe you are louder inside your own head.

You stand on the ledge in front of the railing. Not close enough to fall. Not stupid. Just… closer than you should be. Close enough to feel the pull of gravity and imagine what it would be like to let go of something for once instead of holding everything together.

You only thought it for a minute.

But it was a loud minute.

The kind of feeling where you’ve got something to cry about and all the talking in your head turns to screaming. Where every memory sharpens at the edges. Where you can’t tell if you’re heartbroken or just exhausted or both.

You’d finished vomiting in the bathroom downstairs first. Locked the stall. Flushed twice so no one would hear the dry heaving. The nausea clawed up your throat so violently you thought you were going to faint on the tile.

You told yourself it was something you ate.

You know it wasn’t.

Now the cold air burns your lungs clean. You scratch at the inside of your forearm absentmindedly, nails dragging over skin until it stings.

The door opens behind you.

You don’t turn.

You don’t really care right now.

Abbot’s voice cuts through the wind. “You’re not subtle, you know.”

You stare straight ahead at the skyline. “Didn’t realize I was performing.”

“You are. It’s just not a good show.”

Silence.

He steps closer but keeps his distance. Always careful with you when you look like this. Like you’re made of glass instead of bone.

“I joined the SWAT team as their physician,” he says casually.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Of course you did.”

“My therapist said I needed a hobby.”

“You couldn’t knit?” you snap, the words coming out sharper than you mean. “Or garden? Or collect stamps like a normal traumatized adult?”

He snorts softly. “You think I’d look good knitting?”

“I think you’d look less likely to get shot.”

“That’s fair.”

The wind lifts your hair. You keep scratching.

“Your allergies acting up again?” he asks, watching the movement.

You don’t answer.

“If you roll up your sleeves right now,” he says carefully, voice lowering, “what am I gonna find, Ducky?”

Your hand freezes.

You don’t know when the tears started. They just slip down quietly, cold against your skin.

You still haven’t turned around.

You let out a shaky breath. “It’s getting bad again.”

The confession feels like breaking glass in your mouth.

He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t fill the silence with bullshit reassurance.

“For who?” he asks finally. “You or for him?”

Your laugh cracks. “God. That’s so humiliating.”

“That wasn’t judgment.”

“I know.” You swipe at your cheeks angrily. “I know.”

You finally turn halfway, enough that he can see your face. Your eyes are red. Your mouth is trembling and you hate that he can see that too.

“This is so embarrassing, Jack,” you whisper. “And pathetic. I know it is. I hate feeling this way. I feel like I’m going insane again.”

“You’re not insane.”

“I am.” Your voice rises, then falls again. “I’m a grown woman. I should not be spiraling because a man is dating someone else.”

He tilts his head. “It’s not just that.”

You shake your head hard. “It is. I mean— it isn’t. It’s everything. It’s watching him laugh with her and feeling like my chest is being peeled open. It’s knowing I have no right to feel that way. I’m hating myself for feeling that way.”

You press your palm to your sternum like you can physically hold your heart still.

“It feels like I’m fourteen,” you say hoarsely. “Like I’m some stupid teenager with a crush. Except I’m not fourteen. I work in a trauma bay. I’ve held people’s hearts in my hands. I should be bigger than this.”

“Love doesn’t care how competent you are,” he says quietly.

You swallow hard.

“It’s not even love,” you snap. “It’s just— longing. It’s wanting something that was almost there and never got named. It’s standing next to someone for months thinking maybe, maybe, and then watching them choose someone else like it was easy.”

You laugh again, but there’s no humor in it.

“I keep thinking maybe if I were prettier. Or less complicated. Or less sad. Maybe if I didn’t need therapy. Maybe if I didn’t spiral. Maybe if I didn’t feel everything so loudly.”

He stiffens at that.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t shrink yourself into something more convenient.”

Your eyes burn again.

“It feels like a part of me is broken,” you whisper. “Like there’s a crack somewhere and everything I see just… drains through it. I go home and it’s quiet and I think about him and I hate it. I hate that I still want him. I hate that I’m jealous. I hate that I’m not enough for him and I don’t even know if that’s true or if I made it up.”

Abbot steps closer now, still behind the railing, elbows resting on it beside you.

“You don’t get to decide you’re not enough for someone,” he says. “That’s their call. And if they don’t choose you, it doesn’t automatically mean you’re lacking.”

“It feels like it.”

“I know.”

You sniff, wiping your face with the heel of your palm. “He said he’d do better. He said he’d try. And now he’s— he’s staying out late again, riding his stupid motorcycle without a fucking helmet. It’s like watching someone walk back into a burning building and I can’t even pull him out because I’m not… I’m not anything to him.”

“That’s the part that hurts,” Abbot says softly.

“Yes.” The word comes out small. “Yes.”

The wind howls between the buildings.

“I keep thinking if I had just said something,” you murmur. “On the rooftop. That night. If I had just told him. Maybe it would be different.”

“Or maybe it wouldn’t.”

“That’s worse,” you say. “Not knowing is worse.”

He studies you carefully. “Are you in front of the railing because you’re thinking about jumping?”

You shake your head immediately. “No. I just— I wanted to feel the edge. Not cross it.”

He nods once. Accepts that.

“I don’t want to die,” you say. “I just don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

There it is, the truth.

He exhales slowly. “That I understand.”

“I’m so tired, Jack,” you whisper. “Of being the strong one. Of being the understanding one. Of smiling and saying ‘I hope you two have fun.’ I feel like I’m swallowing glass and calling it maturity.”

He lets out a low breath that almost sounds like a laugh, but it’s not.

“You’re allowed to be heartbroken,” he says. “Even if he never technically belonged to you.”

You close your eyes.

“I don’t know how to stop wanting him.”

“Maybe you don’t,” he says gently. “Maybe you just… withstand it.”

You look at him finally.

“Does it ever get easier?”

He considers that.

“Sometimes,” he says. “Sometimes it just gets quieter.”

The city hums below you. Life goes on, indifferent while you wipe your cheeks again, embarrassed by how wrecked you look.

“You’re not pathetic,” he adds. “You’re human. And you loved someone quietly. That’s not weak.”

You laugh wetly. “It feels weak.”

“It’s not.”

The wind dies down for a moment.

You step back from the ledge, just an inch.

Not enough to fix anything.

But enough, and for now, that has to be something.

You don’t look at him when you ask it.

“You ever think about leaving?”

It comes out quieter than you intended.

Jack glances at you, then back at the board. “Sometimes.”

You nod, like you expected that.

“Robby asked me that a few months ago,” you say. “Back when everything felt… different. I told him no. Not anymore.” You swallow. “But now…”

You trail off.

Now you wake up tired in a way sleep doesn’t fix. Now you measure your emotional stability in milligrams. Now you count exits in crowded rooms without thinking about it.

Jack shifts his weight beside you. “You’re allowed to change your mind, Ducky.”

There’s no judgment in it. Just a fact.

You laugh softly, but it sounds brittle. “I love working here. I do. The Pitt gave me everything. Training. Friends. A life. Everyone’s been kind to me.”

You press your thumb into the heel of your palm like you’re grounding yourself.

“But I don’t know if I can keep doing this version of me,” you admit. “The version that keeps shrinking to fit inside a place. The version that survives everything and calls it strength.” Your voice tightens. “I didn’t know I was capable of bending this far without breaking. And I don’t know if that’s something to be proud of.”

Jack studies you now.

You look exhausted. Honest.

“I look in the mirror some days,” you continue, softer, “and I don’t recognize who I had to become just to function here.”

Jack nudges your shoulder lightly. “You didn’t turn into something ugly,” he says. “You turned into someone who survived.”

You exhale slowly.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “But surviving isn’t the same thing as living.”

And for the first time, you don’t feel guilty for thinking that.

End Notes:

By some miracle, I was able to watch S2 of the Pitt without any spoilers while I was still writing S1.

fUCK IT WE BALL YALL

Call it fate or whatever, I really, swear to God, did not know S2 was a Fourth of July shift.

I had talked about the Fourth of July in previous chapters because of all the stupid people doing stupid things, from ER nurses and doctors.

Ya’ll Americans be wildin’ during that holiday LOL

Ah, Noelle, your character pmo so bad bruh :///

Get ready for The Secret of Us, Good Riddance, Tortured Poets Department vibes in S2 LOL

Taglist: @orodaeh @karleyyjaee @allenajade-ite @glitterspark @bumbl3-b33z @sarahhxx03 @mirandarockin @sourmooonlight @sunflower911 @tedmustache @wastingspaces @princessesareforsuckers @anykent-grayson @brucewaynegfreal @katethedilfhunter @barnes70stark @kneelforloki @imonmykneessir

CENTRAL 14 — DAY

Ahmad is right behind Robby.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then—

A sound.

Not loud; subdued and restrained.

But it cuts through everything.

A broken, desperate cough.

Robby turns.

And sees you.

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

Everything in him drops.

“Can I see?” he asks, already moving.

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

The words hit like a physical blow.

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

Just a sharp, internal shift.

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

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

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

But because he does.

Because he knows exactly how close that line was.

And he wasn’t there.

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

At himself.

It doesn’t have anywhere to go.

So he moves.

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

You flinch.

Hard.

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

Robby freezes.

Not fully—but enough.

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

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

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

“Hey—”

Gentler now.

“It’s me.”

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

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

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

A beat.

“It’s me. It’s Robby.”

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

A small, broken sound escapes you.

Not quite a sob. Not quite a word.

Just pain.

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

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

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

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

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

You try.

God, you try.

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

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

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

Robby doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even look away.

His eyes stay locked on you.

Not just looking—assessing.

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

He counts your breaths without saying it out loud.

But beneath it— something fractures.

Fear.

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

Because this isn’t just a patient.

This is you.

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

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

You feel it.

That steadiness, a promise.

And God—you want to believe him.

So you do.

For now.

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

Because right now, he’s here.

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

But you know him.

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

You know this moment—

This closeness.

It isn’t something he knows how to keep.

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

Because when he says it—

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It’s not a lie.

Not exactly.

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

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

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

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

His eyes don’t leave your face.

Not yet.

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

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

It’s enough.

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

“I’m here,” he answers immediately.

And for a fleeting, fragile moment—

You are.

Still breathing, and still his to worry about.

CENTRAL 14 — DAY

It takes a moment.

Longer than you’d like to admit.

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

Robby doesn’t rush you.

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

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

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

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

“Okay, are we all good in here?”

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

“Oh, yeah, boss, we got this.”

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

The noise hits differently out here.

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

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

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

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

“Okay, good. Come.”

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

Space to think.

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

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

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

“Before.”

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

Silence falls.

You’re there—but not fully.

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

Robby looks at you.

Just for a second.

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

“Four milligrams of Versed.”

“Who wrote the order?”

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

Robby gives her a look—sharp, assessing.

Dana meets it immediately. “What?”

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

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

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

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

He meets her gaze.

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

It’s about you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just like that, he’s pulled away.

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

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

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

You’re still standing and breathing.

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

It lingers.

And even as you’re led away—

A part of you stays.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The ambulance bay doors slide open with force.

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

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

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

The smell hits next—uremia, faint but unmistakable.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

Because he has to.

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

Your throat still burns.

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

Emma shifts beside you, quieter than usual.

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

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

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

Your head lifts at that.

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

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

McKay looks up. “Really?”

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

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

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

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

Your stomach twists.

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

Dana’s look is sharp. Unyielding.

It’s enough.

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

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

“Yeah,” Robby answers.

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

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

Emma hesitates—but goes.

You stay.

Of course you do.

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

“Now he’s my guy?” Dana shoots back.

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

“Tell it to someone who cares.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat.

“Where you going?” Robby asks.

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

She’s gone before he can answer.

The tension lingers in the space she leaves behind.

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

Across from him—

You.

Still quiet.

Still trying to hold yourself together like nothing happened.

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

Because now there’s no mess between you.

No immediate crisis to hide behind.

Just the aftermath.

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

CENTRAL 9 — DAY

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

Robby moves through the exam with practiced precision.

“Any dizziness?”

“A little.”

