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ALL FOR SOMETHING - CH.31

Chapter Thirty-One: All Love Must Leave, Oh, But Search For It I Will

Summary: It’s Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch’s last shift before a three-month sabbatical, and the Emergency Department is already bracing for endless commotion. So are you. After years of loving him quietly and surviving louder things, you’ve finally started choosing yourself — therapy, healing, and a life beyond the Pitt. With job offers in New York and nothing tying you down but habit, leaving no longer feels impossible.

What happens when the person who always stayed… stops staying?

Pairing: Dr. Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x FilipinaNurseFem!Reader

Warnings: 18+ Unrequited Love, Second-Chance, ANGST, Friends-to-Lovers, Slow Burn Romance, She falls first, but He falls harder, Yearning, Delayed Hurt to Comfort, Depression, PTSD, Flashbacks, Medical Inaccuracies, Suicidal Ideation, Anxiety, Age-Gap (Robby is in his 50s, what did you think?), Insecurities, Longing, PittFest, Blood, Needles, Death of a patient, Reader has a nickname (Ducky), Gossip, Passive Aggressiveness, Sassy!Robby, Sad!Robby, Dark Humor, Jokes about unaliving (its unserious I swear), Medicated!Reader, Hospitals, EMTs, Lots of medical jargon, Miscommunication, Flirting, Slight Jealousy, Teasing, Awkward Flirting, Scratching, Grief, Crying, Reader has Allergies, Gun, Reader can sing, Reader has hair to pull back and away from her face, Abandoned Baby, Freak Accidents, Bruising, Fireworks, Shouting,

Word Count: 14.3k

A/N: Did I lowkey wait for Noah Kahan to drop the album? Yes. Also, did my University take away a lot of my writing time? Also, yes. Welcome to the last episode of Season 2 of the Pitt!!

Side note: Gif in the moodboard from @/abstractedrobby. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. I’m dyslexic, and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Songs: Staying Still by Noah Kahan, Strangers by Ethel Cain, Thousand by Rosie Carney, Lisa Hannigan, Fine Line by Harry Styles, and Free Now by Gracie Abrams

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9:00 P.M.

PTMC, EMERGENCY DEPARTMENT — NIGHT

Robby stands beside Al-Hashimi, one hand braced on the counter of the workstation on wheels as he leans in slightly, reading through her chart.

There’s something different in his posture here—less sharp than earlier, but not softer either. Concern buried under function.

“Baran… is this you?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet hers.

Al-Hashimi doesn’t look away.

“It began after a bad case of viral meningitis when I was five,” she says evenly. “They tried every anti-seizure medication, but I still had episodes every few months or so.” A small pause. “No one’s ever noticed before. They just think I’m thoughtful.”

Robby exhales quietly through his nose, processing. “Are you driving?”

“I couldn’t,” she answers. “Not until I had laser ablation to my left temporal lobe twelve years ago.” Her voice stays clinical and practiced. “Between that and the Keppra, I’ve been seizure-free. Neurology cleared me. Driving, practicing—everything.”

He nods once, eyes scanning the screen again. “How long between the seizure you had today and the last one?”

“It’s been well over a year.” She hesitates slightly. “But I had two today.” Her gaze drops for a fraction of a second before she steadies it again.

“I don’t know why. It could be sleep deprivation. Stress from the new job.” A breath. “I haven’t had to deal with Peds cases since Afghanistan.”

Robby’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. He knows what that means.

“What are your options now?” he asks.

Al-Hashimi shifts her weight, folding her arms loosely. “Up my Keppra,” she says. “Or try one of the newer anti-seizure medications.”

“And if that doesn’t work…” She swallows. “Temporal lobectomy. Which could impair my speech. Or a neuromodulation device. It can sense and stop the seizures almost immediately.”

Robby nods slowly, “You need to disclose this.” There’s no accusation in it, only fact and responsibility.

“I know,” she replies. “I have a plan.”

The door cracks open behind them.

“Hey, Robby.” Olive steps in, slightly out of breath from moving too fast through the department. “Ducky and Dana are looking for you. They’re in Peds.”

Robby straightens slightly at the mention of you, already shifting gears again. “Yeah. Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right there.”

Al-Hashimi gives a small nod, already stepping back. “Sounds like you’re needed in Peds,” she says. “And I have patients to see.”

There are no lingering or extra words. She exits through the opposite door, disappearing back into the rhythm of the department.

For a second, Robby stands there alone. Between rooms, between responsibilities. Between everything he just heard— and everything still waiting for him.

Another voice cuts in before he can follow the thought any further. “Robby—” Vivi pokes her head through the doorway, urgency already in her tone. “Pregnant woman with severe headache on her way in by ambulance.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, “Find Abbot or one of the night shift residents.”

By the time he turns back, Al-Hashimi is already gone. The conversation unfinished. Filed away, another thing added to the list of things he’s carrying, whether he wants to or not. He rubs a hand over his face, then he moves out of Central 8. Toward Peds… toward you.

PEDES — NIGHT

Pediatrics feels like a different world. Quieter. Softer. The harsh edge of the ED dulls here just enough to breathe, just enough to remember that not everything is disorder and blood and alarms.

The lights are still luminous—but warmer somehow, diffused against pastel walls and soft blankets and the low, even rhythm of tiny breaths.

Robby slows when he steps in. His body simply does, not on purpose.

You’re standing near the bassinet, carefully adjusting the blanket wrapped around Baby Jane Doe, your hands gentle, practiced. The baby makes a small sound—something between a sigh and a protest—and you instinctively soothe her, tucking the edge of the swaddle just right.

Dana stands beside you, leaning in, making exaggerated, ridiculous faces—crossed eyes, puffed cheeks, whispered nonsense meant only for the baby.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, voice softening in a way it rarely does out in Central. “Cutest patient we’ve had all day.”

You don’t notice him at first, but he notices you. There’s something about the way you look right now that catches him off guard. It’s not polished or composed. Your hair’s coming loose, strands sticking to your temples from sweat and humidity. Your cheeks are flushed, your eyes tired—really tired—but still soft in a way that feels… lovely and warm. The baby in your arms, for a split second, hits him. Not logically. Not something he thinks through, a flash, a version of something quieter and softer.

A future that doesn’t look like siren sounds and endless shifts and running toward everything that’s breaking. A life where your hands still move like that—gentle, certain—but not because something’s wrong. Because something’s yours.

It’s gone as quickly as it comes.

“What’s going on?” he asks, voice cutting through the quiet just enough.

You glance up, but Dana answers first. “Oh—false alarm,” she says, waving a hand lightly. “We thought she spiked a fever, but it was the wrong chart from our analog hell.”

She huffs a laugh. “You know anybody who might consider kinship adoption? Doctors and nurses qualify.”

Robby exhales through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Don’t look at me.” Then, more seriously, he asks, “Hey, can your staff keep an eye on Dr. Al-Hashimi until she leaves?”

Dana’s expression shifts immediately, “Why?”

“Uh,” Robby starts, already turning slightly away like he doesn’t want to explain, “because I think she’s tired.” A small shrug. “And I don’t want her to make any mistakes.”

Dana stares at him for a second longer than necessary. “Oh, great advice,” she mutters. “Maybe you should take it.”

You carefully lower the baby back into the clear cradle, adjusting the blanket one last time, making sure she’s settled before stepping back.

“Yeah,” Robby says, already moving again. “I’m gonna go get some fresh air.”

Dana snorts. “Grab some for me while you’re out there.”

He doesn’t miss a second. “Your lungs wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Screw you!”

Robby glances back, eyebrow lifting just slightly, “In front of the baby? Nice.”

Dana scoffs, waving him off. “Yeah, yeah.” He turns and leaves. Back toward Central— into everything.

You watch him go before deciding. “I’ll go try and check in with him,” you say, quieter now. “He also looks tired.”

Dana hums knowingly, not even looking at you, “Give him a kiss for me while you’re at it.”

You roll your eyes immediately, heat rising to your face despite everything, “Shut up.” But you’re already moving, already following. Because no matter how many times he walks away, you keep choosing to go after him anyway.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

You trail after Robby as he heads back through Central, his pace restless, aimless in that way that means he’s pretending not to pace. At the front of the work area, the night shift has gathered in a loose semicircle.

You stop when you realize what’s happening, and immediately snort. Because—oh no. Not this.

Jack stands in the middle of them with entirely too much conviction. And you remember, vividly, months ago on night shift, jokingly calling them the Night Crawlers after some horrible 4 a.m. trauma run, and Jack—of course, Jack—taking it as if you had handed him doctrine.

At first it made you cringe so hard your soul left your body. And then—somewhere along the way, it became beloved. Ridiculous and earnest, exactly the kind of silly ritual people invent to survive impossible jobs.

Abbot says in an almost disbelieving, serious tone, “We are the Night Crawlers. We deal with the weirdest and the wildest because—”

In unison, “We are the weirdest and the wildest of them all.”

Jack grins. “That is right. And tonight…” He gestures around the ED. “They are really gonna be crawling. Now go get some.”

“Hooah!”

The huddle breaks, and someone laughs or groans, while Parker and Shen do a little handshake as they walk off in different directions.

Santos startles awake at her station, half slumped over charting and scanning in downtime documentation, she blinks hard.

Abbot winces. “Sorry to wake you.”

“I—I was thinking,” Santos mutters. She grabs the tiny dictation mic and, without missing a moment, yawns as she resumes charting. “Doubt PTX.”

Jack spots Robby at the board, staring at the live patient screens like they might answer something larger than bed assignments. He walks over, “You’re supposed to be leaving.”

Robby doesn’t turn, “I am.”

Jack folds his arms. “You know, this spirit quest of yours has a lot of people up in arms around here.” Robby finally moves, heading toward the ambulance bay, “Everyone’s gonna be fine without me. And it’s hardly a spirit quest.”

