Liability
Michael ‘Robby’ Robinavitch & Platonic GN Resident Reader
Summary: After Pittfest, everyone at The Pitt changes, but Robby changes the most. He used to be the mentor who could catch you before you fell. Now he’s colder, sharper, and crueler, acting like cruelty is the same thing as teaching. But on the Fourth of July, when Robby uses the part of you he once helped save against you, you end up on the wrong side of the hospital roof railing, and he’s forced to see just how far he pushed you.
WC: 11K
Tags: Heavy Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, Platonic Relationship, Rooftop Scene, No Y/N, Gender Neutral Reader
A/N: This was a request a while back, but I think I accidentally deleted the message. Sorry! So hopefully the person that requested this sees it.
The first few weeks after Pittfest, everyone understood why Robby was different.
How could they not?
The department itself felt different. Same scuffed floors. Same monitors. Same nurses’ station with its bad coffee, half-dead pens, and discharge paperwork that somehow reproduced when no one was looking.
But something had shifted. Something had cracked open and never fully closed.
People spoke softer for a while. Not all the time. Not when EMS rolled in hot or room twelve decided the laws of physics didn’t apply to him. The Pitt was still The Pitt. It demanded motion before grief, charting before sleep, competence before breakdown.
But in the quiet spaces, you could feel it. In the way Dana paused a second longer before snapping at someone. In the way Mohan stared at the board like she could will the names into something less tragic. In the way laughter came back slowly, like everyone had forgotten where they’d left it.
And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read.
That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.
But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it.
A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.
When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag them the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.
He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.
But he caught you anyway.
A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.
A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”
A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”
A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.
You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.
Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4.
And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.
At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.
That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be.
The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.
As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught them how to survive the place.
You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.
Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.
But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes.
But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it.
You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.
Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs.
Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.
Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.
“Sit down.”
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”
You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.
Robby hadn’t.
He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.
“You seeing anyone?”
You blinked. “Like dating?”
“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”
Your face had gone hot.
“I don’t need—”
“Don’t do that.”
Two words.
Quiet.
Cutting.
And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.
“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”
That had shut you up.
Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious.
Dangerous.
Robby had seen that. He had seen you.
Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication.
Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance.
Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.
Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.
“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”
“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”
“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”
“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”
Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem.
Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.
But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore.
You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.
Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.
“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.
And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.
You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong.
But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him.
Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.
Mohan noticed.
She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together.
She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.
“It’s the gross kind,” she said.
You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”
“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything.
Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.
Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.
“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.
You didn’t pretend not to understand.
“Yeah.”
“He’s harder on us.”
“He expects more from us.”
“That’s one explanation.”
You looked over at her.
Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”
Something in your chest sank.
“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.
Mohan didn’t answer right away.
That was answer enough.
Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”
You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.
“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.
You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”
“Abbot is usually right.”
“Annoying habit.”
“Deeply.”
Another silence.
Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”
There it was. The question you hated.
You forced a shrug.
“I’m tired.”
Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You looked away.
For a second, you thought about telling her.
That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.
That Robby’s voice had started following you home.
“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”
“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”
“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”
Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”
Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once.
Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.
“Okay,” she said quietly.
And somehow, that made you feel worse.
By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back.
Technically.
He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.
The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly.
And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much.
But enough.
Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.
If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence.
Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces.
But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.
Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you.
Especially not you.
And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there.
Mostly. Almost.
Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice.
Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation.
You.
The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.
He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything.
So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…
He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer.
And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.
By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors.
The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks.
People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.
Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry.
Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.
Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart.
Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him.
You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.
Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.
Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away.
Your chest tightened.
Mohan followed your gaze.
“Don’t,” she said softly.
You swallowed.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“I know.”
That was the problem with old friends.
They heard you anyway.
—
By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.
Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.”
Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers.
Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.
You had not stopped moving in six hours. Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.
It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did.
They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station.
So you kept moving.
Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard.
You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.
Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it.
His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected.
You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.
“Hey.”
Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.
You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”
“I didn’t ask.”
“That’s why I’m saving time.”
She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.
“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.
“So have you.”
“I ate.”
“Congratulations.”
“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”
That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.
Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.
“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I said I can’t.”
It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.
You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”
“I’m not offended.”
“That’s annoying of you.”
“I know.”
The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried.
Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.
“Room ten.”
Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.
You turned.
He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand. “Repeat potassium?”
