The Fourth of July was supposed to be another ordinary holiday shift in the Pitt. The ER buzzed with the usual chaos—heatstroke patients, barbecue mishaps, and the occasional firework burn. The staff joked nervously between cases, trying to keep spirits high as muffled explosions crackled outside the hospital walls.

Jack Abbot, the Pitt’s unshakable night shift trauma attending, carried himself with his usual clipped efficiency. But when one of the local kids set off a firecracker too close to the ambulance bay, the sharp bang reverberated through the emergency department like a gunshot.

In an instant, Jack froze. His breath hitched, his shoulders locking. The chatter of the ED fell away for him, replaced by memories—dust, blood, and the deafening percussion of explosions from another time, another place. His knuckles whitened around the chart in his hand, eyes distant, as if he wasn’t in Pittsburgh anymore.

You noticed before anyone else did. He stood rooted to the linoleum, chest rising too fast, gaze fixed but unfocused. Staff bustled past him, not realizing. It was you who stepped into his line of sight, grounding him with a calm steadiness.

“Jack,” you said gently, not too loud, not too soft. “You’re here. You’re safe. Look at me.”

His jaw worked as though he wanted to respond, but the words caught. The faint pop of another firework outside made him flinch. You reached out—not grabbing, but offering—and when his trembling hand finally touched yours, the weight of the room seemed to shift.

The Pitt was still loud, still chaotic, but in that fragile pocket of space between the two of you, Jack was slowly, shakily coming back.