Marging of Error

by MaryHolmes

Summary:

Firsts are rarely forgettable—it’s the act of stepping into something unfamiliar that leaves a mark, for better or worse. Dennis and Robby have already faced the trials of an age gap, a forced coming out, and going public with their relationship. Now, Intern Whitaker returns to the ER, ready to finally work alongside his boyfriend, Dr. Robinavicht. But the welcome isn't what he expected. With the board watching closely, what once felt certain is suddenly under pressure.

Notes:

Hey there! Second part has arrived!

First chapter is up now!

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

Notes:

Hey there!

This is the first chapter!!
A little short just a little taste of whats is coming!!
Hope you like it

 

 

 

Sundays used to mean something else entirely.

Back then, Dennis would rise before dawn—long before the sun cracked open the horizon—already hearing his mother’s clatter in the kitchen. His father sat at the table with a chipped mug of coffee, speaking in low tones, and Dennis, still half-asleep, matched him sip for sip. Out the window the fields waited, and Rosie—his patient old mare—knew the route by heart. He’d ride her out to check the fences while his brothers wrestled with the tractor, and his father barked at them not to break what they’d already broken a dozen times before.

The mornings always ended the same: a basket of warm eggs carried inside, his mother working them into scrambled clouds so soft they felt like a miracle. They prayed, they ate, and then, one by one, they scattered to prepare for mass.

Church had always been part of him, even when it cut. When he realized he was gay, he thought it might push him away, but it never did. Some sermons sliced like glass, but the rhythm, the ritual, the stillness of prayer—he still craved that. Theology, to him, was never about cleansing. It was about understanding. He wanted to know how people held their faith, why it mattered, what bound them together when money and ambition couldn’t. His professors called him an idealist. Dennis thought of himself as only practical, trying to map the invisible threads that connected people.

And then came Pittsburgh. After COVID, the city loomed like a test he wasn’t sure he’d pass. He feared being swallowed whole—just another farm boy drifting between glass towers. The first thing he searched was church near me, as though belonging could be found on Google Maps. What he found was a reminder that narrow minds weren’t exclusive to small towns. They sprouted everywhere, even under skyscrapers. Still, he went when he could. Even when it hurt, he went, because it was something solid to hold onto when everything else felt like quicksand.

The rest of life was far less forgiving.

The television had lied.

Residency wasn’t rooftop parties and messy romances—it was exhaustion distilled, nights that never ended, mornings when humiliation came sharp and public. Like the time a professor snapped at him for not knowing acetaminophen and paracetamol were the same drug. Those small humiliations stuck like burrs.

His family kept him afloat as best they could, but money was never enough. So Dennis worked—library shifts, laundry service, restaurants, whatever hours he could scavenge. Weeks built from scraps of time until they frayed. Then the rotations shifted farther from campus, the commute bled him dry, and necessity turned him into a trespasser. An empty room, an abandoned hospital floor—that became home, until the day it wasn’t. Getting caught should have ruined him. Instead, it twisted into luck, though he didn’t understand why at the time.

Now Sundays have changed again.

They begin not in borrowed rooms but in his own bed, surrounded by the small belongings that were his and no one else’s. Sometimes Dennis woke to music blasting too loud, just to make his best friend groan. More often, though, he woke tangled in the sheets of Robby’s apartment, the slow ache of a night spent loving without hurry lingering in his bones.

Sundays always meant breakfast out. Robby hated cooking on weekends—“A day of rest, not labor,” he’d grumble—and Dennis never argued. He was always too distracted watching Robby scowl at his coffee as if it had personally betrayed him.

But this Sunday, they weren’t in a café. They were at the mall, weaving past storefronts with cold drinks in hand, the hum of escalators and tinny pop music wrapping around them. Dennis sipped his smoothie, the cold sweetness cutting through the late-summer heat. A sigh slipped out before he could catch it. Robby noticed immediately.

“What was that for?”

Dennis smiled into his straw. “Did I tell you I’m finally getting paid as an intern?”

Robby groaned, finishing the last of his iced coffee and dropping the cup into a trash can they passed. “Only a hundred times. And I’ve told you a hundred times not to expect much. We’re in a recession, love.”

Dennis rolled his eyes. “We’ve been in a recession since I was born. Doesn’t matter. It’s still something. Means I can finally drop the lab shifts. I’ll miss working with Dr. Vance, maybe, but… that place doesn’t exactly hold the best memories.”

His voice trailed off.

Robby reached for his hand. “You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”

“Yeah, I know.” Denis hesitated. “Don’t get me wrong—I love the idea of him being far away. I just hate that Felix and Wesley had to go through all that questioning, all those people prying into their lives, just so the attorney could take the case to Philadelphia.”

Robby’s jaw tightened. He slid an arm around his boyfriend's shoulders, pulling him close. He’d been furious when Ava explained what would happen to Leo, and the memory still soured his expression. “They’ve got a stronger case there. More chance of a real conviction,” he muttered, pressing a kiss to Dennis’s forehead.

“I know…” he murmured, then forced a small smile. “Anyway. Ready to help me?”

Robby put on his best face, even though shopping wasn’t exactly his idea of a thrilling plan. But Dennis had insisted they go out. Not anywhere elaborate, he’d said. Just an errand. Something normal. Something casual.

So that’s how they ended up in a department store, surrounded by neat rows of backpacks and the soft wash of ambient music barely audible over the hum of the air conditioning. Dennis was already three steps ahead, tugging Robby by the wrist past messenger bags and weekenders.

“My old one’s basically a suitcase now,” Dennis said, scrunching his nose at a row of stiff canvas options. “I swear it aged five years in six months.”

“You could’ve just ordered one online,” Robby said, lifting a brow. “Mr. ‘Just use Amazon, baby…’ ” He pitched his voice high in a mocking impression.

“I could’ve,” Dennis replied smoothly, not even glancing back. “But I wanted to do something normal. With you.”

Robby didn’t argue with that. He just let himself be tugged along. Dennis combed through the racks with casual intensity, pulling zippers, testing straps, muttering critiques under his breath. Most of the bags were trying too hard—faux leather so shiny it looked plastic, neon linings that hurt to look at, branding that screamed EXTREME DURABILITY in fonts better suited for an energy drink.

He gave a particularly loud sigh in front of a grey one with fourteen compartments and a dangling carabiner. “Why do they all look like they’re designed for camping in a war zone?”

Robby leaned against a display, arms crossed, and deadpanned, “It’s for all the extra trauma interns are expected to carry.”

“Very funny,” Dennis muttered, though the corners of his mouth twitched.

Robby smirked, content to watch him fuss. His eyes eventually drifted—not toward the backpacks, but somewhere inward, that soft, distracted look that meant his thoughts had wandered somewhere Dennis couldn’t quite see.

After a minute Dennis turned, holding up two options. One black. One navy with a tan buckle “Okay. Finalists. You’re the tie-breaker.”

Robby blinked back into focus. “The black.”

Dennis groaned. “Predictable.”

“And classic.”

“Classic is just boring with good PR,” Dennis said, slinging the black bag over his shoulder and bouncing it once. He sighed dramatically. “Fine. Black wins. My gay little heart wanted the navy, but my spine voted for utility.”

Robby stepped forward and adjusted the strap so it sat right. “Utility usually wins.”

“Wow. Romantic.”

“You’ll thank me when your textbooks don’t destroy your posture.”

Dennis smiled despite himself and slipped his fingers through Robby’s without saying anything. The quiet gesture had weight, grounding them both.

“Need anything else?” Robby asked after a moment.

“Some undershirts, maybe a hoodie…” Dennis started.

Robby groaned. “You stole all of mine. I literally had to order replacements.”

Dennis grinned. “I plead the fifth.” He leaned in and kissed him quick, nipping his bottom lip before pulling back. “Okay, fine. No hoodies.”

“Are you serious?”

“Hey, some people think it’s sexy when their boyfriend wears their clothes.”

“Yeah, well, some people’s boyfriends at least leave a few behind ,” Robby shot back, raising a brow.

“Fine…” Dennis smirked. “I’ll give you back, like… two.”

“Two? Out of, what, eight?”

“Generosity is one of my many virtues.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But you didn’t deny the sexy part,” Dennis teased.

“Dennis…”

“No flirting in public?” Dennis sighed theatrically. “Tragic. Anyway—I also need socks. Mine have mysteriously disappeared.”

“You mean you don’t do laundry.”

“I mean the sock dimension is hungry.”

“The sock dimension is just your dryer.”

“Same difference. Feed me socks.”

Robby laughed, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

“Good thing you like impossible,” Dennis said, nudging him with his shoulder before tugging him toward the escalators.

Dennis nodded slowly, but the frown didn’t quite leave his face. “Okay. I just…” He hesitated. “I don’t like the idea of you walking around with something in your head that you’re not saying.”

Robby didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted toward a storefront window displaying discount luggage and mannequins in last-season jeans.

“I’ll be fine,” he said eventually, voice quiet but firm.

Dennis didn’t push. He just adjusted the bag in his hand and tightened his hold on Robby’s fingers.

Robby just shook his head as they sifted through packs of ankle cuts and cotton blends, Dennis holding up ridiculous novelty prints with bad puns that made him laugh and Robby groan. Eventually, they settled on some basics—black, grey, a few white—and made their way toward the registers.

The line was short, the hum of conversation low and easy. The air smelled faintly of cardboard and detergent, a little too clean, like a held breath.

Dennis shifted the things into one hand and squeezed Robby’s fingers with the other. “Thanks for coming with me.”

“You dragged me,” Robby said lightly.

“Still,” Dennis said. “You’re here.”

That made Robby look over—really look. The fluorescent lights caught the angle of Dennis’s jaw, and for a second, Robby seemed a little too still for a department store on a Sunday.

Dennis tilted his head. “Hey. You okay?”

Robby nodded. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“About?”

“You,” Robby said. Then, after a beat: “Tomorrow.”

Dennis smiled, softer now. “I’ll be okay.”

“I know,” Robby said, but his voice came quiet, almost unsure.

Dennis stepped closer, shoulder brushing his. “You’ll have my back, right?”

“Always.”

That seemed to settle something in both of them.

The cashier waved them forward. Dennis handed over the socks and the bag, tapped his card at the reader. There wasn’t much more to say—just the sound of a receipt printing, the rustle of plastic, a shared bag between them.

As they stepped back into the fading sunlight, Dennis leaned into Robby’s side, bumping him gently.
“It was a stupid little errand,” he said, “but… I’m really glad we did it.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Robby replied, and though the words were simple, the way he said them was not. “Nothing’s stupid when I’m with you.”

Dennis laced their fingers again, and this time, he didn’t let go.

They moved down the mall’s wide corridor. The crowd had thinned, the overhead lights buzzing faintly, and the warm scent of soft pretzels drifted from a kiosk. Dennis shifted the shopping bag from one hand to the other and glanced at Robby, hopeful.

“Wanna grab something to eat? My treat. That Thai place on the corner—I think you’d actually like it.”

Robby’s smile was small, but his eyes were distant. He shook his head gently. “I’m really tired.”

Dennis’s face dropped—just for a second. Not dramatic, but enough that Robby noticed. Still, Dennis recovered with a crooked smile.

“Well,” he said, voice lowering into that teasing lilt he knew Robby liked, “we could just go to your place. I could help take your mind off everything…”

The tone was warm, familiar. The kind of playful invitation that usually worked.

But Robby only leaned in, kissed him lightly on the forehead. Sweet, affectionate—but final. “That does sound good,” he murmured, “but I’m that tired too.”

Dennis pulled back just enough to search his face. “You okay?”

Robby let out a soft huff through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Just…”

“Tired,” Dennis finished for him.

“Yeah.”

“You never say no,” Dennis said gently, a little concern edging in now. “Not even that one time we both passed out halfway through—you still wanted to start something.”

“There’s a first time for everything,” Robby said. His tone wasn’t defensive, just steady.

“Trinity’s in a bad mood, and I don’t want to be on her target vision…” Dennis tried again, pitching it like a joke but still hoping Robby would let him tag along. His boyfriend didn’t bite—or pretended not to.

Robby only nodded. “Call me when you get home.”

Dennis gave a small nod, then hesitated.
“Baby, are you really okay?”

“I’m sure,” Robby said. “You don’t have to worry.”

“I do, though,” Dennis said simply. “I worry because I love you. That’s my job—worry.”

Robby’s expression softened, the tension in his jaw easing just a little. “I love you too. You don’t have to worry, okay?”

Dennis leaned in and kissed him—not shyly, not with the half-glance-around he used to do when they were in public. Slower than necessary, less about heat and more about reassurance. Each time it got easier. Now, it just felt right.

When he pulled back, Robby smiled—not big, but real.

Dennis grinned, stepping back with a playful mock salute. “See you tomorrow, Chief.”

Robby rolled his eyes. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”

“Absolutely not,” Dennis said, walking backward, still grinning. “Better rest up. You’re gonna need the energy. And hey—call me if you can’t sleep.”

Robby watched him disappear down the corridor, the bag bouncing at his side. The grin lingered in the air after he was gone, then thinned into silence.

The mall felt too bright, too loud.

By the time he reached the parking garage, the shift was complete. Dim concrete swallowed the noise, leaving only the buzz of fluorescent lights and the stale scent of oil. A family passed behind him, their laughter sharp against the emptiness, then gone.

He unlocked his car with a tap. The click echoed like a sigh. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he shut the door gently, the kind of careful quiet that comes when you’re too tired to take on even the sound of your own life.

For a moment, he didn’t move.
Then he leaned forward, resting his forehead against the wheel, hands slack in his lap.

Dennis’s words whispered back: Call me if you can’t sleep.

But he didn’t reach for his phone.

The Friday email was still there, a stone in his stomach. Six lines of cold language, flagged confidential, from some administrator’s name he barely recognized. Nothing explicit. Nothing actionable. Just enough to remind him that not everyone had let go. That someone, somewhere, still had their eye on him—and on Dennis.

It had wrecked his weekend.

He hadn’t told Dennis. Not with the way Dennis had smiled in the break room, not when he’d talked about Christmas and graduation and doing something “normal.” Robby couldn’t take that from him. Not yet.

But tomorrow was Dennis’s first day back in the ER. The wrong word, the wrong look, even the wrong whisper could undo everything—Dennis’s footing, the team’s trust, Robby’s job.

Robby pressed his palms hard to his eyes. He needed to keep it together. One day. Just one smooth, steady day. No cracks.

