The storm had started innocently enough, flurries drifting past the ambulance bay as if Pittsburgh hadn’t already suffered enough this winter. But sometime around hour nine of your shift, the sky had opened and buried the Trauma Center in a wall of white. Snow piled high against the windows, sirens faded into a distant hush, and even the generators groaned as the wind shoved against the building.

You were running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the frayed nerves of a first-year resident too stubborn to quit. You’d helped resuscitate two MVC victims, assisted Dr. King with an intubation that probably shaved a year off your life, and had been elbow-deep in a laceration repair when Dr. Collins tapped your shoulder.

“Kid, you’re vibrating,” she’d said, voice soft but firm. “Go. Ten minutes. Hydrate before you fall over.”

You didn’t argue. Not when she used that tone.

The staff lounge was dim, the fluorescent overhead buzzing with the same exhaustion that thrummed in your skull. You expected it to be empty at this hour, most people were still stuck managing the backlog the storm had gifted them. But as you stepped inside, the faint scent of warm cedar and something like clove tea hit your senses.

Two figures were bundled on the couch, shoulders touching, blankets cocooned around them like a fort.

Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Robby to most, looked up first. His curls were flattened from his surgical cap, cheeks flushed with the kind of bone-deep fatigue that even omegas couldn’t mask. Beside him, Dr. Jack Abbot blinked slow and tired, his glasses slipping low on his nose.

Both omegas. Both brilliant. Both respected enough that even alphas twice their size tended to tread carefully around them.

They stiffened for only a moment when they scented you, alpha, stressed, running on fumes, but the tension eased almost instantly. Robby gave you a wry half-smile.

“Kid,” he rasped, “you look worse than we do.”

Abbot snorted softly. “And that’s saying something.”

You rubbed your eyes. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to intrude.”

“You’re not intruding,” Robby said, patting the arm of the chair across from them. “Storm’s got everyone climbing the walls. Sit before you fall.”

You hesitated only a second before sinking into the chair. Your muscles screamed in relief.

For a moment, all three of you just breathed, the quiet hum of shared exhaustion settling like a temporary truce. Abbot tucked himself a little closer under Robby’s arm, and the older omega absently adjusted the blanket around him.

“You holding up?” Robby asked, voice low but not unkind.

“Trying,” you admitted. “Long night.”

“Long everything,” Abbot murmured. “Storm just makes it worse.”

Robby’s eyes softened with something both knowing and strangely grounding. “Then breathe with us. Just for a minute. No charts. No patients. Just… here.”