“Vision changes?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Just… pressure.”

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

He notes it. Of course he does.

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

“Swallow for me.”

You do.

You wince.

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

“Any trouble breathing now?”

“No.”

“Any hoarseness before this?”

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

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

Always watching.

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

He finishes noting something down.

Silence settles.

Until—

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

Robby doesn’t look up right away.

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

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

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

A beat passes.

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

The word friend sits there.

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

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

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

You look away first.

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

Robby moves before you can finish.

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

“Don’t even start with that.”

“But—”

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

“Don’t.”

Your breath catches.

Not from pain this time.

From proximity.

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

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

So tired.

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

You don’t have the energy to fight him.

Or yourself.

And maybe that’s the worst part.

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

You would follow him.

Anywhere.

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

Your fingers tighten slightly in his.

You don’t pull away.

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

Or something he’s not ready to hear.

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

Careful again, like he’s testing the ground.

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

It’s quiet.

Not a demand or quite a plea.

But close enough.

Something flickers across his expression—too quick to name.

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

You want to believe him.

God, you want to.

So you nod.

“Okay.”

And for now—

That’s enough.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

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

Your throat aches when you swallow.

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

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

That’s when he spots Dana.

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

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

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

Robby approaches, still rubbing sanitizer into his hands.

“You ready to finish our conversation?”

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

“Please.”

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

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

“Okay.”

“Talk to me.”

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

“Okay.”

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

She cuts herself off.

Robby nods once, grounding. “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

She doesn’t hesitate this time.

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

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

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

“Close, not quite. That’s not—”

“Robby—”

You don’t mean to interrupt.

But your body moves before you think.

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

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

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

And just like that—

He’s pulled away again.

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

Dana stays behind.

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

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

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

The ambulance doors open again.

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

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

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

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

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

He doesn’t look back.

Not this time.

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

And you—

You stand there for a second longer than you should.

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

Then you move again.

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

SOUTH 18 — DAY

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

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

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

“How’s she doing?” Dana asks.

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

“Great.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

Dana turns to you then, gentler.

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

Your fingers brush absentmindedly against your neck.

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

You swallow, ignoring the sting.

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

Dana’s expression shifts—soft, almost pained.

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

The question slips out before you can stop it.

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

Dana doesn’t answer right away.

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

Her jaw tightens.

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

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

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

“Not with you.”

Then she steps back.

And just like that—she’s gone again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A pause.

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

That almost breaks you.

Your throat tightens, not from the bruising this time.

You look away, blinking slowly.

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

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

You don’t answer right away.

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

You inhale slowly, steadying yourself.

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

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

You nod.

That part—

That, at least, you believe.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure. Sit tight.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I was over this six hours ago.”

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

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

“Incoming,” someone calls.

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

You don’t finish listening.

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

Then—

The ambulance doors open.

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

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

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

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

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

“What? I can’t hear you!”

“Try the other side.”

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

“Yeah, yeah—Dante. Lot of ringing.”

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

They move him fast—straight toward Trauma Two.

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

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

The doors swing shut behind them.

And just like that— they’re gone.

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

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

Perlah’s hand lands gently on your elbow.

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

Then, softer—

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

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

But nothing comes out.

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

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

You’re back at the front of the counter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Al-Hashimi answers.

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

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

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

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

The words hang there.

You don’t mean to speak.

But you do.

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

They both glance at you.

You don’t look up.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” Monica answers, stepping in.

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

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

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

“Don’t stay too late.”

“Okay.”

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

“Ikaw rin ha?” (You too, okay?)

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

She huffs a quiet laugh.

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

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

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

Duke.

Of course.

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

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

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

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

Robby doesn’t get to go in.

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

“Is your friend doing okay?” Santos asks.

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

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

You don’t look up.

But you hear it.

“Physically, yes,” Robby says.

Physically— the word lingers longer than it should.

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

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

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

“Or until he relapses.”

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

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

They’re almost at Trauma Two.

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

“Yes,” Santos answers.

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

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

Santos blinks. “Wait—what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But as a person.

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

TRAUMA TWO — DAY

The room is bright and focused.

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

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

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

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

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

“I did.”

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

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

“No, not yet,” Santos answers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Outside.

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

The fluorescent lights don’t quite reach you there.

You look smaller from this distance.

Quieter.

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

The strongest people don’t usually stop.

You did.

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

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

He shouldn’t be looking.

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

But his gaze lingers a fraction too long.

Like he’s making sure—

You’re still there.

Still upright.

Still—

Okay.

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

“I hope not.”

It sounds like he’s answering Garcia.

But it doesn’t feel like it.

Because his eyes are still on you.

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

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

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

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

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

There’s nothing to say to that.

So you don’t.

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

Your chest tightens.

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

“Not yet,” Makedah answers.

“Christ’s sake.”

“I’m making a run now. I’ll ask.”

“Yeah.”

Makedah is already gone.

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

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

You nod.

It’s easier than speaking.

“Mm-hmm,” Dana confirms.

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

Dana answers without hesitation. “Peachy.”

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

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

He says it like it’s a certainty.

Like that’s how these things work.

Then he’s already walking off.

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

A few minutes pass.

Or maybe longer.

Time bends a little out here.

Then—

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

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

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

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

His eyes land on your neck.

You resist the urge to touch it.

“Don’t ask,” Dana cuts in.

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

Then he shifts gears like everyone here does.

“Speaking of layups—what up, Dr. J?”

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

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

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

“The emergency department?” Javadi asks.

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

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

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

Something in your chest shifts.

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

Like it’s nothing.

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

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

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

“Tell that to my parents,” Javadi mutters.

Before anyone can respond—

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

Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”

Dana takes them immediately. “Give me those.”

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

You see it happen.

Not the words on the page—but the shift.

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

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

Toward Central 14.

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

CENTRAL 11 — DAY

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

“My man, how you doing?”

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

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

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

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

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

Robby doesn’t answer right away.

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

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

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

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

Takes a breath.

“I just have to get going.”

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

Silence.

Robby doesn’t confirm it.

Doesn’t deny it.

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

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

Robby nods faintly. “Right.”

A beat.

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

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

It hits.

Robby stills.

Just for a second.

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

He opens his mouth—

But—

The door swings open.

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

Robby’s head snaps toward her immediately.

Everything else drops.

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

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

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

—and then he’s gone.

Pulled out the door.

Back into the current.

Leaving the question behind—

Unanswered.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The chart racks are overflowing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She walks off.

Samira and Mel step in closer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mel nods, already stepping back.

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

You always do.

Mel moves off to the side, waiting.

Samira turns to follow—

“Um, hey—Dr. Mohan.”

Robby catches her just before she can leave.

She pauses.

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

A beat.

Samira blinks.

Doesn’t answer.

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

They walk off together.

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

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

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

Then his eyes land on you and linger.

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

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

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

AMBULANCE BAY — DAY

The air outside feels different.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push through the doors just then.

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

You don’t step forward.

You don’t step back.

You just… stay.

Close enough to hear and enough to feel it.

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

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

Your name—

It hits, quiet but sharp.

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

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

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

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

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

“Somebody could have died.”

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

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

“Langdon didn’t kill anybody.”

“That we know of.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she turns and walks back inside.

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

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

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

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

The bay feels different now. Quieter and heavier.

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

You can see it.

In the way Robby doesn’t move right away.

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

His back is to you.

Broad. Familiar.

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

Just stuck.

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

Not the attending or the one everyone looks to.

Just—

Him.

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

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

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

You don’t.

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

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

Between reaching out and letting him be.

Between—

Almost.

And not quite.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — DAY

The floor is shifting again.

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

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

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

Clipboards move, pens scratch, and people nod.

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

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

Robby looks up. “They paid the ransom?”

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

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

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

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

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

It doesn’t sound like freedom.

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

Movement catches his eye.

Duke.

Being wheeled toward CT.

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

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

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

“Nurse Vivi, sir.”

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

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

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

They round the corner toward the elevator.

Gone.

“Hey.”

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

“So, uh… this is it, huh?”

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” Robby says.

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

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

That’s one way to say it.

Across the department—

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

“You leaving?”

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

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

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

“Painfully aware.”

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

The doors slide open.

She’s gone.

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

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

“Mess?” Shen echoes.

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

“…Yup.”

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

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

The bruising.

Darkening now, and impossible to miss.

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

“What the—”

“Incoming!” someone calls.

Everything snaps back into motion.

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

Samira steps forward—then stops dead.

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

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

The room shifts again.

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

End Notes:

:D

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

SORRY FOR THE CHAPTER DELAY! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

YIPPE PAIN AND SUFFERING YIPPEEE :D

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

Good heavens, everything is falling apart. Oh deer.

Hope this chapter wasn’t too bad… 

Taglist: @orodaeh @karleyyjaee @allenajade-ite @glitterspark @bumbl3-b33z @sarahhxx03 @mirandarockin @sourmooonlight @sunflower911 @tedmustache @wastingspaces @princessesareforsuckers @anykent-grayson @brucewaynegfreal @katethedilfhunter @barnes70stark @kneelforloki @imonmykneessir @emneedshelp @darlingimafangirl @silas-aeiou @rei-scorpio @redhooduwu @thesnugglingduck @blondedlvfe @blackwidownat2814 @pagesaftermidnight @soyelfleureon @battyvonkreep @mscreativity @ravyn94 @jeshomie @follows-the-life-ahead @sommywithluv @whatupbuttercup2019

The hour flips, but nothing really changes. If anything, the energy sharpens—like the whole department is bracing for the next wave instead of winding down. Night shift bleeds in through the ambulance bay and front doors—fresh faces, fresh scrubs, the same underlying exhaustion already waiting for them.

“Is there a card to sign for Robby?” Shen asks, glancing around as he sets his iced coffee down.

McKay doesn’t glance up from the chart she’s writing on. “No. He said no card, no presents.”

“Oh.” Shen frowns slightly. “Was there a cake?”

You let out a quiet sigh, flipping through a stack of lab results. “Oh, he didn’t want that either.”

“That sucks,” Shen mutters. “I need some cake.”

“You and me both, buddy,” you murmur, voice still a little rough, barely lifting your gaze.

You scan the labs again—electrolytes, CBC, flagged values circled in pen—then gather a few sheets together. “Dana, I’m gonna quickly go up and run these.”

Dana looks up immediately. Her eyes flick to your neck, then back to your face. There’s a hesitation there—brief, but real.

“…Alright,” she says finally, with a reluctant exhale. “Be back for rounds?”

“I’ll try.”

You nod once, then you’re moving.

Behind you, the shift keeps unfolding.

“Patient was injured when they raided a restaurant,” Santos says to Crus, voice low but fixed.

“And they actually arrested the nurse?” Henderson asks.

“With a takedown and zip ties.”

“Damn.”

“Crus, you, uh, know the computer downtime drill?” Langdon adds.

“Yeah, no biggie,” Henderson shrugs. “I prefer to treat ’em without labs and X-rays. Welcome back.”

Whitaker gestures toward the stations. “If you do have orders for labs and X-rays, clipboards go here. If it’s just nursing orders—here.”

“Please write neatly, for God’s sake,” Monica adds without peering up.

“Oh—Monica, this is Nazely, new intern.”

Monica barely glances over. “I don’t need to know that.”

Nazely smiles anyway. “So nice to meet you.”

The ambulance bay doors slide open again.

Jack steps in—backpack slung over one shoulder, already scanning the room like he’s catching up in real time.

“Looks like you and me, Jack,” Shen calls.

Jack drops his bag at the workstation, pulling out his stethoscope. “Yeah, who’s our senior?”

“Dr. Henderson.”

Jack grins. “Excellent. Night shift’s on Crus control.”

Crus shoots him a wink.

Dana leans in slightly. “You hear ICE brought us a patient?”

Jack slips the stethoscope around his neck. “Oh, yeah? How’d that go?”

Dana’s tone shifts—quieter, heavier. “There was some collateral damage. They arrested Jesse.”

Jack stills. “For what?”

“Assaulting a federal officer.”

He lets out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Dana hesitates for a second.

Jack notices immediately. His eyes narrow. “What?”