Your brain supplied the answer too late.
Ordered. Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you?
Your fingers tightened around the chart.
“Pending,” you said.
Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.
“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.
Heat crawled up your neck.
Right.
Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.
“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”
Robby’s expression didn’t change.
“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”
The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence.
But enough.
Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.
Your stomach dipped.
“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.
“I heard you.”
There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.
You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys.
Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.
You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder.
You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.
There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.
Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on.
Of course he had.
He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.
“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”
Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Then maybe believe me.”
The words landed badly.
You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.
Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.
You looked away. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m just—”
Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.
You shook your head.
“I’m just trying to get through the shift.”
Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.
“Okay,” she said.
There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.
You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.
You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.
“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”
The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology.
You softened before you could stop yourself.
“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.
Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.
Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.
“R4s should not need reminders.”
You pushed it down.
You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless.
You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough.
That was all.
Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.
“What’s your plan?” he asked.
You gave it to him.
Clean. Organized. Defensible.
His eyes stayed on you.
“And your impression?”
“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”
“Likely panic,” he repeated.
Your jaw tightened.
“With appropriate workup.”
“I heard you.”
“You said it like that.”
Something flickered in his face.
Warning.
You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.
Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”
The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.
“What?”
His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.
“You heard me.”
Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.
You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”
“I hope not.”
Your face went hot.
No.
No, no, no.
He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.
“You hope not?” you repeated.
Robby’s mouth tightened.
“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”
Your hand curled tighter around the chart.
“My history?”
His eyes sharpened.
“Don’t twist my words.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”
“I ordered a standard workup.”
“You reassured her before you assessed.”
Your breath caught.
The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.
“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”
“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”
Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her.
Your chest felt hollowed out.
“That is not what happened.”
“Then make sure it doesn’t.”
Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”
Robby went still.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”
“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”
His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.
“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”
The floor dropped out from under you.
“Safe to practice.”
Your throat tightened so fast it hurt.
“I am safe.”
“Are you?”
The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.
You stared at him.
He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.
“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”
Mohan moved. “Robby—”
He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.
“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”
Your lips parted. Nothing came out.
Robby’s voice lowered further.
“That is dangerous.”
There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself.
Now he was holding it like a weapon.
Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.
“You told me getting help made me safer.”
“It does,” he said.
“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”
For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
The department went too quiet around the edges.
Your breath stopped.
Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.
Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.
“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”
Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.
“You don’t get to call it that.”
“What?”
“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”
His jaw tightened.
“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”
The last piece of you went very still.
Not calm.
Still.
You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.
“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”
Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you.
He had cut you open.
But it was too late.
You stepped back.
“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.
Then you walked away before your face could betray you.
Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby.
You didn’t turn around.
You couldn’t.
Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break.
And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would.
You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking.
The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.
Then your body caught up.
Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter.
Not here.
Not at work.
Not because of him.
You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you.
Not a sob.
You refused to call it that.
Just air leaving wrong.
Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.
No.
That was his voice.
His damage.
His cruelty.
You knew that.
You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.
“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”
You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out.
Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.
The department swallowed you whole again.
Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you.
No one looked directly at you.
That was how you knew everyone knew.
Mohan found your eyes from the board.
You gave her one small look.
Don’t.
She stopped.
Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear.
Panic, most likely.
You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.
“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”
The patient’s eyes filled.
“Thank you.”
You smiled.
It hurt.
When you stepped out, Robby was at the board.
He saw you.
For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something.
Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.
Of course he did.
So you kept working.
You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.
“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”
You swallowed.
“Don’t apologize for learning.”
The words tasted bitter.
Across the room, Robby watched you.
Not openly.
But you felt it.
Worry wearing a muzzle.
By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away.
Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.
“Eat something.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’re spiritually buzzing.”
A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.
Dana’s face softened.
That almost undid you.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Dana hummed. “Sure.”
Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows.
Half the department flinched.
Nobody said anything.
Another burst followed.
Mohan closed her eyes at the board.
Robby went still.
You saw it.
The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.
For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly.
Noise.
Blood.
Bodies.
Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos.
You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.
Afterward, he had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood.
He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.
“Drink.”
You had stared at him.
“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”
You had laughed.
Then cried.
And he had stayed.
That was the part you couldn’t let go of.
He had stayed.
Another firework cracked.
Robby looked up.
His eyes met yours.
Something broken moved across his face.
Then he looked away first.