Lifting his head, he stared through the windshield. The painted lines blurred slightly at the edges. He rolled his shoulders back, blew out a slow breath.

You’re fine. You can handle this. You’ve handled worse.

But the heaviness under his ribs didn’t move.

He turned the key. The engine roared too loud in the stillness, filling the car with a sound that felt almost violent.

“Just get through tomorrow,” he muttered.

The words stayed in the cabin with him, heavier than the silence.

And tomorrow, he knew, was only the beginning.

 

 

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

New chapter has arrived, this one we'll get to know new character and welcome an old one that would be an ally to our boys!!!

In other news did you saw the trailer for the second season, Oh my god i think I've already got my friend sick of it but Noah looked so good in the trailer, Gerran with those big eyes, and the season looks awesome. It as pitty that Dr. Collins is not coming back for the second, hopefully she could come back for the third one, [me already planning more seasons]

Anyway enjoy the chapter!!!

 

 

 

 

The bus lurched forward, rattling down Main Street with all the grace of a shopping cart with a broken wheel. Trin sat two seats over from Dennis, arms crossed, lips drawn into a frown sour enough to curdle milk.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered, just loud enough to cut through the tinny blast of music pounding from the back. “Do people forget earbuds exist? It’s not 2006. Nobody needs to share their playlist with the whole damn bus.”

Dennis leaned his head against the window, watching streetlights smear across the glass. “Weren’t you the one tearing into that guy on our route for wearing headphones sixteen hours straight?”

“That guy has tinnitus,” Trin snapped, shooting him a glare sharp enough to sting. “And he was my patient. That devil spawn back there isn’t. So no—I don’t care.”

As if on cue, the boy in question—skinny, hoodie pulled low, sneaker tapping out the beat—cranked the volume a notch higher.

Trin groaned. “Remind me why Robby couldn’t pick you up. And by extension, me?”

Dennis’s lips twitched into a smile. “You said riding with us made you nauseous. Ring any bells?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Still better than watching you two make kissy faces.” She jerked a thumb toward the back. “Because that? That’s worse.”

The kid must’ve felt her glare burn through his hood. He turned, smirked, and stuck his tongue out at her.

Dennis chuckled. “Okay, that’s worth the price of admission.” He shifted in his seat. “So why couldn’t Garcia drive us, then?”

Trin huffed, staring straight ahead.

“Trin,” Dennis prodded. “What did you do?”

“Me?”

He arched a brow. “Yeah. I know you. She’s no saint, but you’re not exactly sunshine either. Spill.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Her arms folded tighter across her chest. “I followed your advice. Made it official, whatever. And she’s still acting… sketchy.”

“Sketchy how?”

“Like she’s hiding something. And I don’t like liars—you know that.” Her voice sharpened enough that a couple of passengers glanced their way.

Dennis studied her for a moment. “Did you actually try talking to her before pointing fingers?”

Trin tilted her head, one brow lifting, expression saying Really? You know me.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Right. Forgot who I was talking to. Judging first, conversation later.”

Her lips twitched into the faintest smirk. The bus jolted over a pothole, the music still rattling the windows, and Dennis leaned back against the glass, wondering which was worse—an overcrowded ER or twenty minutes trapped with Trin Santos in full complaint mode.

The brakes screeched as the bus hissed to a stop. Trin exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the whole ride, stood, and strode down the aisle. On her way past, she shot the kid in the hoodie a sharp middle finger. His mother gasped, clutching him closer.

“Seriously?” Dennis muttered as they stepped off onto the sidewalk.

Trin shrugged, unbothered. “What? He’s not my kid.”

Dennis pinched the bridge of his nose, but the half-smile tugging at his mouth betrayed him. They started up the short walk toward the hospital.

“So,” Trin said, tucking her hands into her jacket pockets. “What’s the drill?”

Dennis glanced at her. “What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “You know. You and Robby. No PDA. No first-name basis. No holding hands between patients. The usual tragic romance restrictions.”

Dennis groaned. “There’s no reason for rules. We’re professionals.”

Her eyebrow arched, sharp and skeptical.

“Oh God, can you please forget about that?” he said, exasperated. “I told you—nothing happened in that supply closet. We just… kissed. A little too much.”

Trin smirked. “Uh-huh. And anyway, you must’ve talked about it. Didn’t you?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” Dennis replied. He slowed, pausing at the crosswalk just opposite the emergency entrance. The red glow of the hospital sign reflected in his glasses as he motioned toward it. “Inside that building, I’m Whitaker. He’s Dr. Robby. He’s attending, I’m the intern. Nothing else. We can totally handle it.”

Trin bumped him with her shoulder as the walk light changed. “Sure you can. As long as you don’t get all turned on answering, ‘Yes, sir, Dr. Robby,’” she moaned, making him flush.

Dennis shot her a flat look, then flicked his tongue at her. “For your information, I don’t sound like that, and we’re not kinky.”

That earned him an unrestrained laugh, loud enough that a passing orderly glanced back. Trin just shook her head and followed him across the street, boots clicking against the asphalt.

The hospital loomed closer, glass doors sliding open in steady rhythm, like a heartbeat waiting to pull them back in.

 

 

 

 

The elevator dinged and slid open, but Robby didn’t step inside. Hargrove was leaning against the wall beside the doors, suit jacket draped over one arm, the expression of a man who’d been carrying too many secrets for too long.

“I don’t need to have that conversation again. Two phone calls were enough, Nate,” Robby said.

“Robby.” The HR man sighed, straightening his tie. “Listen—I actually did what you asked during the disciplinary hearing. I went through everything. Your cases. Your mentoring record. Clean. Impeccable.”

Robby said nothing, only adjusted his stethoscope.

“I’d like to tell you everything’s cleared,” Hargrove went on, lowering his voice, “but it’s not. What I can tell you is this: I know now you’re an integral professional. The hospital would be making a mistake letting you go.”

“That sounds like a but ,” Robby said flatly.

Hargrove’s mouth twitched. “It is. Because now, I also consider you a friend. And as a friend, I’ve got to tell you: they’re watching. The smallest mistake—”

“Dennis is an intern,” Robby cut in. “He still needs supervision, yes. He’s brilliant, but he’s allowed to make mistakes. We all are. We’re human, not machines.”

“I know that,” Hargrove said, voice tightening, “but you and I both know that around here, a ‘mistake’ is just another word for lawsuit.”

“He’s my partner, but that doesn’t mean I won’t supervise him—”

“That’s exactly what I’m asking,” Hargrove interrupted, softening again. “Supervise him. Just… maybe a little more closely.”

“He’s like any other intern.” Robby’s jaw tightened. “That’s all he is here.”

Hargrove smiled, though the sadness in it looked more like a wince. “We both know that’s not what Whitaker is. You and he—look…” He exhaled. “Yours is the only disclosed partnership in this entire hospital, with one partner a chief overseeing the other. If you fail, I fail. The board fails. And if there’s a scandal? We lose donors. And Robby—we cannot lose donors. We need the money. This is a public hospital. You know the numbers. We barely survive every year.”

Robby’s eyes narrowed. “I know damn well. And I appreciate the friendly advice, but I was working here before you could even spell ‘budget.’”

Hargrove raised both palms in surrender. “Don’t kill the messenger. I have faith in both of you. I’m just trying to help. Okay? Both of you need to show the board that I didn’t make a mistake letting him work under you. My job’s on the line too, Robby. I advocated for Whitaker’s residency.”

“I got it.”

“Look, I’m not the enemy here.”

“I barely distinguish those anymore.” Robby crossed his arms.

“Just… good luck.” Hargrove gave him a light clap on the back and turned down the corridor, leaving Robby by the open elevator doors, jaw set, the hum of machinery filling the silence he didn’t bother to break.

The doors slid shut on an empty cabin. Robby stayed where he was, shoulders squared against the weight of Hargrove’s words.

The man had already sent the email—formal, sterile HR language about “oversight” and “risk mitigation.” This was the oral version: softer, dressed up as friendship. Different clothes, same warning. We’re watching you. We’re watching him. One slip, and you both burn.

Robby had no illusions about what the board wanted: stability, donors, predictability. He and Dennis were none of those things. If HR needed a scapegoat, he’d already been fitted for the target on his back.

He let out a slow breath, pushing the thought away—just as a familiar voice cut across the hall.

“There you are.”

Dr. Abbot strode over, backpack slung over one shoulder, tablet tucked under his arm. “Been looking for you. We still need to go over a few patients from the night shift.” His eyes flicked toward the departing figure of Hargrove. “What’d the suit want?”

Robby shook his head, stepping toward the elevators. “Just to remind me Dennis and I are still on HR’s blacklist.”

Abbot snorted. “Well, what else is new?” He fell into step beside Robby. “So what are you going to do?”

“Nothing,” Robby said. “Do my job. Make sure Dennis does his.”

Abbot raised a brow. “Does Whitaker know about this development?”

“He knows something’s off. He suspects. But I can’t bring myself to tell him…” Robby’s expression tightened.

“Why not?”

“He worked twice as hard for this residency as anyone else—more interviews, more tests.” Robby paused. “They made him bring six references from his professors. Six. We don’t even read those.”

“Did he tell you I offered him a spot on my service?” Abbot asked.

“What? No…” Robby frowned.

“Yeah. Cassie said he’s really good with sensitive cases, and I figured he’d be an ace for the night shift.”

“What? Wasn’t stealing Mohan enough?” Robby snorted.

Abbot chuckled. “We both know Samira would thrive on nights. And as for Whitaker, I told him it’d probably be easier working with me than under you.” He laughed. “You know what he told me?”

“What?”

“‘No offense, Dr. Abbot, but I like working with Dr. Robby.’ Then he went on a five-minute rant about why. Nonstop. Honestly, I felt a little insulted.”

“Shit…” Robby muttered, scratching the back of his neck.

“Look, I don’t pretend to know the ins and outs of your relationship,” Abbot went on, “but that didn’t sound like a guy trying to get ahead. That sounded like someone working with the doctor he admires. He knows there’s risk, and you do too.” Abbot paused, more serious now. “But I think he should know the full picture before diving in. You owe him that, brother.”

“It’s just…” Robby’s voice softened slightly. “When someone knows they’re being watched, that’s when mistakes happen. Performance anxiety’s real. I went through that.”

“Well, Dr. Adamson believed there’s opportunity in failure.”

“Yeah, well… apparently Dennis doesn’t get that chance.”

“And you don’t think he deserves to know he’s not being evaluated like the rest?” Abbot pressed.

Robby’s jaw tightened. “I do. And he does. Deep down, he knows.”

Abbot studied him for a moment, then sighed. “Well. You know him better than me. Come on—let’s run through the list.”

They turned down the hall together, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the conversation sliding back to charts and symptoms. But Hargrove’s warning clung to Robby’s ribs like a bruise he couldn’t rub out.

 

 

 

 

 

The ER was already in motion by the time Dennis and Santos stepped inside. The air held the familiar rhythm of organized chaos—monitors beeping, nurses moving with purpose, the hum of too many tasks being juggled at once. It was like walking into a storm that never stopped spinning.

Santos strode forward, her pace loosening now that she was back on familiar ground. “Smells like blood, caffeine, and unresolved trauma. We’re home.”

Dennis smirked, adjusting his badge. “You make it sound like a spa.”

As they moved toward the main hub, a few heads turned. Maya, stationed at triage, grinned as she looked up.

“Well, look what the shift dragged in,” she said, rising to greet them. “Didn’t think we’d see you back so soon.”

Dennis offered a half-smile. “Couldn’t stay away.”

“Bad choices, man,” someone muttered from behind the desk, earning a ripple of laughter.

“You should’ve run when you had the chance,” Donnie said, clapping Dennis on the back.

Jessie gave him a nod from across the station. “Whitaker. Welcome back, kid.”

There were new faces, too—two students lingering near the whiteboard, clutching clipboards like life preservers. One, tall with a mess of curls and wide eyes, already looked like he regretted every choice that had landed him here. The other, a short girl practically glowing with amazement, reminded Dennis a little too much of himself on his first day.

Another figure stood out as well: a tall woman, nearly Collins’s height, with a sleek braid and sharp posture, surveying the room like she’d already solved half of it.

Before Dennis could take another step, a sharp clap cut through the chatter.

Robby.

He walked in from trauma like he belonged to the department more than the walls did—scrubs crisp, tone calm, presence magnetic in that infuriating, quietly commanding way. He stopped near the board, hands clasped in front of him like a conductor calling his orchestra to order.

“Morning, everyone.”

The room stilled.

“Quick introductions before we drown in consults. Dr. King and Dr. McKay—who is late, again—are our second-years.” Mel nodded with her signature soft smile. “They’ll be working with our first-year, Dr. Santos.”

Santos gave a nod and an easy grin.

A smattering of applause followed—some genuine, some perfunctory.

Robby didn’t wait. “Also joining us is Dr. Dennis Whitaker, first-year EM intern. Welcome back.”

No smile. No pause. Just the fact, dropped with the same weight as everything else.

A few murmurs rippled through the group. Frank clapped a little too loud until Heather nudged him to quit.

Dennis kept his expression neutral.

Robby gestured to the two students. “Chris Jenkins, third-year, and Joy Zanders, second-year. They’ll be shadowing trauma and floating this rotation. Speak up.”

Chris gave a shy wave. “Hi. Just Chris is fine. Happy to be here.”

Joy nodded briskly. “Looking forward to learning from everyone.”

“Also second-year resident Rae Taylor,” Robby added, as a redheaded woman waved halfheartedly, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“And last update—Dr. Collins and Dr. Langdon have been promoted to attending.” He flipped the marker in his hand as he spoke. “They’ll be splitting trauma and acute. Don’t waste their time. Don’t waste mine. We’re here to save lives, yes, but that means prioritizing. Pick a patient and treat them. If you have doubts, find Dr. Collins, Dr. Langdon, or me. And for God’s sake, learn the nurses’ names and say please and thank you. I don’t want to hear more complaints about that.”

A few quiet “amens” answered him.

Robby uncapped the marker, turning back to the board. “Cases are chosen by urgency, not by how cool they look. Right, Dr. Santos?”

She rolled her eyes at the pointed mention.

“Check your assignments. Triage is already drowning.”

His eyes flicked over the board—pausing, just a beat too long, on one name. Dennis caught it.

Then Robby said, flat and final, “Let’s get to work.”

He walked away before anyone could speak. The room scattered back into motion.

