You went up to the rooftop without saying a word.

You needed air. Not clean —there’s no such thing in The Pitt— but at least something that didn’t taste like blood and despair. The shooting had ended hours ago. Victims kept coming in. One after another. And another. And another.

Your gloves still held dried blood.

You leaned against the railing and looked out at the city. You heard footsteps. You didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“You're here.”

He came closer, but not too much. As always, he kept that cautious distance, like getting too close would break something that wasn’t ready to be touched yet.

“I spoke with Robby. He’s messed up.” he added in his usual dry tone. But he said you were worse.

You stayed with your back to him, taking a deep breath, swallowing everything you wanted to say but didn’t know how.