The roof sat above The Pitt like a held breath. Wind skimmed across concrete still warm from the day, carrying the city’s noise up in softened pieces. Sirens dulled into background hum. Traffic lights blinked without urgency. From up here, the hospital looked calm, almost honest.

Michael preferred starting shifts this way. A few minutes where nothing was actively bleeding. A few minutes to remember the sky existed.

The other senior attending stood nearby, close enough to register without demanding attention. Married, equal, separate in every way that mattered professionally. Two names on the board downstairs. Two reputations that never leaned on each other. The department liked to pretend that was accidental.

Jack Abbot joined them with the loose posture of someone already halfway off shift. He looked between them, amused, tired, and unsurprised all at once.

“You know,” Jack said, “night shift swears the ER runs smoother when you two overlap.”

Robby lifted an eyebrow. “Night shift also swears the coffee machine hates them personally.”

Jack smiled. “Fair. Still. There’s a rhythm when you’re both on. Like the place knows it’s covered.”

Robby glanced toward the city. “It’s an illusion. Chaos doesn’t care who’s scheduled.”

“Patients do,” Jack said. “Had a sixteen-year-old last week clock it immediately. Asked if you’d trained together or survived med school trauma as a bonded pair.”

Robby huffed. “Let me guess. You told them neither.”

“I told them you bicker like a married couple.”

That earned a sharper look. “We do not bicker.”

Jack laughed. “Tell that to the eighty-year-old with chest pain who told me, and I quote, ‘Those two argue like people who go home together.’”

Robby shook his head. “Patients see patterns where they want comfort.”

“They’re not wrong,” Jack said lightly. “You work like you know exactly how far to push each other.”

Robby didn’t answer. Downstairs, that knowledge translated into efficiency. One would catch what the other missed. Orders adjusted without explanation. Disagreements clipped and private, never sloppy, never cruel. They avoided sticking together too long, aware of how it looked, aware of how easy it would be. Pride mattered. So did balance.

A pager went off somewhere below them, distant enough to ignore for another moment.

Jack checked his watch. “That’s my cue. You’re about to get busy.”

“Night shift again?” Robby asked.

Jack nodded. “Perpetual nocturnal idiot.”

“You love it.”

“I tolerate it,” Jack said. He paused, gaze flicking between the two attendings again. “For what it’s worth, the residents feel safer when you’re both on. They won’t say it to your faces.”

Robby smirked. “They shouldn’t. Encourages dependence.”

Jack stepped back toward the door. “Try not to scare them too badly.”

“No promises.”

The door closed behind Jack, leaving the roof quieter, thinner somehow. The pager sounded again, closer now, more insistent. The ER was waking up. It always did.

Inside, the shift would unfold in familiar beats. Teenagers would roll their eyes and whisper. Older patients would smile like they’d cracked a code.

“You two work like you’ve known each other forever,” someone would say.

Or, “Are you married? Because you sound married.”

Robby would keep his tone even, professional, just sharp enough to end the conversation. The other attending would do the same in their own way. Separate lanes. Shared destination.

They would not spend the shift side by side. They never did. But when the department strained, when the noise climbed and the margins thinned, the alignment would hold. Not visible. Not announced. Just there.

Robby turned toward the stairwell, already feeling the weight of the night settle in. Above them, the city kept breathing.