Jack follows. “Whatever it is, you’ve given people the impression you might not be coming back.”

Dana appears beside you, silent. You don’t have to look at her to know she heard that. The two men stop by the sliding doors, watching another gurney push through.

Robby says, too casually— “Well… who knows what the future has in store for any of us?”

Jack exhales sharply, “Yeah, saying shit like that isn’t helping.” His voice lowers. “People are worried about you.”

Sophie appears from South. “Dr. Abbot? The patient in South 21—Digby—he’s missing again.”

Jack barely looks over, “Sounds like a day shift problem.”

Robby deadpans, “Not if he was handed off already.” And keeps walking, out into the ambulance bay. Jack right after him.

You and Dana exchange a look. No words, just agreement.

You follow, again.

AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT

You stay near the doors, hidden enough not to be obvious. Close enough to hear while Duke is by the motorcycle. “Best I can do under the circumstances.”

Robby shakes Duke’s hand, “Thank you.” Then quieter, “Hey. Don’t leave before I get back, yeah?”

Duke smirks, “Hell, I feel like I live here now.” He passes you on the way in, sees you, but says nothing. Instead, he gives you the faintest knowing smile. As if he knows exactly why you’re lurking here, and protects it.

Jack nods toward the bike, “Your friend fixing it?”

“Ambulance clipped it while it was parked here today.”

Jack stares. “Jesus Christ. That’s a sign if I’ve ever seen one.”

Robby’s face pinches. Then Jack shifts, more serious. “Here’s the thing.” He steps closer. “When people worry about you…” His voice softens. “…it makes me think I should be worried about you. And I don’t like worrying about things.”

Robby scoffs, “Ooh. Now you’re a shrink?”

Jack doesn’t bite, “No. I’m trying to be your friend.” A pause. “You got— you got Dana convinced that you're gonna hurt yourself.”

His eyes sharpen. “And Ducky—” he glances toward the doors, unknowingly near where you stand— “—thinks you’re withdrawing. Shutting everybody out.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. “Dana’s got her own issues. So does Ducky.”

Jack lifts a brow, “That sounds like projection.”

And there it is, the spark. Robby turns, voice rising. “Are you seriously trying to have this fucking conversation with me right now, man?” He gestures at him. “I’m not the one who spends his free time getting shot at.”

Then, mockingly— “Hooah.”

Jack actually looks offended, which would be funny if it weren’t so bad.

Before either can escalate, ambulance doors open. “Hey, Dr. Robby!” Medic Nguyen is already unloading. “This is Judith Lastrade—thirty-six weeks pregnant. Two days of headache, now ten out of ten with blurred vision. BP one seventy-four over one twenty, pulse ninety-two. No relief with fentanyl.”

Jack steps in first, and the conversation with Robby is put on pause. “Judith, I’m Dr. Abbot. Any weakness in your arms or legs?”

Robby’s fingers press over her ankle, checking for edema. “Pitting edema with severe preeclampsia.” He looks up sharply. “Where are you doing prenatal care?”

The woman grimaces, “Nowhere.” A breath. “It’s a wild pregnancy. I want a free birth.”

Jack and Robby exchange a look, a whole conversation in one glance.

Oh no.

You choose that exact moment to step through the doors— making a show of only just arriving. “Oh—what’ve we got?” As if you weren’t just listening to them tear at each other outside.

As if your heart isn’t still pounding, like you didn’t hear every word. You grab the gurney rail to help steer her inside, moving with them.

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

Trauma One is bright in that punishing way trauma bays always are—too white, too loud, too awake. The room hums with layered urgency: monitors chirping, paper ripping from packaging, the hiss of oxygen, shoes squeaking over tile.

You’re helping position Judith when Mateo throws you a look over the monitor. A long one. The kind coworkers give when they know you’re pushing too hard. “You sure you wanna get in on this?” he asks. “You’re going on hour fifteen.”

There’s concern buried under the teasing, and you shrug like it’s nothing. “Bridget texted me. She’ll be here soon.” You secure the belts over Judith’s abdomen, hands steady. “I’ll help with this and then go home.”

You adjust the transducers and glance at the tracing, “CTG is on.”

Judith turns her head weakly toward you. “CTG?”

At the foot of the bed, Robby and Jack look toward the monitor. Robby answers automatically, “Cardiotocography.” His hand gestures toward the machine. “Measures the baby’s heart rate and checks for contractions.”

Jack glances at the screen, “Fetal heart rate 128.” He looks toward Nazely. “Normal range?”

Nazely answers immediately, “110 to 160.”

Judith’s eyes dart, “So the baby’s okay?”

Crus, stethoscope still hanging around his neck, checks her as he answers, “Right now, yes.” He nods toward the tracing. “One twenty-eight is reassuring.”

Mateo calls out from the pump. “BP one seventy over one nineteen. Six grams magnesium running in.” Magnesium sulfate dripping to prevent eclamptic seizures, heavy medicine for a heavy diagnosis.

Out of the corner of your eye, Robby is staring through the glass doors. Not looking through them, past them, gone somewhere for a second. Spacing out. Again.

It catches in your chest. But then— Jack’s voice pulls him back. “Your next move, Crus?”

“Twenty of labetalol,” Crus says. “IV push over two minutes.”

Judith looks panicked now. “What’s happening?” Nazely steps closer. “You have a condition called preeclampsia.”

Judith blinks rapidly. “And how did it happen?”

Robby rubs a hand down his face before answering. He looks tired enough to disappear. “Uh…” A breath. “Nobody really knows, actually.” He gestures gently. “It affects about ten percent of pregnancies. High blood pressure. Headaches. Protein in the urine. Swollen ankles.”

Judith looks stricken. “Okay, well… it’s a wild pregnancy, so that means no medical care.”

Robby’s head tilts, something almost incredulous. “Then why are you here?”

Her lip trembles, and then she starts crying, clearly scared, “I just need to get rid of this headache.”

Robby and Jack exchange a look, one of those silent attending conversations.

You take this.

I know.

Jack steps in, gentler. “Well… if we don’t lower your blood pressure and treat with magnesium…” He chooses his words carefully. “There can be problems.”

Judith whispers, “Like what?”

Crus doesn’t sugarcoat, “Seizures, bleeding, even death.” He glances at her belly. “For you and the baby.”

Her face crumples, “Oh my God.”

The door swings open, and Dana is there, “Robby—your VIP’s ready to go.”

Robby nods, “Ok, I'll be right there.” Dana nods and walks off. He then looks to Jack. “You good?”

Jack nods, “Yeah, I’m good.” A crooked grin. “I got it. With my eyes closed. But I won’t.” He shrugs. “Maybe one eye.” He clicks his tongue and winks at you. You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth in it.

Then Jack turns. “Hey—” To say something else to Robby. Maybe something important or not. But Robby’s already gone, out the door as if he couldn’t stand still another second.

And you, for one impossible second, find yourself staring at the door Robby just disappeared through. With a feeling you can’t quite name, only recognize.

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

You’re adjusting Judith’s tubing, checking the IV line hasn’t infiltrated, smoothing slack from the blood pressure cuff tubing where it catches beneath the rail, when Nazely leans in toward the stretcher. “How’s the headache?”

Judith’s face is pinched tight with pain, eyes squeezed shut. “Still a ten.” Crus looks up from the medication tray. “More fentanyl?”

Jack is near the glass doors, though he’s only half paying attention to the question. The other half of him is scanning, watching. Looking through the doors. Looking for Robby. Making sure he didn’t just disappear into the night, again.

“Yep,” Jack says absently.

Crus nods, “BP’s good. Another fifty.” He pushes medication with practiced calm. Judith winces, breathes, doesn’t relax.

“Hey, Abbot.”

Jack turns, and Sam Garvin enters the Trauma room in pink OB scrubs, already gloved up. “Attending and resident are stuck in the OR.”

Jack gives a crooked grin. “Oh, you’re the next best thing.” Sam arches a brow. “Better, some would say.”

Jack hums. “Mm.” There’s affection in it, familiarity, hospital shorthand for trust. She steps to the bedside. “What do you got?”

Nazely answers quickly. “This is Judith. G1, P0. No prenatal care. Preeclampsia with severe hypertension.”

Sam’s whole demeanor softens toward Judith. “Hi, Judith. Nurse Garvin from OB.”

Judith barely nods, and Crus reaches for the ultrasound probe. “Some jelly on the belly. Gonna take a quick look with ultrasound.”

She immediately panics, “No, no, no.” Judith recoils. “Ultrasound can harm the baby.”

Jack answers before anyone else can. “Not true.” Crus, already uncapping gel, “Not doing the ultrasound could end up harming you and the baby.” Judith’s breath catches. Then, smaller, “Okay. Just do it as fast as you can.”

Cold gel, probe to the abdomen, and the monitor blooms gray static into anatomy. Crus concentrates.

Sam watches the image. “Why no prenatal care, Judith?”

Judith looks almost defensive through the fear.“I wanted a free birth.” She says it like a creed. “No doctors. No hospital. No medicine.”

Jack lifts a brow. “You have a midwife? A birth doula?”

“No. I don’t need one.” She says it almost stubbornly. “Women have been having children on their own for thousands of years.”

Jack’s mouth tilts, dry as ever. “Yeah. With an infant mortality rate of thirty percent for most of those thousands of years.”

The monitor blooms gray static into anatomy, while Crus concentrates. “Femur length seven centimeters.”

Sam watches the image. “Thirty-seven weeks.” She glances at Jack. “They’ll probably induce.”

Judith bolts upright as much as the bed allows. “What?” Her fear sharpens. “No. No, no, no, no.” Head shaking. “Absolutely not.”

Jack steps closer, at eye level now. “At thirty-seven weeks, the cure for preeclampsia is to deliver the baby.” His voice lowers. “We need to get you upstairs so OB can induce labor to save you and your baby.”

