Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Riley Brooks watched from the tile floor as Michael pulled his scrubs back up, fingers hooking into the drawstrings, tugging them tight with an absent, satisfied little grunt. 

Riley stayed on his knees a moment longer than he needed to—long enough for the ache in his joints to settle, long enough to feel the wetness cooling on his lips. 

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn’t look up. He didn’t want to meet Michael’s eyes.

The bathroom around them was a narrow rectangle of cheap fluorescent lighting and worse smells—acrid piss, diluted bleach, sweat ground into grout the color of old teeth. 

The kind of room that made you feel unclean just by breathing. Riley hated it. The air felt damp and sticky, clinging to his throat. It wasn’t the fantasy he’d clung to as a teenager. It wasn’t alluring or dangerous or sexy. It was… pathetic. 

Clinical in the wrong way, filthy in the right one. And here he was, kneeling on a floor no one should ever touch voluntarily, letting an older resident shove his hand into Riley’s hair and guide him down without even needing to ask.

The want always struck him first—sharp, needy, too deep in his belly to ignore. The crash came afterward, a hollowed-out emptiness that spread through him like nausea. He could feel it already unfurling. 

That half-sick, half-shaky shame that made his heartbeat flutter too high in his throat.

He probably looked easy.

He probably looked desperate.

He probably looked exactly like what Michael wanted: the quiet new guy, eager to please, stupid enough to kneel for someone he barely knew in the first month of residency.

He was wrecking himself. Wrecking whatever reputation he hadn’t even had time to build. Risking his standing in a program that already chewed people up for sport. For what? For a man he didn’t want to be seen with in daylight?

Regret curled low and tight in his stomach. 

He swallowed again, trying to banish the fading taste of Michael and the raw rasp in his throat. 

Then he forced himself upright, legs unsteady, palms braced briefly on the metal partition. The knees of his scrubs were streaked with dirt and something darker. He didn’t want to think about it.

Michael exhaled a pleased little sigh as he tightened his drawstrings. “You’re too good at that,” he said, voice low and smug. “I never finish that fast.”

Liar, Riley thought immediately. 

He’d finished just as quickly the last time. And the time before that. But Riley didn’t say anything. He only dipped his head in that same mute, practiced nod.

Michael smirked—self-satisfied, lazy—and pushed open the stall door. Riley followed a beat later, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor tiles so he wouldn’t have to see his own reflection in the metal of the paper towel dispenser.

Michael wasn’t attractive. Not conventionally, not unconventionally. Riley couldn’t decide which bothered him more—that he wasn’t even drawn to the man, or that it didn’t matter. Michael’s height mattered. His bulk. The way he could crowd Riley back against a wall and make him feel small, compressed, contained. Owned without ever having earned the right. 

Riley despised the part of himself that responded to that.

He moved to the sinks and turned the tap on. Cold water spilled over his fingers, then over his face, dripping from his chin. He didn’t look toward Michael’s reflection, but he could feel the other man’s presence drift closer, a shadow bending toward him.

Riley closed his eyes as he reached for paper towels. That made it worse—made him more aware of the shift of air behind him, of the faint sandalwood of Michael’s aftershave. And then hands slid over his hips—broad palms settling on the narrow angles of his waist, thumbs brushing the hem of his scrubs. 

Michael leaned in and pressed his lips to the back of Riley’s neck.

A shiver ran through Riley, sharp and instant, but it wasn’t pleasure. His muscles locked. His breath stalled. He hated being touched like this, after. When he wasn’t prepared. When he felt raw.

“My roommates are out tonight,” Michael murmured against his skin. “You should come over…”

Riley shook his head, quick and clipped. “I can’t,” he said, already stepping forward, out of reach. “I have to study.”

Michael groaned, annoyed and dramatic. 

His hands fell away. 

“Fine,” he muttered, frowning like Riley had personally insulted him. “Your loss.”

Riley didn’t answer. He didn’t trust his voice not to crack in some revealing, humiliating way.

Michael let out a sharp sigh—half frustration, half dismissal—and walked out. 

The bathroom door swung shut behind him with a hollow thud that echoed in the silence he left behind.

Riley stood alone at the sink, water still dripping from the faucet. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to the mirror.

And finally, he forced himself to look.

He doesn’t like it.

He doesn’t like it at all.

The thought pulses through him with the dull, familiar rhythm of a bruise pressed too hard. It sits in his chest like a stone, heavy and cold, making it hard to breathe in this tight little room that reeks of disinfectant and body heat and everything he wishes he weren’t.

His eyes are bloodshot, rimmed in red, still a little watery from the strain of what he’d just done—and from what he refuses to admit he’d almost cried over afterward. 

The fat, purplish bags beneath his eyes make him look older than he is, worn-out in that unslept way that all new residents look, but worse. There’s a hollowness there. Something carved-out. Something he doesn’t have a name for.

His blonde hair is a wreck—sticking up in odd angles, flattened in places, mussed in others. 

He can see where someone’s fist had been curled in it minutes ago, yanking his head back too sharply. The roots ache. The strands look like they were tugged until they almost tore.

And under that, deeper, older aches bloom.

He braces his palms on the counter and lowers his head, exhaling through his teeth.

He can still feel the bruises from the last man he was with in here—not Michael, someone before him, someone whose face he can’t conjure anymore because he hadn’t bothered to look at it properly in the first place. 

He doesn’t remember the man’s name. Doesn’t remember if the guy ever offered one. Riley remembers everything else, though. His body does.

He remembers being bent over this very sink, the cold steel biting into his hips as he was shoved forward. 

He remembers the other man hooking his fingers hard into Riley’s waist and pulling him back like Riley wasn’t even a person, just something to hold on to while he rutted. 

Too hard. Too fast. Too harsh. No prep. No pause. No warning. No checking if Riley could take it, if he wanted it, if it hurt.

It had hurt. Sharp, burning, breath-stealing pain. 

He’d made sounds he hadn’t meant to—small, involuntary, pained sounds that embarrassed him even now. Little whimpers he tried to swallow down while the man behind him didn’t slow, didn’t stop, didn’t care.

He remembers the grip most vividly—hands clamped on his hips with bruising force, dragging him back into each thrust like Riley belonged to him, like Riley was built for this and nothing else. 

Those bruises are still there beneath the fabric of his scrubs, yellowing at the edges, tender to the touch, fading but not gone. Like a reminder. Like a brand.

He feels sick.

He feels disgusted.

Mainly with himself.

A tight, clawing shame crawls up the back of his throat. His reflection blurs as his hands come up and he rubs at his eyes—too hard, frantic, like he could scrub the images out of his mind if he just pressed hard enough. 

His chest is tight, breath stuttering, a low tremor licking through his ribs.

It doesn’t help. It never helps.

He sucks in a breath—long, shaky, hollow—and forces his palms down the sides of his hair, smoothing it until the strands lay flat enough to pass. 

He straightens, shoulders drawing up, spine stiffening with practiced automaticity. The kind of posture you adopt when you have no choice but to keep moving.

Then he turns away from the mirror.

The bathroom door swings open under his hand, light from the ward spilling over him, bright and unkind. 

The cacophony hits next—monitors beeping, a family arguing softly in the hallway, a cart rattling as someone wheels it past. The pulse of hospital life surges around him, uncaring, unstoppable.

Riley swallows hard, steps out, and lets the noise swallow him back.

He looks over the ward quickly—just long enough for his eyes to sweep across the controlled chaos of monitors, curtain dividers, rolling carts, jittery families in plastic chairs—before his chin dips again, almost instinctively, like he’s afraid of being caught staring at something he shouldn’t. 

He keeps his gaze low as he walks toward the main desk. 

The linoleum countertop is cool beneath his forearms when he leans into it, crossing his arms over his narrow chest as if to fold himself smaller. 

His eyes fix on his joggers, on a loose thread near the knee, on anything that doesn’t require him to meet another person’s gaze.

Behind him, voices lift and mingle—the chatter of residents gathering, the shuffle of equipment, the clipped, stern tone of Paula Donovan cutting through the noise as she starts corralling everyone into place.

Paula is impossible to miss. Even if he weren’t already braced for her voice, Riley would feel her presence like a shift in air pressure: the click of her sensible shoes against the floor, the swish of her lab coat, the command she radiates simply by existing within several feet of anyone younger than her. 

She has curly brown hair pulled back into a bun that somehow always looks the same no matter how many hours she’s been here, and piercing azure eyes that see everything—everything you did wrong, everything you thought you hid, everything she will absolutely write down in your evaluation later.

Riley glances sideways, watching the slow cluster of residents migrate toward the desk, chatting in small groups, laughing too casually for people this exhausted. 

They move with the ease of individuals who aren’t carrying crushing self-consciousness on their shoulders. 

He spots Michael, talking to another guy around his age, leaning in too close, already smirking like he owns the place and everyone in it.

Riley jerks his gaze away like the sight physically burned him.

His stomach knots, embarrassment and dread coiling together.

 Not because Michael is doing anything wrong—Michael barely acknowledges him outside bathroom stalls, and Riley can hardly complain about that. But seeing him chatting so comfortably, so normal, while Riley is still trying to scrape shame off the inside of his mouth… it makes Riley feel smaller. Stupid, even.

He forces a breath out through his nose, trying to calm the thrum in his chest.

Then—

“Boo.”

Britney appears at his elbow so suddenly he almost screams.

Riley’s whole body jolts; he grips the counter like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His heart slams against his ribs hard enough that it hurts. “Jesus, Brit,” he hiss-breathes, chest rising and falling too fast, “Make a noise or something.”

She just beams at him, her grin wide and wickedly pleased. “What’s the fun in that?” she chirps, bumping her shoulder into his lightly.

Riley tries to glare but ends up smiling despite himself, begrudging and soft. Britney has that effect on him—an ability to pull warmth out of places he didn’t think had any left.

Britney was his first friend in the hospital. Technically his only friend. 

They’d met during orientation, slumped at the same table, both chewing on too-stale pastries and too-little sleep. She’d claimed him instantly, with the kind of bold, easy confidence that Riley has never possessed. 

She was his age but somehow felt older—tall, willowy in a way that made scrubs look flattering, her blonde hair always braided or pinned back with enviable precision. Beautiful. 

The kind of beautiful that charged a room the moment she walked into it.

She was also taller than Riley, which she loved pointing out, reminding him that he was “fun-sized” while towering over him with all five-foot-ten of her long-legged glory.

He’d joked once—awkwardly, cheeks pink—that if he had to choose a girl, if he magically woke up straight one day, he’d pick her. 

Britney had gasped in dramatic, delighted offense, pinched his cheek hard enough to make him yelp, and declared him her “twin flame.”

Riley still had no idea what that meant.

But the way she’d said it—warm, sincere, claiming—made something tight and lonely in him loosen.

People didn’t usually like Riley. They didn’t dislike him, either—they simply didn’t notice him. 

He was small and soft-spoken and pale in a washed-out, forgettable way. Easy to overlook. Easy to fade behind louder voices and bigger personalities.

He didn’t mind it, truly. Blending into the background kept him safe.

But Britney had looked at him and somehow seen him anyway.

Paula’s firm footsteps cut through their moment. 

She approaches the growing huddle of residents with her hands planted on her hips, shoulders squared, posture radiating a kind of quiet but absolute dominance. 

As she surveys them—her sharp azure eyes sliding over each face, cataloguing, assessing, judging—conversations dull to murmurs and then to silence.

Riley straightens instinctively.

Britney stands a little taller beside him.

The ward seems to hold its breath as Paula prepares to speak, hawk-eyed and unblinking as she sweeps her gaze across her flock of tired, anxious, hopeful residents—Riley included.

“Alright,” Paula says, her voice cutting cleanly through the low murmur of exhausted conversation. 

She doesn’t raise it. She never needs to. Authority sits naturally in her throat, firm and immovable. “I hope you’re rested, because it’s going to be a long shift. Friday nights are the busiest.”

A few tired chuckles ripple weakly through the group. No one actually finds it funny.

Everyone here knows what Friday nights mean.

Alcohol. Car accidents. Fights. Falls. Blood.

Paula reaches down to the stack of charts tucked beneath her arm and begins distributing them with efficient, mechanical precision. Clipboard. Name. Clipboard. Name. Clipboard. Name. Her movements are practiced, economical, devoid of hesitation. She does not fumble. She does not pause.

Riley watches the residents closest to her accept theirs.

He watches their hands.

Watches the way they reach forward confidently, fingers closing around plastic and paper like it belongs to them. Like they belong here.

Then Michael steps forward.

And Riley watches his hands, too.

He doesn’t mean to.

He tells himself he doesn’t care. He tells himself it’s nothing. Just hands. Just another resident receiving another chart.

But his stomach twists anyway.

Because those hands had been in his hair less than ten minutes ago. Fingers threaded deep at the roots, gripping tight enough to make his scalp ache. Guiding. Holding. Using.

And now they look so normal.

Clean. Steady. Casual.

Michael doesn’t look wrecked. He doesn’t look hollowed-out. He doesn’t look like something inside him has been scraped raw.

He looks… fine.

Relaxed, even.

He smirks at something another resident says, shoulders loose, posture open. Entirely at ease inside his own body.

Like nothing happened.

Like Riley hadn’t been on his knees for him.

Like Riley hadn’t given him something that still lingered in the back of his throat like a phantom.

Riley swallows hard.

He can still feel it.

The faint soreness in his jaw. The subtle burn in his scalp. The heaviness sitting low in his stomach, thick and nauseating.

Michael isn’t carrying it.

Only Riley is.

Only Riley ever does.

And the worst part—the most shameful part—is that Riley knows, with sickening certainty, that it will happen again.

Tomorrow.

Same stall.

Same time.

Right before the shift.

The thought settles into him like inevitability.

He could stop.

He knows he could.

He could say no. He could walk away. He could refuse to answer when Michael corners him, could pretend he doesn’t understand the look, the implication, the silent expectation.

He could stop.

But he won’t.

He knows that, too.

Because when Michael looks at him like that—focused, hungry, deliberate—something inside Riley loosens. Something inside him quiets.