And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.
—
Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.
“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.
Mohan found you near the elevators.
“Come up with us.”
“I should finish charts.”
“You can finish them after.”
“I’m behind.”
“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”
You looked at her.
For a second, you wanted to tell her everything.
Instead, you smiled.
“I’ll come up later.”
Mohan didn’t believe you.
But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed.
She stepped inside.
You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved.
Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.
You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”
Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”
You stepped into the elevator beside them.
Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.
The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day.
It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.
Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.
Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter.
Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.
It was a small pocket of women from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.
The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold.
For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.
The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.
McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.
Everyone looked peaceful.
Not fixed. Not untouched.
Just… peaceful.
And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you.
Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.
It was this.
Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance.
Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.
A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.
“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.
“It was,” Mel agreed.
It was.
You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.
Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.
Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”
You kept your eyes on the sky.
“Yeah.”
Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”
Your chest tightened.
Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.
Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.
Mohan noticed.
“Hey,” she said softly.
“I’m fine.”
Too quick. Too sharp.
The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push.
No one did.
They let you stand there.
Let you pretend.
The fireworks kept going.
Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower.
Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.
For a few seconds, no one moved.
Then Dana pushed off the wall.
“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”
Everyone looked at her.
Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.
“Go home,” she said.
No argument. No softness. Just Dana.
“You all did enough today.”
The words landed heavier than they should have.
McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.
One by one, they moved.
Not rushed.
Just… done.
Dana passed you last.
She nudged your shoulder lightly.
“Don’t stay up here all night.”
You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”
Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push.
She nodded once anyway.
Then she left.
The door closed behind her.
Eventually, it was just you and Mohan.
The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer.
Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.
“You coming back down?” she asked.
“In a minute.”
She hesitated.
You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.
“You scared me today,” she said softly.
Your throat tightened.
“I know.”
“I don’t think you do.”
She was right. That made it worse.
“I just need a second alone,” you said.
Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
She lingered. Then stepped back. Then turned.
The door opened.
Closed.
And the quiet changed again. No longer shared.
Just yours.
You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been.
The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.
For a while, you listened.
To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you.
Everything sounded far away.
Even you.
Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked.
But no one did.
The roof stayed quiet.
And the quiet got inside you.
One step.
That was all it was at first.
Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete.
Then another.
Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious.
Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.
The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.
You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail.
The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.
It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning.
A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over.
Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.
The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something.
Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.
You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge.
No wall now. No barrier.
Just warm concrete.
Open air.
Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic.
Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.
You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin.
The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.
Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking.
But this was quieter than that.
This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.
You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge.
You looked at it.
No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.
Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down.
Slowly. Carefully.
Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else.
Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.
The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you.
Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up.
Almost.
Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another.
Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.
For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing.
Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing.
Just open space.
Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.
Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant.
Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.
Your chest felt calm. Too calm.
Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.
Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting.
You swallowed.
And for the first time…
You believed him.
“Neither do I.”
The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down.
Not quickly. Not all at once.
Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.
Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands.
A world still organized enough to feel insulting.
For the first time, the height became real.
Not symbolic. Not dramatic.
Real.
The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.
Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge.
Below you, the hospital kept breathing.
Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.
Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.
Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency.
Up here, it waited.
Quiet. Patient. Polite.
And for one awful, honest second…
You wanted the quiet.
Not death. Not exactly.
You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.
You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around her own throat.
You wanted to stop waking up already tired.
Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.
Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding.
Now your fingers loosened. Just a little.
The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs.
The open air pulled at your shoes.
One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting.
A tear slid down your cheek.
You didn’t wipe it away.
You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.
Behind you, the roof door opened.
You didn’t turn around.
Couldn’t.
For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.
Then everything behind you went still.
“Hey.”
Robby.
Your eyes closed. Of course it was him.
The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.
His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.
“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”
You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights.
Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.
“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”
Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all.
And somehow, that scared him more.
For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.
Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely.
His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.
He swallowed.
“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”
Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse.
Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.
“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”
A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.
“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”
Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air.
The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.
“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”
Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm.
His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.
You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.
“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”
Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.
Robby swallowed hard.
“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”
A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.
“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”
Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.
Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss.
His voice came back thinner than before.
“Don’t move forward.”
The words landed carefully. Terrified.
“If you move, move back. Just back.”
A small, broken laugh left you.
“That’s usually my line.”
Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.
“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”
He moved. Not closer. Not yet.
Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.
You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.
Soft. Almost peaceful.
The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below.
But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.
“Okay,” he said instead.
His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.
“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”
You didn’t look at him.
“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow.”
His breath hitched.
“Tonight, you just have to move back.”
“I’m tired.”
“I know.”
“You don’t.”
“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”
Your fingers loosened. Just a little.
Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.
“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”
You didn’t.
His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.
“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”
For one suspended second, you didn’t.
His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.
“Please,” he said.
That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.
Robby took one step closer.
You shifted.
He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.
“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”
“I don’t trust myself.”
The words hollowed him out.
You heard it in the silence behind you.
The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.
“Okay,” he said carefully.
His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.
“That’s okay.”
You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.
Robby’s breath caught.
You heard him swallow it back down.
“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”
A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.
“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”
Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet.
You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.
“I was wrong.”
“You meant it.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.
“I’m sorry.”
Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.
“You were ugly.”
“I know.”
“You were cruel.”
His breath hitched.
“I know.”
Your voice thinned into something smaller.
“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”
Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.
“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”
Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.
His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.
“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”
His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.
“I know.”
Your right hand slipped off the ledge.
Fully.
Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.
The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.
Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.
“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”
You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.
“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”
Kid.
The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.
Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.
Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.
“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”
A sob caught in your throat.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”
His voice twisted.
“I do know how.”
His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.
The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.
Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.
“I just stopped doing it.”
That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.
Your breath fractured.
“I hate you.”
The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.
Behind you, Robby went very still.
“I know.”
Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet.
“I don’t.”
His breath caught.
“I know that too.”
Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge.
“I wanted you to come back.”
The words barely made it past your mouth.
Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw.
“I’m here now.”
Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.
“Too late.”
He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence.
His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side.
Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side.
Open air on yours.
For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.
For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid.
Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.
“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”
You cried silently, staring down.
“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”
He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.
You didn’t tell him no.
His throat worked.
“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”
Your fingers tightened slightly.
He saw it. Held onto it.
“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”
“I don’t want tomorrow.”
“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”
“I don’t know what’s left.”
“You are.”
“That’s not enough.”
“It is to Samira.”
Your face crumpled.
“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”
“They don’t need me.”
“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”
He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.
He froze. You froze.
Your hands stayed down. Barely.
Robby’s voice dropped.
“They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”
You sobbed once. Hard.
“I don’t believe that.”
“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”
His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.
“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”
Your shoulders shook.
“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”
You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.
The open air seemed to notice before you did.
Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.
“Don’t,” he said.
The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.
“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”
Your breath shook.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I can’t.”
“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”
His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.
“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”
Your fingers twitched against the ledge.
His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited.
Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.
“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.
Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.
His breath tore out of him.
“Kid—”
This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.
You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.
All of it.
The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.
Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.
“I’m scared.”
Then your balance tipped. Too far.
Robby moved. No calculation. No careful step. No safe distance. He lunged across the railing, one arm hooking hard around your waist, the other catching the back of your scrub top as your body pitched forward.
For half a second, there was nothing under you.
Nothing.
Your shoes kicked empty air. A scream tore out of you.
Robby made a sound like an animal. He hauled you back with everything he had.
Your hip struck the ledge, pain flashing white-hot through the numbness. Your hands clawed at his sleeve, his wrist, the front of his shirt, anything.
“I’ve got you,” he choked. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”
He pulled you fully onto the roof. Not gracefully. Not cleanly. Momentum took both of you down hard. His back hit first. You landed against him, half on his chest, half on the concrete, breath knocked loose in a broken gasp.
For one second, there was no sound.
No city. No hospital. No fireworks. Just the brutal, animal silence after almost.
Robby’s arms closed around you so tightly you couldn’t move. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. Enough to make sure every part of you was on the roof with him.
His hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers trembling in your hair. His other arm stayed locked around your ribs, holding you against him like the ledge was still trying to pull you away.
Your face was crushed against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his scrub top. Fast. Violent. Terrified. Alive. Then his breath broke. Once. Twice.
A rough, strangled sound that didn’t belong to him. Not Robby. Not the man who ran codes with steady hands and cut through chaos like fear was something that happened to other people.
This sound was wrecked. Human. Small. His fingers curled tighter at the back of your head.
“I’m sorry,” he choked.
You froze.
“I’m sorry.”