Judith looks horrified. “No. No, no.” Her hands clutch the sheet. “Mm-mm.”

Jack looks at you with a brief questioning glance. Like maybe you’ll have the answer no one else has found. His lips quirk to one side the way they do when he’s thinking three things at once.

Something in your chest stumbles, because your mind is suddenly nowhere in Trauma One. It is somewhere older, hotter, and smaller. A maternity ward years ago. Fan blades are turning slowly overhead. Late summer heat clinging to skin. Women laboring behind curtains. The smell of antiseptic, milk, and sweat. A mother screaming. A newborn is crying. Your mother’s hand around yours. Or maybe a memory you’ve spent years trying not to touch.

TRAUMA ONE — NIGHT

You’re at Judith’s side, cuff still cycling on her arm, watching numbers pulse on the monitor. “BP’s 164 over 114.”

Jack doesn’t hesitate. “Another forty of labetalol.” And Crus is already moving. “Mag bolus is in. Now infusing two grams an hour.”

Nazely stands at the workstation on wheels, scrolling through newly posted labs as they populate. “Labs are coming back. Hemoglobin seven-point-five, platelets forty. LFTs are sky high.”

Jack looks over, and there’s instant recognition. “HELLP syndrome.”

Crus, half for Judith, half for Nazely, he explains,“Hemolysis. Elevated Liver enzymes. Low Platelets.”

Sam is already on the phone with OB. “They’re cleaning a room. We can bring her up in ten minutes.”

Jack leans toward Judith, “How you doing, Judith?”

Her pupils seem unfocused. Her breathing wrong, as she tries. “I—I—”

Nazely sees it first, “Oh—she’s seizing.” Judith’s body arches, a violent tonic rigidity. Her arm jerks against the rail, jaw clenches, and monitor alarms erupt. The fetal tracing slips.

“Shit.” Jack moves instantly. “Ten of IV diazepam. Have another ten ready.”

You’re already protecting Judith’s head with folded blankets, turning her slightly to keep her airway clear, instinct and training moving before thought.

Sam stares at the tracing, “With all the movement, we can’t get a fetal heartbeat.”

Crus reaches for oxygen. “Putting on fifteen liters by mask.”

The nonrebreather goes on, Judith is cyanotic around the lips for a breath too long. Crus glances up. “Should we intubate?”

Jack shakes his head, “Hold intubation. Let’s try to break this. We don’t want to mask seizures with paralysis unless we have to.” His mind is moving three steps ahead, he points. “Crus, CTG isn’t reading. Check with ultrasound.”

“On it.”

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. “Nazely—what’s the diagnosis?” He’s still teaching even now.

Nazely swallows, “With the seizure… Now it’s eclampsia.”

Jack gives one hard nod.

Crus studies the ultrasound, “Fetal heart rate about ninety.” Sam’s face drops at that, “Way too low.” Another layer of emergency.

Mateo checks pulse ox, “Mom’s sats are going down.”

The monitor confirms it, and Crus looks up again, urgent now. “Time to tube her?”

Jack’s jaw tightens, “Set up for it—but wait.”

He’s still trying to buy her one more chance, “One more ten of diazepam. Push four grams of Keppra.”

Judith’s breathing is becoming shallow beneath the nonrebreather, her chest fighting for air in uneven pulls while the seizure leaves aftershocks through her body.

You glance up at the monitor, and her numbers are dropping. Your stomach drops with them. “Pulse ox is eighty-eight.”

Your words cut through the room, and Crus looks up immediately. “Dr. Abbot? Intubate?”

Jack has both hands braced on his hips, thinking in that fast, layered way he does, processing ten variables at once. Then he’s reached a decision, he reaches for the gloves off the wall dispenser. “Let’s do it.”

He turns to Nazely, “Nazely—what do you suggest for rapid sequence induction?”

She answers quickly, nerves showing, “Etomidate and roc.”

Jack gives the smallest tilt of his head. “Mm. Not quite.” He reaches for the airway tray. “One-twenty of propofol. Sixty of succinylcholine.”

He looks toward Crus, “Why is that?”

Crus doesn’t miss it, “Propofol for the anti-seizure effect. Sux to avoid prolonged paralysis so we can check her neuro exam.”

Jack agrees. “Exactly.”

Nazely absorbs every word, filing it away. You can almost see the learning happening in real time.

Jack moves beside you, close enough his shoulder brushes yours as he adjusts gloves. Your syringe is ready, hands steady, even if your pulse isn’t. You announce, “Pushing the propofol.”

White medication disappears into the IV line. Judith softens, her resistance melting under sedation.

Sam is already repositioning, “Once she’s flat for intubation, we need to displace the uterus left.”

Jack gestures to Nazely, “That’s you.” He motions with both arms. “Big hug. Both arms.”

Nazely steps in awkwardly but willing, wrapping both forearms around Judith’s gravid abdomen and shifting the uterus off midline.

Jack nods. “Get the baby off the vena cava.”

Mateo glances at the meds, “Sux is on board.” Seconds now, everyone is waiting, and watching as paralysis sets in.

Nazely, still thinking aloud, “But after she’s paralyzed, the seizing stops… right?”

Jack is checking laryngoscope light, “It might look like that.” He looks at her. “But an ongoing seizure will still fry the brain. We monitor with EEG.”

Nazely blinks, “Is there time for that?” Jack’s mouth pulls to one side. “Wait and see.”

Judith’s jerking slows and eventually stops. Jack watches her closely and says, “Paralytics kicked in.”

Crus steps in, “Let’s go.”

The team rolls her flat, bed lowered, and her head positioned, with he airway open. Jack is at the bedside now, every inch attending. He looks at Crus. “Intubate, then EEG to see if her brain is still seizing.” Then his voice lowers. “I need first-pass success.”

Crus replies aptly, “You and me both.”

The tube is secured, and breath sounds are confirmed. Crus moves back to the ultrasound, probe gliding over Judith’s chest while Jack, at the head of the bed, is carefully placing EEG leads along her scalp with deliberate fingers, smoothing adhesive against sweat-damp skin. Even in urgency, his hands are precise, gentle, and almost reverent.

Crus studies the screen. “Good lung sliding bilaterally.”

Sam is still on fetal monitoring, eyes locked to the tracing, “Fetal heart rate borderline at ninety-eight.”

Jack doesn’t even look up. “Roll her to the left again. That can help.”

Mateo’s already at the rail. “One, two, three.” On his count, you move with the team, shoulder to hip, helping roll Judith into left uterine displacement again, easing pressure off the vena cava.

Jack adjusts the EEG leads one last time. “Okay.” A glance to the monitor. “All set here.”

Mateo checks the hookup. “EEG monitor’s good to go.”

Nazely stares at the setup, wide-eyed. “That was fast.”

Jack doesn’t answer; he’s already reading, already worried. Then the small EEG monitor changes. Red screen and white text. Like a warning flare. Crus sees it first, and his face drops. “Still seizing while paralyzed. It’s nonconvulsive status.”

The trauma doors push open. Shen and Ellis. Both already gloving as they walk in. No questions about whether they’re needed.

Shen comes straight in. “What’s she had so far?”

Jack rattles it off from memory. “Thirty of diazepam, a full load of mag, Keppra, and propofol.”

Ellis exhales. “Damn.” She looks at him. “What’s your next step?”

Jack turns. “Any ideas? Hmm? Nazely?” He looks at Nazely, and she swallows. “Dilantin? Valproate?”

Jack tilts his head. “Mm.” Not dismissive, but thinking. “Infusion’s too long. So is onset of action. Push one hundred of ketamine. That’s had results with refractory status.”

Crus adds, still watching labs.“She also has HELLP syndrome—hemoglobin only seven, platelets down to thirty.”

Shen already pivoting. “Two units whole blood?”

Jack doesn’t falter, “O-neg is going up on the rapid infuser as we speak.” You hear blood tubing being primed behind you. Pressure bags, fluids.

Ellis is by the workstation on wheels, “Uh, put the AP pads on, just in case.”

Jack nods. “And ten of Decadron IV push.” His eyes never leave Judith. “For the inflammatory storm.”

You push the steroid. Flush. Line patent. The vent breathes for Judith in measured mechanical sighs.

Sam suddenly leans over the tracing. “Fetal heart rate up to one-oh-four.”

A pause as everyone looks over, Jack too. He hums, thinking while Sam is cautiously hopeful, “Little better.”

Shen mutters, “Yeah. She should be upstairs with OB.”

Jack finally looks at him. Steel in his face. “She will be.” A beat. “After we break this seizure.”

The EEG continues its angry red chatter. No break or slowing. Only seizure. Crus stares at the tracing, jaw tight. “There’s been no improvement. Still seizing on the EEG. Neurology has been called.”

Ellis hangs up the phone, almost on top of the words, urgency carrying her in. “OB says send her up. They have an OR ready.”

Jack exhales hard, chest lifting with a frustrated huff, “About time.” But the moment the words leave him, Robby walks into Trauma One, and the room shifts again.

He looks wrecked, drawn pale under the light, scrub top damp at the collar, exhaustion carved into the planes of his face. However, the moment he sees Judith, the bed, and the monitors, his eyes sharpen.

Sam’s voice cuts through. “Baby’s been bradying down a bit more.”

Robby takes in the room in one sweep, “This one looks like it took a turn for the worse.”

Jack doesn’t look away from the monitors. “Eclampsia. Refractory seizures. HELLP syndrome with anemia and thrombocytopenia.”

Shen mutters darkly, “About as bad as it gets.” And then—an alarm screams. Sam’s head snaps up. “V-fib.”

Jack’s voice cracks through it, “Chest compressions, Nazely. Charge to two hundred.” Nazely launches into compressions, and the bed shakes. Robby’s already moving, “Prep the belly. Get a baby warmer. Call NICU. Start a timer.” Commands flying like sparks.

Mateo at the defib. “Charged. Clear.”

