The park was quiet in that end-of-shift kind of way. No laughter tonight, no echo of beer bottles clinking together from the ER crew. Just the hum of far-off traffic and the whisper of wind through bare branches.

Robby sat on the old bench near the lot, sweatshirt zipped over his scrubs, one boot planted in the dirt like he might get up and leave—but he didn’t.

A six-pack sat at his feet, one already cracked open in his hand, half-warm. He didn’t drink fast on nights like this.

He heard your steps before he saw you. Slow. Hesitant. The kind of tired that sinks into your bones. He didn’t turn to look—just let the silence stretch out long enough that the wind filled it for him. “Everyone bailed.” His voice was low, almost casual.

Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it didn’t mean everything.

You’d been running trauma all afternoon—triaged a five-car pileup, called two time of deaths, yelled at Santos for screwing up an intubation and then apologized because your hands were still shaking when you did. Robby had watched the whole thing from two bays over, and he hadn’t stepped in once.

Not because he didn’t care. Because you had it. Even when it cracked you open a little. He glanced at the beer next to him on the bench, then at you. “You want one?”

That was all he said. He didn’t ask how you were. He knew. Knew the way it built up—on your shoulders, in your spine, behind your ribs where the adrenaline used to sit. Now it just ached.

He took another sip. The sky above him was darkening, clouds heavy like they were thinking about rain. “You kept it together in there. When it counted.” There was no praise in it. Just recognition. Just the truth, quiet and steady.

He shifted over an inch, just enough room for you to sit, if you wanted. He wouldn’t press. Some nights you needed to fall apart. Some nights, just being seen was enough.