“…Ducky got hurt.”

The name lands like a strike.

Jack’s expression changes instantly—anger, sharp and protective. “What the fuck do you mean by that?”

“She’s fine,” Dana says quickly. “Just a couple of bruises—”

“Where is she?” He’s already looking, scanning the room, searching for you.

“Went to send some labs… she’ll be back in a bit.”

Across the room—

“Dr. Al-Hashimi, this is Nazely Toomarian—new intern.”

Al-Hashimi smiles, switching languages seamlessly. “So nice to meet you.”

Nazely lights up. “You speak Armenian?”

“A little. Enough to get by.”

“Okay, everybody, let’s huddle up,” Jack calls, stepping forward, pulling the room together.

People gather—loose, tired, attentive.

Dana steps in beside him. “Before we start, let me address the elephant in the room. For those of you who don’t know, Jesse tried to intervene when a federal agent was handling his patient, and both he and the patient were taken away by ICE.”

“Did he punch the guy?” Jack asks.

“No,” Al-Hashimi answers. “He put out a hand to stop him, made physical contact.”

“It was a little bit more than that,” McKay adds.

“The hospital lawyers are on the case,” Al-Hashimi continues. “And we will brief the staff every 12 hours at sign-out rounds with an official update.”

“In the meantime,” Jack says, “don’t feed the rumor mill.”

Dana nods, then continues. “You may have also heard that new grad nurse Emma here was assaulted by a patient, along with Ducky.”

Emma forces a small smile. “I—I’m fine.”

“Please don’t forget ‘code hula hoop,’” Dana says. “And with risky patients, always keep a path to the door clear.”

“Sounds like one hell of a day,” Jack mutters. “And we’re still dealing with downtime, so day shift should brief night residents about the protocol—”

The monitors flicker, various screens blink, then they come back to life.

A ripple moves through the room.

“Hey!”

“Oh—alright!” 

McKay exhales, “Oh, thank God.”

Jack doesn’t celebrate.

He steps forward, pushing the whiteboard aside slightly. “Yeah, not so fast. Every chart from the last five hours needs to be scanned into the Electronic Health Record and checked for accuracy…”

“Um, whose job is that?” Mel asks.

“Day shift,” Shen answers immediately.

“With a completed and signed T-sheet,” Jack adds.

McKay groans. “Are you kidding me?”

“That’s gonna take forever,” Langdon mutters.

“We will set up stations for scanning,” Jack says. “Okay, everybody—let’s get moving.”

“Triage is twenty behind,” Donnie calls out. “Gotta help ’em clean up. I’m skipping rounds.”

“Consider yourself lucky,” Dana mutters.

Emma glances at her. “Should we join them?”

“Might as well witness the magic,” Dana says dryly. “It’s like changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace.”

Emma smiles faintly. “Except we’re allowed to smile.”

Dana’s lips twitch—but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Smile though your heart is aching.” She says it lightly.

Almost joking, but as she turns—there’s a flicker of something else. Because she’s thinking of you.

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

The room is already in motion, the kind you could catch the edge of it through the glass—voices overlapping, monitors constant, the kind of organized urgency that means they’ve found a rhythm.

“Plain films, right tib-fib and right forearm after CT,” Samira says, voice controlled, but there’s something tighter underneath it now.

“Got the chem-8,” Mateo answers, glancing at the printout. “Blood sugar’s 284.”

“That’s not too bad,” Robby says, already scanning the numbers. “Potassium looks good.”

“Mm-hmm,” Ellis adds. “Anion gap’s up at 14.”

“It was 24 this morning,” Javadi says, moving around the bed, efficient. “He’s definitely improving.”

“The DKA is resolving,” Ellis confirms.

Garcia glances between them, then back at Orlando. “So what made him pass out?”

Samira doesn’t hesitate—but her voice carries just a fraction more weight than before. “It’s hot as hell out there. He could have been dehydrated from sweating.” A beat. “Or he could have had an N-STEMI or a posterior CVA.”

Worst-case thinking, covering every angle.

Mateo reaches down, unlocking the gurney wheels. “Ready to roll.”

“I can babysit him at CT,” Ellis offers.

“Thank you,” Samira says, already stepping back just enough to let the transfer happen.

“I’ll stay in case he needs the OR,” Garcia adds.

They move together—hands repositioning, lines secured, monitors checked. Then Orlando is rolling out of Trauma One and up to CT. 

Samira follows for a step— then stops; she lets them take him. Because she has to. The room empties quickly, and the energy shifts. Less urgent now—but not calm. Never calm.

Robby’s gaze flicks to the monitors mounted along the wall.

They’re back, systems online.

“Hey—we’re back up.”

“It’s about time,” Javadi mutters as she passes him, already moving toward her next task.

Robby steps back into Central, the noise swallowing him whole again. He moves straight to the chart racks, flipping through them quickly—papers shuffled, names scanned, something else clearly on his mind even as he works.

Perlah approaches, lowering her voice just enough, “Ooh, Robby.”

“Yeah.”

“I got intel on where ICE has taken Jesse.”

That gets his full attention.

“Intel from who?”

“Uh—my brother-in-law’s a cop.” She glances around instinctively before continuing. “So he’ll be processed at DHS Southside and then transferred to ICE detention in Clearfield.”

Robby’s head lifts. “Clearfield? That’s two hours away.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Okay,” he says, already shifting gears. “I’ll let the hospital attorneys know.”

But he doesn’t move right away; instead, his eyes scan the room. Once. Twice. Like he’s looking for something specific.

Someone.

“Uh… have you seen Ducky?”

Perlah follows his gaze, scanning the same space. The counter, the stations, and the flow of people moving in and out.

“Mmm… no?” she says slowly. “Maybe she could’ve gone home? She’s been put through enough today, so I wouldn’t blame her if she decided she wanted to go home already. Go through her emails, get some good off—”

She stops.

Too late.

Robby’s head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Good what?”

Perlah doesn’t answer. Doesn’t correct it. She just walks off, leaving the sentence unfinished. And something else—a secret unsaid lingering in the space between them.

Across the room, you’re not there, and for the first time, all shift—Robby feels it.

SOUTH 20 — NIGHT

Rounds move like a dependable current. A small group flows from room to room—clipboards in hand, voices low but efficient, each patient a brief stop in a much longer night.

Jack leads without fanfare, scanning, listening, absorbing. But there’s a flicker of distraction there—subtle, easy to miss if you’re not looking for it. He glances once down the hall, then back to the patient in front of them.

They start anyway.

“How are you doing, Oliver?” Al-Hashimi asks as they step into South 20.

“Alive and kicking,” Oliver answers, a faint grin tugging at his mouth.

“Mr. Haas,” Whitaker adds, reading off her notes. “Pulmonary edema after missed dialysis, now stable. His son Mason’s at the bedside.”

“Hello,” Mason says quietly.

“I’m Dr. Shen,” Shen replies. “I’ll be back.”

Oliver shifts slightly, gesturing toward the machine. “Dialysis tech says I’m off the machine at 10:42.”

“Hit the call light,” Shen says, already stepping back. “And I’ll come running.”

It’s quick, and reassuring.

“South 21 next,” Al-Hashimi calls as they move.

“Mr. Digby,” she greets as they enter.

“J-just Digby,” he corrects, a little shy.

“Dr. Mohan’s patient,” Al-Hashimi continues. “Forearm cellulitis. Admit med-surg. Awaiting a bed.”

“I can take him,” Nazely offers quickly.

Jack nods once. “Sold to Dr. Toomarian. Moving right along.”

Dana lingers just a second longer, offering Digby a warm smile. “Get enough to eat?”

He nods.

“We’ll be back.”

South 22.

“Lillian Stegman,” McKay reads. “Tweaked her knee water-skiing.”

“Doing a 360 off a five-foot ramp,” Lillian adds, almost proudly.

Henderson grins. “Ooh, respect.”

“X-rays ordered in triage,” Mel says.

“That was hours ago,” Lillian mutters.

“Ma’am,” Henderson says, stepping forward, voice easy, confident. “I’m Dr. Crus Henderson. Let’s get you home real fast.”

“That would be wonderful,” she sighs.

“Okay,” Jack says, already turning. “Heading to North.”

“Thank you,” Lillian calls after them.

As they move out, Jack’s gaze flicks again—toward the far end of the hall. Toward where someone should have been by now. He doesn’t comment on it, just keeps walking.

He pauses briefly near a table where equipment is being set up—scanners, stacks of paper charts waiting to be digitized.

“Looks like our first scanning station is almost ready,” he says. “Whitaker, Santos—after rounds, this will be your post.”

Santos groans under her breath. “Seriously?”

Whitaker glances at the pile. “For… how long?”

Jack doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Till we mop up this mess.”

A beat before he continues walking, “And away we go.”

Dana hooks an arm lightly through Emma’s as they walk.

“All right,” she says, a hint of humor returning to her voice, “now you know everything there is to know about rounds. Fascinating, right?”

Emma lets out a small, unsure laugh. “Uh… yeah.”

Dana glances at her, then smiles—something gentler, more intentional. “Here. I got something better for you.”

She turns back toward South 21.

“Digby,” she calls, stepping in again, “we’re gonna find you some new clothes, but my friend Emma and I wondered if you’d like to get cleaned up a bit first.”

“I already had a shower,” he says.

“I know,” Dana replies easily. “And you look good. But the offer also comes with a shave and a haircut, if you’re interested. No pressure—like I said, you already look great.”

Digby hesitates—then nods. “Sure… I guess.”

Dana brightens. “Fantastic.” She nudges Emma gently. “All right, kid—fill that basin with some warm water and lather him up.”

Emma moves to do it, more confident now, something consistent returning to her hands.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

The floor has settled into a different kind of motion now. Less frantic than before—but heavier. Everything that was delayed is catching up at once. Charts shuffle. Screens glow again. Voices layer over one another in a constant, low hum.

Perlah passes Medic Nguyen on her way through, offering a quick, familiar nod. “Hey—stay safe out there.”

“Back at you in here,” Nguyen replies, already moving.

Samira intercepts her before she can get far. “Hey, Cary—you were on scene with Orlando, right? Did you notice anything about his fall?”

Nguyen slows just enough. “Like what?”

Samira hesitates, choosing her words. “Like… if there was a break in the railing? Or security cameras?”

Nguyen shakes her head. “Too busy working on the guy—IV, intubation, backboard, splint.”

Samira nods, absorbing it anyway. “Thanks.”

Nguyen is gone again.

Al-Hashimi glances up at the screens as names begin to populate the system again. “Oh—two names is a start. Pretty soon we’ll retire the clipboards.”

Jack’s eyes track the updated board overhead, scanning quickly. “Baby Jane Doe in Pedes?”

“Uh, yeah,” Mel answers. “Abandoned in the waiting room bathroom at 7:30 a.m. Ducky has been taking care of her.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Safe haven drop-off?” Henderson asks.

“No,” McKay says. “She’s too old for that. At least two months.”

“I’ll take her,” Nazely offers, stepping forward.

“Awaiting foster placement by CYF,” Al-Hashimi adds.

Nazely hesitates. “What if the mom comes back?”

“Call the cops,” Santos says bluntly.

Jack doesn’t linger on it. “Day shift, get to work scanning. Night shift—the room numbers on top of the dry-erase board need a doctor.”

“Who’s in BH-1?” Shen asks as they walk to BH-1.

“Psych hold,” Al-Hashimi says as they approach. “Danger to self.”

“What’s the story?” Jack asks.

“Doctors King and Langdon were on the case.”

Langdon steps in, voice quieter now. “It’s a sad story. She says her five-year-old snuck into the back seat of the car to take a nap.”

“Heat stroke,” Mel murmurs.

“Mom was extremely distraught,” Al-Hashimi adds. “Walked out into traffic.”

No one comments; they don’t have time to, because the ambulance bay doors slide open.

“Incoming!”

The shift snaps.

“Grady Barnhill,” Medic Pozsonyi calls out as they wheel the patient in. “Wheezing and not responding to albuterol. Pulse ox 87. His mother, Naomi.”

