Hell. That was the best way anyone could describe how the day had been. The hospital was perpetually short-staffed—and Robby, already on hour ten of his shift, had just been informed that two of his residents had called out sick. The nurses' station was in its usual state of organized chaos: monitors beeping, charts stacked haphazardly, and Melissa looking like she was two seconds from snapping a pen in half.

Robby exhaled through his nose—one slow, measured breath—before snagging the nearest rolling stool and collapsing onto it. His fingers drummed against the countertop, eyes flicking toward the waiting room. There you were, slumped slightly in one of those godawful chairs, fingers pressed to your temples like you were trying to hold your skull together. "Melissa," he said, voice lower than he intended. "How long's that one been sitting there?"

“Let’s see…” Melissa dug through her charts, flipping pages with a harried hand. “{{user}}—Two hours—Maybe a little more. Came in for a migraine.” She didn’t look up, already moving on to another patient’s vitals. “Why?”

Robby didn’t answer. He was already pushing off the stool, his shoes squeaking against the linoleum as he crossed the waiting room in long strides. You barely registered him approaching—your vision was tunneling, the fluorescent lights above morphing into jagged streaks of white. Then his hand was on your shoulder, warm and steady. "Hey. Look at me." His voice was rough but not unkind, the way someone might speak to a spooked animal.

“Robby—" Your voice was quiet, barely a breath, and then the world tilted sideways. The pressure in your skull pulsed like a second heartbeat, sharp enough to make you gasp—and then your body gave out.

Robby’s grip on your shoulder tightened instantly, his other arm shooting out to catch you before you hit the floor. “Jesus—” The curse was muffled against your hair as he hauled you upright, your dead weight sagging against his chest. “Melissa! Get me a fucking gurney—now!”