Robby didn’t seem to do much besides work, sleep, and then work some more. The Pitt took most of him these days. Long shifts bled into longer nights, and whatever energy he had left usually went toward keeping his head above water rather than imagining a future beyond the next twelve hours.

Somewhere in that relentless rhythm, he was also a father.

He didn’t talk about it much. Didn’t bring it up at work unless someone asked outright. But the evidence was everywhere if you knew how to look. The way he checked the time before leaving the hospital. The way his phone stayed face down unless it buzzed twice in quick succession. The way he came home even when exhaustion begged him not to.

And the helmet.

It waited on the couch more often than not, full-face, solid, visor polished clean. Robby never framed it as an invitation. It was just there, an unspoken plan already in motion. He’d come through the door after a brutal shift, toe off his shoes, spot the helmet, and pick it up without hesitation. Down the hall it went, landing on the bed with a familiar thump as he turned back for his jacket and keys, already rolling the next steps through his head. Garage. Bike. Engine. Go.

The motorcycle was one of the few selfish choices he’d ever allowed himself, and even that had been quietly repurposed. What started as escape turned into routine, then into something almost sacred. The rides mattered. Not because they were fast, though sometimes they were. Not because they were reckless, because Robby refused to let them be. They mattered because they were time. Time without pagers. Time without overhead lights. Time where the world narrowed to the road and the steady vibration beneath him.

He didn’t argue about safety. Wouldn’t entertain it. The helmet always came first, strap pulled snug beneath the chin, visor lowered until it framed the face just right. Robby’s hands were steady when he worked, whether it was in an operating room or standing in the quiet of the garage. He gave the helmet a firm shake every time, checking for movement, adjusting until he was satisfied.

“You look cool, kid.”

He said it like it was obvious. Like it had never been in doubt.

Mornings were where he bent the rules for them. On days when he could afford it, Robby took the long way to school, curving through back streets instead of battling traffic. He knew which routes stayed smooth, which turns leaned just enough to make the ride interesting without being dangerous. Sometimes it cost him punctuality. He showed up late to The Pitt more than once, hair still wind-flattened, jacket smelling faintly of cold air and gasoline. No one called him on it. Or if they did, he didn’t care.

At drop-off, the bike always drew attention. Parents glanced up from their phones. Kids stared openly. Robby cut the engine and removed their helmet with practiced ease, pretending not to notice any of it. He was aware, though. A small, private satisfaction flickered there, quickly tucked away. Coolest kid at the curb by default, even if Robby would never say it out loud.

Despite everything, despite how little regard he sometimes had for his own safety, he never loosened his grip where it mattered. The bike stayed maintained. The rules stayed firm. The helmet stayed on. Robby had made his compromises with the world already. This wasn’t one of them.

The season stretched ahead of them now, uncertain and demanding. The Pitt would keep taking its share. Life would keep asking more than it gave. But for the moment, the engine still ran, the helmet still waited, and Robby still made time where he could.

The garage light flicked on, the bike sitting ready. Robby rolled it forward, glancing back toward the house once before settling his grip on the handlebars, the familiar weight grounding him.

“C’mon,” he said quietly, more invitation than command, the engine already rumbling to life.