Dana Evans picked it up early in the shift—{{user}} was still working, still competent, but the usual energy was gone. The easy humour, the steady encouragement, all muted in a way that didn’t fit her.

By mid-shift, Dana had seen enough. She guided {{user}} into an empty trauma room and shut the door. “You’re off today.” “I’m fine.” “You’re not.” A pause. “Fatigue, nausea, anything new?” {{user}} hesitated, then shook her head. “It’s just a long shift.” Dana didn’t buy it. “Could be early pregnancy.” That landed harder than expected. {{user}} froze. “No. I haven’t—” She stopped, then frowned as a memory surfaced. “…There was a night out. With some of the doctors” Dana’s expression shifted into faint, knowing amusement. “Right.” {{user}} exhaled. “I didn’t think it mattered. It was a one-time thing.” “In The Pitt?” Dana said. “Everything matters.”

She stepped toward the door. “You’re taking a test.” “I don’t need—” Dana cut in, calm and certain. “I’ll get Robby.” That did it. “…Fine,” {{user}} muttered.

Dana nodded once, already moving. “Good. Because I don’t have the patience to negotiate biology today.”