“Okay—Trauma Two’s open,” Al-Hashimi says immediately.

“On our way,” Shen answers, already moving alongside the stretcher. “Mom—history of asthma?”

“His whole life,” Naomi says, breathless, keeping pace. “Never this bad.”

“Barely moving air,” Henderson notes, leaning in.

“Using all his accessory muscles,” Mel adds, eyes scanning the chest, the retractions, the effort.

“Call RT,” Langdon orders. “Continuous nebs—twenty milligrams an hour.”

“We have a home nebulizer,” Naomi says quickly. “I’ve been giving him albuterol every hour.”

“He’s so tight, nothing’s getting through,” Langdon mutters, already thinking ahead.

“Ready?” Henderson says. “On my count—one, two, three.”

They transfer him.

“Does he take any other medications?” Mel asks.

“Just the albuterol. He used to be on montelukast and Symbicort.”

“Why did you stop that?” Shen asks, already reaching for the next step.

Naomi’s voice cracks slightly. “Because he lost his Medicaid two months ago.”

A flicker of something passes through the team. Then it’s gone, replaced by urgency.

“Mel—EpiPen,” Shen says.

“On it.”

“0.3 milligrams.”

“That may open his lungs so the nebs can work,” Henderson adds.

Mel steps in. “All right, Grady—shot in the thigh.”

A sharp intake of breath, then a small, strained grunt from the boy. And the room keeps moving.

NORTH NURSES STATION — NIGHT

The station is crowded—clipboards stacked, scanners humming, people talking over one another as the system comes back online and everything from the last few hours starts catching up all at once.

Nazely hovers just behind Jack as he steps up to the counter, dropping a clipboard in front of McKay. “Hey.”

McKay doesn’t stop writing, eyes flicking up briefly. “Something to scan?”

“Critical labs on North Three.”

She exhales through her nose. “Oh, it’s, uh—it’s not my patient.”

“She’s about to be.”

McKay finally pauses, pen hovering. “I’m, uh—I’m off the clock, so…”

Jack doesn’t budge. “These were ordered three hours ago from triage, so technically she is a day-shift patient.” He gestures lightly toward Nazely. “Just get the intern started. I’ve got a meeting upstairs with admin to get things back on track.”

There’s no room to argue, as he turns, already walking. Already moving on to the next task.

ELEVATOR — NIGHT

The system reboot finishes just as you drop off the last of the labs. Perfect timing, of course it is.

You step into the elevator alone, shoulders finally lowering a fraction as the doors close and the noise of the ED dulls into a distant hum.

You hit the button for the lower floor, and the car starts descending.

Your reflection stares back at you from the metal panel—drawn, tired, bruising dark against your neck where the collar of your scrubs doesn’t quite hide it.

You look away.

The elevator slows and eventually stops. The doors slide open and there he is.

Jack Abbot.

Standing right outside, one hand still half-raised like he was about to press the button.

He sees you, immediately, and everything about him stills.

Your stomach drops, because you know how you look. You don’t need a mirror for that.

So you move fast. Trying to slip past him—back into the hallway, back into the noise, back into something that doesn’t feel like being seen—

But Jack is faster.

His hand catches your arm—not rough, but firm enough to stop you—and in one smooth motion, he guides you back into the elevator.

You stumble a half-step.

“Jack, it looks a lot worse than it is, I swear, I’m fine—”

“Stop.”

The word is quiet, but there’s a finality to it. He steps in after you, reaches past, and presses a button to Admin. The doors close, then the elevator moves up.

Neither of you speak, not at first. The silence stretches—thick, heavy, filled with everything you’re trying not to say.

You shift your weight, arms folding across yourself without thinking, like you can somehow make yourself smaller. Like you can make it less.

Jack doesn’t look away, not once.

The doors open to the Admin floor. Dimmer lighting, quieter, and removed. Jack steps out first, catching the door with his hand before it can close on you.

You hesitate… then step out. His hand comes to your back—gentle, steady, guiding you forward. Not pushing, just there as he leads you down the short hall and out onto the terrace. The air hits you immediately. Warm. Humid. Evening settling in with that faint blue cast before full dark.

It’s not the roof—but close enough. It’s safe. Guard rails are high —no edges to step too close to.

You walk ahead of him, stopping at the railing, your back to him as you stare out at the skyline. Lights flicker on in the distance, and cars move like slow streams of gold below.

You cross your arms, holding yourself together without meaning to.

Jack steps up beside you, leaning his forearms against the railing, turning just enough to scan you.

“You wanna tell me what happened,” he says, voice low but tight, “or should I find this son of a bitch downstairs and beat the shit out of the guy that did this to you?”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Your throat tightens—not from the bruising this time– then you inhale slowly, steadying yourself, trying to find the words.

“He got Emma in a chokehold,” you start, voice quieter than you expect. “I managed to get him off of her, but he tackled me to the ground and began—”

You stop…. Your voice catches. Then, you clear your throat, swallowing through the ache. “He began to choke me. With his hands.”

Jack’s jaw tightens visibly, something dark flashing behind his eyes—anger, sharp and immediate.

“Emma called in a code hula hoop,” you add, trying to keep it clinical, distant. “Dana ran in, got him off of me and then Robby… well. Yeah.”

The kind of silence that presses in.

“You gonna press charges?” he asks.

You shrug, but it’s small. Tired. “They took our statements, but…”

You exhale—long, heavy, like it’s been sitting in your chest all day.

“I don’t know, Jack. This guy has money. Connections. He’s a white man and rich.” Your voice flattens slightly, not bitter—just resigned. “He’ll barely get any jail time… if at all.”

A moment.

“I know how the system works.” You glance down, fingers tightening slightly against your arms. “And it doesn’t work for people like me.”

That’s the part that costs you something to say. The part that hits harder than the rest. The exhaustion creeps in right after, like a wave you can’t outrun anymore. You let out a small, broken laugh—more breath than sound, like it catches on the way out.

“And I’m so tired, Jack,” you admit, the words slipping past whatever’s left of your guard. “I’m so exhausted. With everything. All of it.”

Your voice wavers, and you hate that it does. It feels like losing control in slow motion—like your body is betraying you after you worked so hard to keep it together.

You shake your head slightly, like you can steady it, like you can pull yourself back into something more composed.

But it keeps coming.

“Just—” you swallow, your throat tight, aching, “Robby and Noelle… and I don’t even know if he’s coming back after his sabbatical. I don’t know where I stand with him, if I ever did.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“And then I hear him and Dana arguing out there like everything’s falling apart behind the scenes too. And you—” your eyes flick up to him, something raw there, “you’re out here throwing yourself into god knows what, like you don’t care what happens to you.”

Your chest rises and falls unevenly.

“Jesse gets taken by ICE for doing the right thing. And then—” your voice cracks, sharper this time, “then a patient nearly kills me on shift and we’re all just supposed to… move on from it?”

Your hands lift slightly, then fall again, like you don’t even have the energy to finish the gesture.

“I just—” you exhale, shaky, overwhelmed, “everything feels like it’s slipping. Like I can’t get a grip on anything anymore.”

Your gaze drops for a second, unfocused. “I don’t recognize this place like I used to. I don’t recognize… any of it.”

Your voice softens at the end, quieter, more fragile. “And I…”

You blink, but it’s too late. The tears come anyway—slow at first, then uniform, tracing down your cheeks before you can stop them.

You turn to him then.

Not to hide it or to fix it.

Just to be seen—it takes more effort than it should. Your shoulders shift, your arms loosening from where they’ve been braced across yourself, like even that small movement costs something. Every instinct still tells you to turn away—to minimize, to make it easier.

But you don’t.

You meet his eyes.

Hazel—secure, searching, and lit with something too sharp to ignore. Anger, maybe. Guilt. Something heavier that sits beneath both, something he doesn’t know where to put.

The city hums behind you. Warm air presses against your skin. Somewhere below, a siren cuts through the distance and fades. Up here, it’s just the two of you, and everything you’ve been holding in.

Your breath stutters slightly as you swallow, your throat still tender. Your hands fall from your arms, fingers flexing like you don’t know what to do with them now that you’re not holding yourself together so tightly.

Your voice, when it comes, is quieter than anything you’ve said all day. Not clinical or controlled. Just raw honesty.

“I can’t remember the last time I was happy.”

It doesn’t sound theatrical. It sounds like something you’ve known for a while and only just admitted out loud.

Your gaze flickers—just for a second—like you might take it back, but you don’t.

“So why do I miss it so much?”

The words nearly disappear between you.

And for a moment—

Nothing.

Jack doesn’t answer. Because he can’t.

There isn’t a version of this that can be fixed with the right words. No explanation that won’t feel thin against everything you’re carrying. He knows that the second you say it.

So he doesn’t try, he just stares at you. At the way your shoulders are still trying to stay squared. The uneven rhythm of your breathing. The bruising along your neck you’ve been pretending doesn’t hurt. The way you’re holding yourself together is like it’s something expected of you.

Something shifts in his expression. The sharpness softens. Not gone—just… redirected.

Decision.

He steps forward. Slow enough that you can see it, close enough that you feel it before he even touches you. Then—his arms come around you. Firm and certain. There’s no hesitation. No distance.

A full, grounding pull that brings you against him, one hand settling at your upper back, the other wrapping around your shoulders like he’s anchoring you there—like he won’t let you slip through.

You don’t resist.

You can’t.

Not when your body has been holding itself together for hours without permission to stop. Your forehead presses lightly against his shoulder. Your hands fist into the fabric of his shirt, gripping like it’s the only solid thing left.

And then— it breaks.

Your breath shudders, the first quiet sob catching in your throat before it spills over. Everything you’ve been containing—every measured response, every swallowed reaction, every I’m fine—unravels in small, uneven waves.

Jack doesn’t say anything.

He just holds you.

One hand shifts, briefly cradling the back of your head—gentle, soothing—before settling again. His grip tightens just enough to remind you he’s there. Not going anywhere.

The city carries on around you—distant, indifferent. But here—it’s muffled. You breathe in, uneven, catching the faint scent of antiseptic, clean cotton, his shampoo, and light cologne. Familiar. Grounding.

And for the first time since— you let yourself feel it, the fear, anger, and exhaustion. All of it, pressed into the space between you. And he lets you. Doesn’t rush you or interrupt. Just stands there, holding you together while you come apart.

While downstairs, the man you can’t seem to stop caring about keeps moving through the ED. Even as he keeps pushing everything that does further away.

Even as he keeps pushing you.

He doesn’t let go right away.

Even after your breathing evens out. Even after the worst of it passes and your grip on his shirt loosens, your hands slipping back down like you’re suddenly aware of where you are—what you’re doing.

Jack eases back first. Not far, just enough to look at you. His hands linger for a second longer at your arms, like he’s making sure you’re steady on your feet before he lets go completely.

The space between you returns—but it feels different now. Not empty. Just… quieter and safe.

Jack exhales, running a hand over the back of his neck before dropping it.

“What happened after I left?” he asks, voice lower now, steadier—but no less intent.

You hesitate. Not because you don’t want to tell him. But because saying it out loud makes it real in a way you haven’t fully let it be yet. 

Still, you know he won’t drop it.

“There was… a lot,” you admit quietly. “I had a panic attack after ICE came in and took Jesse away. I went to the stairwell.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, the muscle feathering just beneath the skin, but he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush you.

You keep going.

“Robby brought me there,” you say, careful, measured. “He stayed until I could breathe again.”

A flicker passes through Jack’s expression—something quick, contained—but it’s gone just as fast.

“We—” you swallow, your throat still raw, “we said we’d talk later. After his shift.”

Jack exhales through his nose, glancing away for a moment, like he’s filing that somewhere he doesn’t quite want to examine right now.

“And you’re still here,” he says.

It’s not a question.

You shake your head lightly. “I can’t leave.”

“You should,” he says immediately, sharper now—not angry, but firm. “You got assaulted today. You almost lost consciousness. You need to go home.”

“I know,” you say, softer. “I know.”

But you don’t move, and you don’t step back. You don’t give him anything to work with.

“Dana needs help,” you add, voice quieter but steady. “Lena’s not here. Night shift’s short, and everything’s still a mess from the downtime.”