Shock, and Judith’s body jolts. Shen says, “Continue compressions. We’ll check rhythm in a minute.”

Jack is already reaching for sterile gowns. “Gown up.” Then he turns to his best friend, “Robby, it’s you and me.”

Robby nods once, exhaustion and duty welded together. You step behind him, helping him into the sterile gown, tying strings with fingers that suddenly feel clumsy.

Another nurse masks Jack.

The room now split into two resuscitations waiting to happen.

Mother.

Baby.

Both slipping.

Ellis turns to Nazely, who is still doing compressions. “What’s the four-minute rule?”

Nazely, breathless—“Uh… not sure.”

Crus answers over the chaos. “Pregnant patient with a viable fetus—four minutes after maternal arrest to save the baby.”

Jack corrects gently but firmly, “And the mom. We don’t call it a postmortem C-section anymore. It’s a resuscitative hysterotomy to try to save them both.”

Nazely, horrified, “But she doesn’t want medical intervention—”

Robby cuts in. “That doesn’t matter. Mom and baby are both dead if we do nothing.” He looks to the monitor. “Charge to two hundred.”

“One more rhythm check and then Abbot and I are gonna cut.” He pounds once on the glass, signaling McKay from outside.

Come now.

Now.

“Ellis, you and Crus stay on mom resuscitation. Shen, you and Nazely take the baby. Ok, hold compressions.”

Crus checks. And she’s still V-fib. Mateo announces, “Clear.” Shock.

Ellis scans Judith and sighs, “No change. Resume compressions. Amp of epi.”

Robby takes a breath, then looks at Jack. “Okay, showtime.” And somehow gallows humor barely still survives here.

You secure Robby’s mask from behind. Another nurse does Jack’s.

Jack’s voice low, urgent. “We need to get this baby out right now.”

Nazely rotates off compressions, Mateo takes over when Ellis tells her, “Take a break.”

Robby holds out his hand. “Ten blade.” You place it in his palm, metal to glove. The room goes silent in that strange way chaos does when everyone is hyper-focused.

And as he cuts—he teaches. “First incision from the xiphoid to the pubic symphysis…” Steel through skin. “…through skin to linea alba.”

There’s blood, hands, and retractors. And Crus by the infuser. “Units three and four running.”

Robby deeper now, “Second incision goes through the peritoneum, exposing the uterus.”

McKay rushes in. “Where do you need me?” Shen replies, “You’re with the baby. Nazely bags. You’re on suction. Stand by for intubation.”

Sam begins, “Bladder retractors.”

Sophie communicates to Shen and McKay, “Neonatal monitor and pulse ox ready.”

Jack leans in, “Ellis, gentle traction.” Small vertical uterine incision. “Okay, making a small vertical incision through the lower uterus so as not to cut the baby.

Ellis hums once in acknowledgment, already understanding, already moving with them, every ounce of her concentration narrowed to the field in front of her.

Jack looks to Robby.

“Got it?”

Robby doesn’t look up.

“Yep. I got it.”

“Okay.”

His gloved hands are steady despite everything.

“Using scissors to extend superiorly.”

Metal slides.

Tissue parts.

Blood glistens under the trauma lights.

Jack leans in, voice calm in the storm.

“Ellis, hand retract the uterus with me.”

Ellis adjusts, and the cavity opens. She glances down, comments, “Amniotic fluid looks good.”

Robby shifts, “Give me some fundal pressure.” Pressure from above, hands working in concert. Then Ellis says it, “Breech position.”

A heartbeat passes. Tiny and endless, then Robby’s voice changes. Softens in spite of himself. “Baby’s out.” Something catches in it, so slight you almost miss it. “It’s a girl.”

And suddenly there she is— wet, blue, small beyond belief, new life slick in blood and amniotic fluid in Robby’s hands. Fragile as a held breath.

Jack works fast, “Milking the cord.”

Sam—“Clamping.”

Jack nods, “Cutting.” And then Robby is turning, already handing her off. “Okay, blue and flaccid. Coming to you, Shen.” A quick glance. “You ready?”

And then—“Yeah. You got her.”

At the warmer, Shen receives the baby. “I got it, yep.” His voice gentles, but becomes clinical again. “Poor tone. No movement.”

McKay steps closer, “Keep the blow-by closer.” Warm oxygen near the tiny face while Nazely whispers what everyone sees. “She’s really blue.”

McKay doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Some blue is normal. But not this much.” Nazely’s fear slips out, “Do we need to intubate?”

Shen shakes his head. “Not yet. They usually pink up with stimulation and blow-by.”

At Judith’s bedside—Robby keeps moving, no room to stop. “Okay, removing the placenta.”

Jack’s hand sweeps. “Sweeping to the left, trying to get it in one piece.”

Sam lifts it, and studies it, nods, confirming, “Looks intact.”

You nod. “It does.”

Robby, breath tight—“Yeah.”

Sam murmurs, “Nicely done.”

As if anyone can hear praise right now. Crus adds, “Ten IV Pitocin to contract the uterus.” Ellis already massaging the fundus. “And lots of massage.” Trying to stop hemorrhage and trying to hold on for dear life.

At the warmer, Sophie calls out, “Heart rate seventy-six.” Shen moves, “Less than a hundred means we bag.”

“Suction first.”

McKay, “Okay.”

Back at the bed, Robby doesn’t even turn. “Hey Jord, charge to two hundred. Stand by for next rhythm check.” Defib charging, blood infusing, and compressions relentless. Everything at once.

McKay, breathless, says, “She grimaced.” Her voice lifts. “Good sign.” While Shen starts ventilation. “Bagging.”

Sophie communicates to the other doctors, “Pulse ox forty-five.” Nazely nearly chokes. “I’ve never seen it that low.”

Shen doesn’t panic. “It’s not as bad as it sounds. I’m more worried about the heart rate. McKay, get ready with an IO in case we need epi.”

“Okay.”

Crus remarks, “Rhythm check.”

“Hold compressions.”

Hands lift, and all eyes to the monitor. Robby stares, “Still V-fib.” Jaw tight. “Okay. Shock it.”

Jack asserts procedure, “Clear.” The shock lands. “Resume compressions.” Bodies return to motion, violence in service of life. Robby calls over his shoulder, “Shen, how’s she doing over there?” And Shen answers, “Heart rate’s up to one-oh-four.”

McKay starts the one-minute APGAR. “Uh, at one minute, she's zero for color, two for heart rate, one for reflex, tone, breathing.” She looks up. “APGAR of five.”

Jack doesn’t waver, still working on the mom. “Five out of ten. Not great.”

Sophie reads off the device, “Pulse ox fifty-eight.”

Nazely asks, “Intubation?” But Shen shakes his head. “Uh, not yet. O-two sat in the sixties is normal at one minute.” McKay watches the monitor, “Her heart rate and pulse ox are trending higher.”

And Shen—God bless him—actually smiles. “Let’s keep doing what we’re doing. A little tincture of time.”

Back on Judith—Robby commands, “Hold compressions.” Everything pauses again. Ellis peers at the monitor, “Looks like sinus.”

You check the neck, your fingers press. Search and find nothing. Your voice falls. “Can’t feel a carotid.”

Jack shakes his head, “No.”

Crus reads what everyone fears. “Heart’s barely pumping. It’s PEA.”

Jack gives directions, “Back on compressions.” And the room, which had almost dared hope, feels their heart sink. Like a floor giving way. Crus already escalating, “Two more units. She needs red cells and platelets.”

Robby looks down at the blood flooding the field. “Ongoing blood loss from uterus.” Then to you— “Give me all the lap pads we’ve got.”

You hand over two thick batches. And watch—almost disbelieving—as Jack and Robby begin packing her open abdomen with soaked pads, hands disappearing into blood, trying to hold a woman together by force of will.

Trying—again—to keep death from taking what it came for.

Minutes stretch strangely in resuscitation. Too fast and unbearably slow, measured in compressions. In blood units and alarms. Whether a waveform rises or disappears. The monitors keep singing their anxious electronic chorus while sweat runs beneath gowns and everyone keeps moving because stopping is not an option.

Crus glances at the rapid infuser. “Units five and six are in.” Blood warming through the line. Red cells chasing life back into a body trying to leave.

Ellis has both hands still working at Judith’s abdomen, pressure steady. “Down to a slow ooze here.”

Jack watches the monitor. “Hold compressions.”

Everything stills, and hands lift. The room seems to stop breathing with them. You lean over Judith, fingers at her neck, searching. Then you feel it, thin and thready. But there, your breath catches.

“Looks like sinus…” You press harder. “And I got a weak carotid.”

Robby turns so fast it’s almost a snap. “Okay.” His voice rough, “Cycle the BP.” Crus watches the echo. “Better filling. Better squeeze.”

Ellis checks the EEG; her face changes. “No seizure activity.”

Robby nods, as if he’s afraid to trust it, “That’s progress.” A breath, then again, softer. “That’s progress.” As if saying it twice might make it true.

At the warmer, a whole second miracle is trying to happen. Shen checks the clock, “We’re at five minutes.”

McKay reading monitors. “Heart rate one-thirty-two. Pulse ox seventy-nine.” She glances at Nazely. “The APGAR?”

Nazely, breathless and trying to think, “One off for color… One off for tone… One off respiration with hypoxia…” She looks up. “Total of seven.”

McKay corrects automatically. “Respiration score is for observed breathing, not pulse ox.” Shen nods, “Sat of eighty is normal at five minutes. With no crying…” He glances at the baby. “She still gets one off.”

Nazely, absorbing it, “Yeah.”

And then—it happens, small at first, almost uncertain. A ragged little sound. Then—a cry, thin, sharp, and very much alive. It cuts through the room like light through a cracked door, and every head turns. The baby cries again, louder, indignant, beautiful, and something in your chest breaks wide open. You hadn’t realized how tightly you’d been holding your breath until it came out shaking.