Dennis looked at the board. His name, slotted under trauma overflow. Of course.

Santos leaned closer, glancing at him sidelong. “Wow. That was… warm.”

“I told you,” Dennis muttered. “It’s fine.”

“Mm.” Santos arched a brow. “You two practice that dead-eyed tension, or is it just natural chemistry?”

“I—” Dennis cut himself off, already turning to ask Dana about the first case. He tried to ignore the gut-tightening feeling that lingered from the way Robby’s eyes had landed on his name.

 

 

Notes:

Yes i heard you!
We'll have more of other characters, starting with Abbot, and Trin and Yolanda relationship, what could be the secret. And though I'll be honest I did read some Mel/Frank fics, I'm not a huge fan of splitting couple just for the sake of a fic, cheating is triggering for me so I tried to avoid those as much as i can, that why I need to clear that there wouldn't be any Abby/Frank/Mel relationship more than friendship. With that said!!! Let me know what you think of this one!!

Chapter 3: Chapter 3

Notes:

Hey there!!!

New chapter arrived! I was going to update yesterday, but tbh didn't feel like have the energy, I have my own bubble here that sometimes I forgot whats going outside, so yeah, today I woke better, hope you're doing okay,,

 

 

 

 

 

The trauma bay had hit that fever pitch just before tipping into chaos—phones shrilling, pagers buzzing in jittery sync, stretchers rattling past with clipped orders tossed over shoulders.

Dennis scanned the board, tracking new arrivals, when the side doors banged open and Cassie slipped in, tugging on gloves as she walked. Her hair was yanked into a messy knot.

“What’d I miss?” she asked, weaving between stretchers and sliding into the circle of staff like she’d been there all along.

Frank, leaning against the med cart with a granola bar shoved in his cheek, smirked. “Only the warmest, most emotionally fulfilling welcome back in ER history.”

Cassie arched a brow, snagging a chart from the counter. “Damn. Hallmark’s slipping.”

Santos, still charting without looking up, snorted. “Warm isn’t the word. Frostbite, maybe. Robby gave him a speech that sounded like sentencing.”

Frank jerked his chin at her. “Jealous you didn’t get the mic?”

“Please.” She flipped a page, her pen scratching. “I don’t do ovations.”

“Yeah, no,” Dana muttered, slamming a chart shut before reaching for another. “She does heckling. Big difference.”

Cassie chuckled, already tying her gown. “Don’t tempt her. We’d never get through rounds.”

From the board, Heather’s voice cut in, cool. “He was being professional. Leave Whitaker alone.”

Frank snorted, half laugh, half cough. “Party popper,” he said before retreating, calling off the new resident to follow him.

Mateo strolled in with a stack of blankets balanced on his hip, caught Dennis’s eye, and slung an arm over his shoulders without breaking stride. “Man, I thought you said Robby was romantic.”

A couple of chuckles broke through the noise.

Dennis shot him a flat look but didn’t shrug him off. “He is. When he has to be. Just… not here. Like Dr. Collins said—professional.”

“Professional,” Santos echoed, finally glancing up with a smirk like she’d been saving it all shift. “Sure. I’ll believe it when I don’t see it.”

Another ripple of laughter followed. By the supply cart, Perlah and Princess ducked behind clipboards, whispering just loud enough to be obvious.

Dennis let it ride for a beat too long before cutting in, sharp. “Okay, fun’s over. Focus. I’m actually going to do my job.”

The laughter thinned. Dana cleared her throat, flipping another page. Frank raised his palms in mock surrender but kept grinning. Heather’s gaze lingered on Dennis before she turned back to the board.

“Whitaker’s right. Full house, nowhere to put half of them. Chairs are already backed up—we need eyes there,” Dana said, snapping a chart shut.

“I’ll take it.” Dennis moved fast, already pulling gloves on like walking away was a reprieve.

“Well… I’m going,” Mohan drawled from the counter, still perched there though her shift had ended an hour ago. She sipped from an abandoned coffee cup. “Hung around to see your first day back, Whitaker. Honestly? Place already feels colder. And no, not talking about the AC.”

The jab landed. Muffled chuckles rippled out.

“Haha,” Dennis muttered, rolling his eyes, snapping a glove on harder than necessary.

Heather straightened from the board. “Take a student.”

Dennis stilled half a second, a sigh slipping out before he caught it. His eyes flicked to the wall where two students lingered—Jenkins, hunched over his tablet like he could vanish into it; Joy, upright, sharp-eyed, clipboard hugged to her chest as if she were memorizing every move.

“Joy,” Dennis said. “You’re with me.”

She blinked once, then nodded, falling in step as he pushed into the hall toward overflow.

Behind them, Mckay muttered, “Poor kid has no idea what she just signed up for.”

“Better her than me,” Santos shot back, lips curling. “I hate chairs.”

Heather didn’t look up, just shifted pins on the board. “Enough. Patients, people. Move.”

 

 

 

 

The bay scattered, swallowed again by the undertow of alarms, clipped orders, and rattling stretchers—but as Dennis led Joy down the corridor, the edge clung to him: the sense of being measured, weighed, and found wanting by every pair of eyes left behind.

The overflow wing wasn’t glamorous—just a wide, open room lined with chairs. Patients slumped in them, masks tugged below noses, eyes glazed from waiting. Most would walk out with antibiotics and instructions to follow up with their doctor. But every so often, the bellyache that started “after tacos” was an appendix about to burst, or the headache that lingered all morning was the first warning of a stroke.

Dennis had learned to follow those threads in class and on rotations: notice what wasn’t obvious, build a differential, hand off when a specialist was needed. He’d be ungrateful not to credit his professors for the foundation. But if he was honest, most of what he knew now had come from the past seven months on the street team.

Trin had asked him more than once if it was too much—splitting time between the ER and outreach. At first, it had been. He’d done little more than assist: handing out pamphlets, giving safe-sex talks, trailing Cassie as she worked communities the hospital rarely reached. She had a gift for connecting with people on the margins, and Dennis had learned from her—and from them.

He’d gone in with his own blind spots, same as anyone. Even with his past, he hadn’t realized how thin the line was between housed and unhoused. On the street, he’d met people using substances, yes—but also veterans with untreated PTSD, single mothers fleeing violence, whole families displaced by rent hikes and gentrification. The list went on.

And somewhere in that work, Dennis had found a kind of satisfaction he’d once thought only hospital medicine could give.

Now, back in the chair wing, he picked up the handoff list from Lupe and scanned the room. Sasha was crouched in front of an older woman in a surgical mask, her voice calm, efficient.

“Flu-like since yesterday? Any shortness of breath now?”

The woman shook her head, clutching her tote bag. Sasha checked her vitals, then stood as Dennis walked over.

“Thanks, I’ll take it,” Dennis said.

“No problem.” She handed him the chart. “Two new ones down there.” She tilted her chin toward a mother and teenage daughter a few seats away. “Both flu-like. One might be COVID. Heads-up.”

Dennis nodded. “I’ll check them. Can you grab extra masks?” He started toward them, Joy trailing close.

“Rule one,” Dennis told her quietly. “Chairs don’t look like much, but they’re the heart of this place.”

Joy frowned. “More important than trauma?”

“Trauma’s loud and dramatic.” He pulled his stethoscope free. “Chairs are quiet chaos. This is where we triage floaters, keep tabs on the borderline cases, and catch the ones who look fine—until they’re not.”

Joy huffed a soft laugh. “So… babysitting.”

“We’re catching falls before they happen,” Dennis said, crouching in front of the older woman.

“Ma’am, I’m Dr. Whitaker,” he said. “I’m going to listen to your lungs, okay?”

She nodded faintly. Her mask tugged with each shallow breath.

“Deep breath in for me. All the way.” He pressed the diaphragm of his stethoscope to her back. “Good. And again.”

Beneath the chatter, overhead pages, and squeak of carts rolling past, Dennis heard the faint whistle of air struggling through narrowed passages. He shifted lower, listening again at the bases. The wheeze was diffuse, rougher on the right.

He sat back on his heels, meeting her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like a cold.”

The woman reached suddenly, gripping his wrist. “My daughter…” She coughed, nodding toward the teenager beside her.

Dennis turned to the girl, offering a reassuring smile. “What’s going on with you?”

“I just—short of breath sometimes,” she said between coughs. “I have an inhaler… I forget sometimes. It usually passed.”

“History of asthma?” Dennis asked.

She nodded.

He glanced at Joy. “Okay. Student moment. First steps?”

Joy hesitated, then said, “Vitals. O2 sat, if we can get it. Listen for wheezing.”

“Exactly.” He motioned her closer. “Come hear this.”

Joy leaned in as he held the stethoscope in place. The girl’s lungs carried a faint, high-pitched wheeze—not as bad as her mother’s, but there.

Dennis straightened, jotting notes. “Mrs. Hendricks—bronchitis, maybe early pneumonia. Her daughter—mild asthma flare. Both need curtains.” He looked at Sasha. “Four and six. Keep an eye on O2.”

“On it.” Sasha was already guiding them away.

Dennis straightened, exhaled, then turned to Joy. “And that’s chairs in a nutshell. Find the detail that doesn’t fit—the thing that makes a waiting-room cough into something that can’t wait.”

The chairs emptied and refilled in waves. Dennis felt the familiar ache creeping into his shoulders, but Joy only seemed to sharpen, eyes bright as she matched his pace.

They moved on. A man stumbled in, one hand clamped to his temple. When Dennis stepped closer, his stomach dropped—an actual pen was jutting from the man’s scalp, embedded just above the eyebrow.

“Jesus Christ—” Dennis spun, waving down a wheelchair.

Orderlies converged. The man groaned, dazed but conscious.

Joy let out a startled laugh, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, sorry—”

Dennis barked a dry laugh himself, the tension breaking for a beat. “No, it’s—wow.” He steadied the man as the orderlies wheeled him off, then dragged a hand down his face. “Never boring.”

Joy tugged on fresh gloves, still grinning as they turned back to the row of patients. “You really do know your way around here.”

Dennis smirked faintly, flipping through another chart. “Did a couple rotations here. Including ER.”

“Oh yeah? Worth it?” she asked, passing him the tablet.

He shrugged. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Joy shook her head, chuckling as they crossed to the next chair. “So chairs are… are always so interesting?”

“Yeah. But don’t get cozy. Someone’s going to take over soon. Hopefully Trinity… Dr. Santos,” Dennis added.

“Oh, the grumpy one,” Joy said, recalling the resident’s rigid posture and bored expression.

“I’d pay to hear you say that to her face,” Dennis smirked.

“I only saw her once. But I think I’ll pass,” Joy replied.

“Smart girl. Triny’s an acquired taste—believe me.”

“Oh, you’re friends?” she asked, smiling.

“Best friends. Roommates too. Half the time I’m her servant.” He sighed. “Before me, she lived on pasta and tuna. Don’t tell her I said that.”

“I won’t,” Joy promised.

“Huckleberry, you’re free. Gandalf and I are taking over,” Trinity’s sharp voice cut through the noise.

“Are you really gonna call me that?” Jenkins groaned.

“Don’t fight it. Trust me—been there, done that,” Dennis said, then nodded at Joy. “Let’s go.”

She followed him into the main ER, just in time to see Mateo, Langdon struggling to restrain a violently thrashing patient. The man kicked and jerked against the bed.

“A little help, dude!” Mateo shouted, bracing the patient’s shoulder.

Dennis shot Joy a look and jerked his head forward. She didn’t hesitate—stepping in, hands firm, she pinned the patient’s flailing arm with practiced confidence, while Perlah finally drove the sedative into his thigh.

“Nice,” Dennis muttered as the man’s fight began to ebb.

“Really?” Frank gritted out, sweat on his brow.

Dennis motioned to his clean scrubs. “Too early to get soaked in… whatever. And I know the betting pool’s still running.”

Joy laughed, shifting her grip. “It’s fine, Dr. Whitaker. I’ve done this almost daily. Sometimes with someone threatening to stab me.”

Perlah blinked. “Seriously?”

“Oh yeah. Family medicine rotation in Fayette… correctional facility,” Joy said evenly.

Mateo stared. “That’s… a thing?”

“I had to write a ton of emails. Literally, a ton,” she said. “My brother pushed me—he’s a doctor too. Said I was too fragile, needed to toughen up. Total jerk. But… he wasn’t wrong.”

“Impressive,” Mateo admitted.

“Or insane,” Langdon muttered. He glanced at Perlah. “I’ll split the other intern with Santos and Dr. King. Let Whitaker and Heather handle the suicidal one…”

“Me what?” Collins appeared, scanning the room.

“Nothing—” Frank cut in quickly, motioning to Perlah and Mateo to get the patient moved.

Collins’s attention snapped back. “How’re you holding up, Whitaker?”

“Good. Really.” Dennis brushed his hands off as the patient finally settled.

“Perfect. South thirteen and fifteen are yours. Keep Zanders too.” Collins was already moving on.

Dennis nodded, then caught Heather’s eye. “Hey—can I talk to you for a sec?”

“Sure.” She stepped aside, and Dennis gestured for Joy to give them space.

He rubbed the back of his neck. “This might be weird, but… when you and Robby, you know—”

“Dennis,” she cut in gently. “Just ask.”

He lowered his voice, careful not to draw attention from the chaos around them. “How did you two handle the whole ‘being the boss’ thing?” His fingers flexed at his sides, betraying the tension he usually kept hidden.

Heather leaned against the counter. “We didn’t. We broke up.” Her tone was flat, but not unkind. “Which, I know, isn’t exactly helpful to you.” A wry smile flickered. “It was complicated, okay? We wanted different things, and every interaction felt like a power game. Every call, every decision—it got messy. Doesn’t have to be your case, though.”

Dennis exhaled, gaze dropping. “Right… It’s just—we talked about me coming back, but it still feels like… like I’m stepping into something fragile. One wrong move, and it blows up again.”

Heather studied him quietly, expression softening. “You know how it is. You can’t control everything. Some things will feel tense no matter what. All you can do is be professional, be honest, and trust your instincts.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “But I keep wondering—if I make the wrong move, even by accident—”

“That’s part of the job,” she said, leaning slightly closer. “You act on what you know is right. The rest? You deal with it when it comes. No cheat sheet.”

He let out a slow breath, the tight knot in his chest easing a little. “Yeah… guess I just wanted a sign. Something to tell me I won’t screw this up.”

