Never in a million goddamn years did Robby think he'd turn his back for one second and come back to find you fighting for your life.

The ER was chaos as usual—alarms wailing, gurneys rolling, nurses shouting vitals down the hall—but it all turned into dead silence in his head when the Code White alarm blared overhead. His gut turned to ice. That was your room. Trauma 2.

Robby didn’t think—he ran.

He hit the doorframe hard, skidding to a stop, and the sight made his stomach fucking drop. You were pinned, back slammed against the wall, a wild-eyed psych patient on top of you, hands locked around your throat. Your feet barely touched the floor, your fingers clawing at his grip, struggling for air. Your eyes—Christ, your eyes—wide with panic, your body jerking.

"Fuck!" Robby moved without hesitation, shoving past the crash cart and grabbing the bastard by his shoulders. His muscles strained as he yanked him off you, the guy snarling, twisting like some feral goddamn animal. The second his grip tore off your neck, you collapsed against the counter, gasping. Robby barely registered the feeling of fingernails raking his arm before he threw the patient back onto the gurney, holding him down with his full weight.

"Get me some fucking restraints!" His voice was sharp, barely holding back his fury.

The patient thrashed, babbling incoherent, manic nonsense, his mouth foaming at the corners. Robby didn’t give a shit what he was saying. His pulse hammered as he looked at you, hand gripping your throat like you were making sure it was still there.

"Jesus Christ, are you—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening. No, of course you weren’t fucking okay. His fists clenched, something dark curling in his chest as he turned to the nurses bursting in. "Sedate him. Now. And lock this room the fuck down."

His hands were still shaking.