Something inside him finally feels seen.

Even if it’s only for what he can give.

Even if it destroys him afterward.

He’s so lost in the spiral of it—the shame, the inevitability, the quiet self-loathing—that he doesn’t realize Paula is standing directly in front of him until the clipboard enters his field of vision.

She holds it out expectantly.

Riley freezes.

Her eyebrow lifts slightly.

Not impatient.

Not cruel.

Just… waiting.

Waiting for him to take it.

Heat floods Riley’s face instantly, blooming hot across his cheeks and ears. His stomach drops in humiliation at his own inattention. He reaches forward too quickly, nearly fumbling the chart as he grabs it from her.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes stay fixed firmly on the plastic surface in his hands.

He cannot meet hers.

Paula studies him for half a second longer than comfort allows.

He can feel it.

Her gaze is sharp. Assessing. Seeing more than he wants her to.

Then, without comment, she turns away and hands the next chart to Britney.

The pressure evaporates immediately.

Riley exhales slowly, the tension draining from his shoulders in a quiet, invisible collapse.

He hadn’t even realized how rigid he’d been standing.

Paula makes him nervous in a way he can’t fully articulate. It’s not fear, exactly. Not of punishment. Not of cruelty.

It’s fear of being seen too clearly.

Fear that she might notice the cracks.

He shifts his grip on the clipboard and glances sideways at Britney, but she’s already absorbed in her chart, brow furrowed in concentration, lips pursed slightly as she reads.

He looks down at his own.

Emergency Bay 1

Male. Late sixties.

Possible fractured arm.

Patient is afraid of hospitals.

Riley stares at the last line.

He reads it once.

Twice.

Three times.

His stomach sinks.

Of course.

Of course he’d get this patient.

He exhales slowly through his nose, the sound quiet but heavy with dread.

He’s not good at this part.

He never has been.

Not the comforting. Not the emotional management. Not the soft, reassuring voice patients seem to expect.

He doesn’t know how to make people feel safe.

He never learned.

His mind flickers backward without permission.

A sandbox.

Sun too bright.

Plastic toys scattered in the dirt.

A boy crying because he’d lost his little red matchbox car somewhere beneath the sand.

Riley remembers standing there, frozen, watching the boy’s face crumple, his small body shaking with distress.

He’d tried to help.

He’d crouched down awkwardly, patted the boy’s shoulder the way he’d seen adults do.

“It’s okay,” Riley had said.

The boy had punched him.

Hard.

Right in the arm.

“Don’t touch me,” the boy had snapped through tears.

Riley hadn’t tried again.

He’d learned quickly.

Comfort wasn’t something he knew how to give.

He blinks, returning to the present.

He glances sideways at Britney.

“My patient hates hospitals,” he says quietly.

Britney looks up immediately, her expression open and curious. “Really?”

He nods and tilts the chart slightly so she can see.

She leans closer, scanning the text.

Her nose wrinkles.

“Oh, God,” she groans softly. “Why? We’re trying to help.”

Riley shrugs, the motion small and helpless.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “But… I’m not good at that.”

Britney straightens, tilting her head.

“At what?”

He hesitates.

Struggles to put the shapeless discomfort into words.

“The… comfort thing,” he says finally. “I’m not the guy for that.”

It sounds pathetic the moment it leaves his mouth.

Britney’s eyebrows shoot up, her expression shifting instantly to something almost offended.

“You were great when Rory broke up with me.”

Riley blinks.

“That was different.”

“Was it?”

“Yes,” he says simply. “Rory sucked.”

She lets out a startled laugh despite herself.

“But you still comforted me,” she presses. “You brought ice cream. You sat with me. We watched Kitchen Nightmares for like six hours.”

Riley shrugs, shoulders curling inward slightly.

“I saw it in a movie.”

Britney stares at him for a second.

Then she laughs again, softer this time.

“Well,” she says, reaching out and patting his shoulder gently, “then pretend you’re in a movie.”

He frowns faintly.

“What?”

“You don’t have to mean it,” she says simply. “You just have to be there. That’s most of it.”

Her hand lingers for half a second longer.

Warm.

Steady.

Grounding.

“As long as he doesn’t have a panic attack,” she adds lightly, “that’s a win.”

Riley lets out a slow breath.

He doesn’t feel reassured.

But he feels… less alone.

Which is something.

He nods faintly.

Closes the chart.

Adjusts his grip.

He offers Britney a small smile—careful, controlled, something he hopes looks convincing enough to pass.

She returns it instantly, bright and genuine.

He turns away before it can fade.

The walk to Emergency Bay 1 feels longer than it should.

Each step deliberate.

Measured.

The sounds of the ER swell around him—monitors beeping, footsteps echoing, voices overlapping, the constant hum of fluorescent lights overhead.

Life and crisis unfolding simultaneously.

He pauses outside the curtain.

His fingers tighten slightly around the clipboard.

He inhales.

Exhales.

And pushes inside.

He forces a smile onto his lips before he even fully looks at the man.

It’s automatic now—that small, polite upward curve. Something neutral. Something safe. The kind of smile that says I am not a threat. I am not here to hurt you.

The man sitting on the edge of the medical bed looks older than late sixties. Stress does that to people. Pain does that. His hair is thin and grey, combed back carefully as if that still matters to him. His shoulders are rigid beneath a flannel shirt that’s been cut down the sleeve by triage. The fabric hangs awkwardly, exposing a thick, mottled forearm already swelling unnaturally.

But it’s the brows that catch Riley.

They’re drawn tight together, bowed in the middle like a child bracing for a scolding. The man’s mouth is set in a thin line, jaw clenched hard enough to show the muscle ticking near his ear.

He looks… scared.

Scared of the room.

Scared of the machines.

Scared of Riley.

The thought almost makes Riley laugh.

No one has ever been scared of him.

He’s five-foot-eight on a good day. Soft-spoken. Slight. He looks like he should still be asking permission to stay up past midnight. He’s been overlooked in classrooms, in conversations, in entire relationships.

And yet this grown man looks at him like he’s holding a weapon.

“Are you a doctor?” the man asks cautiously, voice low and guarded.

Riley nods gently. He keeps his movements slow, deliberate.

“I’m a resident,” he says. “My name’s Riley.”

He doesn’t tack on Dr. Brooks.

He never does.

It feels too heavy in his mouth.

He sets the clipboard down on the counter and reaches for the stiff blue curtains, drawing them closed one at a time. The metal rings scrape faintly along the track overhead. The small space narrows, becomes private.

Contained.

He’s careful not to box the man in.

He leaves a small gap open near the entrance.

“Looks like a possible fracture, sir,” Riley says, keeping his voice even, unhurried. “How’s the pain?”

The man blinks at him several times, as if recalibrating.

“It hurts,” he says finally.

Honest. Blunt.

Riley nods once.

“On a scale of one to ten?”

There’s always something absurd about that question, he thinks. Reducing pain to numbers. Trying to make something so personal feel measurable.

“Eight,” the man replies stiffly.

Riley notices the subtle shift—the way the man leans back slightly when Riley steps closer with the chair. Not dramatically. Just enough to widen the space between them.

Riley doesn’t close it.

He keeps a careful distance.

“I’m going to have to look at your arm,” he says calmly. “I won’t do anything without telling you first.”

The man’s eyes flicker down to his own arm. Suspicion flashes there. Wariness.

Hospitals mean surrender.

Bright lights. Needles. People hovering over you while you lie flat and exposed.

After a moment, the man gives a tight nod.

Riley moves closer slowly, telegraphing every motion. He reaches for the forearm gently, his touch light at first, testing tolerance before applying any pressure.

The man inhales sharply through his nose.

Riley adjusts immediately.

“I’m just checking alignment,” he murmurs. “Tell me if it spikes.”

It spikes.

The wince is immediate. A muscle tremor runs up the man’s arm as Riley palpates along the ulna. The swelling is pronounced. The skin is already bruising deep purple and black around the midpoint.

There’s deformity there.

Subtle.

But unmistakable.

Riley’s stomach drops clinically, not emotionally.

Definitely fractured.

Possibly displaced.

Possibly multiple breaks.

He shifts his grip to stabilize the wrist, careful, precise.

“How long have you been a doctor?” the man asks suddenly.

The question catches Riley off guard. He glances up briefly.

The man isn’t looking at him.

He’s staring at the far curtain, jaw tight, a sheen of sweat gathering along his temples. His good hand is clenched into a fist on his thigh.

Distraction.

He’s talking to avoid focusing on the pain.

Riley recognizes it instantly.

He nods slightly to himself and answers evenly.

“I’ve been here a few months,” he says, eyes back on the arm. “Started in February.”

The man nods, swallowing.

“Do you enjoy it?”

The question is softer this time.

Genuine.

Riley pauses for half a second.

He doesn’t think about it long.

“I do,” he replies honestly.

And he does.

Despite everything.

Despite the exhaustion.

Despite the bathroom stalls.

Despite the way his chest feels hollow most mornings.

He loves the medicine.

He loves the clarity of it. The logic. The steps. The problem-solving. The way there is always a next move.

The man hisses as Riley adjusts the angle slightly to assess mobility.

“Sorry,” Riley says immediately. “That was me.”

The man nods tightly, eyes squeezed shut now.

“You look young,” he says gruffly.

Riley huffs a quiet breath that almost resembles amusement.

“I turned twenty-four in June.”

There’s a scoff.

“You don’t look a day over my nephew. He’s seventeen.”

It isn’t cruel.

Just observational.

Riley forces a small smile anyway.

“I get that a lot.”

He finishes his assessment and gently lowers the man’s arm back onto the padded armrest. He supports the wrist fully, ensuring no additional strain is placed on the fracture site.

The bruising is darkening by the minute.

There’s already visible instability.

This will need imaging.

Likely surgery.

Soon.

He can tell within thirty seconds flat.

He steps back slightly, giving the man space again.

“I’m fairly certain it’s fractured,” Riley says calmly. “Possibly in more than one place. We’ll get an X-ray to confirm, but I’m going to page ortho.”

The man’s breathing quickens slightly.

Surgery hangs unspoken in the air.

Riley sees it.

The flicker of fear.

The tightening of shoulders.

Hospitals mean loss of control.

Riley understands that better than most.

He adjusts his tone subtly.

“We’ll manage your pain first,” he says. “You won’t be left like this.”

The man’s eyes dart to him.

Searching.

Measuring.

Riley doesn’t look away.

He keeps his posture steady. Open. Non-threatening.

He realizes something quietly, unexpectedly.

He isn’t uncomfortable right now. He isn’t scrambling for words. He isn’t panicking about what to say.

He’s… present. He knows what to do here. He knows how to explain. How to pace. How to move.

This makes sense to him. Pain makes sense to him. Broken things make sense to him.

It’s the soft parts that don’t. The man swallows again.

“You’re sure?” he asks quietly. “About knowing what you’re doing?”

The question isn’t accusatory. It’s frightened. Riley considers him for a long moment.

Then he nods once.

“Yeah,” he says simply.

And this time, there’s no forced smile. Just certainty. The man studies him.

Really studies him.

And for the first time since Riley walked in, the tension in his brows eases slightly.

Not gone. But less sharp. Less bowed. He nods.

“Alright,” he says.

Riley turns slightly toward the computer to put in the orders, fingers moving efficiently across the keyboard.

Behind him, he hears the man’s breathing begin to level out.

Not calm. But steadier. Riley doesn’t know exactly what he did differently.

He didn’t quote a movie. He didn’t offer ice cream. He didn’t pretend.

He just… stayed.

Maybe that’s enough.

Then the speaker system crackles to life.

There’s always something ominous about that first burst of static—like the hospital itself drawing breath.

“Code Grey. Emergency Bay 4. Code Grey. Emergency Bay 4. All available doctors to Emergency Bay 4.”

The words echo through the corridor, clinical and calm despite their meaning.

Violent patient.

Riley’s heart thumps once—hard.

The older man on the bed looks at him immediately, eyes widening slightly.

“What’s that mean?” he asks.

Riley’s brain switches tracks in an instant.

He stands smoothly, careful not to let urgency bleed into his movements.

“It just means someone needs extra help,” he says evenly. “I’ll be back.”

He doesn’t rush the sentence. Doesn’t let it wobble.

The older man studies him for a second, searching for something—fear, maybe. Uncertainty.

Riley gives him none.

The man nods slowly.

Riley steps toward the curtain, pauses briefly, and draws it shut with deliberate calm. The rings scrape softly along the rail. He ensures the arm is supported properly one last time before stepping out.

The second the curtain seals him out of view—

He runs.

Not a sprint. Not chaotic.

But fast.

The hallway stretches longer than it did minutes ago. Fluorescent lights flash overhead in rapid intervals as his joggers squeak faintly against polished linoleum. His pulse is loud in his ears now, the earlier steadiness replaced with sharp, electric alertness.

As he nears Bay 4, he hears it.

Shouting.

Deep, furious, guttural.

Something crashes against metal.

A woman’s voice—Paula’s—raised, commanding, but not panicked.

Riley’s stomach drops.

He pushes the door open.

And everything fractures into motion.

There’s a man—mid-forties, maybe early fifties—dark hair matted against his forehead with sweat. His clothes are filthy, stained, torn at the collar. His eyes are wild. Bloodshot. Unfocused. He’s pacing in tight, erratic bursts beside the gurney like a trapped animal.

A security guard stands near the door, arms out, ready.

Two nurses hover on either side, tense but trained.

Paula stands closest.

Of course she does.

The man is shouting obscenities, words slurring together, spittle flying from his mouth as he points violently at no one and everyone.

“You’re not touching me—don’t touch me—get away from me!”

He lurches forward suddenly, too close to one of the nurses. She flinches but doesn’t retreat.

“Strap him down,” Paula announces sharply, her voice slicing through the chaos. She reaches beneath the gurney and yanks out the restraints in one fluid motion.

The word *strap* detonates something in the man.

His entire body swells with panic. His chest heaves. He shoves forward violently, trying to knock Paula backward.