Heather’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. “There isn’t one. You’ll just know if you’re doing right by yourself and your patients. And if it does get messy? That’s life. And you can always ask for help—we’re a team.”

A small, genuine smile tugged at his lips. “Thanks. I needed that.”

She shrugged. “And hey—medical advice is free. Relationship advice isn’t. Next time, buy me coffee.”

Dennis grinned.

“Dr. Whitaker!” Joy waved from a table.

“Right.” He jogged over as she fell into step beside him.

“Quick question—this betting pool. Is it really about you?” She showed him her phone, a blurry photo of Dennis in front of the scrub dispenser.

Dennis huffed. “This is a circus, Joy. Don’t forget it.”

 

 

 

 

 

Robby leaned against the counter, eyes on the tracking board but not really seeing it. The hum of the ER surrounded him: monitors beeping, stretchers rattling past, nurses calling instructions, interns weaving between bays. His hands rested on the edge, knuckles white.

Dana approached, moving through the chaos with her usual calm. “Hey… you alright?” Her voice cut through the noise, warm and steady.

Robby exhaled quietly. “Just thinking.”

Dana tilted her head, a small smile tugging. “If it’s about that cute boyfriend of yours, you don’t have to worry.”

Robby shook his head, jaw tight.

“Not that?” she teased, but his silence drew her brows up.

“No,” he said firmly, still staring ahead.

“Well, for what it’s worth—Whitaker’s a good doctor. He’s grown a lot here. Takes correction better than most interns. He’ll do fine.”

Robby dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s not about that. Hargrove pulled me aside earlier—told me to keep an eye on him, make sure there’s no trouble. Said I need to watch for any perception of favoritism.”

Dana’s expression softened. “Ah. The reality check.”

“Yeah.” Robby’s sigh was heavy. “I get it. But it’s a reminder that even the smallest slip—real or imagined—could blow up. And I… I don’t want it to hurt him. Or us.”

Dana glanced at the floor around them: a nurse struggling with a restless patient, interns juggling charts, a stretcher rolling past. “I get it. But you know Whitaker. And you. You’ve handled harder balances than this.”

Robby’s shoulders eased, just a little. “Maybe. I just… hate that it even has to be a thing.”

Dana gave him a quick, reassuring tap on the shoulder. “You care. That’s good. Just don’t let it freeze you. He’s capable, and so are you. Together, you’ll figure it out.”

Robby’s gaze drifted across the bay. Dennis stood with Mel at a table, both of them leaning over charts, voices low and sharp with focus. Dennis nodded at something Mel said, the corner of his mouth tugging in a smile—and Robby felt the familiar flutter.

As Dennis straightened, he passed close. He flashed Robby one of those smiles—the kind that usually disarmed him, made the ER fade for a moment.

But today, it only tugged faintly at Robby’s chest, a reminder that this was going to be a long first day. He returned the smile—just enough to keep Dennis from worrying—then turned back to the noise and movement of the floor.

The shift ground on, relentless. Robby moved from case to case, from orders to consults, his focus fractured but steady enough to keep the place running. Dennis was never far from his awareness—charting at a corner desk, helping at a bedside, answering rapid-fire from a nurse. Each glimpse pulled at him, and each time he forced himself back to the work. There wasn’t space inside these walls for anything else.

Hours blurred until the pace finally broke. Reports signed off, charts closed, monitors silenced one by one. The end of shift.

Only then did Robby step outside, letting the cool night air wash over him.

The lot was quiet, the stillness thick after too many hours under fluorescent lights. Robby sat in his car, hands loose on the wheel, staring at the doors with a weight in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

Then Dennis appeared. Tired, scrubs wrinkled, hair askew—but still him. Robby barely had time to smile before Dennis slid into the passenger seat, reached across the console, and kissed him like he’d been holding it back all day.

It wasn’t gentle. It was hungry, desperate—Dennis’s fingers sliding into his hair, tilting his head, thumb brushing his jaw like he was memorizing him all over again. Robby felt the steering wheel press into his ribs as Dennis leaned closer, nearly climbing the console, every ounce of exhaustion bleeding out through the force of it.

When Dennis finally broke away, both of them breathless, he laughed softly, forehead dropping to Robby’s shoulder. “Hi.”

Robby smiled, cupping his face. “Hi.”

“We made it through our first day,” Dennis murmured, still catching his breath. “And I missed you so much.”

Robby arched a brow, lips twitching.

Dennis kissed him again, softer this time, then whispered against his skin, “In there, you’re Dr. Robby. I can’t kiss Dr. Robby whenever I want. That’d be unprofessional. But here…” His hand tightened around Robby’s. “…here you’re just mine. And I can.”

Robby chuckled, warm against his ear. “We’re still technically on hospital property.”

Dennis only shrugged, brushing another kiss along his jaw.

Robby pulled him close, forehead to forehead. “I missed you too. That way.”

The urgency in Dennis’s grip softened; steady now, not desperate. Just holding.

“Rough day?” Robby asked quietly.

Dennis gave a sheepish laugh. “Longest one ever. How do you walk out of there like it didn’t crush you?”

Robby shook his head. “You’re not talking to Dr. Robby right now, are you?”

That earned him a genuine laugh—the kind that tugged at Robby’s chest.

“What about Trinity?” Robby asked.

“She went with the others. They’re taking the newbies for drinks.”

“And no one thought to invite me?”

“I told her no.” Dennis kissed his jaw, voice low and teasing. “Because Dr. Robinavitch is off duty. And my Robby…” His fingers threaded tighter with Robby’s. “…has more pressing responsibilities.”

“Yeah?” Robby tilted his head toward him.

Dennis’s smile curved against his skin. “Mmhmm. Like taking his exhausted, very horny boyfriend home, undressing him, and making sure he knows exactly how much he was missed.”

Robby huffed out a laugh, quiet but real—the sound Dennis always carried with him through the worst nights. “Then let’s go.”

He shifted the car into gear, Dennis’s hand still warm in his.

As the hospital lights faded in the rearview, Dennis leaned back, eyes slipping shut, body finally loosening. He didn’t need to say anything else—Robby had him. That was enough.

The talk could wait until breakfast.

Notes:

I know they need talking! I know okay? but Robby is so stubborn and also he was distracted, they're going to talk, soon, i think.... Let me know what you think of it!!

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

Notes:

Soo! I didn't want to end August without adding some of Hucklerobby to your month, week, day or whatever! This one show more of other characters! Hope you like it!!

 

 

 

Santos stood at the counter outside Bay 3, chart spread open, the grayscale ultrasound printouts smoothed flat beneath her palm. She tapped her pen against the page, brows drawn tight.

“Fifty-eight-year-old male. Acute right lower quadrant pain, nausea, localized bulge in the right groin. Firm, non-reducible. He’s been vomiting for six hours. Ultrasound shows absent flow.” She glanced up at Langdon. “This is strangulated.”

Langdon leaned against the counter, arms crossed, sipping his coffee like he wasn’t standing in the middle of an emergency. “Yeah, no argument. Needs the OR.”

“I know that,” Santos said—sharper than she meant to.

“Then why pull me in?” he asked, one brow arched, more amused than concerned.

She pressed her lips together. “Because you’re the one who needs to explain it to Garcia.”

That made Langdon laugh outright. “Nope. Hard pass. I am not stepping into that mess. Not my circus, not my monkeys. You two started that fight, you finish it.”

Santos rolled her eyes, tugging the pen from behind her ear. “It’s not a fight, it’s a conversation.”

“Uh-huh,” Langdon said dryly. “That’s what people say right before glass starts breaking.” He raised both hands in mock surrender, already scanning for an escape. His gaze landed on Dennis, who was reviewing labs with Chris near the Pyxis. “Whitaker! Rescue mission. Santos needs backup.”

Dennis looked up, read the room instantly, and shook his head. “Love you, Trin, but if this is about Garcia? No way. I like having skin on my bones.”

Santos groaned. “Cowards, the lot of you.”

Before Dennis could respond, a voice cut through the ER din.

“Dr. Santos.”

Garcia.

She was already striding toward them, chart in hand, tone clipped and precise. Santos straightened automatically, falling into step beside her as they entered Bay 3.

The patient lay curled on the gurney, pale and clammy, one hand clutching his abdomen.

“Señor, I’m Dr. Garcia,” she said, switching smoothly into Spanish. She explained what she was about to do; he nodded weakly. She palpated his abdomen—firm, tender, guarding. The inguinal bulge was tense, immovable. She asked him to cough. No impulse. Her face gave nothing away as she stripped off her gloves.

“Strangulated inguinal hernia,” Garcia said briskly. “We’ll need to take you to surgery right away.” She stepped back, already issuing orders. “Jessie, page anesthesia, book the OR, and start pre-op labs if they’re not already drawn.”

Jessie nodded quickly, jotting notes. “On it.”

For a beat, the only sound was the steady beep of the monitor. Garcia was writing; Santos stood at the foot of the bed, jaw tight, watching her.

Finally, Santos spoke, softer than she meant to. “So that’s it? You’re just… not going to talk to me?”

Garcia didn’t look up. “This isn’t the time.”

“You always say that,” Santos shot back, voice low but heated. “It’s never the time. Not at my apartment, not here. You just shut me out.”

Garcia froze for a half-second, then closed the chart with deliberate care. When she finally met Santos’s eyes, her voice was cool, professional—but her knuckles were white around the folder. “This patient needs an OR. That is what matters. If you want to accuse me of something, you can do it outside these walls. You don’t even need me to answer for that, do you?”

Santos swallowed hard, pulse thudding in her ears. “But we need to talk—”

“Dr. Santos,” Garcia interrupted, voice steady, “do you have another patient for me right now?”

Santos hesitated, then shook her head once. “No.”

“Then we’re done.” Garcia handed the chart to Jessie, who accepted it like it might burn her hands. “Keep me posted when transport arrives. I’ll move my schedule.”

She turned sharply on her heel, heels striking hard against the tile as she disappeared down the hall.

The silence she left behind was heavy, almost suffocating.

Donnie, who’d been hovering uselessly near the curtain, let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was… brutal.” He nudged Santos with his elbow. “You okay?”

Her glare snapped to him like a blade.

“Disappear, Donnie,” she muttered, voice taut and dangerous. “Or I’ll make you the next consult on her OR list.”

His hands shot up in surrender as he backed away. “Copy that.”

From the desk, Dennis caught her eye. His look was sympathetic but cautious—the kind of silent message only a best friend could give: I’m here, but don’t drag me into this one. He wisely stayed put.

Santos exhaled slowly, tapping her pen against the counter again. Around her, the ER buzzed on—alarms, footsteps, shouted orders. Business as usual. But inside her chest, nothing felt usual at all.

She steadied herself with a long breath, flipped open the chart again. Jessie stood waiting at her side, pen poised. Santos scrawled her signature across the consent and handed it back.

“Make sure pre-op antibiotics are hung before transport,” Santos said, her voice clipped but steady. Then she turned to the patient, softening. “We’ll take good care of you. The surgeons will explain everything once you’re upstairs, but you’re in the right place.”

She gave his hand a quick squeeze before stepping out of the bay.

The hallway noise swallowed her up—monitors chirping, phones ringing, wheels squeaking across tile. At the counter, Langdon was already leaning back, watching her with that infuriating smirk. As she walked past, he raised his coffee in a lazy salute.

“Congrats, Santos—you survived your first lover’s spat on shift.”

Her glare was immediate. “Shut up, Langdon.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he went on, amusement dripping from every word. “If you’re gonna fight in front of the kids, at least make it worth the drama. What was it—money, jealousy, or who gets top billing on the marquee?”

Heather, perched on a stool, groaned and rolled her eyes. “Of course you’d say something sexist.”

Mel walked by with a stack of labs, tossing a look over her shoulder. “And is anyone actually surprised?”

That earned a ripple of glances toward Dr. King, who kept her head bent over a chart while Dana quietly pointed out something on the labs.

Langdon’s smirk slipped. He stepped forward, tone tightening. “What did you just say, Mel?”

“Nothing.” Mel flushed, but her jaw was set—clearly not used to being dropped in the middle of someone else’s fire.

Langdon raised a brow. “Abby talked to you, didn’t she? I get you’re friends, but that conversation didn’t include you. Back off.”

“Watch your tone,” Heather cut in, sliding between them. “Whatever’s going on, leave it for after hours. We’re here to work.”

“She started it,” Langdon muttered, pointing at Mel.

“Are you five?” Santos snapped.

“Shut up—you don’t even know what’s happening,” he shot back at her.

“Then tell us,” McKay said, arms crossed.

“It’s not anyone’s business but mine and Abby’s.” Langdon’s gaze flicked to Mel. “And Dr. King had no right to drag it in here.”

“It does involve me,” Mel shot back, voice trembling but clear. “If you took five minutes to actually listen to your wife instead of shutting her down, maybe you’d realize she’s serious. We’ve been working hard on this, you know? and you mock it like it’s nothing.” She thanked Dana softly and walked off before anyone could answer.

The silence hung for a beat.

“That was rough,” Cassie muttered. “’Cause now your wife’s mad at you—and so’s your work wife.”

“Not surprising,” Heather deadpanned, shaking her head.

Langdon let out a bitter chuckle, hands raised in mock defeat. “Hilarious. Just pile on. All women against Frank—that’s real fair.”

“Don’t be a baby,” Santos said. “What the hell did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” Langdon defended, bristling.

McKay tilted his head. “Spill.”

Langdon groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You people are vultures. Fine. We were having dinner, and Abby started saying she missed working. Which—I get it, I do. But then she said she still wants to be home with the kids and earn her own money. She misses that independence.” He hesitated. “Then Mel goes and introduces her to this organic lifestyle crap—vegan candles, beeswax wraps, soaps, all that crunchy stuff. Now Abby’s talking about starting a business.”

“That sounds logical,” Heather said flatly.

“Yeah, except it takes money to make money,” Langdon countered. “She wanted to sit down and talk numbers and… well…” His voice trailed.

“And you went all macho on her,” Santos said, arms folded. “Told her she was stupid for even thinking about it, didn’t you?”

“It wasn’t—”

“You did,” she pressed.

“I just said it sounds nice on paper, but in reality it’d cost money before we see money.”

“That’s called an investment, you idiot,” Santos said, flicking his ear.

“Didn’t she work as an accountant?” Heather asked, arching a brow.

“Assistant,” Langdon corrected quickly.

Heather leaned back, unimpressed. “Pretty sure that still qualifies her to handle numbers better than you.”