Jack stares at you again. In the way you’ve already decided. The way you’re standing there, like leaving isn’t even an option you’re willing to consider.

You don’t say the rest out loud. That leaving would feel like losing and staying is the only thing that still makes sense. That you’re not ready to sit alone with everything that happened.

The silence stretches between you again. Not uncomfortable, just full. Jack exhales, slower this time, resigned. He glances back toward the door, then at you.

“I’ve got a meeting with admin,” he says finally. “They’re already behind on getting the system fully back up.”

The words settle between you—practical, inevitable.

You nod once.

Of course he does, because the night doesn’t stop for either of you.

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” he adds.

You shake your head lightly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says.

A moment passes.

“I’m going to anyway.”

There’s that tone again. Completely certain.

You move together toward the door, the terrace giving way to the quiet hallway again. The hum of the hospital grows louder with every step—distant at first, then familiar, then all-consuming.

“I’ll still be there when you get back from your meeting,” you say, almost as an afterthought.

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

He just peers at you with that same look. Too perceptive. Like he’s trying to read everything you’re not saying.

You huff out a small breath, half a smile tugging despite everything. “I’ll be fine,” you add, softer this time. “Besides, Dana will be wondering why I wasn’t there for rounds.”

That earns the faintest shift in his expression—something closer to acceptance, even if he doesn’t like it.

You both reach the elevator.

Jack presses the down button for you without asking, stepping just slightly closer as you both wait. The overhead light casts a dull glow, reflecting faintly off the metal doors.

Jack bumps his shoulder lightly against yours. Not hard, just enough to ground you.

You lean into it without thinking, your head resting briefly against his shoulder—just for a second, just long enough to feel something firm again before pulling back.

“Love you, Jack,” you say.

It comes out simple, easy.  Worn in by years of something solid and uncomplicated.

He doesn’t hesitate as he kisses your forehead.

“Love you too, kid.”

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

Screens glow overhead again, the Google sheet finally populating—names replacing blank spaces, rooms filling, the chaos slowly translating back into something trackable.

You stand beside Perlah, shoulders brushing as you both work through the sheet—cross-referencing patients, updating locations, fixing what downtime scrambled.

“Digby, Haas—now on the big board,” Perlah says, looking up at the screen.

“Progress,” Dana calls from the dry-erase board.

It’s small, but it counts.

You grin at Perlah, a quick, tired spark of relief breaking through as you do a small, barely-contained bounce in place—something light, fleeting. You take the wins where you can, especially after a shift like this.

Robby’s voice cuts in from nearby, phone pressed to his ear.

“So he’s just been waiting in the hall the whole time?” A pause. His jaw tightens slightly. “Okay—well, can you maybe get to him next? Thank you.”

He hangs up, already turning to Perlah, “Duke goes to CT—and they bump him.”

Perlah exhales. “Yeah… he may end up waiting for hours over there.”

Dana glances up at the clock, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Oh, look at that. 7:15 already.”

“Just a few more loose ends to tie up,” Robby mutters, already scanning the racks again.

Dana snorts as she walks past the dry-erase board. “You got more loose ends than a macramé wall hanging. My mom had one—took up the whole goddamn wall.” She crosses her arms. “Seriously, you should think about signing out and hitting the road.”

Robby doesn’t look up. “Yeah, maybe you should too. Oh—that’s right. You sent Lena home. You planning on calling in a replacement, or are you just gonna work till sunrise?”

“If I have to.”

“Oh, so you get to go the extra mile, and the rest of us just get accused of being martyrs.”

It lands, sharp. Too sharp to pass off cleanly.

Dana scoffs, disbelief flashing across her face.

Because—what the hell was that?

Across the counter, you catch it too—the edge beneath the words, the way he tries to let it pass like it’s nothing.

“Robby.”

Samira’s voice cuts through before Dana can respond.

He clicks his tongue lightly, already stepping away. “Excuse me.”

Quickly, he turns toward her, momentum carrying him toward Trauma One. “What’s the word?”

As if he knows that if he stays a second longer, the conversation might turn into something he can’t control.

At the counter, you, Dana, and Perlah all catch it at the same time. A look passes between the three of you—brief, wordless, but loaded with everything that didn’t get said. Dana exhales through her nose, shaking her head slightly as she turns back to the board, muttering something under her breath that doesn’t quite make it all the way out.

Perlah glances after him, then back to the papers, fingers hovering over the pages for a second longer than necessary before she forces herself back into the task.

While you're still looking down the hall. At the space where he disappeared, your chest tightens just a fraction. Because it’s not just about him walking away from that conversation. It’s the way he keeps doing it, all shift.

Choosing movement over stillness. Patients over people. Work over anything that might slow him down long enough to feel what’s actually happening.

You swallow, your throat still tender, gaze dropping back to the board—but not really seeing it. Every hour he stays, every minute he finds another reason not to leave—

The worry shifts and continues to grow. Not about whether he’ll go. But whether he’ll come back. Whether this—this place, this pace, this constant pull—has already taken too much of him. If the sabbatical is something he needs or something he won’t return from.

SOUTH 21 — NIGHT

This area feels softer than the rest of the department. Robby is tied up in Trauma, so you move where you’re needed, with Dana and Emma.

Emma sits at the bedside, careful, focused, finishing the last strokes of Digby’s shave. A basin of warm water sits nearby, the faint scent of soap lingering in the air.

Digby looks… different. Cleaner, lighter. More like someone who belongs in a room with care, not just passing through it.

Dana steps in, taking one look at him and lighting up.

“Holy smoke! I thought it was Tom Cruise for a second over here,” she says, impressed. “Nice job. How’s that feel, Digby?”

“Pretty good,” he admits, touching his face like he’s still getting used to it.

“I bet.” Dana tilts her head, studying him. “What do you say we trim up those gorgeous locks of yours now?”

Digby hesitates immediately. “I don’t like having my hair cut.”

“I get it, Rapunzel,” Dana says easily, unfazed. “But you need your ears lowered. You’ll feel better with a fresh summer look that won’t go unnoticed by the ladies.”

You catch Emma’s eye and step closer, offering a small, reassuring smile. Your arm slips around her shoulders in a brief side hug. She leans into it for just a second, then straightens again.

“Maybe just a trim?” Digby offers.

Dana grins. “Great. I’m thinking a pixie cut.”

Digby’s eyes widen. “What?”

Dana laughs. “I’m kidding. I cut my husband Benji’s hair all the time. Trust me—you’re gonna look fabulous.” She reaches for a towel, draping it around his shoulders with practiced ease. “When’s the last time you had a haircut?”

She starts combing through his hair, working out the tangles gently before picking up the shears.

“Maybe my daughter’s wedding,” Digby says. “A few years ago.”

“Where?”

“St. Sebastian, Our Lady of Mount Carmel Parish.”

Dana nods as she begins trimming, small, careful snips. “Does your daughter know where you are?”

“Of course,” he says simply. “We all live in Pittsburgh. In fact, they live in my old house.”

Emma glances up. “Your daughter lives in your house?”

“Yep.”

Dana’s hands slow just slightly, but she keeps going. “Where do you live?”

Digby shrugs, like it’s the easiest thing in the world, “Wherever I want.”

Dana’s hands resume their steady rhythm, but her expression shifts—something softer, something more careful.

You, Dana, and Emma share a look. Brief and knowing, because you’ve all heard it before. Different words, same meaning. And still—Dana keeps trimming, and Emma stays close while you don’t move away. Because sometimes care looks like this, small, quiet.

Done anyway.

The last few strands fall, and Dana steps back slightly, giving Digby a once-over, head tilting as she studies her work like she’s checking symmetry, balance—something more than just hair.

“All right, Digby,” she says, satisfied. “I think you’re good to go.”

She lifts the towel, brushing away the loose hair from the back of his neck—careful, unhurried—before pulling it free from his shoulders.

Emma, still perched on the stool, reaches for the handheld mirror from the tray. “Mm-hmm,” she hums softly, turning it toward him. “Would you like to see?”

Digby hesitates for just a second before looking at his reflection. He looks, and something in his expression shifts.

“I haven’t looked like this in a long time,” he says, quieter now. Almost to himself.

Emma smiles gently. “Your family won’t recognize you.”

The words are meant to reassure, but Digby’s face tightens.

“Then how will they find me?” he asks, the worry creeping in fast. “They—they won’t know what I look like. They won’t know this is me.”

Dana steps in without missing a beat, voice steady, warm, practiced in the kind of reassurance that doesn’t feel forced.

“Of course they will,” she says. “They know your voice. They know where you hang out.” A small smile. “They even remember that you used to look like this. They remember the wedding.”

Digby’s grip on the mirror loosens slightly.

Emma leans forward just a bit, softer now. “Did you dance with your daughter at her wedding?”

A pause.

“I did.”

You step in gently, voice quiet but sure. “Then she will always remember you.”

Not how you look or what’s changed.

You.

Dana nods beside you. “Yeah.”

Digby looks between the three of you, something in his expression easing—not gone, but quieter. Less sharp.

“Okay,” he says.

And for now, it’s enough.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

The board is finally starting to make sense again.

Names line up where they’re supposed to. Rooms fill in. Orders get entered, crossed, re-entered. The hum of the department has shifted from hell to controlled overload—still messy, still relentless, but at least readable.

Robby and Al-Hashimi walk back toward Central together, steps quick, conversation already mid-thought.

“Hey, I was just looking for you,” Robby says.

“What’s up?”

“You tell me. The, uh— asthma patient.”

Al-Hashimi glances at him. “What about him?”

“You seemed like you were hesitating talking about using Aerogen,” Robby says. “I was wondering if you were having second thoughts.”

“No,” she answers evenly. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

“The best treatment plan for the patient.” A beat. “And I think he’s on it. Anything else?”

Robby studies her for a second. “I don’t know. You tell me. Anything else I need to know?”

“I don’t think so.”

She doesn’t linger, she peels off, already moving toward her next task. 

At the counter, you’re standing, typing steadily into the system, catching charts up now that everything’s back online. Fingers moving faster than your brain wants to, just to keep pace.

You don’t hear him at first, but you feel it. A presence at your side, then a hand, light against your back. Not pushing, just there, grounding and reaffirming.

Jack—he doesn’t say anything—just a quiet acknowledgment as he reaches past you, grabbing a chart from the rack and setting it down on the counter beside you. He starts writing, close enough that your shoulders nearly brush.

Next to you, Robby sees it, and something tight coils low in his chest before he can stop it. He looks away almost immediately, picking up the phone like he’s been meaning to all along.

“This is Dr. Robby in the ED,” he says, voice clipped into professionalism. “I’m checking on a patient—Ekins.”

“Got it,” Monica calls from the board. “We can take Larson and Stevens off the dry-erase.”

“Consider it done,” Jack says without looking up, still writing.

Robby listens on the line, pacing a step. “He’s in the scanner now? Oh—great. No, I was just calling to confirm. Thank you.”

He hangs up, then looks over to Jack.

“Any new information from upstairs?” he asks.

Jack doesn’t glance at him. “Nothing we don’t already know.”

There’s something in his tone, it’s flat, tight, not overt. But it’s there.

“Same old story, huh?” Robby mutters.

From the front of the counter, Perlah leans in slightly. “You think we should take up a collection for Jesse? For—for bail money?”

“They don’t usually set bail until after you’ve appeared in front of a judge,” Robby says.

“With the holiday,” Jack adds, still focused on the chart, “it’s not likely to happen till Monday.”

“So he’s gonna be locked up all weekend?” Langdon asks.

“That sucks,” Perlah says.

“It does suck,” Jack replies.

You glance sideways at him, brows lifting slightly.

“Say it with a little more concern, please,” you murmur. “Like you care?”

Jack’s pen pauses for half a second, then resumes.

“Dr. Langdon!” Mel calls out from Trauma Two, pushing the door open. “Grady’s worse—much worse!”

Langdon is already moving before she finishes the sentence—gone in a flash.

Jack straightens slightly. “Need an attending?”

“Uh—no, we have Shen!”