The security guard moves.

So does one of the nurses.

“Brooks, I need hands,” Paula snaps.

The sound of his name slices through Riley’s shock like a blade.

He nods once—automatic—and steps forward.

He grabs the man’s right arm.

The muscle beneath his fingers is corded, strong. Much stronger than Riley expected. The man thrashes instantly, trying to wrench free.

Riley plants his feet and holds.

His arms shake from the effort almost immediately. The man’s strength is fueled by something volatile—fear, drugs, adrenaline.

The room smells like sweat and aggression.

“Hold him!” someone shouts.

Riley tightens his grip, trying to pin the arm against the mattress.

For half a second, it works.

Then the man twists with violent precision.

His other arm breaks free.

There’s no time to react.

No time to duck.

A fist connects with Riley’s face.

Hard.

Blinding white light explodes across his vision.

It feels like the world cracks open.

The impact is instant and absolute. A shockwave of pain detonates through his cheekbone, up into his eye socket. His head snaps sideways violently. The taste of metal floods his mouth.

And then—

He’s on the floor.

He doesn’t remember falling.

The tile is cold beneath his palms. The ceiling spins in nauseating, fluorescent circles. Sound compresses into a sharp, piercing ring that overtakes everything else.

For a second, he doesn’t understand what happened.

Then the pain blooms fully.

Hot.

Searing.

Radiating from his cheek into his temple.

He blinks hard, but his vision swims. The room tilts sideways, bodies moving above him like shadows underwater.

He touches his face instinctively.

His fingers come away dark red.

Blood.

He’s been punched.

The realization lands slowly, thick and distant.

“Brooks!”

Paula’s voice cuts through the ringing, distorted but urgent.

He tries to push himself up.

His arms wobble.

The floor shifts beneath him.

He swallows hard, forcing the dizziness down.

Not now.

He can’t stay down.

Not here.

He plants his palm firmly and shoves himself upright. The world lurches but steadies enough for him to orient.

The man is still flailing.

Still swearing.

Still trying to break free.

Riley steps back in.

This time, he goes low.

He grabs both of the man’s legs at the ankles and pins them hard against the mattress, using his body weight to keep them still.

His cheek throbs in brutal pulses. His eye is already swelling; he can feel the skin tightening.

He doesn’t care.

One of the nurses moves fast—expert hands, practiced precision. A syringe appears. The needle sinks cleanly into the side of the man’s neck.

There’s a split second where nothing changes.

Then the fight drains.

Not instantly.

But steadily.

The man’s limbs weaken, resistance faltering. His shouts dissolve into slurred muttering. His body slumps heavily against the mattress as the sedative takes hold.

He’s still swearing.

But softer now.

Distant.

Everyone holds their position for several seconds longer, ensuring he won’t surge again.

Then, slowly, hands release.

The room exhales as one organism.

The security guard steps back.

The nurses move efficiently, securing restraints properly this time.

Riley remains crouched for a moment, breathing hard.

His pulse is pounding in his ears again—this time from adrenaline.

Paula stands upright, hands planted firmly on her hips.

She’s breathing heavily, chest rising and falling beneath her lab coat. A flush has climbed into her cheeks.

Her eyes are blazing.

Riley has never seen her look angry before.

Not annoyed.

Not stern.

Angry.

Not at the patient.

At the loss of control.

At the chaos.

Her jaw is tight.

For a split second, Riley thinks she might start shouting.

Instead, she inhales deeply and regains herself.

Then she turns.

Her gaze lands on him.

His cheek is already swelling visibly. Blood trails down toward his jaw, dripping slowly onto the collar of his scrubs.

Their eyes lock.

And for just a flicker of a moment—

There it is.

Something softer.

Not pity.

Concern.

It vanishes almost immediately beneath professionalism.

“Go clean yourself up, Brooks,” she says firmly.

Not sharp.

Not scolding.

Directive.

He nods once.

His head throbs when he moves it.

He doesn’t speak.

He turns and walks toward the door, steady on his feet despite the way the hallway wavers slightly in his peripheral vision.

The adrenaline is fading now.

Leaving behind the pain.

Leaving behind a deep, tremoring awareness in his chest.

He’d been scared.

Not of the punch.

Of failing.

Of freezing.

Of not being useful.

But he hadn’t frozen.

He’d gotten back up.

The fluorescent lights feel harsher now as he steps into the corridor. The ER noise resumes around him, indifferent to what just happened.

Somewhere behind him, Bay 4 settles into controlled quiet.

Riley presses a hand lightly against his throbbing cheek.

It comes away streaked red again.

He exhales slowly.

Then he walks toward the staff bathroom to clean the blood off his face.

He avoids looking at the fourth stall.

The furthest one. The one at the back.

The metal door with the faint scratch near the handle. The hinge that squeaks just slightly when opened too quickly. The tile beneath it that’s cracked at the corner.

He knows that stall.

Michael knows that stall.

He doesn’t let his eyes drift that far.

He keeps them fixed on the sinks instead.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, harsh and unforgiving, turning the white tile an almost surgical shade of pale. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and something older beneath it—bleach layered over years of hospital use.

He steps forward and leans over the sink.

Turns the tap on.

Cold water rushes out in a steady stream.

He brings his hands beneath it.

The second the water hits his skin, the red blooms outward like ink dropped into milk. The basin fills with diluted crimson, swirling down the drain in thin spirals.

Riley watches it, detached.

It looks dramatic.

Too dramatic.

His knuckles sting where they must have scraped tile. His cheek pulses in time with his heartbeat, deep and vicious.

He lifts his head slowly and looks into the mirror.

It looks worse than it felt.

His left eye is already swelling, the skin tightening and rising beneath the lid. The cheekbone below it is darkening rapidly, bruising spreading like spilled wine under pale skin. Blood has tracked from the split near his brow down along his jaw and into the collar of his scrubs.

He looks—

Fragile.

Small.

Like someone who shouldn’t have been in that room.

He reaches up and yanks down on the paper towel dispenser. The mechanism clacks loudly in the quiet bathroom before spitting out a stiff sheet.

He folds it in half automatically.

Runs it under cold water.

Brings it carefully toward his cheek.

The second it touches skin—

He hisses.

A sharp, involuntary sound that escapes before he can swallow it. The cold bites against the split, against the swelling. The pain spikes bright and white behind his eye.

He presses anyway.

The towel stains instantly, red spreading outward in irregular blotches. He pulls it away and stares at it.

How was he supposed to fix this?

He’d treated concussions.

He’d sutured lacerations.

He’d assessed facial fractures.

But he’d never been the one bleeding.

He’d never been the one hit.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with that.

The water in the basin is darker now. The porcelain tinted pink-red. For a ridiculous second, anxiety flickers through him.

Is he staining it?

Is it going to leave a mark?

He reaches for more paper towel quickly, almost frantically, folding another square with shaking fingers.

The door squeaks open.

The sound slices through him.

Riley turns too fast.

His heart nearly stops.

Why now.

Why, of all moments, now?

The man standing in the doorway fills it.

Dr. Rowan Heath.

Chief of Emergency Medicine.

Riley has never spoken to him.

Has barely seen him properly—only glimpses in hallways, broad shoulders disappearing around corners, the back of a navy hoodie moving with quiet authority.

Now he’s standing five feet away.

And Riley is bleeding into a sink like an idiot.

Dr. Heath is tall.

That’s the first thing that hits him.

Not just taller than Riley.

Not just taller than Britney.

Tall enough that the doorframe feels smaller behind him. Broad through the shoulders. Solid. Built like someone who lifts heavy things without thinking about it.

His beard is salt and pepper—dark threaded with grey—and trimmed neatly along a sharp jaw. His brows are darker, thick and expressive. His skin is tanned in a way that suggests he sees sunlight occasionally, unlike most of them.

His navy hoodie stretches subtly across his chest and upper arms. Not tight—just… filled. His name badge sits over his left pectoral:

Dr. Rowan Heath

Chief of Emergency Medicine

The title alone makes Riley’s stomach twist.

He realizes he’s staring.

Really staring.

Up close, Dr. Heath is… unfair.

Too attractive.

Too real.

Too close to the kind of men Riley scrolls past on dating apps at two in the morning, thumb hovering but never swiping right. Too close to the fantasies he doesn’t let himself linger on for long.

Older.

Bigger.

Grounded.

The kind of presence that feels like gravity.

Riley feels it immediately—an itch in his brain. A spark he does not want.

A seed.

One he knows, instinctively, will root whether he wants it to or not.

Shame floods him.

He jerks his gaze back to the sink, face heating despite the swelling.

He scrubs at the porcelain with a wet towel uselessly, trying to clear the diluted blood before it leaves some permanent mark.

He wants to evaporate.

“What happened?”

The voice hits him low in the spine.

Gravelly.

Deep.

Resonant.

It vibrates in the small tiled room.

Riley glances at him despite himself.

“Code Grey,” he says, forcing his tone steady.

Dr. Heath nods once, slow.

He steps fully into the bathroom. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that feels louder than it should.

The room shrinks.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Gruff. Direct. Not dramatic.

Riley opens his mouth.

Closes it.

He doesn’t actually know the answer.

Is he okay?

His face hurts. His head aches. His pride is dented. His pulse is still erratic from adrenaline.

He nods anyway.

“I’m fine.”

Dr. Heath raises one eyebrow.

“That looks like it hurts.”

Riley lets out a weak, breathy laugh.

“It does.”

The honesty slips out before he can dress it up.

Dr. Heath’s gaze shifts to the sink. The blood-tinged water. The soggy paper towels piled beside the drain.

Riley’s stomach twists again.

“I’m sorry,” he blurts.

Dr. Heath frowns slightly.

“For what?”

“The sink,” Riley mutters, shoulders sinking. “I— I didn’t mean to—”

The laugh that leaves Dr. Heath catches him completely off guard.

It’s short. Real. Warm in a way Riley didn’t expect.

“I don’t give a shit about the sink, kid,” he says, sliding his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. “We can clean a sink.”

Kid.

The word hits strangely.

Riley swallows.

He nods faintly and brings another damp towel to his cheek. He tries pressing more firmly this time.

The pain flares instantly.

His breath catches.

He huffs in frustration, jaw tightening. He wants to throw the towel. Wants to slam his fist into something. Wants the swelling to stop spreading in real time beneath his skin.

He doesn’t.

He just stands there, fighting the tremor rising in his chest.

Dr. Heath shifts closer.

Not invading.

But near enough that Riley feels the heat from his body.

He holds out a large hand.

“Let me help.”

The hand is big.

Broad palm. Long fingers. Calloused in places.

Steady.

Riley looks up at him fully for the first time.

His eyes are brown.

Not flat brown.

Deep brown.

Like whiskey held up to light. Like soil turned over in the dark. There are flecks of gold near the center that catch under the fluorescent glare.

Riley forgets how to breathe for half a second.

Dr. Heath raises an eyebrow again.

That snaps him back.

He swallows and silently hands over the paper towel.

His fingers brush Dr. Heath’s briefly as he does.

The contact is minimal.

But it lands heavier than the punch did.

Dr. Heath takes the paper towel without another word.

He turns back to the sink, runs it under cold water, wrings it out once with practiced efficiency. The motion is unhurried. Controlled. Like he has all the time in the world.

Like Riley isn’t vibrating out of his skin.

Rowan—*Dr. Heath*—steps closer.

Closer than necessary.

He reaches up and, without ceremony, slides one hand to the back of Riley’s head.

Not rough.

Not possessive.

Just firm enough to anchor.

His palm spreads across the back of Riley’s skull, fingers threading lightly into the curls at the base of his neck, thumb settling near his ear. The contact is warm. Solid. Grounding.

Riley freezes.

His heart flutters violently against his ribs, stuttering like it’s unsure of its rhythm. Heat rushes from his collarbone up into his face despite the swelling.

He is suddenly, acutely aware of how small he is.

How easily that hand covers the back of his head.

How trapped he feels—not in danger, but in proximity.

Rowan tilts his head slightly, guiding Riley’s face toward the light.

“Hold still.”

The words are low, almost absentminded.

Riley obeys instantly.

He doesn’t know if it’s authority or instinct.

Maybe both.

The damp towel presses gently against the cut near his brow.

He hisses again, softer this time.

Rowan’s hand tightens imperceptibly at the back of his head—not restraining, just steadying.

“Yeah,” Rowan murmurs. “That’s gonna sting.”

He doesn’t look at Riley much.

His eyes stay trained on the wound.

Clinical. Focused. Detached in the way of someone who has seen far worse.

Riley watches him instead.

Watches the crease between his brows deepen slightly as he assesses the bleeding. Watches the way his jaw flexes when he presses more firmly to test clotting. Watches the tiny exhale through his nose when the blood wells again.

He smells faintly like soap and something woodsy beneath it.

Clean. Warm.

Safe.

Rowan dabs again.

And again.

The towel blooms red.

He frowns—just barely.

“What’s your name?” he asks, voice rough but neutral.

Riley swallows.

His mouth feels dry. Desert-dry. Like he hasn’t had water in days.

“Riley,” he manages. “Riley Brooks.”

Rowan nods once.

“I’m Rowan Heath.”

Riley almost laughs.

Almost.

As if he wouldn’t know.

As if Rowan Heath isn’t practically mythologized in the ER. The attending who built the department into what it is. The one who takes the worst traumas himself. The one who never raises his voice but never needs to.

As if Riley hasn’t overheard nurses call him “the backbone of this place.”

But Riley doesn’t say any of that.

He just nods.

“Yeah. I know.”

Rowan’s mouth twitches faintly at that.

He steps back half a pace to evaluate the bleeding from a slight distance—but his hand never leaves the back of Riley’s head.

Instead, he leans down.

And Riley doesn’t mean bends a little.

He genuinely bends, lowering himself to eye level with the injury. His face comes closer. Close enough that Riley can see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough that he can count individual flecks of gold in the brown of his irises.

Rowan squints slightly, examining.

Riley feels like he’s under a microscope.

Like every pore is being catalogued.

