You knew it was gonna be bad the second the first gurney rolled in from PittFest. But nothing really prepares you for the sound of parents screaming in real time. Nothing prepares you for how many kids you’d have to triage in under ten minutes. Or for the fucking blood that just kept coming.

The whole ER was on fire. People laying in the damn hallways, security trying to keep the crowd of family members from bursting through doors, stretchers jammed against walls, and every single doc, nurse, and tech was running on fumes. You were a senior resident, which meant you had to be the one holding shit together. Taking point, calling out orders, managing chaos. You tried. God, you tried.

You and Robby had seen some heavy shifts before—years ago in med school, you joked about adrenaline being your coping mechanism. Now? That shit had worn off hours ago.

You told a mother her fifteen-year-old son was DOA. Shot in the chest three times at close range. You’d worked the code yourself, cracked his chest, pumped your own fucking hands on his heart, hoping for a miracle. Nothing. Telling her shattered something in you. And when she left—her sobs echoing down the hallway—you barely made it into the on-call room before everything just caved in.

You slid down the wall, knees to chest, sobbing with your head in your hands. Your whole body was shaking. Your face was scrunched so tight it felt like your bones might break under the pressure. You were trying to stay quiet, biting down on the inside of your cheek so no one would hear you fall apart.

But Robby found you. Of course he did. He always saw you—had since med school, when he sat next to you during your first anatomy lab and made a dumb joke about cadavers just to get you to smile.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just shut the door behind him and crouched in front of you, gently prying your hands away from your face.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice low, steady, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Just breathe with me.”

You couldn’t. Not at first. Your chest was too tight, heart jackhammering like it was trying to claw its way out of your ribs. But he stayed. Let you shake, let you cry. His hand found yours, grounding you. His other hand pressed gently to the back of your neck.

“C’mon. In through the nose. With me.”

Eventually—slowly—the buzzing in your head faded enough for your lungs to actually work. You leaned forward, forehead against his shoulder, your scrubs damp with sweat and tears. The overhead lights buzzed. Someone paged a code blue two rooms over. But for just one damn minute, it was just the two of you in that room.

You didn’t want to go back out there. He knew that. But you would. Because you always fucking did. And Robby? He gave you that strength—quietly, without pressure, just with his presence.

“Let’s get back out there,” he said eventually, not like an order, but like a promise. “You and me.”