Because of all the sounds this hospital makes—alarms, compressions, people dying, this might be the first one tonight that sounds like hope.

McKay laughs, actually laughs. “Ah!” She grins. “She just scored the winning point. APGAR of eight is pretty normal.”

Even Jack smiles, and you see Robby across the room smile too. Small and disbelieving. His eyes rimmed red, almost wet. The look of someone who wasn’t sure the universe had one more mercy left in it, and was wrong.

Then the door opens, Pettyfer strides in, takes in the scene, the blood, the open abdomen, and the newborn crying. The whole war zone, he just blurts— “Holy shit. What did I miss?”

Jack, deadpan even now, “Eclampsia with status, HELLP syndrome, cardiac arrest, resuscitative hysterotomy.”

Pettyfer blinks. “I was in the OR with a septic twin C-section. Got your text twelve minutes ago.”

Jack shrugs, “Shit happens fast down here.” Crus, almost proud despite himself, “Resuscitative hysterotomy in thirty-six seconds.” Pettyfer stares. “Impressive.”

Understatement of the century.

You check the pressure, “BP one-oh-two over sixty-four.” A pause. “Hemoglobin up to nine.”

Numbers becoming human again. Robby moves to the side, starts peeling off gown and gloves. As if the adrenaline is finally leaking out of him.

He steps aside, removes his mask. Looks suddenly older and spent. He moves toward the glass doors. And with that gravel voice of his—“That’ll do.”

He’s a man pretending this didn’t just cost him something. You and Jack both watch him. Because you both hear what sits under the words. Relief and exhaustion.

“NICU’s sending a team down,” Mateo says.

Pettyfer nods.“We can take Mom.”

Then, looking around the room—blood-splattered, overworked, miraculous, “You guys are rock stars.”

Jack seamlessly, dry as ever. “We like to be referred to as crawlers of the night.”

A few exhausted laughs. Even in catastrophe, there’s room for stupid jokes. Maybe that’s survival, too. Then, for one suspended impossible moment, everyone in the room realizes they may have just pulled two people back from death. Together. With their hands, stubbornness, fear, and skill. With love, maybe, though no one in medicine ever calls it that. And standing there, watching Robby at the glass doors, his shoulders finally sagging.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

Life in motion as if a woman hadn’t nearly died twenty feet away. As if a baby hadn’t been cut into the world by emergency. The ordinary always returning too quickly. Robby pauses at the sanitizer dispenser mounted by the wall.

Rubs the alcohol over blood-marked hands that have already been scrubbed, gloved, and scrubbed again. A habit now, or maybe something else. Trying to wash off what the last twenty minutes cost. He exhales long, almost shaky. But enough for you to notice, watching from the trauma doorway as you finish stripping off gloves.

He walks toward Dana with the dazed, post-adrenaline looseness of someone whose body hasn’t realized the crisis is over.

“If you’re not careful,” he says, voice roughened from shouting over alarms, “you’re gonna get stuck here all night.”

Dana is sorting forms, “Nah. Henny said she’d be here in thirty minutes.” Then she glances at him, softens as she leans on the desk, “How’s Mom and baby?”

For the first time all shift, Robby smiles. Worn and disbelieving. Almost boyish. “Whew.” A breath of relief dressed up as a word. “They’re both gonna go upstairs.”

Dana’s shoulders drop, some knot in her unties. “Good.” And quieter—genuine. She studies him a second. Maybe noticing how pale he looks, how spent. “You leaving now?”

Robby leans one hip against the counter but doesn’t really rest. Still vibrating with unfinished things. “Yeah. Pretty soon.” The list starts, “I gotta find Whitaker. I gotta find Al-Hashimi.” He glances toward Trauma One. A flicker of something softer. “I gotta talk to Ducky after she finishes in there… And I gotta find Langdon before I leave.”

All these threads, still trying to tie them. Even now, after nearly cutting a baby out of a dying woman.

Dana watches him like she already knows where this is going. That he’ll keep finding reasons not to walk out. “You missed Langdon. He just checked out.”

Robby freezes, the smile gone, as if someone pulled current from the room. “Shit.”

AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT

The ambulance bay hums with its own kind of insomnia. Diesel lingering in the damp summer air. Sirens somewhere far enough away not to matter yet. The concrete still holds heat from the day, breathing it back up in waves.

Robby steps out beside Whitaker, the sliding doors hissing shut behind them. He presses a small yellow note into Whitaker’s hand. “My cell phone,” he says, tapping the paper. “And the building manager’s. He can help if there’s any emergencies.”

Whitaker unfolds it like it might be something fragile. “Yeah…” he says, squinting. “What kind of emergencies?”

Robby gives that tired shrug of his, the one that means everything and nothing. “Whatever.” Then, almost as an afterthought— “And follow up with Duke in a couple days, yeah?”

Whitaker nods quickly. “Yeah.” It’s quiet for a moment. Then more carefully—“You, um…” He hesitates. “You sure about this?”

Robby looks at him, past the nervousness and the awkwardness. At the man, he’s spent time teaching, and something paternal flickers there. “I trust you, Whitaker.”

Whitaker seems almost startled by it. As if praise lands harder than criticism ever did. “Great,” he says too fast. Trying not to look moved.

Robby half-smiles. “Any questions?”

Whitaker shifts his backpack higher, “Uh… when are you back, exactly?”

Robby looks out toward the dark road beyond the bay. The open country is already living somewhere in his head. “You know… I’ll text you. I’m trying to keep my dates kind of fluid.”

Headlights cut into the bay, a truck pulling up. Robby nods toward it. “I think this is your ride.”

Whitaker turns. “Yeah—uh, yes.” Then, earnestly all over again, “I promise I’ll check in on your house tomorrow.”

“Sounds good.”

A pause. Whitaker lingers, because he doesn’t quite know how to say goodbye. Then—“Hey.” The driver’s door opens, Amy steps out, and rounds the truck.

“Hey.” Whitaker opens the passenger side and leans in. A baby boy in a car seat blinks up at him. His whole face changes. Softens. “Okay…” He sets down his backpack. “Hey, Theo. You’re up late, huh? What you got there?”

Amy buckles in. “He’s been fussy all day. I think he’s got another tooth coming in.”

Whitaker lights up, “Aww.” He straps himself in, leans toward the baby. “Right on, big guy. Ready to get funky?” He makes a ridiculous face. Theo blinks, unimpressed, but Whitaker grins anyway. Before the truck pulls out, he gives Robby a little salute.

Robby returns a nod and watches them disappear into the night with music spilling faintly from the truck speakers. For a second, something wistful crosses his face. Domesticity glimpsed through someone else’s windshield, then it’s gone.

Another set of doors opens, and Samira steps out. Phone in hand, lifting it for signal. Searching for a bar or something else.

Robby glances over. “Hey.”

She looks up. “Hey.”

He nods toward the phone. “Any luck picking an elective?”

She exhales, “Don’t know. Maybe I’ll go into geriatrics.”

He gives a small approving hum, “It’s a smart choice.” Subsequently quieter, almost unexpectedly personal, he begins, “I know life can be challenging. Especially when it doesn’t work out the way you expected.”

Samira looks at him now, listening. He stares out toward the lot and says it almost like he hasn’t said it aloud before. “I thought I’d be married by now. Two kids in college. Maybe some property. A pond.” A ghost of a smile. “We’d play hockey on it in the winter.”

He laughs once through his nose. “And yet…” He gestures to himself. “Look at me. No wife. No kids. No pond.”

Samira says softly—“It’s never too late.” And though she says it to him, something in her expression flickers with another thought. Of you, and all the ways everyone can see what neither of you will name.

Robby looks at her. “Do you really believe that?”

“Yeah.” She means it. He studies her. Then—“Only for me… or for you too?”

Samira huffs a little, caught. “Okay.” A tiny smile. “I see what you did there. Was that true… Or something you just said to make a point?”

Robby only shrugs, which is answer enough. An ambulance backs in. Movement surges again. Shen passes them with purpose, already helping the EMTs.

The night swallowing softness whole, but Robby speaks again before it can. “Have you worked things out with your mom?”

Samira’s face closes some. “We’re not talking.” Silence, before she steps closer. As if choosing honesty, too. “I am sorry… that I let it distract me. She was treating me like a child. And I was letting her.” She swallows, and then, with more feeling, “Have a good trip. Please be safe. We need you here.”

A tiny beat, before she adds, “Even if you can be a dick sometimes.” It startles a small laugh out of him.

“Good luck.”

Robby nods, something almost grateful in it, “You too.”

He starts toward the sliding doors, into noise and the place he keeps trying to leave, and Samira watches him go with the look people get when they’re watching someone they care about walk too close to an edge, and hoping somehow he turns back.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

Under the fluorescent buzz, you sit beside Jack at a workstation in a squeaky swivel chair, elbows tucked close, eyes shut for only a moment. Not sleeping, only resting them. Trying to ease the burn behind them, not to feel how fifteen hours sit in your bones.

Jack is charting beside you, one forearm braced on the desk, typing with maddening focus. You can hear the soft clack of keys. The occasional muttered, “Come on,” when the system lags.

There’s something oddly soothing about it.

You let your head tip back for one second longer, then hear Robby. “Hey, I didn’t think you were still here.” Your eyes open halfway. Across Central, he’s stopped beside Al-Hashimi. She looks tired— more than tired. Frayed. “I was just talking to the neurologist on call.”

Robby studies her, “And?”

“We had a nice chat,” she says. “She agrees I can work with double coverage.” Something in Robby’s face changes, hardens. You know that look, and Jack notices too. His typing stops while Robby’s voice lowers, too controlled. “That’s not her call to make. You can’t do anything critical where a five-second lapse in consciousness could potentially kill a patient.”

Al-Hashimi’s jaw sets. “I agree.” But already they’re moving, walking toward Central 6, privacy. Which in an ED never means privacy, only quieter conflict.