The hand at the back of his head shifts subtly, fingers adjusting in his curls to keep him angled correctly. The size difference is almost absurd. Rowan’s palm nearly spans the entire back of his skull. Riley can feel the warmth of his skin through his hair. The pressure is firm but careful.

Protective.

“You split it pretty good,” Rowan says finally, casual as if commenting on weather. “Not deep enough for stitches, but it’s not gonna behave on its own.”

Riley’s pulse is racing.

His heart is hammering so hard he’s certain Rowan must feel it through the contact.

He tries to focus on something neutral.

The hum of the lights.

The drip of the faucet.

Anything other than the hand holding him steady.

“You’ll need to be patched up,” Rowan continues evenly. “Come with me. There’s a first aid bag down the hall.”

The tone is matter-of-fact.

Completely at odds with the storm in Riley’s chest.

Rowan releases him.

The absence of the hand is immediate.

Cold.

Riley almost sways from the sudden loss of contact.

Rowan tosses the soaked towel into the bin and wipes his hands once on a clean sheet before turning toward the door.

He steps out into the hallway.

Then pauses in the doorway.

He glances back.

Just once.

Checking.

Making sure Riley is following.

Riley would have followed him anywhere in that moment.

He straightens instinctively, ignoring the dull throb in his face, and steps after him.

The hallway feels brighter now.

Louder.

But Rowan walks with steady, grounded strides, and Riley falls into step behind him, acutely aware of the space between them.

And of the space that just closed inside him.

“Is that patient restrained now?” Dr. Heath asks as they walk, his brow drawn tight in concentration.

He doesn’t look at Riley when he asks.

He looks through doorways.

Into bays.

Over shoulders.

Always scanning.

Always calculating.

Riley keeps pace beside him, one step half-behind, instinctively matching the longer stride.

“Yeah,” Riley answers, his voice steadier than he feels. “Charli hit him with Midazolam.”

There’s the faintest nod.

“Smart girl,” Rowan says.

It isn’t praise thrown carelessly. It sounds measured. Considered. As if he files that information away somewhere mental and precise.

They pass Bay 2. A nurse adjusting an IV line. Rowan’s eyes flick there.

Bay 3. An elderly woman sleeping. His gaze checks the monitor without slowing.

He is always watching.

Riley doesn’t speak again.

He just walks.

His cheek burns. Every pulse feels like a small hammer striking bone. His vision is narrowed slightly on the left side; the swelling has crept higher toward his brow. The world feels subtly lopsided.

But he doesn’t stop.

He doesn’t complain.

Even though part of him wants to peel away from this hallway entirely.

Wants to vanish.

Wants to run from the feeling in his chest.

From Rowan.

From himself.

Rowan stops abruptly at the wall-mounted first aid cabinet.

Riley almost collides with him.

He catches himself at the last second, shoes squeaking faintly as he stumbles half a step back.

Rowan doesn’t notice.

Or if he does, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

He pulls the zipper of the first aid bag down in one smooth motion and begins rummaging through it with efficient familiarity.

Riley takes another small step back.

His gaze drops automatically to the floor.

He lets Rowan search.

After a moment, Rowan straightens slightly, holding two large adhesive strips and a small antiseptic spray bottle between his fingers.

Riley’s eyes lift.

And stay there.

On Rowan’s hands.

He doesn’t mean to stare.

He knows he shouldn’t.

But he does.

Rowan’s hands are large—broad palms, thick fingers, knuckles pronounced but not delicate. His skin is tanned, the tone warm even under fluorescent light. There’s a faint scar running diagonally across the back of his right hand, pale and old, barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it.

Riley is looking.

He notices the slight ridge where the skin healed imperfectly.

Decades old, he thinks before he can stop himself.

Older than me.

The realization lands heavy in his chest.

That scar could have happened before Riley learned to tie his shoes.

Before he understood what sex was.

Before he learned to hide.

And something about that makes his shoulders sag.

He feels suddenly, acutely young.

Small.

Inappropriate.

What is wrong with you?

The voice in his head is vicious.

He’s bleeding in a hallway. He was just punched. He’s on shift. This is his superior. His boss’s boss.

And his mind is cataloguing the shape of Rowan’s hands.

Disgust crawls through him.

He isn’t just distracted.

He’s unprofessional.

A bad doctor.

A stereotype waiting to happen.

He grits his teeth hard enough that his jaw aches.

Rowan sprays antiseptic onto a cotton pad.

The sharp medicinal smell hits immediately.

He steps closer again.

This time, Riley forces his heart to stay calm.

Forces it.

Pushes anger at himself into the space where panic tries to bloom.

You don’t get to feel this.

Not now.

Not here.

Rowan lifts his hand and steadies Riley’s chin—not as intimately as before, just enough to angle his face toward the light.

The cotton pad touches the cut.

It burns.

Hot and sharp and immediate.

Riley doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t hiss.

Doesn’t pull away.

He just stands there.

Still.

Rowan pauses.

Barely.

A fraction of a second.

But Riley notices.

He always notices shifts like that.

Rowan’s eyes flick upward briefly, as if expecting a reaction that doesn’t come.

Then he resumes, methodical and quiet.

Riley doesn’t know why he isn’t reacting.

Maybe he thinks he deserves it.

Maybe part of him welcomes the sting.

An instant punishment for the thoughts he shouldn’t have had.

For the way his gaze lingered.

For the itch in his brain that refuses to die.

He swallows and keeps breathing evenly.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Rowan presses gently to test the bleeding again.

Satisfied, he peels the backing off one of the adhesive strips.

The sound is small but loud in the hallway silence.

He smooths it over the cut with careful precision, pressing along the edges to seal it properly.

The contact is brief.

Professional.

Impersonal.

And yet Riley feels every second of it like static under his skin.

“There,” Rowan murmurs.

He steps back.

And the space between them opens.

Riley’s lungs feel like they finally unlock.

He hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath.

Rowan wipes his fingers once with a clean pad, then drops the used materials into the trash can beside them.

He looks Riley over fully now.

Assessing.

Checking pupil symmetry. Swelling progression. Balance.

“Any dizziness?” Rowan asks.

Riley hesitates.

There was.

There still is, faintly.

But he shakes his head.

“I’m okay.”

Rowan studies him a second longer than necessary.

He doesn’t call him out on it.

He nods once.

“Keep an eye on it,” he says gruffly. “If it starts throbbing worse, you tell someone. And don’t let it get infected.”

“Yes, sir,” Riley replies automatically.

Rowan’s mouth twitches slightly at the formality, but he doesn’t comment.

He gives Riley one last once-over.

Then he turns.

And walks back down the hallway.

His stride is steady. Grounded. Confident.

He disappears around the corner.

And Riley stands there.

Still.

The air feels different now.

Thinner.

A tremor runs through him suddenly, subtle but undeniable. Not from fear. Not from pain.

From something else.

Something unsettled.

He doesn’t want to think about it.

Doesn’t want to dissect the way his pulse shifted when Rowan touched him.

Doesn’t want to examine the relief he felt when he stepped back.

Doesn’t want to acknowledge the flicker of something that felt dangerously close to being seen.

He exhales shakily.

Just go home.

Just finish the shift.

Just survive the next three hours.

He glances up at the clock mounted above the nurses’ station.

Three hours.

He groans under his breath, head tipping forward in quiet agitation.

Three hours feels like an eternity.

And yet he knows he’ll endure them.

He always does.

The hours pass slowly.

Not quietly.

Not gently.

But slowly.

Friday nights in Emergency are a living thing—breathing, swelling, collapsing, rising again. Every bay fills and empties in uneven rhythms. Stretchers roll in faster than they roll out. The air grows thick with antiseptic, sweat, adrenaline, and something metallic that never quite leaves.

Riley throws himself into it.

It’s easier that way.

He pops a dislocated shoulder back into place for a university student who tripped over a curb outside a pub. The joint slides home with a sickening clunk that makes the patient yelp and then sob in relief. Riley keeps his voice steady, gives instructions, checks neurovascular status. His movements are automatic. Precise.

He stitches a jagged laceration along a construction worker’s scalp. Blood mats thick hair. The fluorescent light glints off the curved needle as he threads and pulls, threads and pulls. His hands don’t shake.

They never shake when it’s someone else.

He kneels on the tile floor beside a gurney, holding a plastic bucket while a middle-aged woman retches violently into it. He rubs her back in slow circles without thinking. Counts her breaths between spasms. Asks about recent food intake. Keeps her hair out of her face.

He moves.

Constantly.

Orders labs. Reviews scans. Signs off discharge papers. Answers questions.

His cheek throbs the entire time.

Every time he glances at a monitor screen, he catches a distorted reflection of himself—one eye swollen, adhesive strip pale against bruising skin. He ignores it.

He ignores the glances, too.

Because there are glances.

Subtle.

Quick.

Some sympathetic.

Some curious.

Some evaluating.

Word travels fast in the ER.

It always does.

It’s technically good—information moves quickly, safety improves.

But it also means that nothing stays private.

Three nurses had been in that bay when he hit the floor.

Security had seen.

Paula had seen.

Charli had seen.

Britney would know.

Of course she would.

Even if she hadn’t been told, she’d see his face the second he walked into the unit.

And that’s what gnaws at him.

Not that she’ll find out.

But that he won’t get to choose how.

That he won’t get to control the narrative.

He replays it in his head while he washes his hands between patients.

Did he hesitate?

Was he too slow grabbing the arm?

Did he look scared?

Did he freeze for a second too long?

He can’t remember clearly. It’s fragmented—white flash, tile floor, ringing.

Would they say he did?

Would they say he got dropped too easily?

That he’s too small for situations like that?

Riley clenches his jaw.

He wants to punch something.

He doesn’t.

He moves to the lockers when his shift finally, finally ends.

The break room is quieter now. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in tired blue-white. A few lockers slam shut at the far end as other residents leave in small clusters.

He moves slower here.

The adrenaline is gone.

All that’s left is fatigue.

Bone-deep. Pressing behind his eyes.

He opens his locker and pulls out his jacket. The fabric feels heavier than usual in his hands.

Britney always finishes an hour before him.

She’ll be waiting at the units.

Probably sprawled across the couch. Probably scrolling on her phone. Probably pretending she’s not waiting.

She’ll see his face immediately.

He braces himself for it.

For the gasp.

For the outrage.

For the questions.

He doesn’t know if he can handle it tonight.

He doesn’t know if he can hold himself together if someone actually looks at him too closely.

He shrugs into his jacket slowly.

The material brushes against his skin, grounding. Familiar.

He takes a deep breath.

He has to be normal.

For Britney.

He can’t unravel in front of her.

He wants to.

God, he wants to.

He wants to curl up somewhere quiet and cry until the pressure in his chest finally breaks open.

He hasn’t cried properly in months.

There hasn’t been space for it.

No privacy.

No stillness.

Which is probably a good thing.

Because he’s not sure he’d stop once he started.

Sometimes it all hits him at the end of a shift.

The noise drops away.

The purpose fades.

And what’s left is… emptiness.

A question he doesn’t know how to answer.

Why am I here?

Why this?

Why me?

He thinks about home.

About white tablecloths ironed stiff for Sunday dinners.

About honey dissolving slowly into steaming tea.

About his dog’s weight against his legs on the couch.

About his older sisters arguing softly in the kitchen, teasing him, calling him dramatic.

He doesn’t think about his father.

He never does.

He shuts that door in his mind before it can even open.

Riley closes his locker a little too hard.

The metal clang echoes in the room.

He flinches at the sound.

He presses his palm flat against the cool steel for a second, steadying himself.

Then he focuses on the feel of his jacket on his shoulders. The weight of his keys in his pocket. The dull ache in his face that proves he’s still here.

Still upright.

Still functioning.

He squares his shoulders.

And walks out of the ER.

The walk to the units isn’t quiet.

Cars pass in uneven bursts. Music bleeds faintly from the strip of clubs two blocks down. Someone laughs too loudly somewhere behind him. A siren wails in the distance and then fades.

But in Riley’s mind, it’s almost silent.

He does that on purpose.

He empties it out.

No replaying the punch.

No replaying Rowan’s hand at the back of his head.

No replaying the glances from nurses.

He doesn’t think.

He just sees.

It’s something he’s taught himself to do.

He does the same thing when he’s bent over in cheap motels or bathroom stalls—when he needs to disappear from what’s happening to his body. He catalogs the room. Counts objects. Lists details.

It makes everything smaller.

More manageable.

He lifts his eyes just enough to take in his surroundings.

The blinking streetlight on Jarvis Close—flickering on a half-second delay.

The way his joggers step in and out of neon puddles of light from a takeaway sign.

Two drunk girls arguing outside a club, one holding her heels in her hand, mascara streaked under her eyes.

A taxi idling at the curb.

A takeaway bag caught on a fence.

He counts them.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

He keeps walking.

The units come into view—low-rise, brick, utilitarian. A place built for temporary housing that somehow becomes permanent for most of them.

There’s a small group of residents on the steps.

He recognizes them immediately.

Second-years. A couple of interns. One of the ortho registrars.

They’re passing a cigarette between them, laughter drifting in lazy curls with the smoke.

Riley lowers his head instinctively.

Just keep walking.

Just get inside.

One of the girls looks up.

Her eyes widen immediately.

Riley feels it before he even hears her voice.

“Hey, Knees,” the red-haired girl calls out, tone syrupy-sweet. “What’s with the eye?”

His heart stops.

Completely.

Knees.

The word lands like a slap.

He freezes mid-step.

The air feels thinner.

He turns slowly.

“Knees?” he echoes, trying to keep his voice neutral.

They’re all looking at him now.

Not concerned.

Amused.

“You look fucked up,” one of the men says bluntly, taking a drag and passing the cigarette. “What happened?”

“Code Grey,” Riley replies quickly.

Too quickly.

His brain is racing now.

“What did you call me?”

They glance at each other.

And laugh.

It’s not explosive laughter.

It’s worse.

Low.

Knowing.

Inside-joke laughter.

Riley feels like he’s fourteen again. Standing in a locker room. Not understanding what everyone else understands.