His voice cracked on it. Then again.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
The words hit harder than the fall. Because he wasn’t saying them like a man trying to be forgiven.
He was saying them like he had finally seen the edge he’d walked you toward and couldn’t survive the sight of it.
You felt his body shake beneath yours. Not from effort. Not anymore. From sobs he was trying and failing to swallow.
“Robby,” you tried, but your voice came out broken beyond use.
He shook his head against the roof, eyes squeezed shut, one tear slipping sideways into his hairline.
“No. No, I did this. I did this.”
His arms tightened again, and his breath hitched like the words hurt coming out.
“I pushed you away. I saw you getting smaller and I told myself it was training. I told myself you were becoming stronger. I told myself if you hated me, maybe you’d leave before this place ate you alive.”
A sob tore through him.
“And then you almost—”
He couldn’t finish it. His whole chest caved beneath your cheek.
You started crying then. Not the quiet tears from the ledge. Not the numb, distant kind. This was ugly. Panicked.
A sound ripped out of you because your body had finally caught up with what had almost happened.
You had almost fallen. You had almost let yourself.
Robby’s hand moved from the back of your head to the side of it, pressing you closer while his thumb shook against your temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shredded and breathless. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said it. I never should’ve touched that part of you. I knew better. I knew better.”
You clutched his scrub top in both fists. The fabric twisted in your hands.
“I thought I was going to fall,” you sobbed.
His breath collapsed above you.
“I know.”
“I thought I was going to do it.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to want it.”
“I know.” His voice broke completely. “God, I know.”
He bent over you as much as he could from where he lay, forehead pressing into your hair. And then Robby cried. Really cried. Not one controlled tear. Not a rough breath he could pass off as exhaustion.
He cried into your hair with his arms around you and his shoulders shaking, the sound muffled and helpless and devastatingly unlike him.
“I almost lost you,” he said, barely understandable. “I almost lost you because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”
You cried harder.
He pulled in a ruined breath.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Over and over. Like repetition could build a wall between you and the ledge. Like if he said it enough, he could go back ten months and stay.
You pressed your face harder into his chest, your body trembling violently now.
“I’m scared,” you whispered.
Robby’s arms tightened.
“I know.”
“No, I’m scared,” you sobbed. “I’m scared because I wanted it to stop. I’m scared because it felt quiet. I’m scared because I don’t know what happens when I stand up.”
His breath shuddered against your hair.
“Then we don’t stand up yet.”
“I can’t go back down there.”
“Then we don’t go yet.”
“I can’t see everyone.”
“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”
“I can’t be alone.”
That one broke him all over again. He pressed his face into your hair, voice muffled and wrecked.
“You won’t be. Not tonight. Not after this. I swear to you.”
“You’re leaving.”
“I’m not.”
“You were.”
His breathing hitched.
“I was.”
You went still against him. Robby swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.
“I was leaving wrong.”
The words sat between you. Heavy. Terrible. True.
“I thought disappearing would be cleaner,” he said. “I thought if I made everyone angry enough, disappointed enough, you’d all let me go easier.”
His hand shook against your shoulder.
“I thought grief was something I could manage for people if I made sure they hated me first.”
Your throat closed.
“That’s horrible.”
“I know.”
“That’s stupid.”
A wet, broken sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s very stupid.”
You cried again, softer this time, but still shaking.
His palm moved slowly over your back, not soothing exactly. More like checking.
There. There. There.
Like he needed to prove to himself you were still under his hand.
“I’m sorry,” he said again.
Quieter now. More exhausted.
“I should’ve protected you from me.”
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
The roof was cold beneath your leg. His scrub top was damp under your cheek. Your knee throbbed. Your hands ached from how hard you’d grabbed him.
Below, the hospital kept moving.
Somewhere under you, monitors still beeped. Someone still needed discharge paperwork. Someone still wanted coffee. Someone was probably complaining about the wait.
Life continued.
But here, on the roof, Robby held you like the whole world had narrowed down to one impossible fact.
You were still breathing.
He pressed his cheek to the top of your head.
“I’ve got you,” he whispered.
His voice broke again.
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
For the first time all night, you believed him.
Not about everything. Not about tomorrow. Not about yourself.
But about this.
About his arms around you. About the concrete under your body. About the terrible, shaking relief in his chest.
You were on the safe side of the ledge.
You were crying.
Robby was crying.
And neither of you let go.
