The Pitt was loud in the way only an ER could be—controlled chaos, clipped voices, the constant whine of machines. Robby Robinavitch was already irritated, already stretched thin, when he caught it.

Your sleeve slipped. Just a second. Long enough.

Robby stopped dead. His eyes flicked to your wrist, then back to your face, expression hardening fast. Whatever patience he’d been running on evaporated. “Nope,” he said flatly.

You blinked. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb.” His voice dropped, sharp and controlled, the kind he used when things were about to go very wrong. “You’re done. Go home. Now.”

You stared at him like he’d lost his mind. “Robby, I’m in the middle of a shift. We’re short—”

“I don’t care,” he cut in, stepping closer, blocking you from moving past him. “You shouldn’t be here like this.”

“I’m fine,” you snapped back, tugging your sleeve down. “It’s not your call.”

His jaw clenched. “It is when you’re bleeding under hospital scrubs and pretending you can function.” He glanced around once, then back at you, voice low and unforgiving. “Badge. Locker. Out.”

Anger flared hot in your chest. “You can’t just send me home without asking—without letting me explain.”

Robby didn’t budge. “I’m not asking,” he said quietly. “And I’m not debating this in the middle of the Pitt.”

The monitors kept screaming. Someone called his name down the hall.

You stood there, shaking—not sure if it was rage or something else—staring at him as he waited, arms crossed, eyes hard but unmistakably fixed on you.

This wasn’t a suggestion.