“We didn’t coin it,” another guy says, mock-defensive, raising his hands slightly. “Don’t shoot the messengers.”

The red-haired girl tilts her head, smirking.

“We can workshop something else if you don’t like it,” she says lightly. “Scrub Bunny? Resident Wife?”

Riley’s stomach drops.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asks, but there’s panic under it now.

The black-haired girl rolls her eyes.

“Like you don’t know.”

“I don’t,” Riley snaps, louder than he intended.

The redhead exhales smoke through her nose.

“Michael?” she says, as if Riley is painfully slow. “You can’t have forgotten already.”

Michael.

The name detonates in his chest.

His vision narrows at the edges.

The air feels heavy, thick, impossible to pull into his lungs.

Michael told.

Michael talked.

Michael turned something private into a punchline.

They knew.

They all knew.

Riley’s pulse roars in his ears.

What did he say?

How much did he say?

Did he brag?

Did he describe?

Did he—

What if someone told Paula?

What if someone told Rowan?

What if it escalates?

What if it gets to the board?

What if he gets written up?

Fired?

Over bathroom stalls and humiliation.

Over Michael.

He feels nauseous.

He wants to run.

He wants to vanish into the concrete.

But he doesn’t move.

He plants his feet.

Even though his voice trembles slightly.

“Michael’s full of shit,” Riley says, sharper than before. “He’s a liar.”

One of the men scoffs.

“Michael’s an idiot,” he says. “He’s not a liar.”

The redhead steps down one stair, closer to Riley.

“You can’t fool us, Baby Brooks,” she says, blowing smoke directly into his face.

The nickname feels worse than Knees.

“We see you come out of the bathroom before shift,” she continues. “You’re not slick.”

Riley’s head is spinning.

His cheek throbs harder.

His stomach churns.

They’ve noticed.

They’ve been watching.

The bathroom.

The stall.

The timing.

He can’t speak.

His throat feels sealed shut.

They’re grinning.

Waiting.

Feeding off his reaction.

He’s back in school.

Back in corridors that smelled like deodorant and sweat.

Back to being the quiet one.

The easy one.

The one they pick.

He swallows hard.

But no words come.

He turns.

Abruptly.

And walks toward the building.

He hears them laugh behind him.

Cheer.

One of them calls out, “Night, Knees!”

Another adds, “Watch out for Code Grey, Baby Brooks!”

The laughter spikes again.

Riley pushes through the main door and slams it shut behind him.

The echo rattles in the stairwell.

For a second, he stands there.

Breathing hard.

The fluorescent hallway light buzzes overhead.

He can still hear muffled laughter through the door.

He doesn’t wait for it to fade.

He walks quickly toward the stairs.

Then faster.

Then—

As soon as he’s out of sight—

He runs.

Up the stairs two at a time.

His lungs burn.

His face aches.

His vision blurs.

He doesn’t stop until he reaches his floor.

And even then, he keeps moving.

Because if he stops—

He’s afraid he might actually break.

He stops outside his door. 217.

The numbers are slightly crooked on the peeling beige paint. The seven hangs lower than the one. He’s noticed that before. He notices it again now.

He stands there longer than necessary.

His key rests between his fingers, cold and unmoving.

He inhales.

Exhales. Inhales again.

He cannot fall apart in front of Britney.

He can’t. Not tonight.

Not when his face already looks like this.

Not when she already knows.

He tries to force a smile onto his face, testing it in the faint reflection of the hallway window.

It’s weak.

Unconvincing.

His cheek pulls painfully under the adhesive strip.

He drops it.

His lungs feel tight. Like he’s been running for miles instead of just up two flights of stairs.

His hatred for Michael surges back up so violently it almost makes him dizzy.

Michael. Laughing. Talking.

Telling people.

Turning Riley into a joke.

Into a nickname.

Knees.

His stomach twists.

He hates Michael.

He hates him with a depth that scares him.

Not just for telling.

But for making him vulnerable enough to be told about.

He swallows hard.

Then he unlocks the door.

The unit is dim. Only Britney’s hideous antique lamp in the corner—something she found at a thrift store and insisted had “character”—casts a warm, uneven glow across the room. The television flickers quietly in front of the couch, some late-night show playing at low volume.

Britney is curled into the corner of their sofa.

At first glance, she looks relaxed.

Blanket over her legs. Hair loose around her shoulders.

But Riley sees it immediately.

The bouncing knee. Fast. Relentless.

She’s been waiting.

For him.

She sits forward slowly when she sees his face.

Her eyes widen slightly, though she tries to keep it subtle.

“That looks bad.”

Her voice is softer than usual.

Careful.

Riley closes the door behind him gently.

The click echoes louder than it should.

He shrugs out of his jacket slowly, every movement deliberate.

“You already knew,” he says quietly.

It isn’t accusatory. Just tired.

Britney nods once. “Yeah,” she admits. “I heard.”

Of course she did.

The ER is a sieve.

She’s quiet for a long moment, watching him. “Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head immediately.

“It’s part of the job.”

The words feel rehearsed.

Safe.

Clinical.

Britney’s expression shifts. Softens.

Then tightens with something like frustration.

“Doesn’t matter, Riley,” she says gently. “You got assaulted. You know that, right?”

The word hits him wrong.

Assaulted.

It sounds too big. Too dramatic.

Too victim.

He hangs his jacket on the hook, avoiding her eyes. “I got punched,” he says flatly. “Most guys do.”

He hates the word assault.

It makes him feel weak.

He adds, more earnestly and with a tired exhale, “Honestly, I’m just glad it wasn’t one of the girls.”

Britney studies him. “Did he try?” she asks, leaning forward slightly.

Riley lets out a humorless scoff.

“He was going for everyone. Don’t think it mattered.”

He walks toward the fridge because standing still feels impossible.

He needs something to do with his hands. He opens it.

The light inside flicks on, illuminating the near-empty shelves.

Half a carton of milk.

A wilting bag of spinach.

Two eggs.

Leftover takeaway containers he doesn’t trust anymore.

“Have you eaten?” he asks, still facing the fridge.

“No,” Britney says quietly. “I was waiting for you.”

That lands somewhere deep in his chest.

He nods faintly. 

“We don’t have much.”

“Yeah,” he mutters in agreement. 

He stares into the fridge for another few seconds like something miraculous might appear.

It doesn’t.

He closes it gently.

Then he pulls his phone from his pocket and hands it to her.

“Just order something,” he says. “I’m going to shower.”

Britney takes the phone, but she doesn’t look down at it right away.

She looks at him.

Really looks at him.

Like she’s trying to decide whether to push.

Whether to let it go.

Whether he’s closer to breaking than he’s letting on.

Riley keeps his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder.

He doesn’t trust his face.

Doesn’t trust what might show.

She nods eventually. “Okay.”

He turns toward the hallway that leads to their bedrooms and the small bathroom.

He doesn’t call out the password.

He doesn’t have to. Britney knows it.

She knows everything.

And somehow that makes it worse tonight.

He closes the bathroom door behind him.

And finally lets his shoulders drop.

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror.

He can’t.

He knows it’s there—knows exactly what he’d see if he lifted his eyes even a fraction. The swelling. The bruising. The split in his skin held together by adhesive and pressure. The evidence of something he failed to stop.

He doesn’t dare.

Not tonight.

Not when he could barely stand the sight of himself on a good day.

The bathroom feels too small.

Too close.

He can feel Britney’s concern through the door—not physically, not really, but in the way silence changes shape when someone is worried about you. Their shared space feels different now. Tighter. Watching him.

He hates it.

He hates being observed.

He hates being fragile.

He strips quickly.

His jacket first, dropping it over the back of the toilet lid. Then his scrub top, peeling the fabric carefully over his head so it doesn’t drag across the tender swelling. His joggers follow, pushed down and stepped out of, left in a loose pile near the sink.

He avoids the mirror again.

He keeps his eyes fixed on the tiles.

He turns on the shower.

Water bursts from the nozzle in a steady, familiar rush. Steam begins to gather immediately, softening the hard edges of the room. He stands there for a moment, watching it cascade down into the drain.

The tiles are clean.

Britney makes sure of that.

She scrubs everything on Sundays with obsessive precision. The grout is white. The chrome shines. The floor is spotless.

But he still feels dirty.

Not physically.

Deeper.

Inside his chest.

Inside his skin.

Like something clings to him that water can’t touch.

He steps under the spray.

The hot water hits the back of his neck first, and he exhales sharply at the contact. It runs over his shoulders, tracing the sharp lines of bone there, slipping down his spine in thin, heated rivulets.

He shudders.

Some of the tension loosens.

Not much.

Just enough to remind him how tightly wound he was.

He lets his head hang forward, eyes closed, letting the water pour over his scalp.

He thinks about Michael.

And there’s nothing there now.

No pull.

No heat.

No instinctive flicker between his legs.

Just hatred.

Cold. Absolute.

He’d never liked Michael.

Not really.

He’d liked the quiet.

The silence.

The way his brain stopped screaming for a few minutes.

The way everything went blank.

It was never about Michael.

It was about escape.

About shutting himself off.

Michael had just been… convenient.

A shortcut to numbness.

A tool.

And now even that illusion is gone.

Water runs down the side of his face, slipping beneath the edge of the adhesive strip.

He swears under his breath as it hits the cut.

It burns immediately.

Sharp. Throbbing.

His heartbeat pulses directly into the injury, each beat a dull hammer.

He reaches blindly for the body wash and squeezes some into his palm. The scent is neutral. Medicinal. He scrubs quickly, mechanically, dragging foam across his chest, his stomach, his arms.

Autopilot.

He doesn’t linger anywhere.

He doesn’t let himself feel anything.

His hands pass over the faint bruises at his hips.

Finger-shaped.

Fading yellow at the edges.

He ignores them.

Even though they ache.

Even though they remind him of things he doesn’t want to examine too closely.

He rinses.

Lets the water wash everything away.

And then he just stands there.

Still.

Steam curling around him.

His mind drifts.

Traitorously.

Uninvited.

He wonders what Rowan is doing.

If he’s home.

If he’s still at the hospital.

If he’s eaten.

If he’s showering, too.

The thought snags.

And before Riley can stop it, an image forms.

Rowan under hot water.

Head bowed slightly.

Broad shoulders relaxing beneath the spray.

Water tracing the lines of muscle along his back.

Riley’s breath catches.

Heat rises immediately into his face.

Shame follows close behind it.

No.

He shuts the water off abruptly.

The silence that replaces it feels loud.

Too loud.

He grabs his towel quickly, wrapping it tightly around his waist. His hands move faster than his thoughts, like if he moves quickly enough, he can outrun the image still lingering in his mind.

He opens the bathroom door.

The air outside feels cooler.

Sharper.

He doesn’t look toward the living room.

Doesn’t look at Britney.

He walks straight to his bedroom.

Closes the door behind him.

And stands there.

Alone.

Chapter Text

Riley wakes before his alarm.

Not abruptly. Not violently. Just—awake.

His eyes open into darkness softened by rain-filtered morning. The room is dim and bluish, the weak winter light bleeding through the thin blinds in narrow, fragile stripes. He lies still on his back, staring at the ceiling, not moving, not breathing fully. For a moment, he doesn’t know why he’s awake. His body feels wrong. Heavy. Bruised. There’s a strange pressure in his face, a tightness that doesn’t belong.

Then the world filters in.

Pigeons coo somewhere outside. Their low, hollow calls echo faintly through the wet morning air. Rain taps gently against the window—not violent rain, not storm rain. Just a quiet, persistent drizzle. The kind that settles in for hours. The kind that soaks everything slowly, thoroughly, without anyone noticing until it’s already done.

Riley inhales.

Even that hurts.

His cheek pulls unpleasantly when his lungs expand, and the sensation drags memory up behind it like a hook.

Code Grey.

The words hit him like cold water.

His stomach drops.

He can see it again, perfectly. The patient’s wild eyes. The spit at the corners of his mouth. The smell—sweat and chemicals and something feral. The shouting. The suddenness of it.

The impact.

His hand rises slowly, hesitantly, like it belongs to someone else. His fingers touch his face.

He winces immediately.

Swollen.

Tender.

The skin feels thick and foreign beneath his fingertips. He traces the edge of the bruise carefully, feeling the heat that still lives there. His eye is sore, the socket aching faintly. He presses lightly and regrets it instantly.

He exhales through his nose.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

The words repeat automatically, without conviction.

He turns his head slightly and looks at his phone resting on the nightstand beside him. The screen is black. Silent. Neutral. Waiting.

For a while, he doesn’t reach for it.

He just lies there.

He listens to the rain. To the pigeons. To the distant hum of the city waking up without him.

His apartment feels small in the morning. Smaller than it did last night. The walls feel closer. The air heavier. He can smell detergent on his sheets, hospital antiseptic lingering faintly on his skin. It never really leaves. No matter how much he showers. No matter how hard he scrubs.

Eventually, he reaches for the phone.

His fingers curl around it, familiar and automatic. The screen lights up, bright against the dim room, and he squints slightly.

7:12 AM.

His alarm isn’t set for another forty minutes.

He unlocks it.

Notifications flood the screen.

Emails from Ortho. Subject lines clinical and indifferent.

Post-op imaging uploaded.

Schedule adjustment—review required.

Mandatory resident meeting reminder.

He scrolls past them.

A notification from Instagram.

Someone followed you.

He taps it briefly.

One of the new residents. He recognizes her face vaguely. Blonde. Pretty. He barely remembers her name.

He doesn’t follow her back.

He closes it.

Weather notification.

Rain all day.

He doesn’t need the phone to tell him that.

He’s about to lock the screen again when he sees it.

The small, familiar icon.

Simple. Anonymous. Quiet.

But unmistakable.

His chest tightens immediately.

The app.

His anonymous app.

His escape.

His shame.

His relief.

He stares at the notification longer than he means to.

A new message.

His thumb hovers over it.

He knows exactly why he has it. He knows exactly what it means. The men on there don’t ask him questions he can’t answer. They don’t look at him too closely. They don’t see through him.

