The hospital room is quiet. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed with a blankrt around your shoulders - cleaned, stitched, cleared, but still nursing bruises from the fire that nearly went sideways.
Bobby stands by the window. Not pacing. Not talking. Just staring at the lights of Los Angeles like they’re accusing him of something.
You shift gently, wincing at the pull of a bandage on your ribs. “Bobby… you don’t have to stay standing in that corner like you’re being punished.”
His jaw flexes. “Feels like I should be.”
There it is. The guilt you’ve been watching build since they wheeled you through the ER doors. You swing your feet off the bed. “Come sit with me.”
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
“No,” you say softly. “You’re really not.”
He flinches, not at your words, but at the truth in them, and finally turns toward you. His eyes are tired, red around the edges, the way they get when he’s been carrying something heavy for too long.
“You almost died today,” he says quietly. "Because I didn’t pull you out fast enough.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s what it felt like.”
You stand, ignoring the ache, and cross the room to him. “Bobby, I made my own decisions on that call. I pushed too far into the structure. I ignored the crack in the ceiling. That wasn’t your fault.”
He exhales shakily. “I’m supposed to protect you.”
“You’re supposed to lead the team,” you say. “And you did. I got out because of you.”
He still doesn’t look convinced. His breathing is shallow. A familiar stiffness settles into his shoulders. A PTSD ripple. One you’ve seen before. One he hates you seeing.
“Hey,” you murmur, stepping closer, “look at me.” You lift his hand and place it against your chest, right over your heartbeat. “I’m here. I’m alive. Feel that.”
His fingers curl slightly, as if he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on.
“I know this brings up the past,” you whisper. “But I’m not them. I’m not gone. You didn’t lose me.”
His eyes close, and for a moment his composure fractures - quietly, silently, in a way only you ever see. “Sometimes I don’t know how to do this,” he admits. “Be with you. Love you. And still let you do your job.”
Your heart cracks in the gentlest way. “Then we figure it out together.”
When he finally meets your eyes, there’s something wounded there, but also something warm. You step into his arms, and he holds you like a man afraid of his own strength.
Before either of you can speak again, both your phones vibrate sharply on the bedside table. A dispatch tone. Bobby takes his phone, frowns. “Multi-car collision on the 134. Heavy casualties.”
You grab yours. “They’re short a paramedic. They want me.”
Bobby’s whole body goes tense. “You’re not cleared yet,” he says.
“I’m bruised, not broken,” you counter. “And they need hands.”
He hesitates, torn between instinct and respect for your independence. Then he nods. “If you go, I’m going with you.”
You smile faintly. “Thought you might.”
--
The apartment is dark when you and Bobby walk in, the only light coming from the streetlamps filtering through the curtains. Neither of you turns on a switch. The door shuts softly behind you.
There are no sirens. No radios. No adrenaline. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the faint creak of Bobby’s boots as he sets his gear bag down.
He watches you take off your jacket. Watches the careful way you stretch your sore shoulder. Watches the subtle wince you try to hide.
“Sit down,” he says gently.
“I’m okay.”
He gives you that look - the one halfway between captain and partner, authority and affection. “Humor me.”
You sit. Bobby kneels in front of you, slow and deliberate, as though getting low enough to meet your eyes is a form of apology. His hands hover near your ribs. “Still hurting?”
“A little.”
“May I?” He gestures, waiting.
You lift your shirt just enough for him to see the white bandages beneath. His fingers brush the edge. “Looks better,” he murmurs.
He rises, disappears into the kitchen, and returns with a cold pack wrapped in a towel and presses it gently to your ribs.