“Wasn’t she the one who picked up that awful front-desk job with the creepy dentist when you had your accident?”

“I—”

Santos cut him off before he could sputter another excuse “You misogynist rat. God forbid a woman builds something of her own. Grow a pair, Langdon, and support your wife instead of shooting her down.”

Her voice carried, sharp enough to make two nurses at the med cart glance up. Santos didn’t care. She spun on her heel and stalked off, ponytail snapping behind her like punctuation.

The silence she left in her wake was thick. Everyone was still staring at Langdon.

He jabbed a finger after her retreating figure, mock outrage layered over a flicker of real defensiveness. “I am supporting her! I work extra shifts, I pay the bills, I—”

“—and you undercut her in the same breath,” Heather cut in, folding her arms. She shook her head with weary disgust. “Classic male move.”

Langdon slumped into his chair like someone had yanked the air out of him. “Unbelievable. I get roasted here, roasted at home… no safe zone left for Frank Langdon.”

“Good.” Heather smirked, unbothered. “Maybe if you’re uncomfortable enough, you’ll finally get it through that thick skull.”

Langdon groaned, dragging his hands down his face until only his eyes peeked through his fingers. His voice came out muffled. “I hate all of you. Every last one.”

Heather didn’t even look up from the chart she was flipping. “Cry me a river. Listen to your wife, Frank. Grow a pair.”

She slid off her stool and strode away, leaving him with no allies.

Langdon glanced around, desperate for someone— anyone —to throw him a rope. His eyes landed on Dennis Whitaker, hunched at a workstation with a cookie in one hand, typing awkwardly with the other.

“You got an opinion, rookie?” Langdon asked, his voice halfway between a plea and a bark.

Dennis froze mid-bite, raised one finger in the universal hold up gesture, chewed, swallowed. Then he cleared his throat. “Maybe… I don’t know… talk to Abby? I mean, she’s smart, and she’s already doing the hard work staying home. Maybe it’s only fair you support her?”

“Hard work?” Langdon scoffed, leaning forward. “And what do you think I’m doing, rookie? Fanning myself with the paycheck?”

Dennis glanced at his screen, pursed his lips, and wisely stayed quiet.

That’s when Dana, who had been silent through the entire storm, finally looked up. Her voice was calm, but the weight in it made Langdon’s chest tighten.

“Is Abby napping all day, Dr. Langdon? Or when you walk in the door, are your socks clean, the kids bathed, the dog fed, and a plate waiting for you in the oven?”

Langdon opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Dana didn’t blink.

“She said she was fine quitting her job and staying home,” he tried finally, softer, defensive. “She asked for it. She said she didn’t want strangers raising her babies.”

Dana’s gaze didn’t waver. “And because of that, she’s not allowed to dream anymore? Not allowed to earn her own money?”

Langdon shifted, restless. “It would be a lot. You both know how many women come in here overworked and burned out—”

“The common thing with those women,” Dana cut across smoothly, “is they don’t have a partner they can lean on. Maybe you should take some of her load, Frank. You already have the family and the career. Maybe she wants both too.”

“Dana’s right,” Dennis piped up, emboldened. “Women can juggle more than you think. My mom raised four kids, ran a farm with my dad, and still made choir every Sunday.”

Langdon leaned back, throwing his hands skyward in theatrical surrender. “Fine, fine. Whatever gets me out of the cold shoulder. I’ll buy the damn candles, or soaps, or beeswax… whatever the hell she’s selling.”

He shoved back from the desk, grabbing a patient list like armor. “I’ll take Curtain One. Somebody please call Kira for the patient in Curtain Four.”

Dana just nodded, jotting a note, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth like she knew she’d won.

As she reached for the phone, Robby passed by, rubbing his temple. His eyes flicked to the workstation, then to Dennis. Without slowing, he muttered, “Whitaker, what did I say about crumbs at the workstation? God, clean it up.”

He kept walking, not sparing another glance.

Dana raised an eyebrow at the two men. “Well,” she said dryly, “seems like everyone woke up on the wrong foot today. God help us.”

Dennis just smirked, unbothered, brushing cookie crumbs into a cup with exaggerated care. “Don’t worry,” he said around another bite, “I’ve got it under control.”

 

 

 

 

 

Whitaker was perched on the stool in Curtain Six, chart balanced on his knee, while the patient in front of him blinked furiously against the harsh overhead light. She was still in part of her cheer uniform, ponytail neat but fraying from the ER chaos. Her friend hovered protectively at the bedside, arms crossed tight.

“All right,” Dennis said evenly, pen poised. “Walk me through it again. What happened?”

The girl—Mia, as she’d introduced herself—threw her hands up dramatically and pointed at her friend. “We’ve got a game in like… three hours. Libby was helping with makeup, hair, all that. Then some idiot thought it would be funny to jump out at us in the locker room and scare us, and—” she gestured at her eye—“hairspray everywhere. With glitter. Because apparently normal spray isn’t enough anymore.”

Dennis bit back a smile and leaned forward. “Did you rinse it out?”

“Yes,” Mia said quickly. “We tried. Water, tissues, everything. But it still feels scratchy. Like something’s stuck. And it’s blurry. It stings.”

Dennis nodded, snapping on gloves. “Okay. Keep your chin still and look up for me.”

She obeyed, blinking fast as he gently parted her eyelid and swept the penlight across her cornea. “Conjunctiva’s irritated, but no obvious foreign body,” he murmured, mostly to himself. He tilted her chin and passed the light to Chris, who was shadowing.

Chris repeated the maneuver with careful hands, scanning the sclera. “Yeah. No embed. Just mild injection.”

“Exactly,” Dennis said, peeling off his gloves. “Sometimes you’ll feel like something’s there when it isn’t—especially with glitter, since it clings. Irritation’s real, but the cornea’s intact.”

“So I’m not going blind?” Mia asked, dead serious.

Dennis smiled faintly. “Not today. I’ll prescribe artificial tears to flush any lingering particles, keep things lubricated. That should ease the scratchiness. If it’s still sore, a light patch for a few hours might help.”

Mia wrinkled her nose. “I can’t cheer with a pirate patch.”

“Fair enough,” Dennis said, typing into the chart. “Then just avoid rubbing it. Drops before the game, you’ll be fine to play.”

Libby, arms still folded, gave a firm nod. “I’ll make sure she does it. Promise.”

Dennis flagged down a nurse passing the doorway. “Can you grab artificial tears, and one with mild topical analgesic? Thanks.”

Chris lingered close, voice low. “That’s it, right?”

“Mm-hmm.” Dennis typed, then paused suddenly. “Speaking of—where’s my penlight?”

Chris froze. His eyes darted counter–tray–pockets. “Uh—”

Dennis rubbed the bridge of his nose, jaw tightening. “God help you if you lose it. That was a graduation gift. From my boyfriend.”

Libby snorted and pointed toward the opposite bed. “There. You set it down.”

Chris turned scarlet, snatched it up, and handed it back like sacred treasure. “Sorry, Dr. Whitaker.”

“Relax.” Dennis slid it into his coat pocket. “Just don’t make me tell him I lost it in my second week.”

Mia tilted her head, curious now. “He gave you that as a graduation gift? What happened to roses?”

Dennis accepted the drops from the nurse, shrugging lightly. “I like simple things. He knows that. He gets me. I’m the one who brings him flowers.”

Mia smiled despite the redness in her eye. “That’s adorable. My ex couldn’t even bother to show up for my birthday.”

“My girlfriend got me this vegan-fabric gym tote—” Chris started.

“With your name stitched in calligraphy?” Libby interrupted.

Chris lit up. “Yeah! Annie ordered it from Etsy. Super cool.”

“Eric bought me one too,” Libby chimed. “Same seller.”

Mia groaned, pressing a palm carefully near her eye. “Perfect. My love life’s a trainwreck and now I’m stuck in the middle of couples’ brag hour.”

“Sorry, babe,” Libby said, hugging her.

Chris chuckled. “Sorry.”

Dennis finished the chart and gave discharge instructions to Libby. Just as he closed the folder, Mia leaned forward, playful again. “So… his name? Don’t leave me hanging.”

Dennis laughed softly, about to answer—

The curtain yanked open.

“Dr. Robby,” Dennis blurted, bolting upright so fast his penlight nearly slipped free.

Chris blinked. For half a second, his brain scrambled—had Whitaker just say—? Then he saw the chief himself standing there, chart in hand, sharp eyes already scanning the paperwork.

Robby’s gaze flicked from the chart to Dennis. His voice was calm, precise—yet heavy with the undertone of someone measuring, weighing. “You’re not planning to follow Dr. Mohan’s footsteps, are you, Whitaker?” A dry, flat beat. “Are you done here?”

The words landed like a stone. He hadn’t raised his voice, but the weight was worse than if he had.

Dennis’s throat tightened. The easy warmth he’d carried seconds ago vanished as if it had never existed. “Just wrapping up, Dr. Robby.” His voice was clipped, professional.

Robby gave a single nod, then stepped away, curtain swaying in his wake as the ER noise rushed back in—monitors, overhead calls, the clatter of gurney wheels.

The silence left behind was suffocating. Chris adjusted his stethoscope, like he didn’t know what else to do.

Mia broke it with a dramatic groan. “Dr. Grumpy sure knows how to ruin a vibe.” Then she leaned in conspiratorially. “So. The name? Before we were rudely interrupted.”

“Sorry, she’s nosey,” Libby muttered.

Dennis forced a small laugh, though the tightness in his chest hadn’t eased. “Mike.”

Mia’s grin was instant. “Oooh. Yummy name. I think I dated a Mike once. Didn’t last—bad kisser.”

“Every ex of yours is a bad kisser,” Libby muttered.

“Not my fault none of them live up to me,” Mia shot back, then smirked at Dennis like she hadn’t just dismantled her own love life in front of her physician.

Dennis chuckled, shaking his head, grateful for the levity. He passed the chart to Jessie, who had arrived with a clipboard. “Can we get her discharge started? Thanks.”

Jessie nodded and ducked out.

Dennis gave Mia one last smile. “You’ll be fine for the game. Drops before, no rubbing, and no more glitter spray anywhere near your face.”

Mia saluted. “Promise. Cheer captain’s honor. And tell Mike he got the jackpot with a doctor with prettiest eyes Dr. Whitaker.”

Dennis laughed under his breath, stepping out of the curtain. But the humor didn’t settle the knot in his chest. Robby’s words clung like smoke—quiet, professional, and cutting deeper than he wanted to admit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dennis worked for the next hour, and in that time he noticed a pattern in the ER: the energy was winding down, people’s tempers thinning. More specifically, his boyfriend’s. Lately Robby’s frown seemed like it might be fixed to his face for the rest of the week if he kept snapping at people over the smallest things. Dennis knew he had to talk to him—for Robby’s sake, and for the sanity of everyone else.

He caught Dana at the workstation as she signed off a chart. Lowering his voice, he tried to sound casual. “Have you seen Dr. Robby?”

Dana didn’t look up. She just lifted her chin and pointed with her pen toward the ceiling. Then she flicked her wrist, a subtle “upstairs” motion.

“The roof?” Dennis asked.

She hummed in confirmation, eyes still glued to her screen. The corners of her mouth tugged in the ghost of a smile.

Dennis glanced around the ER. For once, it wasn’t chaos—no stretchers in the hall, no fresh traumas rolling through the doors. Just the usual hum: a monitor beeping, a nurse pushing meds, the soft chatter between residents. Quiet enough that saying anything else out loud felt like tempting fate. He bit back the urge to comment, and Dana seemed to catch that.

“Go,” she said, still typing. “I’ll page you if you’re needed.”

“Thanks,” Dennis murmured, and headed toward the elevators.

The ride up felt agonizingly slow, his restless energy pressing against the small space. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, hands shoved deep in his pockets. By the time the doors slid open to the rooftop access, the knot in his stomach had doubled.

He pushed open the heavy door.

And there he was.

Robby stood near the ledge, eyes closed, head tilted back slightly as if trying to let the faint evening breeze wash something away. His posture wasn’t its usual—shoulders squared, jaw set, ready to take on the entire ER. Instead, he looked… tired. Worn in a way Dennis wasn’t used to seeing.

“Are you okay?” Dennis asked softly, stepping closer.

Robby’s eyes opened, slow and deliberate, fixing on him. “Is that a question from my intern,” he asked evenly, “or from my boyfriend?”

Dennis stopped a few feet away, meeting his gaze. “Both.” He hesitated. “You seem tense. More than usual. You’ve been like this all week. What’s going on?”

For a beat, Robby didn’t answer. His jaw shifted, as if weighing the words. Finally, he exhaled through his nose. “It’s not really… nothing.”

“You’ve also been snappier than usual.” Dennis studied him, the tension carved plain into his shoulders. He didn’t push right away. Instead, his voice softened. “Don’t tell me I’m imagining it.”

Robby’s eyes stayed fixed on the skyline. “You should focus on your patients,” he said flatly.

Dennis let out a small huff, not quite a laugh. “I do. But I can’t help noticing you. The way you’ve been…” He searched for the word, careful. “Tighter. With everyone.”

Still nothing.

“Please just… no,” Robby muttered, shaking his head.

“So, what—are you going to tell me it’s just stress?” Dennis asked, lighter now, almost teasing, though his eyes stayed steady. “Because I’ve seen you run a trauma bay with three codes at once without blinking. This is different.”

That earned him a sharp glance before Robby turned away again.

Dennis stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Look, I know you watch everything. Everyone. How the nurses move, how the residents report, how I…” His smile tilted, crooked. “How I walk down the damn hallway.”

Robby’s brow ticked, caught between annoyance and guilt.

“And yeah, I feel it,” Dennis admitted. “Every correction. Every look. But don’t worry—I’m not complaining. It’s… the reason I’m here. I trust you to guide me.” He paused, softer now. “I trust you, Robby. Not just as my attending. Not just as my mentor. I trust you with all of it—with me, with my heart, with everything I am.”

The words hung in the air, heavier than he expected. Robby’s throat bobbed, but no protest came.

“So,” Dennis said, careful but certain, “if something’s eating at you, don’t shut me out. Not me. Please baby.”

Only then did Robby let the silence break, his voice low, frayed at the edges. “Sometimes it feels like… I could just walk out that door and not come back. Like this job is going to kill me sooner or later.”

