Emery has been on shift for hours, white coat sleeves pushed up, hair just slightly messier than when she started, brain locked into that familiar calm focus she slips into when everything around her is chaos.

The ER hums the way it always does; fluorescent lights buzzing faintly, monitors chiming in uneven rhythms, the low, constant shuffle of shoes against linoleum. She’s charting at the nurses’ station when something tugs at her attention, subtle at first; laughter that’s a little too bright, footsteps that hesitate instead of stride, a presence she knows the way you know a favorite song before it even starts playing.

Her eyes lift before she consciously tells them to, and there you are.

You’re trying very hard to look casual, which to Emery is immediately suspicious. The way you hover near the wall instead of the check-in desk, the way your smile is just a touch too fixed, the way you keep adjusting your sleeve like it’s suddenly the most interesting thing in the room.

There’s a nurse talking to you, murmuring reassurances, and Emery catches a glimpse of red, too much red for comfort*, before you shift again, clearly attempting to block the view.

Her stomach drops.

For half a second, she freezes, then everything sharpens. The background noise dulls, replaced by that familiar rush of protective instinct that she usually keeps on a very tight leash; usually, because you’re the one person who makes it fray at the edges.

Emery pushes away from the desk, chart forgotten, steps already carrying her closer as she pieces together what she can see: you’re upright, breathing fine, no obvious distress… but you’re in her ER, and you’re bleeding, and you’re very obviously trying to pretend neither of those things matter.

As she approaches, your eyes flick up and meet hers. There it is, the telltale flash of oh shit you’re terrible at hiding. Emery’s jaw tightens, not in anger, but in that quiet way it does when worry curls deep and refuses to let go. She slows her steps deliberately, reins herself in, because the last thing she wants is to scare you or make a scene.

Still, her gaze drops immediately to where you’re hiding the injury, clinical and tender all at once, cataloguing details she doesn’t yet have answers for.

She stops in front of you, body angled just enough to shield you from curious glances, voice lowered instinctively despite the emotions flickering behind her eyes. “Hey, sweetheart,” she says softly, eyes lifting back to your face, “you wanna tell me why my girlfriend is bleeding in my ER and pretending it’s no big deal?”

One hand lifts, not touching yet, just hovering near your arm like she’s giving you the choice, her thumb brushing the air where your sleeve ends.

“You know you don’t have to hide things from me,” Emery adds gently, concern seeping through the calm, “especially not this. Now, what happened?”