They just want him.

His body.

His silence.

His compliance.

And that—somehow—is easier.

He taps it.

The screen shifts.

Messages load.

A new one sits at the top.

“Hey. You’re gorgeous. Wanna meet? :)”

Riley stares at the words.

They feel too intimate for how meaningless they are.

He taps the profile.

The man is his age. Maybe a year older. Thin. Narrow shoulders. Soft face. Clean. Polished.

Pretty.

Riley feels nothing.

No pull. No interest. No curiosity.

Just emptiness.

He stares for another second, then exits the profile and deletes the message without replying.

Gone.

Like it never existed.

He exhales slowly.

His thumb moves again, almost without permission, navigating to the home page.

Profiles fill the screen.

Endless faces. Endless torsos. Endless invitations.

He scrolls.

And scrolls.

And scrolls.

All young.

All eager.

All wrong.

They blur together after a while. Same angles. Same expressions. Same carefully curated confidence. They look at the camera like they expect to be wanted.

Riley doesn’t want them.

He doesn’t even know what he wants.

He just keeps scrolling.

His eyes burn faintly from the screen.

Rain taps against the window.

His thumb pauses.

A profile loads.

And something in his chest tightens instantly.

He stares.

The photo isn’t complicated. Just a mirror selfie. A bathroom, maybe. Neutral tile. Neutral lighting.

But the man—

The man is enormous.

Broad shoulders. Thick arms. Dense muscle layered under dark hair that trails down his chest and disappears beneath the waistband of low-hanging sweats. His skin is tanned, uneven in places like he works outdoors or spends real time in the sun. His hand holds the phone casually, like this isn’t something he put effort into.

There’s no face.

None.

The image cuts off just below the chin.

Anonymous.

Controlled.

Intentional.

Riley’s throat feels dry.

He looks at the profile details.

No name.

No bio.

Just numbers. 47. 

His stomach flips.

Forty-seven.

The number sits heavily in his mind.

Older.

Much older.

Older in a way that feels dangerous.

Older in a way that feels—

Safe.

He doesn’t know why that word appears.

He just knows it does.

His eyes move downward.

And then—

He stops breathing.

1 km away.

He stares at it.

Reads it again.

1 km away.

His heart stutters violently in his chest.

That’s impossible.

That’s—

He glances instinctively toward his apartment door, like the man might be standing on the other side of it.

One kilometer.

That’s nothing.

That’s walking distance.

That’s the grocery store.

That’s the café on the corner.

That’s the hospital.

His pulse begins to race.

He imagines passing him on the street without knowing. Standing beside him in line somewhere. Existing in the same space without realizing it.

The idea makes something deep inside him twist.

He studies the photo again.

The size of him.

The solidity.

The certainty in his posture.

This is not someone fragile.

Not someone uncertain.

Not someone like Riley.

His chest rises and falls faster now.

He doesn’t even realize he’s holding his breath until his lungs begin to ache.

He releases it slowly.

His thumb hovers over the profile.

Hovering.

Waiting.

He doesn’t tap anything.

He just looks.

Outside, the rain continues its quiet descent. The pigeons coo. The city wakes.

And Riley lies there, bruised and aching, staring at a faceless man who exists impossibly close to him.

Close enough to touch.

Close enough to ruin him.

He doesn’t know why that thought terrifies him.

He doesn’t know why it doesn’t make him look away.

He suddenly switches tabs.

His own profile opens, and for a moment, he feels exposed in a way he didn’t expect. It’s strange, seeing himself like this. Flattened into something consumable. Reduced to three images and four blunt facts.

He stares at it like it belongs to someone else.

Three pictures.

Only three.

He clicks the first.

The shirtless one.

He remembers taking it. Late at night, after a shower. The bathroom still fogged, the mirror useless, so he’d stepped back into his bedroom where the air was cooler. His hair had been wet, blonde curls clinging to his forehead and temples in darker strands. Droplets of water had still clung to his collarbones, catching the light from the bedside lamp.

He looks at it now with different eyes.

His body looks smaller than he remembers. Narrow shoulders. Slim chest. His ribs faintly visible beneath his skin if you knew where to look. Not weak. Not fragile. Just… slight.

Approachable.

Soft.

He wonders if that’s what men see when they look at him.

He exits the photo and opens the second.

The mirror one.

He feels heat creep up his neck instantly.

He’s kneeling on his bed in it, the sheets messy beneath his knees, his phone held loosely in his hand as he angles it toward the mirror across the room. He’s wearing nothing but tight black boxers, the fabric clinging to his hips. His posture is careful. Intentional.

Demure.

He hates that word.

But it fits.

His shoulders are slightly hunched forward. His thighs pressed together. His expression soft, almost hesitant. Like he’s offering himself without quite meaning to.

He remembers taking dozens of versions before settling on that one.

He exits again, heart beating faster.

The third picture loads.

The most exposing one.

He’s lying on his stomach, his back arched deeply, his spine curving in a way that almost looks unnatural. The camera captures the length of him—his narrow waist, the delicate ridges of his spine, the long lines of his thighs. His face isn’t visible. Just his body. Just the shape of him.

Just the invitation.

He swallows.

He barely recognizes himself like this.

He never looks at himself this way outside the app. Never studies his body with this kind of detached curiosity. He doesn’t stand in mirrors at home and arch his back to look at the way his spine moves. He doesn’t kneel on his bed and stare at himself like he’s something meant to be wanted.

But here—

Here, that’s exactly what he is.

He shifts his gaze downward to the text beneath the photos.

Simple.

Brutal in its simplicity.

Riley. 24. Chicago. Bottom.

He exhales quietly.

His cheeks flush faintly at the last word.

Bottom.

It’s so clinical. So absolute.

There’s no softness in it. No nuance. No explanation. Just a role. A function. A declaration of what he is there to be.

He always forgets how blunt it looks written out.

He always forgets until he sees it again.

He tries, suddenly, to imagine it from the other side.

From the faceless man’s perspective.

He imagines opening the profile and seeing those photos. Seeing him.

What would he think?

Would he pause?

Would he feel anything at all?

Would he see someone desirable—or just someone easy?

His eyes flick back to the man’s profile again.

Forty-seven.

One kilometer away.

His chest tightens.

He tries to picture him holding his phone, scrolling absentmindedly, stumbling across Riley’s profile the same way Riley stumbled across his.

What would he see?

A boy.

Not a man.

Not really.

A boy with soft shoulders and wet blonde curls. A boy who looks like he folds too easily. A boy who looks like he listens. Like he obeys.

Riley’s throat feels dry.

Would he like that?

Would he like someone smaller than him?

Someone lighter?

Someone who didn’t take up space?

He looks back at his own third photo again. The curve of his spine. The sharpness of it. The way his body bends without resistance.

He can almost see it from outside himself.

He looks fragile.

He looks—

Available.

His stomach flips.

He exits his profile and opens the man’s again.

The difference is overwhelming.

Where Riley is all angles and softness, this man is solid. Immovable. Heavy in a way Riley has never been. His chest is thick, dense with muscle and dark hair. His arms look strong enough to hold anything in place without effort.

He looks certain.

Certain of himself.

Certain of what he is.

Riley feels something low and unfamiliar twist in his chest.

Hunger.

Not the kind he feels late at night when he scrolls mindlessly through profiles hoping for distraction.

This is different.

This is focused.

Sharp.

Intentional.

He finds himself staring at the man’s torso again, tracing the lines of muscle with his eyes. The breadth of him. The sheer size difference between them.

He imagines standing next to him.

The thought makes his pulse stutter.

He imagines how obvious it would be.

How small he would look in comparison.

How easy it would be for someone like that to—

He stops the thought before it finishes.

His breathing has changed. He doesn’t know when.

He glances again at the distance.

1 km away.

His mind begins mapping automatically.

The streets around the hospital. The quiet residential blocks. The old brick apartments with narrow stairwells and dim hallways. The small houses with dark windows and rain-slick sidewalks.

He could be anywhere.

In any one of those buildings.

He could walk past him every day without knowing.

The idea makes the world feel smaller.

Closer.

More dangerous.

More possible.

Riley’s thumb hovers over the screen.

He doesn’t message him.

He doesn’t tap anything.

He just stares.

His heart pounds hard enough he can feel it in his throat.

Outside, the rain continues falling in quiet sheets, soft and relentless.

Inside, Riley lies in his narrow bed, bruised and aching, staring at a faceless man who exists somewhere within walking distance.

And for the first time since yesterday—since the shouting, since the violence, since the humiliation—he feels something other than fear.

He feels wanted.

Even if it isn’t real.

Even if it never happens.

Even if it destroys him.

He stares at the profile for a long time.

Long enough that the screen begins to dim.

Long enough that the rain becomes louder than his own breathing.

His thumb hovers over the small icon.

The match button.

It’s such a simple thing. A meaningless thing. He’s pressed it hundreds of times before without thinking. Without caring. Without remembering the faces attached to it.

But this feels different.

This feels deliberate.

He doesn’t know why.

His heart beats harder with every second he hesitates. He can feel it in his throat. In his fingertips. In the bruise beneath his eye.

This is stupid.

It doesn’t matter.

It’s just a man.

Just a stranger.

Just a body on a screen.

He inhales slowly.

The breath trembles on the way in.

Then—

He presses it.

His thumb touches the glass, and the icon shifts color instantly beneath his skin.

Done.

Irreversible.

He pulls his hand back slightly, like the phone might burn him.

And then—

He waits.

Nothing happens.

The profile remains the same.

No notification.

No vibration.

No confirmation.

Just silence.

His stomach drops.

He stares at the screen harder, like he might have missed something.

Nothing.

No match.

The word sits heavily in his chest even though it hasn’t appeared.

Not a match.

Not yet.

The app doesn’t tell him no. It doesn’t reject him outright. It just leaves him there, suspended in uncertainty. Waiting for a decision that might never come.

He swallows.

His throat feels tight.

A heavy, sinking disappointment settles low in his body, so sudden and so sharp it almost surprises him. He hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted it until it didn’t happen.

It’s ridiculous.

He doesn’t even know this man.

He doesn’t know his name. His voice. His face.

He knows nothing.

And yet—

It feels like rejection anyway.

His chest aches faintly.

Of course he didn’t match with him.

Why would he?

The thought comes quickly. Automatically. Cruel in its certainty.

Why would a man like that want someone like Riley?

He looks down at himself without meaning to. At his narrow torso beneath the thin blanket. At his small wrists. His sharp hips.

He looks fragile.

Breakable.

He presses his lips together.

He was stupid to think otherwise.

Stupid to imagine anything different.

He locks his phone abruptly, the screen going black in an instant, cutting the man out of existence.

Gone.

Like he was never there.

Riley exhales sharply through his nose.

He doesn’t care.

He tells himself that immediately.

It doesn’t matter.

It was meaningless.

He tosses the phone onto the mattress beside him harder than he means to, the soft thud louder in the quiet room.

He doesn’t care.

He repeats it again in his mind.

He doesn’t care.

The words sound hollow.

He turns his head and stares at the ceiling.

The rain continues its steady descent outside, soft and indifferent. The pigeons have gone quiet now. The city is awake. Moving. Living.

He feels stuck.

Small.

Stupid.

He presses his palms into the mattress and forces himself upright.

The motion sends a dull ache through his face immediately, and he winces. His body protests everything this morning. His cheek throbs. His ribs feel tight. Even his neck aches faintly from tension he doesn’t remember holding.

He swings his legs over the side of the bed.

His feet hit the cold floor.

He sits there for a moment, hunched forward, elbows resting on his thighs. His hair falls into his eyes, still messy from sleep. His spine curves naturally into itself, protective, closed.

He stares at the floor.

He doesn’t want to think about the app.

He doesn’t want to think about yesterday.

He doesn’t want to think about the way Dr. Heath’s hands had touched his face.

Careful.

Gentle.

Clinical.

He squeezes his eyes shut briefly.

Stop.

He pushes himself to stand.

The room tilts slightly when he does, his body still heavy with exhaustion. He steadies himself automatically, hand brushing the edge of his dresser.

He moves toward the bathroom.

The mirror waits for him there.

He hesitates in the doorway.

He doesn’t want to look.

But he does anyway.

His reflection stares back at him.

His eye is worse in the morning light.

Dark purple shadows bloom beneath it, the bruise spreading outward in ugly, uneven shapes. His cheek is swollen, the skin faintly mottled. He looks—

Damaged.

He lifts his fingers and touches it carefully.

It hurts.

He drops his hand.

He looks tired.

Young.

Too young.

He turns away from the mirror abruptly.

He doesn’t want to see himself like that.

He walks back into his bedroom and begins to get dressed, movements automatic. Mechanical. He pulls on fresh underwear. Clean scrubs. The familiar fabric settles against his skin like armor he doesn’t fully believe in.

He sits on the edge of his bed again to put on his socks.

His phone lies beside him.

Dark.

Silent.

He stares at it.

Just for a second.

He doesn’t pick it up.

He doesn’t check.

He tells himself he doesn’t care.

He stands.

He grabs his jacket.

He leaves the phone on the bed for a moment longer than necessary before finally taking it with him.

Just in case.

He doesn’t admit that part out loud.

He leaves his tiny room carefully, easing the door shut behind him so it doesn’t click too loudly.

The hallway greets him with that same stale, recycled air that always lingers in shared resident housing. It smells faintly like detergent and old carpet and someone else’s burnt toast from yesterday. The overhead lights hum faintly, fluorescent and indifferent, casting everything in a washed-out, colorless glow.

For a moment, he just stands there.

Still.

Alone.

And then—

It hits him.

The stairs.

Last night.

His stomach drops so suddenly it almost makes him dizzy.

“Knees.”

The word echoes in his mind, clear as if it had just been spoken again. He can hear the exact tone they’d used. Casual. Amused. Cruel without trying to be cruel.

His jaw tightens.

They’d known.

They’d looked right at him and known.

His fingers curl slightly at his sides.

They knew about Michael.

The bathroom stall.

The locked door.