Dennis’s chest tightened. He swallowed. “You’re not alone in that. Everyone feels it. I mean—” he gave a soft, breathless laugh “—I’ve been here what, two weeks? And I’m already dead on my feet. Too many patients, too few beds, and no matter how many nurses we’ve got, we’re always short-staffed. It’s endless. But we keep going, right?”

Robby gave a faint smile, though his eyes stayed heavy. “I’m the captain of this ship, aren’t I?”

Dennis nodded. “Yes, you’re,”

That made Robby’s smile warmer, softer. He tilted his head slightly. “Thank you, Dr. Whitaker.”

Dennis’s lips curved, just a little. He reached out, brushing the back of his hand against Robby’s arm, a grounding touch. “You’re welcome, baby. C’mon. Like you always said, we’ve got lives to save.”

For a moment, the rooftop was quiet except for the muted sounds of the city below—the distant honk of a car horn, the steady hum of air vents. Then Robby’s shoulders eased, just slightly, as he let himself lean into Dennis’s presence—the smallest crack in the armor he always carried.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

Hope you like it!!! Let me know what you think of it!! And see you soon!

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

Notes:

hey there! New chapter has arrive! for those who wanted drama, well here it is!!!

*insert evil laugh*

And hey remember that tag of medical inaccuracies, well i make it effective today :D

And hey i just opened discord [idk how exactly use it] but here's my user: celiawolf_22

 

 

 

 

By midmorning, Robby already felt wrung out. The board meeting had dragged for nearly two hours, circling the same arguments that had been simmering for months. Once again, the ER’s budget proposal was shot down — dismissed with a brisk nod from administration and a thin smile that said do more with less.

The nurses were the first to feel it: another rotation cut, shifts stretched thinner, the unspoken expectation that they’d just keep covering the gaps until something gave.

Something already had.

The ER hummed like an engine starved of oil: short on beds, short on hands, short on breath. Supplies delayed, staffing sheets bleeding red, the trauma bay patched together by sheer willpower and bad coffee. This wasn’t medicine, Robby thought sourly — it was battlefield triage wrapped in the paperwork of a luxury hotel.

And then Gloria breezed in with her clipboard. A new initiative, she chirped, sliding a stack of glossy forms onto his desk. Patient satisfaction surveys. Checkboxes to grade the ER like a restaurant.

“The board wants real-time feedback,” she said brightly — as if Robby weren’t already drowning in feedback, metrics, and metrics about metrics. As if survival itself could be rated out of five stars.

By the time he stepped out of his office, his mood was a storm thinly walled by professionalism. The staff felt it anyway. They always did. Nurses gave him space, residents measured their words, and even the air seemed to crackle with his temper.

And Dennis… Dennis felt it most of all.

All week, Robby had caught himself watching him too closely — the way he handled a trauma, the notes he wrote, even the cadence of his walk down the hall. Dennis had asked, quiet but steady, to be treated like the rest. Robby had nodded, but the truth pressed like a weight: he didn’t remember ever tearing into Frank like that. Or Heather. Or Cassie.

Only Dennis.

And beneath the irritation and exhaustion, Robby knew Dennis could tell the difference.

It wasn’t just the budget fight. Or Gloria’s surveys. Or the endless grind of an understaffed ER. It was the way Robby kept turning to Dennis with one more correction, one more clipped command.

“Whitaker, fix your notes.”
“Don’t lean on the counter.”
“Answer consults faster — and look patients in the eye.”

Small things, sharp as nicks from a scalpel. Things he never said to anyone else.

By Thursday, even the students had started whispering. Robby overheard one of them — half a laugh, half a question: “Why just Dr. Whitaker?”

Dennis hadn’t laughed. He only stood a little stiffer, nodded once, and kept walking, as though the weight of it hadn’t already been pressing on him all week.

By afternoon, the ER was bursting. Every chair filled, every bay occupied, monitors beeping in competing rhythms. The kind of chaos that demanded surrender, not control — yet somehow, Dennis felt the current settle into a fragile rhythm. Not calm, but balanced. A wire pulled tight without snapping.

Joy was with him, treating a kid with textbook pink eye, when a man stumbled in — blood streaking down his jeans, one hand pressed hard to his abdomen. His breathing was shallow but even. Pale. Focused. His free arm braced against the wall.

“I’m fine,” the man rasped, waving off startled glances. “Just a graze — swear it. The guy behind me, he’s worse. He… he saved me.”

Dennis was already moving. “Wheelchair, now!”

The man swayed, knees giving. Dennis caught him, lowering him carefully to the floor as a nurse sprinted in with the chair. He kept pressure on the wound, steady and firm.

From triage, a deeper voice cut through the noise.

“What’ve we got?”

Robby.

He strode into the bay, expression unreadable, snapping on gloves as he crouched beside them.

“Stab wound, lower left abdomen,” Dennis reported crisply. “Alert, claims he’s stable. Says another’s coming — worse off.”

Robby checked the pressure on the wound, then looked up. “Page trauma one. Alert yellow team. He’s holding for now — get him inside.”

Dennis nodded, stepping back as Mateo and a nurse lifted the man into the chair. He turned toward the entrance, scanning for the next arrival.

And then he saw him.

A familiar figure, staggering down the hallway, slouched and clutching his ribs.

“Tim?”

The name slipped out before Dennis could stop it.

The man squinted against the fluorescents, his grin crooked despite the pain. “Yo. Doggie! That you?”

Dennis crossed the space in seconds, sliding under Tim’s arm to steady him before he went down.

“Easy. Sit. I’ve got you. What the hell happened?”

Tim chuckled, rough and breathless. “Wasn’t even my fight, man. Walkin’ outta Dee’s, some punk swings at another dude. I ducked late.”

Dennis glanced at Mateo. “Help me lift. He’s fading.”

“On it.”

Together they eased Tim onto a stretcher, blood already soaking his shirt from a gash along his side. His lips were pale, but he kept talking.

“Man, is Cass around? I’m dying to see her gorgeous face.”

Dennis managed a tight smile. “You’ll live long enough to try. Let’s get you stitched first.”

Robby appeared at the edge of the chairs, eyes cutting from the stretcher to Dennis. His expression flickered for just a moment before flattening again.

“You know him?” he asked, moving in beside them.

“Street team,” Dennis said shortly. “Tim’s one of ours.”

Robby nodded, falling into step as they pushed toward trauma. “Vitals?”

“Pulse bounding, pressure’s holding,” Mateo said. “Bleeding’s slow. I want a scan.”

They reached the trauma doors. Dennis peeled off, scanning the waiting room again. Joy’s eyes found him across the chaos, steady even as she cuffed an older woman’s arm for a blood pressure. Her brows arched in silent question.

Dennis jogged over. “You good here?”

Joy nodded. “So far.”

“You’re running chairs for now. Prioritize vitals, escalate chest pain, lightheadedness, or bleeding. Flag me immediately.”

Joy smirked. “Got it, Doggie.”

Dennis blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“Sorry, Doctor ,” she teased, not sorry at all.

He exhaled, half amused, half exhausted. “I’ll be back.”

He turned and slipped through the trauma doors, the noise of the chairs dimming behind him. Another layer of the ER, another fight to win fast. But even here, the street followed.

 

 

Tim was propped halfway up on the bed, shirt cut open and stained deep rust. Blood still oozed, but slower now. Dennis pressed gauze to the wound while Mateo worked an IV. Under the fluorescents, everything looked too sharp, too sterile for a man who still had city dust on his boots and a half-finished joke on his lips.

“You still on warfarin?” Dennis asked, calm but steady.

Tim groaned. “Nah, man. They took me off after the car thing last year—remember? Idiot ran over my good leg.”

“I remember,” Dennis said quietly. “Deep vein clot. Left leg. And you missed two follow-ups.”

Tim managed a weak grin. “C’mon, Doogie…”

Dennis adjusted the gauze. “Later, Tim. Let’s patch you up.”

Mateo glanced up. “BP’s holding but he’s tacky. Labs and type and screen?”

“Yeah,” Dennis said, already moving. His hands were steady, but the back of his neck prickled.

Robby.

He stepped into the bay like a shadow arriving early, arms folded, gaze fixed. Nearby nurses slowed as they passed, pretending not to listen.

“Status?” Robby asked.

Mateo answered quickly. “Mid-thirties male, stab wound left lateral torso. No evisceration. Bleeding controlled. BP borderline but responsive to fluids. We’re drawing labs and prepping for CT.”

Robby’s eyes slid to Dennis, voice clipped, professional, a little too even. “Need help?”

Dennis shook his head. “We’ve got it.”

Robby stepped closer, scanning the tray, the patient, then Dennis. “History confirmed?”

“Yes. Prior DVT. No anticoagulants, no allergies. No LOC.”

“Sure?” Robby pressed. “Any cardiac? Hep C? Housed?”

Tim raised an eyebrow. “Still here, man.”

Dennis cleared his throat. “No cardiac. Not housed. Hep C negative on last labs — I’ll confirm.”

“You will confirm,” Robby said. “Social work looped in?”

“We’re stabilizing first.”

Robby’s gaze swept the tray. “Two pressure dressings, three gauze packs. Restock after. Trauma’s running low.”

Dennis’s jaw flexed. “I’ll restock when we’re done.”

“You’re triaging—red or yellow?”

“Yellow. He’s responsive, bleeding’s controlled. But I’m watching for decomp.”

Robby nodded slowly. “And surgery? Should you have paged already?”

Dennis hesitated. “We were waiting on imaging, but—”

“Or,” Robby cut in, voice crisp, “you could call now. Save ten minutes if he crashes.”

Beside the bed, Mateo shifted, shoulders tight. Even he could feel it—the edge in Robby’s tone, measured but heavy, like every word was a test Dennis might fail.

Tim raised his brows, glancing between them. “You two got a thing? ‘Cause I can bleed somewhere else if this is awkward.”

Before anyone could answer, Chris burst into the bay, out of breath, clutching a chart. “Dr. Robby—curtain three. Possible tension pneumo. Dr. King’s tied up. I don’t—uh—”

Robby held Dennis’s gaze a moment longer than necessary, then turned to Chris.

“If anything changes, you page me. Immediately. Understood?”

Dennis bit back the heat in his voice. “Understood.”

Robby gave a single nod, already moving. “Keep me updated.”

The doors hissed shut behind him. What lingered wasn’t relief—it was the silence of tension pressed flat under professionalism.

Mateo turned, jaw tight, words gathering.

“Don’t,” Dennis said, eyes still on the monitors. “Focus on the patient.”

Mateo blinked, then gave a short nod, returning to the chart.

Tim let out a low whistle. “Damn, Doggie. That your boss or your ex?”

Dennis ignored him, adjusting the leads, rechecking vitals.

This wasn’t about Robby.
Not now.

It was about Tim.
And the work.

Tim was stable. Bleeding slowed to a trickle. Mateo secured the last IV line while Dennis finished his exam—angled wound, shallow track, muscle grazed but no vessel or organ involvement.

“We can clean, close, give antibiotics, monitor,” Dennis said, pulling off his gloves. “No lap needed.”

Mateo nodded. “Vitals holding. No signs of decomp. You were right.”

Tim lifted a shaky thumbs-up. “Appreciate the service, gentlemen.”

Dennis offered a quick smile, but the tension stayed coiled in his shoulders, refusing to ease.

The trauma doors slid open with a hiss. Yolanda Garcia strode in, snapping on gloves before she even reached the bed.

“What’ve we got?” she asked, all business.

Dennis looked up, surprised. “Who called you down?”

“Robby,” she said, eyes already on the monitor. “Told me it was a stabbing, wanted a surgical eye.”

Dennis blinked, jaw tightening. “Did he now?”

“Yeah. So—what’s the plan? We calling surgery, or—”

“No need,” Dennis cut in, voice clipped but steady. “Superficial. I tracked it—no deep muscle, no peritoneal involvement. Vitals are stable. We’ll close and start prophylaxis. No OR.”

Yolanda sighed and stripped her gloves back off. “Could’ve saved me the walk.”

“You can take it up with Robby,” Dennis said tightly. “I didn’t page you.”

Her brows rose. “Maybe next time clarify that with your boss before I get dragged out of consult.”

“Maybe next time,” Dennis shot back, “he clarifies with me before paging half the department.”

Yolanda snorted, unimpressed, and left without another word.

The silence that followed was sharp. Mateo looked up, brow furrowed. “You good?”

Dennis gave a humorless laugh. “Peachy.”

He reached for the lidocaine just as the doors opened again. Frank Langdon stepped in—steady, calm, tablet in hand, scanning the room before settling on Dennis.

“Whitaker, hey, do you—”

Dennis didn’t look up. “Here to supervise too?”

The words landed harder than he intended. When he finally glanced over, Frank was just standing there—taken aback, but not bristling.

“Uh… no,” Frank said simply. “Curtain five. Elderly patient with AMS. She’s scared, no history on file. I thought you might help talk her down.”

Dennis froze, the sharp edge in him loosening. “Right. Sorry, Dr. Langdon.”

Frank’s expression softened. “Not a problem. Come when you’re wrapped up.”

He started to turn, then paused at the curtain. “And for what it’s worth—you handled this case well.”

Dennis gave a small, sincere nod. “Thanks.”

When Frank was gone, Dennis looked back at Mateo, who was tying off the IV tubing.

“You gonna breathe at some point?” Mateo asked.

Dennis shook his head, muttering, “Eventually.”

On the bed, Tim blinked at them, half amused. “Damn, Doggie. People always up in your business like this?”

Dennis focused on drawing up the anesthetic, steady hands betraying nothing.

“Only when I’m doing it right,” he said finally.

For now, that would have to be enough.

 

Dennis found the elderly woman in curtain five curled tightly on the gurney, her small body swallowed by thin hospital blankets. Her hands worked at the fabric in restless knots, pulling, twisting, loosening again, as though she could wring sense from the confusion inside her. Each shallow breath rattled like paper, shoulders trembling with the effort. The fluorescent light above her seemed too harsh for such fragile skin, every line of her face carved deep by years and now sharpened by fear.

For a moment, Dennis just stood there, taking in the raw panic etched across her features—the wild flicker of her eyes, the way she seemed braced against an invisible blow. Patients like her didn’t need protocols first. They needed someone to anchor them.

He pulled a chair closer, lowered his voice, and leaned in gently.

“Hey,” he said softly. “You’re safe here. I’m Dr. Whitaker.”

