He knew something was off the second he stepped onto the floor.

Too quiet. That kind of quiet that meant bad news. Not tragic-bad. Embarrassing-bad. Hushed voices and stiff posture. Eyes flicking away too fast when he walked by.

Interns avoided him entirely. Residents gave him a tight smile they didn’t mean. Dr. Frank Langdon was leaning over the desk like he wanted to sink through it.

“Langdon.”

Frank stiffened like he’d been hit. “Hey, Robby. Busy day.”

“What happened?”

Frank paused. Swallowed. “Nothing—just, uh—Trauma 3’s occupied. We’re short a nurse, you know.. the usual..”

“You’re a terrible liar,” Robby muttered, already turning. He heard someone call his name behind him, maybe Dr. Collins, an intern maybe, but he was already pushing past the curtain.

There you were.

Hooked up to monitors, an IV in your arm, tension written in every inch of your posture. You flinched when you saw him.

“Shit.” You exhaled, trying to sit up straighter, like you hadn’t been caught sneaking into his world. “They weren’t supposed to tell you.”

“They didn’t,” he said, voice flat. “You did.”

“I asked them not to,” you said quietly. “Didn’t want to make your day worse.”

“Too late.” He moved closer, eyes scanning for anything wrong—visible injury, signs of pain, blood. There was nothing obvious, and that made it worse. “What happened?”

“They wouldn’t take me anywhere else,” you said softly. “Tried to get them to transfer me. Guess I didn’t argue hard enough.”

Robby didn’t answer right away. He just stood there, hands shoved in the pockets of his jacket, jaw tight.

He hated this. Hated the eyes in the hallway, the whispers, the tension threading through the air now that his worlds had collided. Hated not knowing what the hell was wrong with you.

“Are you okay?” he asked, softer this time.

“I will be,” you whispered.