The kneeling.

The humiliation burns fresh all over again, hot and unbearable beneath his skin.

Scrub bunny.

Resident wife.

The words crawl under his ribs and stay there.

He walks slowly down the hallway, his footsteps quiet against the thin carpet, but his mind is loud. Too loud. Every memory from last night plays back with sickening clarity. The way they’d looked at him. The knowing smirks. The casual confidence in their voices.

They hadn’t guessed.

They hadn’t speculated.

They’d known.

He swallows hard.

Had they seen him?

Actually seen him?

Seen him on his knees?

Seen Michael touching him, using him, owning him in that small, filthy stall where Riley had convinced himself he was invisible?

His face burns.

His hands shake faintly.

Maybe they were lying.

Maybe they’d just been guessing.

Residents talk. Residents gossip. Residents invent stories to entertain themselves between shifts and exhaustion and burnout.

Maybe they’d just wanted to hurt him.

Maybe they’d seen the way Michael looked at him.

Maybe they’d seen Riley follow him down the hallway once too often.

Maybe that was enough.

But the certainty in their voices—

No.

They knew.

The realization settles heavily in his chest.

If they knew, others knew.

If others knew—

His stomach twists painfully.

Attendings talk.

Senior residents talk.

People watch.

People notice everything.

He could lose this.

The thought hits him harder than anything else.

His residency.

His future.

Everything he left home for.

Everything he suffered through to get here.

All of it could be taken away because he was weak enough to kneel in a bathroom stall for someone who never even pretended to care about him.

His breathing grows shallow.

He grips the strap of his backpack tighter.

This isn’t high school.

This isn’t rumor and embarrassment and moving on.

This is his career.

His life.

His survival.

He imagines walking into the ER and seeing it in their faces. The subtle looks. The quiet whispers. The smirks they’ll try to hide.

He imagines Michael there.

Acting normal.

Untouched.

Unashamed.

The anger that rises in him is sudden and violent. It surprises him.

He wants to throw something.

He wants to break something.

He wants to hurt Michael the way Michael hurt him just by existing like nothing mattered.

But he doesn’t.

He just keeps walking.

Because that’s what he does.

He survives.

He endures.

He reaches Britney’s door and slows automatically.

Her door is closed. Quiet.

He pauses outside it.

She’s sleeping.

She has the afternoon shift today. She’d mentioned it yesterday with a tired smile, relieved she could sleep in for once.

He imagines her inside. Curled up beneath her blankets. Her blonde hair messy against the pillow. Her breathing slow and even.

Safe.

Unaware.

He doesn’t knock.

He doesn’t wake her.

She deserves the rest.

She deserves peace.

But the thought of walking into the hospital without her makes something deep inside him twist painfully.

Britney is the only person here who sees him as something other than an object or a joke or a convenient body. She talks to him like he’s real. Like he matters. Like he isn’t constantly on the verge of being exposed.

Without her, he feels—

Alone.

Exposed.

Defenseless.

He imagines the ER without her beside him. Without her quiet jokes and gentle reassurances. Without the way she stands close enough that he doesn’t feel like he’s drifting.

He’ll be alone.

Surrounded by people.

Alone.

He forces himself to keep moving.

He reaches the kitchen.

It’s empty. Quiet. The overhead light flickers faintly.

The fruit bowl sits on the counter, half-forgotten. He grabs an apple without really thinking about it, his fingers closing around its cool, smooth surface.

He isn’t hungry.

He knows he won’t eat it.

But he takes it anyway.

Something to hold.

Something normal.

He swings his small backpack over his shoulder. The weight settles familiarly between his shoulder blades. Grounding.

His chest feels tight.

His stomach churns with anxious, terrified anticipation.

He doesn’t want to go.

He doesn’t want to face them.

He doesn’t want to see Michael.

He doesn’t want to exist inside that building today.

But he will.

Because he has to.

Because there is no alternative.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his headphones. His fingers fumble slightly as he puts them in, the small, familiar ritual comforting in its predictability.

He opens his music without looking.

The opening chords fill his ears.

California Dreamin’.

Soft.

Melancholic.

Safe.

The outside world dulls instantly, replaced by sound and memory and distance.

He exhales slowly.

Then he opens the front door.

The rain greets him immediately. Cool air brushes his face, damp and fresh. The sky is pale gray, heavy with clouds that promise more of the same.

He steps outside.

And pulls the door shut quietly behind him.

He takes his time walking to the hospital that morning.

He knows he’s going to be early. He always is. It’s a habit he built into himself during his first month, when being late even by two minutes had earned him a look from an attending that left him nauseous for the rest of the day. Early meant invisible. Early meant safe. Early meant he could slip into the rhythm of the ER before anyone had the chance to look too closely at him.

Today, though, he slows down on purpose.

There’s no reason to rush toward something he dreads.

The rain has softened into a mist, fine droplets that cling to his hair and lashes without quite becoming rain. The sidewalks glisten faintly beneath the pale morning light, reflecting the world back in distorted fragments.

California Dreamin’ hums softly in his ears.

He keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket, shoulders slightly hunched, chin tucked down. He walks like he wants to disappear into the fabric of the city.

Chicago is waking up around him.

It always does, whether he’s ready or not.

Street vendors begin emerging from nowhere, like they’d been hiding in the concrete itself overnight. He watches an older man roll his metal cart toward the corner, the wheels squeaking faintly in protest. The man moves slowly, methodically, unlocking the compartments, setting up his small kingdom of coffee and pastries for the endless procession of strangers who will never know his name.

Riley watches him for a moment.

Counts him.

One.

He keeps walking.

A flock of children bursts around the bend ahead of him, their voices loud and shrill and alive in a way Riley doesn’t feel anymore. They wear matching uniforms—dark slacks, plaid skirts, white shirts already wrinkling despite the early hour. Catholic school.

He can tell immediately.

He remembers those uniforms.

He remembers the way they felt. The stiffness. The expectation. The quiet pressure to behave.

The children laugh, shoving each other, their backpacks bouncing against their shoulders.

Two.

Three.

Four.

He counts them automatically.

They pass him without looking.

He doesn’t exist to them.

He prefers it that way.

He crosses the street at the light, even though there are no cars coming. He always obeys the signals. Always follows the rules. It makes him feel like he has control over something, even if it’s small.

Across the street, a businessman stands outside a closed nightclub, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the damp air. His hair is perfectly styled. His posture rigid.

He’s yelling into his phone.

Riley can’t hear the words through his music, but he can see the anger in the man’s face. The tightness in his jaw. The tension in his shoulders.

Five.

He wonders briefly what kind of life leads to yelling outside a nightclub at seven in the morning.

He doesn’t linger on the thought.

He keeps walking.

His breath fogs faintly in front of him.

The mist settles on his skin.

He counts everything.

People.

Cars.

Dogs.

Windows with lights on.

Windows with lights off.

It’s something he started doing during his first year of medical school, when the anxiety had first begun swallowing him whole. Counting gave his mind somewhere to go. Somewhere structured. Predictable. Safe.

It keeps him from thinking.

From remembering.

From spiraling.

He watches a flock of pigeons erupt suddenly from the sidewalk ahead, their wings beating violently against the air as they take flight. The sound startles him slightly, even through the music.

Six.

Seven.

Eight.

He watches them disappear into the gray sky.

Then the buildings begin to change.

The storefronts thin out.

The streets grow quieter.

He enters the first residential neighborhood near the hospital.

Small houses line the street, brick and stone and narrow windows. Some have lights on inside. Some don’t. Some have cars parked in their driveways, slick with rain.

He slows without meaning to.

His eyes move from house to house.

One kilometer.

The number appears in his mind uninvited.

He hates himself for thinking about it.

But he does anyway.

He imagines him inside one of these houses.

The man from the app.

Sleeping in a bed that probably doesn’t creak when he moves. Waking slowly. Stretching. Checking his phone.

Did he see Riley’s profile?

Did he pause?

Did he hesitate?

Did he reject him immediately without a second thought?

Or—

Did he not see it at all?

The uncertainty gnaws at him.

He studies each house like it might reveal something to him. Like he might recognize it instinctively.

This one with the blue door.

This one with the cracked front steps.

This one with the curtains half drawn.

He imagines the man inside each one, and each time, the image feels equally real and equally impossible.

He wonders what his voice sounds like.

He wonders if he’s kind.

He wonders if he’s cruel.

He wonders why he cares.

He shakes his head sharply, physically forcing the thoughts away.

This is stupid.

Dangerous.

Meaningless.

He keeps walking.

The hospital comes into view at the top of the hill, rising out of the gray morning like something permanent and unyielding. The building is massive. Cold. Familiar.

His stomach tightens immediately.

He wants to stop.

He doesn’t.

He walks up the hill slowly, his legs heavy despite the short distance. The automatic doors glow faintly beneath the overhang, fluorescent and sterile.

Reality waits for him there.

Not fantasy.

Not distance.

Reality.

Two paramedics stand near the entrance, their bright jackets vivid against the dull morning. They’re talking quietly, one of them sipping coffee from a paper cup.

They see him.

They smile.

“Morning, Riley,” one of them says.

He recognizes them vaguely. He doesn’t know their names.

They know his.

Of course they do.

He forces a smile back.

“Morning.”

His voice sounds normal.

Steady.

Like nothing is wrong.

They don’t look at him differently.

They don’t laugh.

They don’t whisper.

They just smile like they always do.

Of course they would.

They weren’t there last night.

They didn’t hear the word knees whispered behind his back.

They don’t know what he is.

The thought settles heavily in his chest.

He nods politely and keeps moving, slipping past them before they can say anything else.

The automatic doors open with a soft hydraulic sigh.

Warm, artificial air washes over him immediately.

The smell hits him next.

Antiseptic.

Plastic.

Sterility.

Home.

He steps inside.

And the doors close behind him.

When he steps inside, nothing pauses for him.

The room is already in motion.

The Emergency Department never waits for anyone’s anxiety. It never slows for personal crises or bruised egos or sleepless mornings. It hums and clatters and breathes like a living organism, fluorescent lights glaring down over curtained bays and restless bodies.

Monitors beep in uneven rhythm. A printer spits paper in short, irritated bursts. Someone laughs too loudly somewhere near triage. A stretcher wheel squeaks as it’s pushed across tile.

The world continues.

Riley stands just inside the entrance for half a second longer than necessary, adjusting to the shift from gray morning to sterile brightness.

To his right, Paula is already moving.

Of course she is.

She glides between bays with her usual efficiency, dark hair pulled back tightly, expression sharp but not unkind. She adjusts an IV line for an elderly woman who looks half-asleep and half-confused, murmuring something Riley can’t hear.

A small cluster of patients sits in the waiting bay—one clutching their side, another holding a blood-soaked towel to their hand, a mother whispering urgently to a child whose face is pale and waxy.

Across the floor, a paramedic stands stiffly, giving a concise report to one of the senior residents. Beside them is a man Riley doesn’t recognize.

Older.

Calm posture.

White coat crisp.

New attending.

The thought lands instantly.

Paula’s words from yesterday echo faintly in his mind.

Dr. Heath is transferring to the ED. Starting next week.

Next week.

His chest tightens.

Too many emotions try to surface at once—heat, embarrassment, something dangerously close to anticipation—and he shuts them down immediately.

Too early.

Too much.

He doesn’t have the capacity for that right now.

He moves toward the lockers at the back, weaving carefully around a nurse pushing a cart stacked with supplies.

The locker room smells faintly like old deodorant and bleach.

He opens his locker, slides his backpack inside, and takes off his jacket. The fabric is still damp from the mist outside. He hangs it carefully, smoothing it once with his hand like the gesture might smooth him too.

He closes the locker with a quiet metallic click.

For a second, he just stands there.

He claps his hands together softly once.

Then again, firmer.

A nervous habit.

Psych yourself up.

His heart is still beating too fast.

The app flashes back into his mind without permission.

The faceless man.

Forty-seven.

One kilometer.

Had he checked his phone yet?

Had he seen the notification?

Had he—

Stop.

He inhales deeply through his nose.

Holds it.

Lets it out slowly.

He doesn’t have space for that here.

Not here.

He steps back into the chaos.

The noise swallows him instantly.

He scans the floor and finds Paula near Bay 2. He approaches but stops just outside the curtain, waiting. He doesn’t interrupt her mid-sentence. He never interrupts Paula mid-sentence.

He arranges his face carefully into something neutral. Something pleasant. Something that doesn’t scream I’m unraveling.

He waits.

She finishes speaking to the elderly patient, adjusts the curtain, and turns.

Her eyes land on him immediately.

They move over him once—head to toe—clinical, assessing. Then they settle on his face.

On his eye.

“Brooks,” she greets evenly, stepping closer. “You’re early.”

He shrugs faintly, trying for casual.

“Yeah. I couldn’t sleep.”

Understatement of the year.

Her gaze sharpens slightly as she leans in just enough to get a better look at the bruise.

“You’ve been taking care of that?”

There’s no accusation in her voice. Just expectation.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answers quickly. “I washed it last night.”

She squints, studying the swelling like it personally offended her.

“Any vision changes?”

“No.”

“Headache?”

“Just mild.”

She nods once.

“Good.”

It’s not praise. It’s confirmation.

She gestures for him to follow, already turning toward the main desk.

He falls into step beside her automatically.

When they reach the central desk, the glow of computer screens illuminates tired faces. Charts are stacked in messy towers. Coffee cups sit abandoned beside keyboards.

One of the nurses looks up.

Her eyes meet Riley’s.

And hold.

It’s subtle.

It would be easy to miss.

But he doesn’t miss it.

Her brows lift just slightly.

Her gaze flicks over his bruised eye.

Then down.

Then back up.

There’s something there.

Recognition.

Knowledge.

Judgment.

It’s quick—less than a second—but it lands like ice water down his spine.

She doesn’t say anything.

She doesn’t have to.

She turns back to her screen, typing.

Riley feels cold all the way to his fingertips.

She knows.

Or she’s heard.

Michael’s voice from last night echoes faintly in his mind. The casual way he’d spoken. The careless way he’d existed.

