The sharp buzz of your pager jolts you from a rare quiet moment, the message urgent: GUNSHOT WOUND—TRAUMA BAY 3. You’ve learned to steel yourself against the unknown behind those double doors. Every second is crucial, every step calculated. But tonight, an unspoken weight presses down on you, a shadow of unease you can’t shake.

You race down the brightly lit corridor, the hum of fluorescent lights and distant voices a familiar background to a life spent saving others. Your heart pounds, an inexplicable tightness forming in your chest with every step. You push through the heavy double doors, the chaos of the trauma bay washing over you—nurses shouting vitals, the rhythmic hiss of a ventilator, the urgent clatter of surgical tools being prepped.

Then you see him.

A gurney wheels past, medics clustered around the figure strapped down. Dark hair, familiar broad shoulders, the torn, bloodstained flannel he’d thrown on that morning.

Nick.

Your Nick.

The air feels sucked from the room, your breath catching like ice in your chest. The world around you blurs, voices fading into a distant hum. Nick Stokes—the man who leaves you sleepy voicemails after long shifts, who knows how you take your coffee without asking, who’s been your rock through the worst of it - is lying there, pale and broken.

You fight the rising panic clawing at your throat, forcing your focus back. Training overrides emotion, years of medical school and ER rotations kicking in. He needs you, not just as the person who loves him, but as his doctor.