“But ninety percent of our patients don’t require critical procedures,” Al-Hashimi argues. Robby fires back instantly. “And the ones that do?”

She folds her arms, “They’ll be handled by whoever’s working with me.”

“Unless they’re tied up with a critical patient.” He steps closer, “What if it's a double or triple trauma?”

“Robby,” she says through her teeth, “I can handle it.”

“No.” Sharp, and immediate. “You can’t. And I can’t let you.”

Her voice rises. “I am fully capable of handling—”

“No, you are not fully capable, and you know it.”

Al-Hashimi decides to shut the glass door.

While your body reacts before your mind does, your heart kicks, breath shortening. That old reflex, raised voices. Jack notices instantly, his hand lands warm and firm on your shoulder. “You’re okay.”

You blink hard, then swallow. “What’s going on?” Your voice comes out smaller than you mean. “Who’s shouting?”

Jack glances past his monitor. “Robby and Al are going at it in Central Six.” You both look. Through the glass—they are inches from a screaming match.

“What do you want from me?” Al-Hashimi demands.

Robby doesn’t soften. “I want what's best for this department-- patients and staff. Best-case scenario, you get a handle on this, you're seizure-free for six months, you get your driver's license back, you are cleared to work.”

Her anger flashes, “I am cleared for my driver’s license.”

“You shouldn’t be driving at all like this. If you were a patient, we’d have to report you.”

She explodes, “I am not your fucking patient.”

The air goes taut, and Robby fires back louder. “No—but I cannot let you work in my emergency department until you’re fully capable.”

“That is not your fucking call!”

Then he shouts—voice echoing off glass—“You’re fucking-A right it’s my call!” Robby points toward the floor. “I'm trying to protect you and my patients, and you know I'm right about this.”

Al-Hashimi’s face scrunches up in anger. “Oh, ‘my department,’ ‘my patients.’” A bitter laugh. “All you fucking think about is yourself. You didn’t rat out Langdon for stealing fucking drugs.”

Robby doesn’t flinch, but something wounded crosses his face. “No. But I kicked him out of this department until he got the help he needed.” His voice is sure now. “And the same goes for you.”

He points toward her, “You’ve got until Monday to tell administration. Or I will.”

The door rips open, and Robby storms out. Past the workstation. Not seeing you. Too angry to see anything. Jack pushes back from his chair, rising instinctively, tracking him with his eyes.

Dana appears at your shoulder as if she materialized out of the lights themselves. Taps your arm. “Ready to watch the fireworks?”

The word feels surreal after that. Fireworks. As if this whole shift hasn’t already been an explosion. You nod faintly, then look at Jack. “Can you make sure Robby…” You don’t finish, because don’t have to.

Jack understands, always does, and he nods once. “I got him.” Then softer— “You go enjoy the fireworks, okay?” He tilts his head toward you. “And let me know if you get…”

He trails off. But you know what he means, the crowds, noise, the triggers. The Fourth of July has a memory all its own.

You nod, “I will.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze; it’s warm. Then, because he cannot help himself, “Try to have at least one wholesome patriotic moment tonight.”

You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Impossible.”

A ghost of a grin, then Dana loops an arm through yours. Pulling you toward the elevator doors, up to the roof, toward fireworks and a little borrowed light.

CENTRAL WORK AREA — NIGHT

Robby steps back into Central looking like a man held together by momentum alone. His eyes sweep the station. “Where’s Dana?” A pause. “And Ducky?”

Vivi looks up from a chart she’s flagging. “Not sure. A bunch of day shift just headed to the roof to watch the fireworks.” She tips her head. “You want me to call her?”

Robby hesitates; there’s a flicker there. “No,” he says quietly. “That’s okay.” He starts walking. Jack sees it and falls into step beside him without invitation.

Of course he does. They move down the hall shoulder to shoulder, past supply carts and linen bins, under lights too bright for the hour.

Jack breaks the silence first. “Yo.”

Robby glances over.

“Thanks for your help in there.” A moment passes. “Almost out?”

“Yep,” Robby says, and without looking at him, “Is this where you try to talk me out of going?”

Jack scoffs. “Me?” He shakes his head. “No, not a chance. Why? Are you having second thoughts?”

Robby pretends not to falter, “Nope.”

Jack lifts a brow, “No?”

“Nope.”

Jack hums. “Don’t have to convince me.” But then, deadpan, he adds, “I mean… it is a little strange the only place you’ve talked about going is somewhere they used to drive buffalo off a cliff to die.”

Robby exhales through his nose, “Here it comes.”

Jack looks at him pointedly, “I looked it up. As far as summer vacations go? It is not exactly a holiday hotspot.” He gestures. “What’s in the fucking gift shop, man?”

That gets the ghost of a smile, “It’s just one place I’m going.”

Jack shrugs, “As long as it’s not the last. Don’t be pulling a Thelma and Louise out there.”

Robby shakes his head, “I am minutes from taking a three-month vacation.” He glances over. “When’s the last time you took any time off, Jack?”

Jack huffs. “Yeah, but I’ve dealt with my demons.” A pause ensued. “It’s a process.”

They reach Trauma One, and Robby pushes through. Jack follows, but something changes. The joking thins and drops.

Jack stops in the middle of the bay. Then says, almost too casually, “You want to know why I never killed myself?” That stops Robby cold, he turns and faces him. Silence. Even the room seems to hold still.

Jack looks away first, then back, and for once, there is no deflection in him. No wisecrack. Only truth. “After what I saw…” He swallows. “What I lived through…” His thumb catches his wedding band, fidgeting with it unconsciously. “Losing my leg.” His voice nearly falters. “Losing my wife.”

He clears his throat, starts again. “Because it comes for all of us, man.” His eyes lock onto Robby’s. “You and I know it more than most. We see it every shift. But we can’t let ourselves succumb to it.” His voice roughens. “Yes, life can suck. It can be unbearable and brutal and ugly and heartbreaking.” Softer, he adds, “But it’s also beautiful. And hilarious.”

A breath. “That woman today? Her baby? They’d both be in the morgue if you hadn’t been here.” He points between them. “That’s us. That’s you and me. That’s what we’re here for.”

Robby nods once, but he’s already breaking. His throat works before words come. “The most important things I’ve ever done in my life…” He struggles. “…have been in this hospital.”

His voice cracks. “Nothing will ever matter more.” A long breath. “But it is killing me.”

Jack says nothing, lets him say it, allows him to confess it. Because that’s what this is, a confession. Robby’s eyes shine. “You know how they say a part of you dies when you lose someone you love?” He laughs bitterly. “I’m not convinced a part of you doesn’t die every time you watch another human being pass.”

His face pinches. “And I’ve seen so many people die…” He shakes his head. “…I feel like it’s leaching something out of my soul.”

His words hang there, terrible, holy, all while Jack lets them. Then he takes a step forward, “Go on a cruise, man.” The impact of his words hit him so absurdly that Robby almost chokes, but Jack presses on. “Knock off this helmetless motorcycle shit. People talk. That’s death-wish behavior.”

And then Robby, finally comes apart, tears, open, and helpless. “I’m tired.” He wipes at his face and it does nothing. “I’m tired of being a role model. I’m tired of feeling like you can’t get ahead. I’m tired of feeling like I’m drowning every day.” His voice breaks entirely. “I’m tired of all of it.”

Jack steps closer, not as colleague. But as a Friend. A Brother. “You need to get away for a while, and you need to get some help. You need this place as much as it needs you.” He points to the floor.

Robby’s tears don’t stop. He asks it so quietly it almost disappears, “Am I fucked up?”

Jack nods once, immediately. “Hundred percent.” And then gentler, “But nobody works here as long as you and me and doesn’t get screwed up.” The moment stretched. “You gotta find somebody to help you dance through the darkness.”

Robby blinks, then actually laughs. Wet and stunned. “Did you just make that up?”

Jack squints, “Maybe it’s a song lyric …Maybe my therapist said it.” He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then he truly studies him. “And…” He tips his head. “You already have the partner to dance you through the darkness.”

Robby knows immediately who he means.

You.

His eyes lowered, a tiny broken smile.

Jack snorts. “Or as she would say it— Waddle through the darkness.” That almost gets a real laugh.

Suddenly, Nazely sticks her head in. “Some dude just pulled up. Looks like he blew half his face off.” And she’s gone.

Jack spreads his arms. “How can you not love this place?”

Even crying, Robby shakes his head, unbelieving. Then, Jack steps forward. Grabs him, pulls him into a hug. Hard. Real. The kind men like them almost never give each other. And into Robby’s shoulder— “Don’t make me look stupid.” A squeeze. “You come back to us in one piece.”

He pulls back, points. “I’m still your emergency contact. And I do not want to be contacted.”

Robby laughs through tears.

Jack backs toward the door. “All right, night crawlers,” he calls as he exits into the noise— “What the hell’s going on out here?” Voices answer, and Medics shout report. “Twenty-five-year-old male—no meds, no allergies—”

Robby stands alone in Trauma One for a second longer, breathing, trying. Then takes a deep breath. Wipes his face and walks out. Past the workstation where his black thermos waits. Picks it up. And heads toward the staff room— looking, for the first time all night, like maybe he intends to come back.

PTMC, ROOFTOP — NIGHT

The roof is more crowded than it has any right to be.

Half of day shift has drifted up here in clumps—nurses still in wrinkled scrubs, residents carrying paper cups of stale coffee, somebody passing around vending machine chips like it’s a holiday feast. People lean against railings, perch on utility boxes, stand shoulder to shoulder under the warm July night.

For the first time all day, no alarms, no pages, and no overhead trauma calls. Only breathing. Only sky. Then, the first firework goes up. A sharp whistle, a pause, and it blooms.

Gold breaking open over the city. Someone cheers, and someone else whistles. And suddenly the darkness is full of color. Red. Silver. Blue. Light spilling over faces you know by heart.

