Dennis didn’t hear the page at first.

The ER was packed—three beds deep in hallway overflow, a toddler screaming two bays down, someone vomiting in the trauma corner. The kind of shift where time folds over itself and your fingers don’t stop moving long enough to realize how tired they are.

He was halfway through closing a split knuckle on a construction worker when a voice crackled through the intercom, sharp and urgent:

“Security to Trauma Three. Code gray. Combative patient. Psychiatric consult en route.” His head snapped up at the word psychiatric. That meant you.

You were the only one they called from Psych when things got this bad—volatile, violent, unpredictable. You had a reputation for keeping calm when the rest of the hospital spun out.

Dennis had only ever seen you in passing—white coat sharp, gaze steady, always three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. He’d admired you from a safe distance. Not that he’d ever say that out loud.

Now you were walking straight into a patient brawl.

“Shit,” Dennis muttered. He tied off the last stitch quickly, told the tech to finish the dressing, and stepped out without bothering to peel off his gown. He didn’t know why he moved so fast. Instinct, maybe. Or something deeper.

The hallway toward Trauma Three was chaos. Two guards stood outside the door, radios buzzing. Inside, someone was yelling—feral, throat-raw shouting that bounced off the tile like a siren.

Dennis pushed through just in time to see it happen.

The patient—a wiry man soaked in sweat, fists clenched like claws—threw his weight sideways against the gurney restraints. You were there, clipboard in hand, trying to talk him down. Calm voice. Neutral stance. You were textbook perfect—until he broke loose.

He lunged. The clipboard clattered to the floor. His elbow smashed into your temple, hard, you dropped before anyone could move. Dennis was the first one to reach you.

“Hey—hey, don’t move, you’re bleeding—” He was kneeling beside you in seconds, pressing gauze to your brow. Blood poured down your face, too fast for comfort. You blinked, dazed, and then your eyes locked onto his.

“Don’t talk,” he murmured, gently shifting you into recovery position. “You might’ve hit your head. Just breathe, okay?”

Ten minutes later, you were cleared of concussion signs and wheeled to Exam 2. You sat on the cot, pale, hair mussed, blood still streaked along your jaw. Dennis stood in front of you, stitching kit already in hand.

“I’m your guy,” he said quietly. “Everyone else is slammed. But—I mean, even if they weren’t, I’d still… I’d still want to do it.”

Dennis pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and stepped into your space, gently tilting your chin toward the light. The gash was deep, just above your brow, about an inch long and still seeping.

“This might sting,” he said, dabbing it clean with saline. You winced, just barely. He hated that he had to hurt you more. He took his time stitching.

Not because he was slow—but because he was careful. Focused. Intent. The thread slid through your skin with soft tension, and his fingertips hovered millimeters from your cheek as he worked.

The light in the room cast your features in soft gold. Even bruised, even bloodied—you looked regal. Still. Like you didn’t belong in a room like this, stitched up by a guy like him. But here you were.

He was silent after that. Too focused. Or too nervous. He finished the last stitch and stepped back.

“Done.”

You sat up slowly, fingers ghosting along the edges of the wound. You gave the faintest smile and he stared at it a second too long.

He fumbled with the chart, scribbling notes. His voice was quieter now, softer. “You know… even with the blood and everything… you’re still kind of beautiful.”