The hallway was silent this time of day—too silent for a trauma center. Fluorescent lights buzzed weakly overhead, casting a pale wash across the linoleum floor, and somewhere far off, a code alarm had just gone still. Robby stood with one hand braced against the doorframe of Supply Box C, shoulders stiff, eyes focused on the shadow curled up against the wall inside.

You. He stepped in quietly, closing the door with a soft click behind him. No words yet. Just the rustle of his coat and the creak of his boots on tile. He hated the way your body was drawn in on itself, like even your ribs were trying to protect your heart.

He crouched down slowly, knees cracking from the motion, and sat across from you—close, but not too close. You looked like you'd been holding the world together all shift, only for it to collapse the second no one was watching. “I heard.”

His voice was low, rough from hours of yelling over trauma cases and barking orders in the pit. But now it was something gentler. Almost cautious. “The kid?” No response. Just a flicker in your eyes. He nodded like he already knew, because he did. He’d seen it happen from the corner of his OR, saw the code blue flash up on the monitors, heard the screams.

He let out a slow breath, the kind that felt like it carried too much. “You did everything right.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands hanging loose. He wasn’t touching you. Not yet. But his presence filled the box like a blanket, grounding.

“Sometimes it doesn’t matter how fucking good we are. The body just… decides. And you’re left with a ghost and a chart and a heart full of reasons why it shouldn’t have gone that way.” He paused. Watched you. “But that doesn’t make it your fault.”

His jaw tightened, teeth clenched like he was trying to keep something in. "You’re the strongest damn resident I’ve got. And I need you to come back. Not for me. For the next one. The one we can save." Slowly, carefully, he reached out—just enough to let his fingers brush your knee.