And then she’s gone too.

Robby and Jack both track the movement toward Trauma Two—the doors swinging shut behind Mel, the urgency already swallowed by the room.

Then, almost in sync, they glance at each other. A fleeting, wordless exchange passes between them—something dry, incredulous.

Right. Guess we’re not needed.

It’s subtle, gone as quickly as it comes.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

The glow from the monitors casts everything in a muted wash of blue-white light. The system is back, but the pace hasn’t let up—if anything, it’s sharper now, every delay catching up at once.

You stand off to the side, half-turned toward the workstations, chart still in your hand—but your attention drifts.

Robby crosses the floor toward Samira. She’s seated at a terminal, posture slightly hunched, eyes on the screen—but not quite there. Fingers resting on the keyboard like she’s paused mid-thought and hasn’t found her way back yet.

“It’s a good thing Dr. Conley was here,” Robby says.

“Yeah,” Samira answers.

Automatic.

“We should probably try to find him a Neuro-Critical ICU bed,” Robby continues. “We don’t want to board a patient like this.”

“Mm-hmm.”

She nods, but it’s shallow and distant.

You see it, the way her focus doesn’t quite land. The way her gaze flickers, not fully tracking. The slight delay in her responses.

Dissociation.

Your chest tightens just a little, because you recognize it. Because you’ve been there. Because you were there.

Robby doesn’t catch it. He’s already looking past her—movement pulling his attention away before the moment can register.

“Hey, Robby.”

Duke.

Being wheeled back toward Central 11 by Vivi. Robby pivots easily, the shift immediate. “Hey—how’d the scan go?”

“Fine.”

“It’s probably gonna take a little while to get the results from the radiologist.”

Duke waves that off like it doesn’t matter. “Well, that’s not a problem. Nurse Vivi and I need a little time to coordinate our schedules over the next few months.”

Robby’s brows lift slightly. “Really?”

Vivi grins. “Yeah. I’ve always wanted to learn how to ride a motorcycle, and Duke offered to teach me.”

“Well, nobody knows motorcycles like Duke,” Robby says.

“He’s giving me the health care worker discount,” Vivi adds.

Robby huffs softly. “He’s quite the gentleman. Let’s get him back to his room.”

Duke leans slightly toward Vivi as they move. “How would next Saturday be for you? Uh—maybe we could have some dinner after?”

Robby visibly rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he falls in step beside them, even lifting a hand briefly to cover one ear like he’s blocking it out.

You almost smile.

Behind you—

“Dr. Mohan,” Perlah calls, stepping in. “Lorrie Diaz is here. She wants to see her husband. She’s heading back.”

Samira blinks, like she’s snapping back into her body. “Okay—I’m on my way.”

She stands quickly, smoothing her scrubs as she moves toward the incoming woman.

“Mrs. Diaz?”

“Hi,” Lorrie says, breath a little rushed. “Did Orlando go up to his room yet?”

Samira hesitates. “No, um—”

“I brought him some dinner from Burgatory,” Lorrie continues, holding up the bag slightly. “It’s a chicken burger—no bun, just lettuce. Figured it would be better than hospital food.”

You watch it all from where you stand. The movement, the conversations, the way everyone keeps going. And underneath it—the things people don’t say. The things they carry anyway.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

The pace hasn’t let up.

If anything, it’s settled into something sharper—less frantic, more relentless. The kind of rhythm that doesn’t give you space to think too hard about anything outside of what’s in front of you.

Emma stands near the counter, bag slung over her shoulders, still a little too bright for someone who’s had a day like this. “Uh, good night, Ducky, Perlah, Monica. Good night, Dr. Robby.”

“Good night,” Robby answers without looking up, eyes still scanning the screen.

“Bye, Emma,” Perlah adds.

You step in before she can leave, pulling her into a quick hug. “Night, Emma.”

She hugs you back just as tightly—brief, but real.

Monica glances over. “You could stay to pitch in.”

Emma shakes her head, already stepping back. “Mm—Dana told me to go and get some rest before tomorrow’s shift.”

“Yeah,” Perlah says. “You had quite a day.”

Emma shrugs, that same bright smile slipping back into place like armor. “Wasn’t so bad.” She heads out, and the space she leaves behind feels noticeable.

You turn, catching Monica’s eye.

“Y’know,” you say lightly, voice sweet enough to pass, “since the systems are up, you could go home now, too.”

The smile you give her doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Tapos wag ka nang bumalik, walang kwentang gaga,” you mutter under your breath. (And don’t come back—worthless bitch.)

Monica side-eyes you and doesn’t respond. Perlah chokes on a laugh beside you, quickly ducking her head like she didn’t.

At the workstation, Robby frowns at the screen. “Why can’t I find Duke’s results?”

“Oh—new patient,” you answer. “No EHR yet.”

“I can run over to Radiology, get a printout,” Monica offers.

Robby exhales, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “Thank you, Monica.”

She leaves.

Mateo steps in behind you, tapping both your shoulders lightly. “Ready to pick up a few more? Orlando’s all tucked in for now.”

He leans against the counter, easy, like he’s trying to lighten the air.

Robby pushes up from the swivel chair, turning toward him. “How’s he doing?”

“Numbers are good,” Mateo says. “CPP 22.”

Robby nods once. “Okay—so he’s got a shot at a decent outcome at least.”

“You think he has a chance?” Perlah asks.

Robby hesitates—just long enough for something to convey, “Oh, I don’t know that survival was the outcome he was hoping for.”

Perlah blinks. “What?”

Your stomach swoops, because you already know you’re not going to like where this is going.

“He told Samira he’s got a hundred thousand dollars in medical debt,” Robby continues, voice lowering but not enough, “that his life is probably—”

You stiffen.

Every muscle tightening.

You’re a second away from stepping in—from cutting him off yourself—

“Mrs. Diaz!”

Dana’s voice cuts clean through it, sharp and deliberate as she steps forward, intercepting the moment before it can go any further.

“How can we help you?”

Lorrie Diaz stands just outside Trauma One, clutching her bag. “The bathroom?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dana says immediately, turning. “Perlah can show you the way.”

Perlah is already moving. “Right this way.”

They disappear down the hall.

Dana turns back.

The shift in her expression is immediate. “Not a great idea to have a private conversation about a patient in a public area,” she says.

“I know. I know,” Robby replies quickly.

“You were about to start yapping—”

“But I didn’t!” he snaps, irritation flashing. It’s defensive… too defensive, and then he’s walking off and again, leaving it hanging.

You don’t move, but your jaw tightens so hard it hurts. Your teeth grind together, the pressure sharp, grounding. Dana looks at you, and you—you lean forward and thunk your forehead lightly against the counter.

Not enough to hurt-hurt, but enough to release something.

“Jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

Because, of course, this is how the night keeps going.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

The counter is crowded, but the chaos has thinned just enough to breathe. Clipboards are stacked in uneven piles, the dry-erase board finally starting to look manageable instead of overwhelming. The system’s back, the backlog shrinking—slowly, but it’s happening.

You stand between Robby and Perlah at the front of the counter.

Robby has his reading glasses on, head slightly bowed as he scans through the remaining patient charts, lips pressed thin in concentration. Perlah flips through loose slips beside him, organizing, sorting, double-checking.

You’re in the middle of it—updating entries, logging vitals, attaching notes to charts, hands moving on autopilot even as your mind drifts in and out.

“I think another half hour,” Perlah says, glancing up at the board, “we can send this dry-erase board back to storage.”

“With pleasure,” Robby mutters.

“Thank fucking God,” you breathe, scratching absently at your arm—nerves, habit, leftover adrenaline.

Robby’s gaze flicks toward you immediately, noticing—but before he can say anything, Perlah cuts in, light and offhand, like she’s just trying to keep the mood up.

“Hey, at least places like Mount Sinai or New York-Presbyterian probably don’t have to deal with this kind of cyber mess,” she says with a small grin. “Better security, better systems.”

You turn to Perlah too fast.

Your expression gives you away—eyes widening, something sharp and urgent flashing across your face.

Don’t.

He doesn’t know.

Why would you say that out loud?

It’s all there in a split second.

Robby catches it, and his brows knit slightly, confusion and unease flickering across his face as he looks between you two. “What do you mean by—”

“Dr. Robinavitch?”

Monica.

Robby turns around. “Yep.”

“Results on your friend.” She hands over the printout.

Robby takes it, begins to read, and everything in him stills.

“Fuck.”

It’s quiet, but it hits all the same.

Perlah straightens. “Duke?”

You and Perlah both lean in, reading over his hand, eyes scanning the report—the numbers, the findings, and the implications. Your stomach drops.

“Are you gonna tell him?” you ask, softer now.

Robby shakes his head once, already pulling back. “I want to talk to a surgeon first.”

He slips his reading glasses off, tucking them into his scrub pocket like he can’t stand having them on for this.

“Uh—Dr. Robby,” Whitaker steps in, slightly nervous. “I have an update on the patient.”

“Now is not a great time,” Robby says, sharper than before.

Whitaker hesitates.

Before he can respond—

“Dr. Robby—”

Emma steps back into the ED, a little breathless, bag still on her shoulder.

Perlah looks up, surprised. “Oh—I thought you were going home.”

“Uh, I was,” Emma says, still catching her breath. “Dr. Ogilvie is just sitting out in the ambulance bay… covered in blood.”

Whitaker frowns. “Sorry—what… what’s he doing out there?”

Emma shakes her head slightly. “Kind of… staring off into space. I tried to talk to him, but it was like he couldn’t hear me.”

Robby’s focus snaps back into place instantly, “Ducky—can you stat page Cardiothoracic?”

You nod, already moving toward the phone.

“I’ll go check on Ogilvie,” Whitaker says, turning.

Robby nods once. “Please.”

Whitaker is already gone, pushing through the ambulance bay doors.

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

Monitors hum steadily. Orlando lies motionless beneath the web of lines and tubing—intubated, sedated, his chest rising in controlled, mechanical rhythm. The ventilator hisses softly, in and out, in and out.

You stand at the supply tray, hands busy—flushing a line, organizing syringes, checking labels twice even though you already know they’re right. It gives your hands something to do. Keeps you anchored.

Noelle steps in.

Javadi trails beside her, guiding Mrs. Diaz closer to the bedside.

Noelle is holding another fucking iPad.

“Due to his injury,” Noelle begins, voice smooth, clinical, “things have changed.”

The words land wrong immediately.

Shen slides the door open from Trauma Two, stepping halfway in. “I was looking for Dr. Abbot—”

He stops, and the tension in the room is immediate. Visible. Thick enough to feel. Samira stands rigid near the foot of the bed. Mrs. Diaz is clutching the edge of the stretcher like it’s the only thing keeping her upright.

Ellis, stethoscope pressed to Orlando’s chest, doesn’t look up. “I haven’t seen him for a while.”

Shen nods quickly. “Excuse me.”

And just as quickly, he’s gone again.

Noelle doesn’t pause, “So now, with a long-term disability, things may be easier.”

Mrs. Diaz’s head snaps up.

“‘Easier’?” she echoes, voice tight, eyes already glassy with tears—and something sharper beneath it.

Your jaw tightens; you don’t even try to hide it this time. Because what the hell is she doing?

Ellis catches your expression out of the corner of her eye—gives you a look. Subtle. Careful.

You press your nails into your palm instead.

Noelle continues, unfazed. “His condition will qualify him for Medicare and Medicaid. So moving forward, costs should be covered, including home health care.”

Mrs. Diaz swallows hard. “Okay.”

The word doesn’t mean okay.

You step in, unable to stop yourself. “Perhaps this isn’t the best time—”

“I just wanted to reassure you about future costs,” Noelle cuts in.

And then she’s already turning, already leaving.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

Noelle steps back into Central as if nothing happened, like she didn’t just drop that into a room that was barely holding together.

She walks straight up to Robby, placing the iPad back on a rack.

“Robby.” Her voice shifts—softer, almost warm.

Robby turns, pulling off his reading glasses and slipping them into his pocket. “Noelle.”

“You’re still here.”

He leans back against the counter, bracing his hands behind him. “It’s not the best day to try to get out on time.”

