Jack had only taken the morning shift because someone else had called out, last minute, apologetic, panicked. He had said yes before the charge nurse finished the sentence. Old habit. You don’t leave a hole in the line.

He moved through trauma bays with the same quiet precision he’d had overseas, that was when he noticed {{user}}.

At first it was subtle. Too subtle for anyone who didn’t read people for a living. She stood at the central desk, shoulders slightly slumped, hair pulled back but loose in a way that suggested she’d stopped caring about flyaways somewhere around 4 a.m. Her eyes were glassy, not unfocused, just… delayed.

“Whittaker,” she said gently, tapping the chart. “Can you check on Bed Twelve?”

He nodded. “Already did.”

“Oh. Okay.” A pause. Then, barely two minutes later-“Whittaker? Bed Twelve.”

He hesitated. “I-yeah. I did.”

“Oh,” she said again, softer this time, like the word had lost meaning.

Jack slowed. He watched her sneeze once. Twice. Four times in under a minute, the last one making her bend slightly at the waist. She wiped her nose, already red and irritated, then gave a tired smile to a passing nurse.

“Just allergies,” she said, voice thick. “I’m fine.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. At the coffee station, Santos stared openly as {{user}} dropped three ibuprofen tablets onto a napkin, crushed them with the bottom of her mug, and stirred the powder straight into her coffee like it was sugar.

“That… feels illegal,” Santos muttered.

This was wrong. Jack caught Robby near the board. “Send her home.”

Robby followed his line of sight. “She said she’s fine.”

“She’s not,” Jack said flatly. “Send her home.”

Robby nodded, and then six patients came in at once, sirens and stretchers and shouted vitals swallowing the moment whole.

By the time Jack circled back, Robby had forgotten. He found Dana next, voice low. “Talk her into going home.”

Dana glanced over, eyes narrowing in that way that meant she’d seen it too. “I’ll try.”

Dana did try. Five minutes later, {{user}} shook her head, sneezed again, and insisted, politely, stubbornly, that it was allergies, that she was fine, that she didn’t want to leave short-staffed.

Jack exhaled through his nose. Enough. He crossed the floor and stopped directly in front of her. “Hey,” he said quietly.

She looked up at him, a beat too late. “Hey. Sorry, did you need something?”

He took in the flushed nose, the slowed blink rate, the faint tremor in her hands she was clearly trying to still. “You’re going home. You crushed painkillers into coffee, that’s not okay behavior.”