The skyline flickers, and glass buildings catch the reflections. For a moment, Pittsburgh looks almost enchanted. There’s music drifting from somewhere below—faint and warped by distance, some patriotic brass band or maybe somebody’s rooftop radio. It reaches you in pieces. And the fireworks keep coming, snap, crack, pop. As if the sky is splitting open over and over.

You try to stay in the moment, you do. But sound has memory and memory has teeth. A particularly loud burst detonates overhead— and your shoulders jump. Before you can stop them, another whistle screams upward, another boom. And your pulse stumbles.

Because suddenly it is not tonight, it is another Fourth of July. Bodies pressing too close. Shouting. The terror of movement with nowhere to go. The crowd surge. Panic thick as smoke. The old instinct returns before reason can catch up.

Your breath turns shallow; you hate that it does. You hate that even beauty can still sound like danger. You stare up anyway, because the sky keeps opening. And something about it hurts. The way beautiful things can.

Your eyes begin to flutter shut between bursts. The fireworks hiss and crack against the dark. Sharp enough to make you flinch now and then. Soft enough, somehow, to make you ache. Because exhaustion has made everything thin-skinned. Because grief has been sitting in your chest all day, with nowhere to go.

Because Robby said what if I don’t come back. Because Jack held you while you cried. Because Jesse is gone. Because Emma was nearly strangled. Because a baby was abandoned in a hospital bathroom.

Because fifteen hours of emergency medicine leaves people a little broken and a little holy. And because— God. You don’t know when you started crying. But you are. Quietly. Tears slipping before you even realize they’re there. The kind that comes from being too tired to keep the walls up.

You close your eyes, only for a second, and through your lids the fireworks flash red-orange gold. Like blood behind sunlight. For one strange moment, it feels almost sacred. As if this were your last night with these people—this impossible, messy, beautiful crew—this would be how you’d remember them. Not bloodstained and exhausted. But here, painted in fireworks. Laughing and alive. Your life has felt, for so long, entirely devoid of fireworks, and here they are. Exploding over you anyway.

Then, warmth, arms around you from one side. You startle, and turn. Perlah. She’s tucked herself against you without asking, chin nearly on your shoulder. No words. Just there, holding. And before you can even react, Dana hooks onto your other side.

Suddenly, you are trapped in a lopsided three-person hug. The next firework erupts huge overhead—white sparks raining down. Everyone on the roof gasps, and you feel Dana press her temple briefly to yours. Perlah’s hand rubs your arm, an absent comforting motion. Almost mothering. And for a moment, the loneliness lifts.

You stand there held between two women who have seen you survive this day. Seen you bleeding and you're afraid. They’ve seen you keep going anyway. And they hold you through the fireworks. As if that is the most natural thing in the world.

And here—for this impossible little pause—you are suspended between grief and celebration. Fear and light. Loss and people who stay. Fireworks reflecting in wet eyes, arms linked, and the sky burning above you.

HALLWAY — NIGHT

Bright lights pool pale over the linoleum, making everything feel a little too exposed. Robby rounds the corner carrying his black thermos, still raw around the eyes though he’s tried to wash it off. He slows when he sees Langdon pass by, bag slung over one shoulder, keys in hand.

For a second, neither says anything, so much history packed into a silence. Then Robby said, “Hey.”

Langdon lifts his chin. “Hey.”

Robby then stops, “I thought you’d left already.”

“On my way out.” His voice carries that old carefulness now, the one sobriety has put into him, always watching for land mines.

Robby shifts his weight. “Hey…” He exhales. “I’m sorry I didn’t find the time today to have that conversation.”

Langdon gives a humorless half-smile. “Yeah. That’s all right.” Seems like you didn’t really want to.”

Robby’s mouth twitches. Honest, at least. “I didn’t.” Then— “Did you?”

Langdon looks almost surprised by the question and then answers plainly. “Uh… yeah.” He steps closer, not confrontational. Intent. “Look, I’m doing the work.” His voice roughens with the effort of making himself understood. “I’ve been sober a hundred eighty-six days. I’m going to meetings. I’m taking the drug tests.”

Robby nods once, “That’s good.”

“And you’re still riding me.” There’s hurt in it now, old hurt. “What would have happened if I’d paralyzed that guy?”

Robby’s jaw works; he doesn’t dodge. “I don’t know. What would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here today?” He presses on. “You’d still be questioning yourself. Now you know you can do it.” Dry as acid, he tacks on, “You’re welcome.”

Langdon stares at him. “Oh. So that’s how you teach now?”

Robby shrugs. “Sometimes.” There it is, that brittle edge. The one everyone’s been feeling all day. Langdon sees it, and he steps closer again, lower voice now. “You know who I saw in rehab?”

Robby doesn’t answer.

“A bunch of guys just like you. The only difference… They’ve accepted they need help.”

Robby’s expression tightens, but Langdon doesn’t stop. “I think you’re afraid to admit the mighty Dr. Robby isn’t perfect.”

Robby almost scoffs. “Oh, I never claimed to be perfect.”

“No,” Langdon says. “But you expect it of yourself. It’s not realistic, man. How can any of us live up to your standards… if you can’t even do it?” Then, softer—almost pleading, “You need help, Robby. You need help.”

And somehow that sounds more intimate than accusation. Because it is. Concern always sounds dangerous when you’re exhausted enough.

From Pedes, a baby starts crying. Thin and insistent. Baby Jane Doe. The sound threads through the hallway. Both men hear it. Robby lifts his shoulders in the smallest shrug, armor back on. “Finished?”

Langdon lets out a breath through his nose, almost sad. “You don’t gotta be honest with me, man.” A pause. “At least be honest with yourself.”

Langdon turns, starts walking, and he doesn’t look back. His footsteps fade down the hall. Leaving Robby alone under hospital lights. Still. Holding too much.

For a second, he doesn’t move, his face does something unreadable. Something cracked. Then he lets out a breath he may have been holding for years. And somewhere beneath all his sharp edges—hurt. Because some truths only sting when they’re true.

The baby cries again, louder now, needful, and alive. Robby looks toward Pedes. Toward the sound, something helpless needing tending. And of course— that’s what pulls him. Always. He starts walking toward the crying, and there’s something almost unbearably tender in it— that even after everything, after confessions and fractures and death wishes whispered into trauma bays—he still goes when someone cries.

As if some part of him cannot help answering suffering, cannot help being who he is. He disappears into Pedes, and the hallway empties, leaving only the hum of lights. The fading echo of Langdon’s words. The feeling that something important just passed between them, too painful to call forgiveness, too honest to be anything less.

PEDES — NIGHT

Robby steps in still carrying the ache of the conversation with Langdon like something tender under the ribs, but when Tim looks up from the warmer, he smiles anyway.

And Tim smiles back.

“She’s due for a new bottle,” Tim says quietly, glancing down at Baby Jane Doe. “I was hoping to get her some formula before I clock out.”

Robby nods. “I’ll stay with her.”

Tim looks relieved. “Thanks.” He moves for the door. Robby adds, almost absentmindedly, “Why are you—” then corrects himself. “Will you hit those lights on your way out?”

“Yep.” Tim slips out, and the door shuts, lights dim further, and the room falls into hush.

The baby fusses, a little wounded cry, small, outraged sounds. Robby moves closer, “Why are you crying?” His voice softens into something almost unfamiliar. “Why are you crying, little one?”

He sanitizes his hands and removes his stethoscope from around his neck. Let it hang by the warmer. Then pulls out his phone, and a song starts low through the speaker. Fragile notes, almost a lullaby.

He leans in. “You’re okay.” A hand under her tiny shoulder blades. “You’re safe.” He gathers the blanket. “Yeah… You’re not alone.” His fingers move with surprising care as he refolds the swaddle. “Do you need to be swaddled again? Is that it?”

A crooked little smile, “I can do that.” He tucks one corner. Then another. Looks almost proud. “Aww.” He exhales softly. “I wish somebody would swaddle me.”

A broken joke, half true. “Yes, I do.” He lifts her and then settles her against his chest. And something in him goes unbearably gentle. “You got off to kind of a rough start, didn’t you, little one?”

You pass Pedes on your way down the hall, and you meant to keep walking. But through the glass, you see him. Head bowed over the baby. The song drifts, and you stop.

Because his shoulders are shaking, you hear him through the door. Voice cracking. “Yeah, you did.” A breath catches. “Well… That makes two of us.”

Your hand rises to your mouth. Because you have never heard him sound like this. A man saying something too heavy to survive alone. “I got abandoned too.” His eyes close. “When I was eight. But I got through all that.” A tear slips down his face. “And so will you.”

His thumb strokes the baby’s back. “I got a good feeling… you’re gonna be just fine.” His voice trembles. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. You got so many wonderful things to see. So many people to love ahead of you.”

He repeats it like he’s trying to convince himself too. “So many wonderful things to see, people to love ahead of you. Shh. It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

And then he cries harder. Still rocking her and soothing her. As if even heartbroken, he can only comfort, and you recognize the song. The one you sent him months ago.

When you told him music had carried you through grief when nothing else could, and he remembered. Of course, he remembered. Something inside you caves as you decide to push the door open quietly.

He stiffens when your arms slide around him from behind. Only for a second. Then knows, it’s you. And melts. Actually melts. Lets himself lean back into your hold. You tuck your face between his shoulder blades.

Breathing him in. Salt, soap, and hospital. And softly—almost without thinking—you sing with the song. Barely louder than breath, your voice shaking, along with his, too.

You both sway, just a little. Side to side, as if grief has made its own rhythm. He holds the baby in one arm. Reaches his free hand back for yours. Finds it and clings. And you think—this might be the saddest, most beautiful thing you have ever known.

After a while, he guides you toward the little chair and makes you sit. Places Baby Jane Doe into your arms. Shows you the swaddle again, like he needs an excuse to keep his hands near yours.