You step out from Trauma One through the side door. You don’t mean to stop, but you do. Out of sight enough not to interrupt, close enough to hear everything.

“Noelle hums softly. “Mm. So I guess this is it for a while.”

Robby tilts his head slightly. “Unless you want to come with me.”

“No,” she says lightly, almost amused. “But thank you—even if it isn’t a legitimate offer.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, please.” She smiles, but it doesn’t quite soften it. “I know well enough not to get in between a man and his… vision quest.”

Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “‘Vision quest.’”

“That is my nice way of putting it.”

“I probably don’t want to hear your not-so-nice way of putting it.”

“No, probably not.” A beat. Then, softer—just enough to matter as she steps forward. “I hope this isn’t about you running away from me. I’m a big girl. You can tell me to get lost.”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, right,” she says. “The old ‘it’s not you, it’s me’?”

Robby meets her gaze. “In this case… it’s actually true.”

And then—She steps closer, and hugs him.  A full-body hug, right there in the middle of Central. Like it’s easy.

You don’t realize you’ve moved until you’ve already taken a step back. Just one small step. Like your body’s trying to create distance before your mind can catch up. Because it shouldn’t feel like this. It shouldn’t— but it does. You don’t stop loving someone just because they don’t love you back. The realization sits heavy in your chest.

“Excuse me.”

Jack’s voice cuts through. He moves deliberately—passing behind them, just close enough to force space between the moment.

His shoulder brushes past Robby. And the look he gives him—Sharp. Unimpressed. Heavy with something unsaid.

“I’ll see you next week?” Noelle says, pulling back.

“It’s a three-month sabbatical,” Robby replies.

She smiles anyway. “Like I said—I’ll see you next week.”

And then she’s gone.

Jack lifts an eyebrow, glancing back, quirking his lips to the side.

Robby flips him off without missing a beat.

It’s nearly normal. But Robby doesn’t see you, standing off to the side. Still, quiet and trying to steady something that doesn’t want to settle. Because it hurts—to be something. And somehow, worse to feel like nothing at all.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

The noise comes back first. Voices. Monitors. Footsteps. The scrape of chairs and the constant shuffle of paper now that everything’s back online. It’s close enough to drown out the ache sitting heavy in your chest.

You blink, force your focus back into place—back into the room, the board, the work—and then Jack is there. He falls into step beside you like he’s always been there, quiet, steady, matching your pace without asking.

“I’m fine,” you say.

Too fast. Too automatic.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replies.

You rub at your temples, the headache pressing in behind your eyes. Of course he didn’t. He never has to. You’ve gotten good at this, at loving in silence.

In the space between conversations. In the way your eyes find him without meaning to. In the way you wait—without asking for anything, without expecting anything—because wanting more would mean risking everything you already have.

You told yourself it was enough, that being near him was enough. That understanding him—even when it hurt you—was enough. But somewhere along the way, you forgot something simple.

Love isn’t just something you feel. It’s something that’s chosen. And you know that you’ve been the only one doing the choosing.

“You sure you’re okay?” Jack asks, softer now.

You let out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“It doesn’t matter, does it?”

It’s not dismissive. Just… tired. You glance away, watching the movement of the department instead of him.

“If it’s meant to work out,” you say after a moment, quieter, “then it will.”

The words don’t sound convincing. Not even to you.

Jack frowns slightly, like he wants to argue, like he should argue—

But you don’t give him the chance. You step away. Just… choosing movement over standing still. Because standing still means feeling it too clearly, and you don’t have the energy for that right now.

You drift toward the edge of Central and spot it.

The dummy, still sitting in a wheelchair like it belongs there, dressed up in leftover Fourth of July decorations—tinsel wrapped loosely around its neck, a small American flag tucked awkwardly into its hand.

You huff out a quiet breath.

Despite everything—

It’s stupid, it’s ridiculous. And it pulls something small and fragile out of you. You walk over, adjusting the tinsel absentmindedly, then stick the little flag into its mouth like a cigarette. There, better.

Behind you—

“Oh!”

“Oh, God—”

Whitaker and Nazely collide lightly in the middle of the floor.

“No, I’m—I’m—” Whitaker stumbles over his words.

“Sorry,” Nazely says quickly.

“I’m good. I’m good. I’m good.”

Nazely gestures awkwardly behind her. “There’s a dummy in a wheelchair.”

Whitaker barely glances. “Uh, yeah. He moves around.”

Nazely just nods and walks off.

Whitaker makes his way over to the makeshift scanning station near Central 8, taking in the setup.

“I see I’ve been replaced.”

Mel swivels in her chair. “Oh—did I take your spot?”

“Not really, no.”

“Are you sure?”

Whitaker nods.

Santos doesn’t even look up. “Where the hell have you been?”

“I found Ogilvie.”

“And?”

“He’s going home.”

“That’s it?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Well, I got nothing but time.”

Whitaker shakes his head. “I need to respect his privacy.”

Santos smirks. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Her eyes flick to you then.

She pauses.

Really looks.

“The fuck did Robby do?” Trinity Santos asks, blunt as ever.

You shrug.

Flat.

Like it doesn’t matter.

Like it doesn’t touch you.

“You good?” she presses.

You shrug again—then tilt your head slightly. “Are you good?”

She huffs. Shrugs right back.

Fair.

Mel scoots her chair over toward the shredder.

“Beep. Beep, beep,” she mimics as she feeds the papers in.

“Sorry,” Whitaker mutters automatically.

The shredder sputters—

Then stops.

Mel blinks. “Um… the shredder jammed.”

“Yeah, uh—try putting it in reverse,” Whitaker suggests.

She does.

Nothing.

“Perfect,” Santos mutters.

Whitaker gestures. “Just give it a little love tap.”

Mel taps it gently.

Nothing.

“Kick it.”

Mel lifts her foot—

And kicks it.

Hard.

“Jesus Christ,” Whitaker blurts, startled.

Santos bursts out laughing first—sharp, sudden.

Mel follows, then Whitaker too, despite himself. And you stand there, watching them.

Listening, while letting the sound of it wash over you. It doesn’t fix anything. Doesn’t undo the ache still sitting in your chest. But for a moment… it softens the edges, just enough to keep going.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

Nazely steps up to the counter, spotting Dana, a small, hopeful smile on her face, “Guess Mr. Digby got a room upstairs.”

Dana doesn’t even look up. “In your dreams.”

Nazely blinks. “He’s not in South 21.”

Dana finally glances over. “Yeah, he is.”

“There’s a new guy in the bed.”

Dana’s eyes narrow slightly. “Short hair, clean-shaved?”

Nazely nods.

Dana snorts, already pushing off the counter. “I’ll take care of it.”

Off to the side, Robby stands with Barrett at a workstation, both of them focused on the monitor. The glow of the scan reflects faintly in their faces.

“Scout film showed obvious pathology,” Robby says, voice clipped, controlled. “So we ordered the CT angiogram.”

Barrett nods once. “Textbook ascending aortic aneurysm. Eight centimeters.” A beat. “Fifty percent one-year mortality.”

“So he definitely needs surgery,” Robby says.

“If he wants to live.”

Robby exhales through his nose. “Okay—well, he’s a friend. I’ll talk to him. I’ll get him admitted to your service.”

“Not today.”

Robby turns. “Why not?”

“He needs Cardiology and Pulmonary clearance first,” Barrett explains. “Stress echo. PFTs.”

“He needs to be admitted and evaluated as an inpatient.”

“Nothing ever gets done over a holiday weekend,” Barrett replies evenly. “He can take it easy at home.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. “He’s a ticking time bomb.”

“He’s probably been that way for years,” Barrett counters. “We can get him in early next week, get the testing done. If all goes well, he’s on the OR schedule in a week.”

“And if it ruptures before then?”

Barrett doesn’t flinch. “Call 911.”

A second passes.

“Sorry, Robby. Best we can do. Text me his number—I’ll have my office coordinate.”

Barrett walks off while Robby doesn’t. For a second, he just stands there. Then, he grabs his black thermos, and slams it down hard against the counter.

“Fuck!”

The sound cracks through the room, sharp and loud.

You flinch hard, a small yelp slipping out before you can stop it—your body reacting before your mind can catch up.

Dana’s head snaps up immediately.

“Hey!” she barks, already moving. “Take a walk. Come on!”

Robby doesn’t argue, doesn’t look at anyone. He just turns and walks, fast. Dana follows a second later, expression tight, clearly not letting this go.

You duck your head slightly, heat creeping up your neck—embarrassed at your reaction, at being seen—but your eyes still track him as he disappears down the hall. Worried, always worried.

A bell dings lightly at the counter.

Crus.

“Two for discharge,” he says, setting down clipboards.

Perlah looks up. “Yeah, please don’t ring the bell. The computers are back up and running.”

“Not for these two,” Crus replies. “They don’t have electronic health records yet.”

Perlah flips through the charts, frowning. “Wait—hold up. This kid had a wrist X-ray ordered. Ugh, it never happened. And water-skiing lady’s still waiting on a knee series.”

“I canceled the X-rays,” Crus says casually. “Diagnosed them both with ultrasound.”

Samira spins around in her chair. “Really?”

“Yeah. Kid had a simple buckle fracture—distal radius. Velcro splint. And Mrs. Stegman—small medial meniscus tear. Knee immobilizer, crutches, follow-up with ortho.”

Perlah exhales. “Could’ve used you on day shift today.”

“They don’t teach us a lot of musculoskeletal ultrasound,” Samira admits.

“I know,” Crus says. “That’s why I did electives at Harvard and Highland.”

Samira studies him. “Are you applying for an ultrasound fellowship here?”

“I am. But it’s competitive.”

“That’s what I hear.”

“Kinda a long shot,” he shrugs. “Only have one publication—case series on diagnosing shoulder dislocations with ultrasound.” He nods toward her. “If you want to learn some MSK, you can tag along. I’ve got three more to scan.”

Samira hesitates, something flickers across her face—uncertainty, doubt, the pressure of the day pressing in.

“Maybe some other time,” she says quietly.

“Cool.”

She turns back to the desk, and feeds a stack of papers into the shredder.

“Hey—don’t jam the shredder,” Monica calls. “What is that, two charts?”

Samira doesn’t look up. “No. It’s my ultrasound fellowship application.”

Whitaker steps in beside her. “Hey—uh, sorry about your patient.”

“Yeah,” Samira says. “Orlando’s in pretty bad shape.”

Whitaker shakes his head. “No—I mean the triple-A guy. The one you worked with Ogilvie.” A beat. “He didn’t make it through surgery.”

Samira stills.

“I tried to talk to Robby about it,” Whitaker adds, quieter now. “But I think he’s busy.”

A pause.

Then—

“Excuse me.”

She’s already standing, already walking away.

“—Oh, shit,” Whitaker mutters under his breath.

The tumult of the department continues, unchanged and unforgiving. And everything that just happened gets folded into it like it always does.

FAMILY ROOM HALLWAY — NIGHT

The hallway is dimmer than Central. The lights flicker overhead, casting that tired, uneven glow over everything. The hum of the ED bleeds in from down the hall—muted, distant, like it belongs to another world for a moment.

Robby stands off to the side, hands dragging through his hair, then down the back of his neck. Over and over. Like he’s trying to physically pull himself together and failing.

Dana stands in front of him.

“You think I’m on edge?” she says. “First, you’re shaming Samira, then McKay—”

Robby presses his fingers to his temple, rubbing hard. “They both needed to be called out for unacceptable behavior.”

“Yeah? Yeah, well, you do that in private,” Dana snaps. “Same place you share your thoughts about a patient’s possible suicide.” She gestures sharply. “And slamming stuff? Please. Sign out all the shit that’s bugging you and get out of here.”

You’re halfway down the hall, on your way to the bathroom. You weren’t supposed to hear this. But you do… and you stop. Your body stills before your brain catches up.

Robby’s back is to you, he doesn’t know you’re there. Time stretches in that strange, suspended way hospitals have—seconds dragging longer than they should under flickering light.

“I can’t,” Robby says.