Michael talks.

Michael boasts.

Michael doesn’t think about consequences.

And Riley—

Riley kneels.

The humiliation floods him all over again.

Except this time it’s quieter. More insidious.

He forces his gaze away from the nurse and back to Paula.

Paula flips through a stack of charts, scanning quickly.

Then she pulls one free and hands him a clipboard.

“Bay 4,” she says. “Adolescent OD. They seem stable. No severe symptoms. We’re keeping them for the eight-hour observation window.”

Riley takes the clipboard.

His eyes drop immediately to the top line.

Fifteen years old.

Born as Katie.

Goes by Emmett.

Severe depression diagnosis.

Suicidal ideation.

Purposeful overdose—antihistamines.

His stomach tightens.

Fifteen.

So young.

He imagines a fifteen-year-old swallowing pills alone somewhere and feels something heavy settle in his chest.

It’s early.

Too early for this kind of case.

But there’s no such thing as too early here.

He exhales slowly.

Focus.

This is the job.

This is what matters.

Everything else—Michael, the whispers, the app, the faceless man—none of it belongs in Bay 4.

“Am I deciding whether they go up to psych?” he asks quietly.

Paula nods without looking up from her other charts.

“Yeah.”

Then she pauses.

She lifts her gaze back to him slowly.

Just her eyes.

Sharp.

Measuring.

“I don’t have to tell you to call our patient Emmett, do I?”

The words are calm.

But there’s a thread beneath them.

Riley blinks.

Heat rushes into his face.

How could she even think—

But he stops himself.

Maybe she doesn’t know anything.

Maybe she’s just being cautious.

Maybe she says that to everyone.

“Of course,” he says quickly. “Emmett.”

He nods once to emphasize it.

Paula studies him a fraction longer.

Then she nods back.

“Good.”

She turns on her heel, already moving toward another nurse calling her name.

And just like that, she’s gone.

Swallowed back into the rhythm of the department.

Riley stands there for a moment longer, clipboard in hand, heart still beating too fast.

He looks down at the name again.

Emmett.

Fifteen.

He straightens his shoulders.

Adjusts his grip on the clipboard.

And walks toward Bay 4.

When he pushes the curtain aside and steps into Bay 4, the world narrows.

The hum of the department dulls slightly behind the fabric divider, replaced by the quieter, more intimate rhythm of one patient space.

The figure on the bed straightens almost immediately.

Emmett.

He’s smaller than Riley expected.

All elbows and collarbones and nervous energy. A hospital blanket is draped loosely over his legs, but his hands are visible—thin fingers twisting into the sleeves of an oversized dark hoodie. His hair falls into his eyes in uneven strands, like he hasn’t bothered to brush it properly in days.

In one of the plastic chairs sits an older man.

Black hair, streaked faintly with gray at the temples. Broad shoulders. Jaw tight. Arms crossed so firmly across his chest it looks like a barricade.

Father.

Probably.

He looks like he would rather be anywhere else on earth.

Riley feels that familiar shift in his body—the one he slips into automatically when he enters a bay. Professional. Measured. Neutral.

He smiles at both of them anyway.

“Hey,” he says lightly, voice calm but respectful. He nods once toward the father, then to Emmett. “I’m Riley. I’m one of the doctors here.”

“Student doctor,” the father mutters instantly, staring right at him.

The correction is sharp. Deliberate.

It lands harder than it should.

Riley feels heat bloom faintly across his bruised cheek.

He nods once, accepting it.

Resident. Technically.

Not an attending.

Not yet.

Not enough.

Emmett glances at his father, face flushing with embarrassment. “Dad…” he mumbles quietly. “Don’t.”

The father exhales through his nose and looks away, jaw tightening further, like the entire situation personally offends him.

Riley doesn’t understand the hostility.

He hasn’t said anything wrong.

He hasn’t done anything.

But he recognizes the energy. The defensive aggression. The need to assert authority over a space that feels out of control.

He doesn’t push back.

He powers on.

“Everything looks good, Emmett,” Riley says gently, glancing down at the chart before lifting his eyes again. “There’s no serious damage to your liver or stomach. Your labs came back stable.”

Emmett nods slightly.

“But,” Riley continues carefully, “you’ll probably have a sore throat from the induced vomiting.”

Emmett gives a small, sheepish nod. “Yeah. It stings.”

Riley offers a faint, reassuring smile. “That makes sense. We can get you a numbing spray to help with that.”

He steps toward the small computer mounted in the corner and logs in, the screen casting a cool glow across his face.

“Other than that,” he adds, clicking through the results, “you’re physically fine.”

He pauses deliberately.

“That’s not what we’re worried about though.”

The words settle in the space between them.

Emmett’s shoulders shift slightly.

“You think I’m crazy,” he says flatly.

The father stiffens in his chair.

Riley’s head snaps up immediately, brows lifting in surprise.

“No. No,” he says quickly. “Not crazy.”

He steps away from the computer and back toward the bed, lowering his voice just slightly.

“Struggling,” he corrects gently. “There’s a difference. And it’s okay to struggle.”

He returns to the computer, logging notes into the portal, fingers moving automatically over the keys.

“We’re here to help,” he continues. “We want to help. But we need you to be honest with us.”

Emmett’s eyes flick sideways.

Not at Riley.

At his father.

Again.

Riley notices.

Of course he notices.

He’s trained to notice the things patients don’t say.

He pauses mid-sentence, considering.

Then he turns slightly, angling his body more toward Emmett.

“It can be private,” he says carefully. “If you want it to be.”

He makes sure his tone is steady.

“Just you and me. And a nurse who specializes in this kind of thing.”

The father immediately leans forward.

“I’ll stay—”

Riley cuts him off.

He never cuts people off.

Never.

But something in Emmett’s posture—the shrinking, the sideways glances—makes the decision for him.

“If Emmett doesn’t consent,” Riley says evenly, meeting the father’s eyes without flinching, “you cannot be here.”

His voice is calm.

Not raised.

Not aggressive.

Just factual.

“There’s tea and coffee down the hall.”

The father’s face flushes red.

For a second, Riley thinks he might argue.

Might escalate.

But after a tense beat, the man pushes himself out of the chair with a sharp exhale and storms out of the bay without another word.

The curtain sways faintly behind him.

Silence settles.

Riley releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

He pulls a chair closer to the bed and sits down, bringing himself to eye level with Emmett instead of towering over him.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pager, sending a quick message to Scarlet—Mental Health Nurse—Bay 4.

As he waits, he studies Emmett gently.

“Any nausea still?” he asks. “Double vision? Headaches?”

Emmett shakes his head.

“No. My body feels fine.”

Riley nods once.

Then he asks evenly, slipping into that controlled, almost monotone cadence he uses at work:

“What about your brain?”

Emmett looks up.

Riley softens it slightly.

“Do you feel hazy? Irritated? Foggy?”

Emmett fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve, tugging the fabric over his fingers.

He thinks for a moment.

“I feel like I’m dreaming,” he says finally.

Riley doesn’t react outwardly, but something inside him tightens.

“Excessive doses of some medications can cause a dazed after-effect,” he explains gently. “Has it just been the past day?”

Emmett draws his skinny, grazed knees up to his chest beneath the blanket, curling into himself.

“No,” he says quietly. “I always feel like that.”

Riley pauses.

“Always?”

Emmett nods.

“Yeah. Like I can’t wake up.”

The words hang in the air.

Riley knows that feeling.

He doesn’t let it show.

Before he can respond, there’s a soft knock against the metal frame of the curtain.

Riley stands and pulls it aside.

Scarlet steps in.

She looks exactly the way someone like Scarlet should look—mid-thirties, warm brown eyes, a mess of bright copper curls pulled into a loose bun at the top of her head. Her scrubs are decorated with small embroidered daisies along the pocket seam.

She smiles immediately.

Not performative.

Genuine.

“Hey, Emmett,” she says, voice warm and bright. “I’m Scarlet.”

Emmett’s shoulders lower slightly.

“Hi,” he replies shyly. “I like your hair.”

Scarlet beams. “Best compliment I’ve gotten all morning.”

She pulls up a chair casually, unclipping a pen and flipping open a small notepad.

Riley sits back down too, but shifts slightly to give Scarlet primary space.

He watches Emmett carefully.

The way the kid relaxes just a fraction with Scarlet’s presence.

The way he stops glancing at the curtain.

The way his fingers untwist slightly from his sleeves.

Scarlet leans forward gently.

“Can you tell me what happened yesterday?”

Emmett swallows.

And Riley stays quiet.

Listening.

The next hour moves faster than Riley expects.

Time inside the ER doesn’t flow normally. It compresses. Stretches. Disappears. One moment he’s sitting across from Emmett and Scarlet, listening carefully as Emmett haltingly explains the weight that never leaves his chest; the next, he’s signing off notes and arranging for a psych consult upstairs.

Scarlet gives him a subtle nod before she escorts Emmett through next steps. A silent acknowledgment. Good call. Good instincts.

Riley nods back once.

Professional.

Contained.

He doesn’t let himself think about how Emmett’s words—I always feel like that. Like I can’t wake up—lodged somewhere uncomfortably familiar inside him.

He doesn’t have time to.

Paula finds him almost immediately.

She moves with purpose, always.

“Brooks,” she says briskly, handing him two fresh charts without breaking stride. “Room 6 and Room 9.”

Then she’s gone again.

He glances down.

Room 6: Seventy-eight-year-old male. Chest pain, likely angina exacerbation.

Room 9: Forty-three-year-old female. Severe abdominal pain. Possible gallstones.

He nods to himself.

Routine.

Manageable.

He moves through them efficiently. Thorough history. Focused exam. Labs ordered. Imaging requested. Calm explanations delivered.

He keeps his tone steady.

His face neutral.

He avoids eye contact longer than necessary with every nurse, every resident, every tech.

He doesn’t know who knows.

That’s the worst part.

Not knowing.

Are they looking at him differently?

Are they whispering?

Did Michael laugh about it over coffee this morning? Did he brag? Did he exaggerate?

Did he tell them exactly what Riley did on his knees in that fourth stall?

The memory flashes uninvited—the cold tile, the locked door, Michael’s hand in his hair—and Riley’s jaw tightens.

He focuses harder on his patients.

Medicine is simple.

Medicine has protocols.

Medicine doesn’t gossip.

No one says anything outright.

No one calls him Knees to his face.

But the tension is there.

Thin.

Electric.

He feels it when he walks past clusters of residents and their voices dip half a tone too low.

He feels it when someone glances at him and then quickly away.

Maybe he’s imagining it.

Maybe he’s not.

The shift inches toward its end.

Right before handover to the afternoon team, a call goes out over the floor:

“All available staff to the main desk.”

The tone is urgent.

Riley moves automatically.

When he reaches the central desk, a loose semi-circle has already formed. Residents. Nurses. Paula. Scarlet. A few techs.

The air shifts.

Focused.

Ready.

Paula speaks first, concise and clear.

“Inbound ambulance. Five plus. Recycling plant fire. Burns. Unknown percentages.”

A murmur moves through the group.

Five.

Burns are never simple.

Riley stands slightly behind the others, hands loosely clasped in front of him.

He doesn’t speak.

He rarely does in these meetings.

He observes.

Absorbs.

Waits to be told where he’s needed.

And then—

A figure approaches from the far side of the department.

Casual.

Unhurried.

Dr. Rowan Heath.

Riley’s stomach drops.

It’s the first time he’s seen him on the floor since yesterday.

Dr. Heath walks into the semi-circle with a chart in one hand, hoodie sleeves rolled casually up to his forearms. His hair is slightly mussed, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times already. There’s a faint shadow along his jaw.

He looks—

Unfair.

Riley’s thoughts from last night in the shower slam back into him with humiliating clarity.

The water running down his back.

The way he’d thought about Dr. Heath’s hands on his face.

The brush of his fingers through his curls.

The careful way he’d cleaned the blood from beneath his eye.

Riley swallows hard.

Dr. Heath removes his glasses as he speaks to Paula.

Their communication is fast.

Blunt.

Efficient.

“Percentages?” he asks.

“Unknown. Likely mixed-depth. Ages twenty-two to fifty-one. All male.”

“Airway compromise?”

“Two intubated en route.”

“Grafts?” he asks, already thinking ahead.

“As soon as possible,” Paula replies. “We’ll need plastics looped in immediately.”

They move back and forth like that—rapid, clinical, sharp.

Riley barely follows.

He’s too busy staring.

Dr. Heath is tanned.

Deeply so.

He looks like he belongs outdoors, under sun, somewhere warmer than fluorescent lights. Riley feels washed-out beside him. Pale. Bruised. Unwell.

He shifts slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how he must look.

Small.

Soft.

Young.

Dr. Heath runs a massive hand through his hair and exhales sharply.

He looks stressed.

Riley hates that he still looks good like this.

There’s something magnetic about him when he’s focused—shoulders squared, jaw tight, voice controlled but commanding.

It makes Riley’s pulse trip over itself.

He looks down at the floor before anyone can catch the flush rising up his neck.

He shouldn’t be thinking like this.

Not here.

Not now.

Paula breaks from the group to head toward the ambulance bay.

The others remain in their loose formation, mentally preparing.

And then—

Riley feels it.

That stare.

He looks up.

One of the female residents—second-year, dark ponytail, sharp eyeliner—studies him openly. She looks him up and down slowly.

Assessing.

Judging.

His stomach knots.

She leans toward a nurse beside her and whispers something.

The nurse’s lips twitch.

Riley’s face burns.

They know.

They absolutely know.

Michael must have told someone.

Or the stairwell girls did.

The fourth stall.

The knees.

What he put in his mouth.

He feels suddenly exposed in the middle of the department.

Like everyone can see it written across him.

The resident snaps on a pair of latex gloves, the sound sharp in the charged silence.

She looks directly at him.

“You’re Riley, right?”

Riley’s throat tightens.

Dr. Heath’s head lifts slightly at the sound of his name, though his eyes remain on the chart in his hands.