The baby settles against your chest. Tiny, warm, and trusting. Robby kneels slightly beside you and looks at you in awe. Hair has fallen loose. Tired eyes. Bruises are still yellowing on your throat. A baby in your arms, and something almost dangerous passes through him. A thought so soft it terrifies him.

Home.

He sees it and hates how much he wants it. A life with you, one he thinks he does not deserve. Not yet. Maybe never. But he sees it and can’t unsee it. He clears his throat, “So…”

You look at him.

“You want to have that talk?”

You whisper. “In front of the baby?”

His mouth lifts. “Well…” He nods toward her sleeping. “She seems pretty content.” Then lightly—“You could foster her for a bit. Take her home.”

You smile sadly.

“I don’t think I’m ready to be a mom yet.” A pause. Then truer—“Maybe one day… If I were lucky. If life was kind. With the right partner…” Your thumb strokes the baby’s hand. “I’d want that. But I wouldn’t want to do it alone.”

Something catches in his face. “Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Me too.”

There’s a full silence. Then, you ask, “Still going on that road trip?” He exhales. “Not sure.” A little shrug. “Might take Abbot’s advice. Go on a cruise instead.”

“That sounds nice,” you say. “I’ve always loved the ocean.”

He looks at you, a little too long. Suddenly, he asks, “Wanna come with me?” It hits so unexpectedly, you laugh, softly, and almost teary. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

You shake your head, “I don’t get paid as much as you, Michael. Or have three months of leave.”

He smiles, but neither of you misses what sat under the joke. Then it deepens, the inevitability. You look at him at the fatigue he wears like skin, and you begin, carefully. “I heard what you told Duke.” His face stills, but you go on anyway. Because loving someone sometimes means stepping into the wound. “Everyone reaches that place at least once. The place where it feels like the whole world turned its back.”

You swallow. “Sometimes people say they don’t want to be here anymore…when what they really mean is… I don’t know how to stop hurting like this.”

His eyes gloss, and yours do too.

You lean closer. “Depression…” You search. “…it’s weather. Some days it storms so hard you think sunlight was invented for other people. Some days it clears. But storms pass.” A brief pause ensued before you continued, “I don’t want to be someone asking you to stand under my umbrella while I stay dry.”

You shake your head. “I want to stand in the rain with you. If it pours… Then we get drenched together.”

His breath catches while you touch his face. “There are times you need somebody else’s help. That isn’t failure. That’s being alive. And time…” You smile sadly. “Time matters. But how you use it matters more.” He looks wrecked now, beautifully wrecked. As if someone finally seen.

“I’m far from healing,” he admits, almost ashamed. “I know.” You answer immediately. “And I’m not asking you to be finished. Just… come back.”

His eyes shut, as if those words hurt. Because they heal and they ask him to live. And maybe no one has asked plainly enough. He rests his forehead against yours and whispers to you, “I’m scared.”

It is the most honest thing he has ever given you. You cry at that, because untouchable men do not say they are scared. Broken ones do, the real ones do.

You kiss his temple, “I know. I’m scared too.” A beat. “But isn’t that the point? It means you’re alive.”

The baby sighs in her sleep as the song ends. Neither of you moves. Outside, fireworks bloom somewhere over the city. Silent from here. And in that soft glow, holding a child neither of you can keep, talking a man you love gently back toward life—you realize sometimes love is not confession. Sometimes it is sitting beside someone in the dark until they decide not to leave it alone.

AMBULANCE BAY, OUTSIDE — NIGHT

Somewhere beyond the hospital, fireworks still crackle in the distance—faint now, ghostly. The city sounds far away, as if only leaving you and him.

Robby walks beside you through the sliding doors, helmet tucked under one arm, black thermos looped through two fingers, his backpack slung over one shoulder. He looks lighter somehow, and unbearably breakable.

You stop him before he gets to the bike, as your fingers fumble in your bag. He watches, curious. “What’re you doing?” he asks.

You pull out a box wrapped simply, no ribbon, just brown paper and tape, small enough to fit in his hands. You hold it out to him. “I know you didn’t want a cake, or a party, or whatever…” You give a little shrug, trying for casual and failing. “So I got you this instead.”

He blinks, actually surprised. “For me?”

You nod.

His mouth twitches as he asks, “Can I?”

A soft laugh escapes you, “Yeah. Open it.”

He sets the helmet on the bike seat and carefully lifts the lid. Inside is a blank, dark, worn brown leather journal. Soft at the edges, it’s the kind made to be carried. Used and lived in. He runs a thumb over the cover, says nothing for a second, and somehow that silence feels louder than words.

“It helps,” you say quietly. “With… everything.” You look away for a second. Because saying more might undo you. “I don’t care what you use it for. Thoughts. Maps. Postcards. Pictures. Things you don’t know how to say.”

His eyes lift to yours, something in them shifts.

You swallow and add, softer, “If you finish all the pages… There’s something for you at the end, in the back sleeve.”

He studies you, “At the end?”

You nod, “One last page.”

A secret or confession, a thing too frightening to give him now. You hold up your pinky. Childish but earnest. “Promise me you won’t read it until you fill the whole thing.”

His expression almost breaks, as he hooks his pinky with yours immediately. No teasing or hesitation. “Okay. I promise.” His hand lingers, warm. Then you tighten your hold on his finger.

“One more thing.”

He tilts his head as you nod toward the box, saying, “Keep it with you.”

He looks confused, “The box?”

“The journal. All of it. Don’t leave it behind.”

His brow furrows; there’s concern there now. “Why?”

You shake your head. “I can’t explain right now. Just promise.”

He looks at you like he wants to press, but something in your face stops him. So, he nods. “I promise.” He adds, gentler, “Not gonna tell me?”

You almost smile, “Gotta write in that thing to find out.”

That gets a breath of laughter from him. Low and a little disbelieving. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

Silence folds around you again, and then he reaches for his helmet. Pulls it on, fastens the strap. The motion feels unbearable, as if watching departure become real. He swings a leg over the bike, the engine hasn’t even started yet and already your chest aches.

“I’ll call,” he says.

You are trying so hard not to cry, “Okay.”

His gloved hands rest on the handlebars. He looks at you as if trying to memorize. “I’ll see you soon, Ducky.”

Your throat tightens. “Okay.” You nod once. Then— “Michael, I—”

He pauses, helmet visor still up. “Yeah?”

And God, his eyes. Under the bay lights, they look almost blue with grief.

You almost tell him about New York, the offers. That you could be leaving too. That you may be gone when he comes back. That you are terrified if you tell him now, he’ll leave, carrying one more reason not to return. But fear wins, cowardice dressed as mercy, and you lie.

The lie tastes metallic, almost like blood. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

Something flickers in him, relief, or trust. Maybe both, he nods. As if taking that with him and believing you, and it nearly kills you. He lowers the visor and starts the bike. The engine growls alive, deep-throated. Duke had been right.

You step back, and he lifts two fingers off the handlebar in a small salute. Then he rides. Out of the bay and into the night. Taillight shrinking. Smaller, and then… eventually, gone.

You stay there long after the red taillight disappears. Long after the sound of the motorcycle has been swallowed whole by the city. As if, if you wait enough seconds, enough breaths, the dark might give him back. But it doesn’t, there’s only a humid night. Only the distant crack of fireworks fading over rooftops. Only the ache between your ribs he leaves behind.

A smile trembles onto your mouth anyway, small, broken at the edges. Hopeful in spite of itself. Ruined, too. “Goodbye, Michael Robinavitch.”

The words drift out and dissolve into exhaust and warm July air, too soft for anyone but the night to hear. And standing there in the aftermath of him, you understand something that hurts. Sometimes loving someone is not holding on tighter. Love is loosening your grip before you drag each other under. It is making peace with becoming a place someone survived. A harbor they passed through. A light left on in a window they may never return to.

Some people are not ours to keep, only ours to witness. To carry for a while. And then with shaking hands—to let go. Because love that is only longing will turn into mourning if you feed it forever. And you are so tired of starving on almost.

You love him. God, you love him. In the quiet, terrible ways. In the ways that asked nothing. But somewhere inside all that grief is a gentler truth rising: you are ready to be loved in return.

Not waited for, or a maybe. Not someday. Loved, chosen, and held without hesitation. And because of that—you have to let him go. Not because he means less, because you finally know you mean something too.

Your hands shake as you pull out your phone, and the screen blurs. You wipe your face with the heel of your palm before hitting call. It rings once. Twice. Then the call connects.

“Hi?” Your sister, and something in you, nearly folds.

Your voice breaks and steadies all at once. “Hi, Ate.” A breath. Then the words leave before you can stop them. “I’ll be there in November.”

Silence. A stunned little silence. Then she says, “Really?” Her voice cracks around the word. As if she doesn’t quite believe you.

You look at the empty road where he vanished, at the stretch of black asphalt still holding the shape of goodbye.

And answer almost to yourself, softly. “Yeah.” A pause. Then with a sad little smile no one sees— “See you soon.”

Your sister says something through a laugh that sounds almost like crying. But you barely hear it. Because something inside you, something clenched for years, has loosened. As if maybe leaving can be its own form of mercy, or maybe departure is not always abandonment.

Sometimes it is a jumping-off point to get to somewhere else. And under a sky still smoking with spent fireworks, with your heart split open and strangely lighter, you turn toward the streetlights—toward one ending, toward another beginning, and walk.

End Notes:

ALEXA play Free Now by Gracie Abrams!!! ON BLAST.

This ain’t the end of these two just yet… we have a couple more chapters of pain, and then it’s all good vibes from here.

“Wait, he doesn’t know about New York? D:”

Yes, he doesn’t… yet :P HEHEHEH

Now… DID SOMEONE ORDER A LOT OF GROVELING??? TEHE

And how do we feel about him chasing after you? ;)

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