Her eyes darted, unfocused, panic brimming. “I—I don’t know where I am. My boy—my son, I can’t find him—”

Dennis kept his voice low, steady. “You’re in the hospital ma’am. We’re taking care of you. What’s your name?”

She pressed her lips together, tears gathering. Finally, in a whisper: “Clara.”

“Clara,” Dennis repeated gently. “Good. And your son’s name?”

“Billy.” Her voice cracked. “He… he should be here.”

Dennis leaned closer, offering his hand without forcing it. “We’ll do everything we can to reach him. For now, I need you to breathe with me, okay? In… and out. Just like this.”

He nodded toward Sasha at the desk. “Take notes. We’ll track down family.”

“Clara,” Dennis asked, “do you remember where Billy works?”

“Zone One,” she whispered.

Dennis frowned. “That a restaurant? A shop?”

Sasha stepped in gently. “Ma’am, does your son wear a really nice dark blue uniform?”

Clara blinked at her. “You… you know my Billy?”

Sasha smiled warmly. “Not yet. But I’ll look for him, okay?” She glanced at Dennis. “Zone One’s a police station nearby. We can fax them her photo—maybe someone there will recognize her.”

Dennis’s brows lifted. “Smart.”

“I have my moments,” she said with a proud grin.

Dennis nudged her shoulder, grateful for the save. For the first time all day, he felt the knot in his chest ease just a little.

“Dennis!”

Perlah’s voice cracked through the unit, urgent as a whip. “It’s Tim—he’s crashing!”

Dennis was on his feet instantly, chair clattering behind him. He sprinted down the corridor, through the curtain—

Tim lay pale and drenched in sweat, monitors shrieking. Blood streaked from the corners of his eyes, a thin crimson veil. His pressure was collapsing, sats plummeting.

Dennis’s gut clenched. “What the hell—”

One glance at the chart: stab wound, no anticoagulation, pain meds. But now—this.

“Mateo! Blood, plasma, cryo—everything, now!” Dennis barked. He dropped his stethoscope to Tim’s chest—irregular, weak, tachycardic. The heart was failing against the bleed.

He pressed around the wound—blood spilling faster now, feeding the chaos. “Stabilize the pulse, stop the bleed. Go!”

His hands moved fast, packing the wound. “Norepi, fluids. Airway on standby.”

Tim’s eyelids fluttered, crimson tears slipping down his cheeks.

“Stay with me, Tim,” Dennis muttered, fierce and low, fear tight in his voice. “You don’t tap out here. Not tonight.”

The dressing on Tim’s side was soaked through in under a minute. Mateo’s gloves were red to the wrists. Perlah was already wheeling in a trauma cart.

“BP’s tanking—seventy over forty and dropping!” she shouted.

Dennis’s jaw set. “Wide open O-neg, two units, hang FFP! And get me vitamin K and PCC—he’s bleeding out, he’s not clotting.”

“Was he on anything?” Mateo asked, voice strained.

“He didn’t say. Goddammit, he didn’t say.” Dennis shoved more gauze into the wound. “Hands in here—now!”

The door hissed open.

Robby strode in like a storm. “What the hell’s going on?”

Dennis didn’t look back. His gloves were already sodden, his wrists sticky with warmth that would not stop. “Massive bleed. Coagulopathic. I need a bolus—now!”

“This is your patient,” Robby cut in, voice flat, cold. “And he’s actively dying.”

Dennis’s shoulders locked, but he kept packing, gauze vanishing beneath his hands. “I know. I’ve got it under control—”

“No,” Robby barked, striding forward, the sound of his shoes hard against the tile. The edge in his voice wasn’t panic—it was judgment, honed sharp. “Do you even know what you’re controlling? Did you ask about anticoagulants? Did you run a clotting panel? Did you flag a single thing for follow-up?”

Dennis’s jaw clicked as he forced air through his lungs. “I did—yes, I did—”

“Then explain this!” Robby’s hand slashed downward, finger stabbing toward the gurney where blood was seeping in fresh streams, pooling beneath the wheels. “Look at it, Whitaker. He’s bleeding out in front of you. Did you miss it, or did you just not bother to check?”

The words cracked like a whip. Dennis pressed harder, gauze squelching under his palm, but silence clamped his throat.

Mateo faltered, voice breaking. “He didn’t say—how were we supposed to—”

“I wasn’t talking to you, Mateo.” Robby didn’t even flick his gaze away. His stare pinned Dennis, unblinking, merciless. “It’s your job to know. Not to take a patient’s word like some rookie intern. So which was it? Did you forget, or did you just not care enough to dig deeper?”

Dennis flinched, teeth gritted, blood sliding down his forearm.

Robby leaned in, voice quieter but weighted like a blade. “Do you want another disaster like your first shift? Because tell me, Whitaker—how is this any different? Same incompetence. Same mistakes. Same blood on your hands.”

The silence that followed pressed against the walls, heavier than the alarms.

Mateo’s head snapped up, his eyes blazing with something close to anger. “Hey!” His voice cracked, but it was enough to fracture the air.

Perlah froze mid-motion, tray rattling faintly under her grip. Her face had gone pale, eyes darting from Dennis to Robby like she’d stumbled into a storm she wanted no part of. A second later, she slipped out toward the hall, searching for backup.

The monitor screamed in the background. Dennis stayed locked in place, gloves soaked, shoulders quivering with the strain of holding back not just the blood, but everything Robby’s words had dragged to the surface. His breath came short, shallow, chest tight as if Robby’s hand were at his throat.

Robby straightened, every inch of him taut, voice dropping to something low and final. “Step back, Whitaker. I’ll take it from here.”

“No.” The word scraped raw from Dennis’s throat, barely more than a whisper, but lined with steel. “He’s my patient—”

“That was not a request,” Robby said, his tone clipped, dangerous. “That is an order, Dr. Whitaker.”

The door hissed open.

“Dr. Robby.”

The voice cut through the room, calm and cool as a scalpel, slicing every thread of tension and pulling all eyes to the doorway.

Heather Collins walked in without hurry, without hesitation. Her expression was unreadable, her gaze fixed on Robby like she was measuring him against a standard he had already failed. She tugged on gloves as she crossed the threshold, every gesture efficient, practiced.

“You’re not helping,” she said, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. “You’re crowding my patient.”

The words landed like a public slap.

Robby’s spine stiffened, his jaw tightening against the hit. “Heather, this isn’t—”

“I wasn’t asking.” She didn’t blink. She didn’t even break stride. Her tone sliced cleaner than his bark ever had. “Either step aside, or get out of my bay.”

For a moment, the entire room held its breath. Robby’s pulse visibly ticked in his neck, the urge to push back alive in the twitch of his hands—but Heather was already moving past him, fluid, controlled, unyielding.

She crouched into Dennis’s line of sight, her voice shifting seamlessly. “Whitaker, keep your pressure right there. Good. Now—tell me, how can I help?”

The spell broke.

Perlah lunged for tubing, Mateo re-positioned suction, alarms reclaimed their place as the room’s heartbeat. The team snapped back together around Dennis, not Robby, the center restored where it belonged.

Robby stood rigid near the door, jaw carved in stone, but Heather didn’t spare him a glance. Her presence held the room, her authority wrapping around Dennis like armor.

And for the first time since the bleed began, the chaos turned back into a team.

The patient had a chance again.

And so did Dennis

 

 

Notes:

Let me know what you think of it? Can we talk of how awesome is Heather, Mateo and Perlah!! Robby Robby Robby, bad Robby!

See you soon!!

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Notes:

I was writing the title here, and realize we're already on chapter 6, like what? How?! anyway, hope you like this one, I know i enjoyed writing this one , one word "DRAMA"

again sorry for any medical inaccuracies, but i encountered a similar case before, i dont remember all the details, so my limited knowledge filled the gaps

 

 

 

 

 

The trauma bay thrummed with noise and motion, every surface crowded with hands, tubing, or bloodied gauze. Tim lay pale against the sheets, chest rising in shallow jerks, the cardiac monitor spitting out a frantic rhythm that refused to settle. Each beep cut through the room like a blade—fast, then slow, then skittering out of sync again.

Blood kept welling from the jagged wound in his flank, soaking through gauze as quickly as Dennis could press it down. His forearms trembled with the strain, sweat cutting thin tracks through the red streaks on his gloves. Heather stood at the head of the bed, eyes sharp above her mask, snapping orders with the precision of a scalpel, as though her voice alone could hold Tim’s body together.

“Two more units,” she called, tone flat with focus. “Push TXA. Keep suction clear. Whitaker—don’t move. Your hands are the only thing standing between him and the morgue right now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dennis muttered, jaw tight. He leaned harder into the wound, gauze squelching under his palms.

Mateo fumbled with IV tubing, passing it off to Perlah with fingers that shook despite his effort to steady them. His gloves were slick, crimson creeping past his wrists. The metallic tang of blood thickened the air, clashing with the bite of antiseptic, while alarms screamed in jagged bursts from the monitors.

And then, like a dam easing under pressure, the chaos shifted. The monitor’s stutter steadied into something like a rhythm. Oxygen saturation ticked upward, slow but sure. Tim’s chest lifted, fuller, each breath dragging deeper than the last.

“Bleeding’s slowing,” Dennis said, low but certain. “We’ve got control.”

Heather leaned over his shoulder, eyes narrowing at the wound. She gave a single, sharp nod. “Good. Hold that. We’re buying him time.”

The room didn’t fall silent so much as slip into a new tempo—still tense, but less frantic. Seconds blurred into minutes, until the curtain rustled back and Dr. Nocetti strode in. She carried herself with unhurried purpose, dark hair pulled tight, gaze sweeping once across the room and cutting through the static of alarms and muttered voices. She didn’t need to raise her voice; presence alone bent the space around her.

“Talk me through it, Whitaker,” she said, taking position opposite Dennis.

Dennis cleared his throat, forcing calm into his words. “Thirty-four-year-old male. Stab wound, left flank. Initially stable, then sudden coagulopathy, massive bleed, shock. He was taken off anticoagulants before admission—regimen unknown. Add trauma, plus high-dose opioids… triggered a cascade of something.”

“Did he take anything?” Nocetti asked, her hands already moving across instruments at the bedside.

“No. Labs were clean. And I’ve known him a while—he’s not a user.” Dennis’s voice caught; he corrected himself. “He’s clean.”

Nocetti scanned the chart, brows drawing tight. “This could be DIC—clotting and bleeding at once. Something’s stressing the liver. Maybe the heart.” She tapped the labs, voice dropping into thought. “Lipids are high. Bilirubin’s borderline. He’s on something else.”

Dennis shook his head, eyes flicking toward the still body on the bed. “He doesn’t look it. I know the stigma, being in-house, but he doesn’t…” His gaze caught on the scarred leg—the one mangled by shrapnel years before. A thought sparked, sharp and sudden. He snapped his attention to Mateo. “Did you see him limp?”

Mateo blinked, startled. “What?”

Dennis’s thumb flew over the tablet, scrolling fast until enzyme levels filled the screen. His jaw locked. “Liver’s off,” he said. “Steroids.”

Heather’s head snapped up. “What? Are you sure?”

His throat bobbed once. “He told me he went back to veteran meetings. Said he met some old friends—guys who’d lost the strength in their arms.”

“Anabolic steroids,” Collins murmured, nodding as the pieces clicked.

“Yeah. Cholesterol’s too high for how he eats, enzymes are spiking, and… no jaundice yet, but sclera’s not clean either.” Dennis’s voice was clipped, clinical, but the anger beneath it was unmistakable.

“It fits,” Nocetti said, scanning the numbers herself. She turned to Perlah. “Page Dr. Ezenwa—tell him I’ve got a cardiomyopathy incoming.” A beat. “And call Kira.”

Perlah nodded, already moving.

Nocetti tilted her head, thinking aloud. “So he destabilized from clotting rebound—trauma stacked on pharmacology. That’s… tricky.”

“Tricky’s one word for it,” Dennis muttered.

Her mouth curved, dry amusement flickering. “Dr. Ezenwa would be proud of you. He loved spotting the ugly zebras mid-code. I taught you well.” Her grin broke wider. “Fuck, I’m so good at teaching.”

Heather snorted. “And so humble.” She flicked a glance at Mateo. “Admission, please.” Then to Dennis, her expression softened. “Good job, Whitaker. Don’t let anyone—anyone—tell you different.”

“Thanks.” Dennis’s reply came quiet, almost swallowed. Heather winked before moving out with the others.

Nocetti followed the gurney toward CT, Robby already visible in the hall. Dennis’s spine stiffened at the sight.

“Watch your step, Dr. Robinavitch,” Nocetti quipped without slowing. “The student might surpass the master.”

Robby’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing. Silence clung like static over the monitors.

“We’ll keep him in step-down,” Nocetti added as they wheeled Tim away. “I’ll text you updates.”

Dennis nodded, but his chest stayed tight. He peeled off his gloves with sharp snaps, forearms tacky with sweat and blood, scrubs soaked through to the waist. Air rushed out of him in a shaky gust, like he was relearning how to breathe.

He turned to Mateo. “Thanks for having my back.” The words came rough, weighted.

Mateo’s gaze was steady, unreadable. “Whatever you need, hermano.”

Dennis tried for humor, flicking a glance at his ruined scrubs. “We’re gonna need a whole new wardrobe. Pretty soon people’ll think we’re butchers.”

Mateo gave the ghost of a smile. “Mel had the bet today. She said blood. I said too obvious.”

Dennis snorted. “Guess she wins.” He started toward the scrub dispenser. “I’m changing.” He didn’t look at Robby. Couldn’t. The crash of adrenaline was fading into a hollow ache, and emptiness threatened to spill into the space it left.

Be professional, Dennis.
Be the bigger man.

He raised his head and kept walking.

But Robby was watching him. So was half the department. Santos intercepted Dennis for a moment, and in that pause Dennis caught the sideways glances—the whisper of Collins muttering, “That was uncalled for, Robby…” as she brushed past.

Robby’s pulse thumped in his temple. Before he could stop himself, he stepped forward.

“Whitaker.”

Dennis didn’t turn fully. “I need a minute. I need to change.” His tone was flat, but every eye in the bay was on them.

Robby squared his shoulders, voice cutting sharp through the air. “Dr. Whitaker, I hope this will be the last time I give you an order and you don’t follow it. Are we clear?”

The room froze.

Joy went silent mid-conversation with Dr. King. Chris’s gaze darted between faces, confirming what everyone else already saw.