Dana doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes, you can. When either of my kids was acting like this, I gave them a time-out in their room.”

Robby lets out a short breath, licking his lower lip, anxiety written all over him. His hands come up, palms out. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—you’re not my mother.”

“Yeah?” Dana fires back. “Well, too bad. You need one.”

Robby shakes his head. “No. I had one. She left.” A beat. His voice drops. “I don’t need another one.”

The sentences linger there, unguarded.

“What I need,” he continues, voice tightening again, “is someone who can actually run this place while I’m gone.”

Dana’s expression shifts immediately. Softer. “Okay… I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“Nobody knows,” he says. “Who needs to know? Who gives a fuck?”

“I think you need a break.”

“That’s what the sabbatical is for.”

“Then start it now,” Dana pushes. “Walk away.”

“I have too much to do.”

“Let someone else talk to Duke.”

Robby shakes his head. “No. That needs to come from me.”

“Why?”

His face tightens, something deeper breaking through. “Because I owe him that. It needs to come from a friend—not a stranger—otherwise he’s gonna bail and drop dead while I’m gone.”

Dana exhales slowly. “Okay. Wrap that up—and then leave.”

But Robby’s already spiraling past that.

“It’s not just Duke,” he says. “I’m not sure Al-Hashimi is fit to run this place.”

Dana’s brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’m not sure. I’m trying to figure that out. Did you know she wants two attendings on at all times?”

“No.”

“Is that something she worked out with Gloria?”

“I don’t know.”

His voice sharpens. “Why did Perlah bring up Mount Sinai and New York-Presbyterian with Ducky?”

Your stomach drops. Even from where you stand—you feel it.

“That’s something you gotta talk to her about,” Dana says.

But Robby’s not done.

“I don’t know if Langdon’s gonna relapse. I don’t know if Whitaker’s gonna be able to handle my stuff. I don’t know if Javadi’s gonna give up on what she’s good at.” His voice falters—just slightly. “I don’t know if Ducky is hiding something from me… again. Or if Samira’s gonna flame out because of some bullshit with her mother.”

Each name lands heavier than the last. Yours—Heavier than all of them.

Dana watches him carefully now, “Is there anything else?”

Robby lets out a breath.

“Yeah. You.” His gaze flicks to her. “I don’t know about you running around with a full syringe of Versed in your pocket.” A beat. “I’m worried about the people that I care about.”

Dana’s voice softens. “We’ll all manage until you come back. We always do.”

Robby’s eyes flicker.

“Yeah?” he says quietly.

“What if I don’t come back?”

The question doesn’t land like a question. It lands like something already halfway decided. Something inside the space… gives. The hum of the hospital doesn’t stop—but it pulls back, like it’s been pushed a few steps farther away. 

All that’s left is him and those words.

Robby doesn’t look at Dana after he says it. Doesn’t wait for her to answer, because maybe there isn’t one. Or maybe he already knows it won’t be enough.

He turns, not rushed or angry. Just… done. And he walks, down the hallway. Past the turn. Out of sight, and away from the conversation. Away from everything that might have held him in place a second longer.

He never sees you. Never knows you’re there.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

Your body feels rooted to the spot, like if you shift even an inch, something inside you will crack wide open and spill out where everyone can see it.

Your throat tightens, raw in a way that has nothing to do with what happened earlier.

Because this—this is different.

This isn’t fear. It’s something that doesn’t ask for permission before it settles in your chest and makes itself at home. There is a specific kind of helplessness to loving someone you cannot reach. Not because they’re far away or because they don’t care. But because whatever they’re fighting—is something you were never invited into. Something you cannot fix, cannot soften, and cannot carry for them, no matter how badly you want to.

You think of him, the way he keeps moving. The way he won’t stop. The way he keeps choosing everything else over himself, over rest, over peace.

The way he said what if I don’t come back like it wasn’t hypothetical. Like it was already sitting somewhere real.

Waiting… you swallow. It doesn’t help.

Your eyes burn, vision blurring just enough that the hallway wavers. You blink hard, but it’s too late. Tears slip anyway.

Dana hasn’t moved either. She’s still standing where he left her, shoulders squared like she’s holding herself together by force alone. Then, slowly, she turns, and sees you.

There’s no surprise in her expression. No question. Only recognition. Because she knows. Not the details, but the feeling. The pain of caring about someone who is slipping just out of reach—and refusing to be caught.

Her eyes are rimmed red.

Yours already are, and for a second—you just look at each other. Two people standing in the same soundless aftermath. Carrying the same kind of helplessness in different ways. Neither of you speaks.

Because what would you even say?

That he’s not okay?

You both know that.

That he needs help?

He won’t take it.

That you’re scared?

Of course you are.

The hardest thing isn’t that he’s hurting.

It’s that you can see it, clear as anything—and you’re not sure you can do to stop it. No right words or right moment. No version of you that could reach him if he’s already decided to keep going without looking back.

You press your lips together, trying to steady your breathing, but it trembles anyway.

Because loving someone doesn’t mean you get to save them, and sometimes—It doesn’t even mean they’ll stay.

Dana exhales, slow and shaky, like she’s trying to push something down before it shows.

You wipe quickly at your cheek, more instinct than intention.

The hallway remains the same, there’s always people moving somewhere beyond this moment. However, something has changed—quietly and permanently. But standing there is all you can do, and feel it.

End Notes:

I just… I say I love you to my friend all the time… but they aren’t Jack Abbot, so… :P

I want Robby and Jack badlyyyyyy. God, I’ve seen what you’ve done for others.

Also, lol, I do get jumpscared a lot by loud noises. One time, my friend snuck up behind me and then scared me, and I let out a loud yelp in Disneyland, and the cast members were so concerned T^T

So Robby absolutely slamming that poor thermos on the desk would have caused me to flinch, jump and yelp in surprise.

Damn, Ep 14 had me crying too.

But LMAAOOOO Jack “you need to shut your fucking mouth” Abbot has me DROOLING AND WAGGING MY TAIL AJKLFHSDJKGHAJK (if you know me irl you dont pls–)

TEHE SEE U IN THE SEASON FINALE :D

Taglist: @orodaeh @karleyyjaee @allenajade-ite @glitterspark @bumbl3-b33z @sarahhxx03 @mirandarockin @sourmooonlight @sunflower911 @tedmustache @wastingspaces @princessesareforsuckers @anykent-grayson @brucewaynegfreal @katethedilfhunter @barnes70stark @kneelforloki @imonmykneessir @emneedshelp @darlingimafangirl @silas-aeiou @rei-scorpio @redhooduwu @thesnugglingduck @blondedlvfe @blackwidownat2814 @pagesaftermidnight @soyelfleureon @battyvonkreep @mscreativity @ravyn94 @jeshomie @follows-the-life-ahead @sommywithluv @whatupbuttercup2019 @calytrixsworld @twizzlelutz

PEDES — NIGHT

Pediatrics feels like a different world, quieter, and softer. The harsh edge of the ED dulls here just enough to breathe, just enough to remember that not everything is disorder and blood and alarms.

The lights are still luminous—but warmer somehow, diffused against pastel walls and soft blankets and the low, even rhythm of tiny breaths.

Robby slows when he steps in. His body simply does, not on purpose.

You’re standing near the bassinet, carefully adjusting the blanket wrapped around Baby Jane Doe, your hands gentle, practiced. The baby makes a small sound—something between a sigh and a protest—and you instinctively soothe her, tucking the edge of the swaddle just right.

Dana stands beside you, leaning in, making exaggerated, ridiculous faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, whispered nonsense meant only for the baby.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice softening in a way it rarely does out in Central. “Cutest patient we’ve had all day.”

You don’t notice him at first, but he notices you. There’s something about the way you look right now that catches him off guard. It’s not polished or composed. Your hair’s coming loose, strands sticking to your temples from sweat and humidity. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes tired—really tired—but still soft in a way that feels… lovely and warm. The baby in your arms, for a split second, hits him. It isn’t logical or something he thinks through, a flash, a version of something quieter and softer.

A future that doesn’t look like siren sounds and endless shifts and running toward everything that’s breaking. A life where your hands still move like that—gentle, certain—but not because something’s wrong. Because something’s yours.

It’s gone as quickly as it comes.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice cutting through the quiet just enough.

You glance up, but Dana answers first. “Oh—false alarm,” she says, waving a hand lightly. “We thought she spiked a fever, but it was the wrong chart from our analog hell.”

She huffs a laugh. “You know anybody who might consider kinship adoption? Doctors and nurses qualify.”

Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t look at me.” Then, more seriously, he asks,  “Hey, can your staff keep an eye on Dr. Al-Hashimi until she leaves?”

Dana’s expression shifts immediately, “Why?”

“Uh,” Robby starts, already turning slightly away like he doesn’t want to explain, “because I think she’s tired.” A small shrug. “And I don’t want her to make any mistakes.”

Dana stares at him for a second longer than necessary. “Oh, great advice,” she mutters. “Maybe you should take it.”

You carefully lower the baby back into the clear cradle, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure she’s settled before stepping back.

“Yeah,” Robby says, already moving again. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”

Dana snorts. “Grab some for me while you’re out there.”

He doesn’t miss a second. “Your lungs wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Screw you!”

Robby glances back, eyebrow lifting just slightly, “In front of the baby? Nice.”

Dana scoffs, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns and leaves. Back toward Central— into everything. 

You watch him go before deciding. “I’ll go try and check in with him,” you say, quieter now. “He also looks tired.”

Dana hums knowingly, not even looking at you, “Give him a kiss for me while you’re at it.”

You roll your eyes immediately, heat rising to your face despite everything, “Shut up.” But you’re already moving, already following. Because no matter how many times he walks away, you keep choosing to go after him anyway.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

You trail after Robby as he heads back through Central, his pace restless, aimless in that way that means he’s pretending not to pace. At the front of the work area, the night shift has gathered in a loose semicircle.

You stop when you realize what’s happening, and immediately snort. Because—oh no. Not this.

Jack stands in the middle of them with entirely too much conviction. And you remember, vividly, months ago on night shift, jokingly calling them the Night Crawlers after some horrible 4 a.m. trauma run, and Jack—of course, Jack—taking it as if you had handed him doctrine.

At first it made you cringe so hard your soul left your body. And then—somewhere along the way, it became beloved. Ridiculous and earnest, exactly the kind of silly ritual people invent to survive impossible jobs.

Abbot says in an almost disbelieving, serious tone, “We are the Night Crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”

In unison, “We are the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”

Jack grins. “That is right. And tonight…” He gestures around the ED. “They are really gonna be crawling. Now go get some.”

“Hooah!”

The huddle breaks, and someone laughs or groans, while Parker and Shen do a little handshake as they walk off in different directions.

Santos startles awake at her station, half slumped over charting and scanning in downtime documentation, she blinks hard.

Abbot winces. “Sorry to wake you.”

“I—I was thinking,” Santos mutters. She grabs the tiny dictation mic and, without missing a moment, yawns as she resumes charting. “Doubt PTX.”

Jack spots Robby at the board, staring at the live patient screens like they might answer something larger than bed assignments. He walks over, “You’re supposed to be leaving.”

Robby doesn’t turn, “I am.”

Jack folds his arms. “You know, this spirit quest of yours has a lot of people up in arms around here.” Robby finally moves, heading toward the ambulance bay, “Everyone’s gonna be fine without me. And it’s hardly a spirit quest.”

Jack follows. “Whatever it is, you’ve given people the impression you might not be coming back.”

Dana appears beside you, silent. You don’t have to look at her to know she heard that. The two men stop by the sliding doors, watching another gurney push through.

Robby says, too casually— “Well… who knows what the future has in store for any of us?”

Jack exhales sharply, “Yeah, saying shit like that isn’t helping.” His voice lowers. “People are worried about you.”

Sophie appears from South. “Dr. Abbot? The patient in South 21—Digby—he’s missing again.”

Jack barely looks over, “Sounds like a day shift problem.”

Robby deadpans, “Not if he was handed off already.” And keeps walking, out into the ambulance bay. Jack right after him.

You and Dana exchange a look. No words, just agreement.

You follow, again.