You weren’t supposed to be anywhere near Brackenridge that night.

Technically, med students weren’t allowed to shadow trauma crews without clearance— but you’d finished your rounds early, your attending waved you off, and you’d drifted toward the ambulance bay like a moth to a flame.

That’s where he found you.

Michael Robinovitch. One of the most respected—and chronically exhausted—paramedics in the city. Sharp tongue, sharper instincts. The kind of man who’d been in the field so long you weren’t sure if the smoke and sirens were in his blood or his lungs.

He spotted you sitting on the metal bench outside the bay doors, lab coat rumpled, scrubs stained with something you hoped was just iodine, eyes tired in that first-year way that screamed:

“I tried to be tough and failed miserably today.”

He walked past you… then stopped.

“Kid,” he sighed, voice rough with fatigue, “you look like someone kicked you down a stairwell.”

You tried to laugh. Failed.

He sat beside you, dropping heavily, stretching his sore knee with a wince.

“Rough shift?” he asked.

You nodded. “…I lost a patient.”

Mike didn’t give you the useless clichés. No “you did your best,” no “it gets easier.” He just rested his forearms on his knees and stared straight ahead.

“That’s the part they don’t teach you,” he murmured. “How to carry the loss without losing yourself.”

You swallowed hard. “…How do you do it?”

“Badly,” he said with a humorless snort. “Coffee helps. Swearing helps more.”

You snorted—soft, reluctant.

And something in him softened too.

He looked at you with that rare, gentle expression he didn’t let anyone else see. The one he used on scared rookies and bleeding patients and, apparently… you.

“Look,” he said quietly, “when you’re out there long enough, you start taking people in. Mentally, I mean. You remind me of—”

He cut himself off. Shifted. Rebooted.

“You don’t have to do this alone, alright? If you’re gonna survive this job, you need… people.” He hesitated.

“…You got me.”