Dennis’s reply came low, even, dangerous. “Yes, sir.”

Robby adjusted his stethoscope, ready to move on—until Dennis spoke again.

“You think I didn’t know?”

Robby’s head jerked, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

Dennis turned then, pale but composed, arms folded across his chest. His posture was rigid, brittle.

“I had Tim on my route three weeks ago,” he said. “I asked. I checked. He told me he wasn’t on anything, and his last labs didn’t flag clotting risk.”

Robby said nothing.

“So either he lied, or he started something new between then and now.” Dennis stepped closer. “But don’t you dare stand in front of a patient and act like I was negligent. Like I don’t give a shit. When you know I do.”

“You should’ve checked his INR when he came in,” Robby said at last, finally meeting his eyes. “We’re in a hospital, Whitaker. You don’t take street words as gospel. You know better.”

Dennis blinked slowly. “You’re not angry I didn’t check the INR. You’re angry I was the one standing over him when he started bleeding.”

Robby’s face didn’t change—but his silence said enough.

Dennis shook his head, a bitter smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Jesus. You can’t even admit it.”

Robby’s voice came clipped. “You weren’t ready. You missed the signs. Just acknowledge, learn, and do better.”

“I didn’t,” Dennis snapped. “What I missed was the moment you stopped seeing me as a doctor and started seeing me as your mistake.”

That landed. Robby’s jaw tightened, but no words came.

The bay murmured—nurses trading glances, voices low. Santos caught Dennis’s arm, shaking his head. “Not here.” She let go when he pulled free.

Dennis gave a humorless laugh. “You know what made me hesitate? It wasn’t your order. It wasn’t your lecture. It was when you brought up my first shift.”

He stepped forward again, voice rough now, face close. “That was the worst day of my life. And you know it. I told you. You remember what that cost me. And you dragged it out here, in front of everyone, like it was a teaching point.”

Robby’s eyes flicked away. His jaw stayed locked.

Dennis nodded once, quiet but steady. “You’re not my mistake. But you sure as hell just made one.”

And with that, he turned and walked away.

Robby didn’t follow.

He just stood there, hands still wet, Dennis’s words echoing against the tile and antiseptic—settling like the blood they’d only just wiped from the floor.

 

 

 

 

 

Dennis stumbled into the break room after changing his scrubs, closing the door behind him with a trembling hand. The silence hit like a wall after the chaos of the trauma bay—just the buzz of fluorescent lights, the low hum of the vending machine, and the bitter scent of burnt coffee hanging thick in the air.

He braced both hands on the counter and dropped his head. Inhaled. Exhaled. Tried again.

Just breathe.
Just a minute.
Just one goddamn minute.

The door cracked open.

“I need a moment,” Dennis muttered without turning. His voice shook, raw. “Please.”

But Robby stepped in anyway.

“What the hell were you thinking—talking to me like that in front of everyone?”

Dennis’s nose flared. “Me? You started it. You’re supposed to correct your students, Robby. Not humiliate them.”

“I didn’t humiliate you,” Robby shot back. “I pointed out mistakes. Mistakes you don’t get the luxury of making. Not now. Not with the whole department under a microscope.”

Dennis’s hands curled into fists on the counter. His head stayed down. “Don’t come in here and call it ‘luxury.’ I’m not asking for favors. I’m not asking for special treatment because we share a damn bed.”

Robby’s jaw flexed. “Then stop acting like it. You don’t get privileges just because you’re my boyfriend.”

Dennis spun, eyes blazing. His voice was hoarse but rising. “Privileges?” A sharp, bitter laugh broke out of him. “You think this is privilege? You know what I hear when I walk past the boardroom? That I’m sleeping my way up. You know what people whisper the second I leave a room? That I don’t belong here. That I don’t deserve this badge.” His chest heaved, each word ripped raw. “That’s not a privilege, Robby. That’s a target on my back.”

Robby’s expression flickered, but his tone stayed hard. “I can’t coddle you, Dennis. I can’t bend rules just because—”

“I’m not asking you to coddle me!” Dennis’s voice cracked, bouncing sharp off the tile walls. He slammed his hand against the counter. “I’m asking you to treat me like a human being. Like I have feelings. Like I’m not just your punching bag every time the pressure spikes. You say you hate hypocrisy? You are one.”

Robby’s head jerked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” Dennis’s eyes burned. “Last week you tore Frank apart for not mentoring the students—said he was breaking them down instead of building them up. What the hell do you think you just did to me? You’re no better.”

Robby stiffened, arms crossing tight. “I am the Chief. You’re the intern. That doesn’t change because you want it to.”

“Are you even listening?” Dennis’s voice dropped ragged, vibrating with fury and grief knotted together. “I know the dynamic. I know where I stand. But I deserve respect, Robby. Not you pointing fingers at me in front of the whole team.”

Robby opened his mouth, then shut it. The fight was in his eyes but the words didn’t come.

Dennis’s shoulders shook with shallow breaths. He saw it all in a blur—the looks in the trauma bay, Heather’s orders slicing the air, Nocetti’s steady presence—and underneath it, the thought that cut deepest: maybe he’d been blind. Maybe he’d been so in love, so desperate to believe, that he ignored what was right in front of him.

“I haven’t done anything different than I’ve always done,” Robby said finally, voice flat. “I’m sorry if me doing my job doesn’t line up with the picture you wanted this to be.”

The silence stretched, heavy under the fluorescent hum.

Dennis shook his head, a hollow laugh scraping out of him. “Right. You’re always right.” He paused, voice breaking softer. “Maybe I never saw you at all. Maybe I just saw what I wanted.”

He brushed past him, hand on the door handle, knuckles white. “And maybe that’s on me.”

He wanted out. Air. Anything but this suffocating weight pressing down.

Behind him, Robby’s voice cracked the silence. “You don’t get it, do you? Every single eye in this hospital is on me. They’re waiting for me to slip. Every mistake tallied, every hesitation magnified. I can’t show weakness—not out there.”

Dennis turned slowly, face drawn tight, eyes red-rimmed and burning. His voice shook as it rose. “And you think I don’t know what that feels like? You think you’re the only one under fire? You’re not. You’re not the only one who’s gotten a warning from the board.”

Robby blinked, composure faltering. “What are you—”

“I know,” Dennis snapped, stepping forward, anger ripping through exhaustion. “I know you were flagged. Hargrove told me. I thought you’d tell me yourself, but you didn’t. So I kept my mouth shut, kept my head down. I studied. I read every goddamn policy manual cover to cover. That’s why I team up with Heather, not you. Why I ask Frank to cross-examine every chart I touch. I’m doing everything right—everything—because I don’t want another black mark. Not on you. Not on me.” His voice broke, then sharpened again. “And still, when it mattered, you cut me down like none of it meant a damn thing.”

“Dennis—”

“No.” His finger stabbed the air, his breath ragged. “Don’t interrupt me. Not this time.”

His chest heaved as words poured out, raw. “And Abbott—you knew he offered me nights. Don’t stand there and pretend you didn’t. You knew. And you let me stay. So why? Why let me come back if all you’re going to do is treat me like I’m incompetent? If you can’t accept that I’m good at this—that I can actually do the job?”

Robby’s arms dropped, expression twisting, words stalling in his throat.

Dennis’s laugh cracked bitter in the stale air. “You talk about pressure? About not being able to slip? Newsflash—I’m drowning in it too. I’m already walking around with a target on my back, Robby. And I still thought…” His voice faltered, then pushed harder, sharper. “I still thought you had mine.”

Silence pressed heavy, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead.

“If you don’t—if you can’t—then say so,” Dennis whispered, but the edge never left his tone. “Tell me to take Abbott’s offer. Hide on night shift. Stay out of sight. Because I love you, and I love this job. But I’m not going to let this job destroy me—or us.” His jaw clenched. “So make a choice. Say it to my face.”

His hand curled around the door handle, knuckles white, his whole body trembling with the weight of it.

Then arms wrapped around him from behind—tight, desperate. Robby buried his face against Dennis’s neck, words spilling rough.

“I’m sorry,” Robby whispered, again and again. “I should’ve told you. I should’ve trusted you. Please. Please forgive me. I didn’t mean it. I swear.”

Dennis froze, rigid in the hold, tears burning behind his eyes but refusing to fall. His muscles shook under Robby’s grip, fury still hot in his chest. He didn’t lean in. He didn’t soften.

His voice came sharp, jagged. “I’m not asking you to ignore my mistakes. Call me out—that’s your job. But don’t humiliate me. I’ve never seen you treat anyone else the way you treated me today.”

Robby’s arms tightened, his forehead pressing harder into Dennis’s shoulder.

Dennis shoved at them, not breaking free, but making it clear he wouldn’t be swallowed up. “You think I don’t know how high the stakes are? That I haven’t been killing myself to cover every base, double every step, just so I wouldn’t disappoint you? But none of that mattered in there. You didn’t see the work. You didn’t see me. You just saw a target to tear apart.”

Robby’s voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I was an idiot. I thought I was protecting us, but I was wrong. Please, Dennis—I don’t want to hurt you. Ever.”

Dennis’s laugh was raw, bitter. “Too late for that. You did.” His voice dropped, but the anger still vibrated through every word. “I don’t need you to protect me. I need you to respect me. To trust me. To stand with me instead of using me to prove a point.”

Robby’s breath stuttered against his skin. “I do. I swear I do. I love you. I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry…”

Dennis finally twisted in his hold, eyes wet but steady, jaw set like stone. He pressed Robby’s wrist flat against his chest, over his heartbeat. “Don’t think a hug and an apology erase what you did. You broke something in there. And I don’t know if it’s fixable just because you’re sorry.”

Robby’s throat worked, but no answer came.

Dennis let his grip loosen, but not his resolve. His voice was low, scraped raw. “We can’t keep pretending this is easy. We can’t keep pretending the other already knows what’s in our head. If we want this to work, we need to talk. Really talk. About the job. About us. About all of it.” His eyes burned into Robby’s. “Because if we don’t, this thing between us will eat itself alive.”

The hum of the vending machine filled the silence, the muffled voices from down the hall a distant reminder of the world outside.

Robby finally nodded, shoulders sagging, voice ragged. “You’re right. You’re right. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t want to lose us.”

Dennis gave the smallest shake of his head, his chest still heaving. “Don’t just say it. Prove it. Show me you mean it.”

He stepped back, putting a hand to the door, his face hard even as his voice trembled. “I want this, Robby. But I’m not going to beg for it. You want me—you want us—you show me. Otherwise…” His voice caught, then steadied. “Otherwise, I’ll take nights.”

And this time, when the silence pressed down, Dennis didn’t fill it. He left it sitting there, heavy, demanding an answer Robby couldn’t give yet.

The words hit the tile like a dropped scalpel, sharp and final.

Robby flinched. “Dennis, no. Don’t say that. Nights would bury you—you’d be alone, no mentorship, no backup—”

Dennis cut him off with a glare. “Don’t act like you suddenly give a shit about my support system. You had a chance to back me up out there, and you didn’t. You chose to tear me down instead.”

“That’s not what I was doing—”

“The hell it wasn’t,” Dennis snapped, stepping in closer, his finger stabbing the air between them. “You wanted to remind everyone who’s in charge. And you thought making me the example would get the point across. Well, congratulations, Robby. Message received. Loud and clear.”

Robby’s jaw flexed. “That’s not fair—”

“Fair?” Dennis barked out a harsh laugh. “You think any of this feels fair to me? You think it’s fair I bust my ass twice as hard as anyone else just to prove I’m not some charity case you dragged in here? That I have to carry your reputation and mine on my back, while you—” His voice cracked, raw. “—while you stand there and act like I’m your liability instead of your partner?”

Robby stepped forward, his own voice rough now. “You’re not my liability. You’re my—” He stopped, searching Dennis’s eyes, lowering his tone. “You’re my person. I’m just… scared.”

Dennis shook his head, tears shining but his expression hard. “Then you should’ve said that. You should’ve told me you were scared instead of cutting me to pieces in front of the whole team. You don’t get to excuse humiliating me because you were scared.”

Robby’s shoulders sagged, his words catching. “You’re right. You’re right. I screwed up. But nights, Dennis? Please. That’s you running away.”

Dennis’s fists clenched at his sides. “No. That’s me choosing my sanity. Choosing not to stand there waiting for you to decide when to cut me down again. I can’t—” His breath stuttered. “—I can’t keep loving you and bracing for the next time you’ll use me to prove a point.”

The silence stretched, heavy, suffocating.

Robby reached for his hand, but Dennis yanked it back. “Don’t. Don’t touch me like that and expect it to fix this.”

“Then what do I do?” Robby’s voice cracked, desperation finally spilling through the cracks in his composure. “Tell me how to fix it, Dennis. Tell me what you need from me, because I don’t want to lose you over this. I can’t.”

Dennis dragged in a shaky breath, his voice sharp but quieter now. “You don’t fix it with promises. Or hugs. Or apologies that sound like confessions whispered into my neck when no one else is watching. You fix it by standing with me. By treating me like your equal, even when the whole goddamn hospital is staring. You fix it by showing me that today was the exception—not who you really are.”

Robby swallowed hard, eyes burning. “I can do that. I will do that.”

Dennis’s chest rose and fell, breath ragged as though he’d just run a marathon. He scrubbed a hand over his face, then let it drop, eyes burning into Robby’s.

“We need to talk,” he said finally, voice low but firm. “Really talk. Not in hallways. Not in front of the team. Not like this. We need to clear the air, figure out what the hell we’re doing—about us, about the job, all of it. And we need to decide.”

Robby’s throat worked. He nodded once, almost tentative, like he was afraid Dennis might take it back.

Dennis stared at him a moment longer, words heavy on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to spill it all—the love, the fury, the fear—but his chest was too tight, his pulse too loud. He bit down on the rest, jaw locked.

Instead, he said flatly, “We still have four hours left on shift. You know where to find me.”

He turned toward the door, then glanced back over his shoulder, eyes hard. “Your place. After. We’ll talk about my options then.”

The words carried more weight than a threat; they landed like an ultimatum.

And before Robby could answer, Dennis walked out, leaving the faint echo of his anger in the humming, fluorescent-lit break room.

 

 

 

 

Notes:

I loved this one! Let me know what you think! and the talk is next one, it would be heavy, no spoilers, but a rollercoaster is a great description.

Notes:

Let me know what you think of it! No all tags are up, I usually add them as I update more parts!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of A Kind of Love