The next few nights passed in a blur. Emma stopped keeping track of the day of the week. She only knew the rhythm of the hospital now—nights were alive, mornings faded, and afternoons felt like dreams she half remembered. The ER was her calendar. Shift change was sunrise. Charting was sunset. The world outside existed but only as background noise.

Ryan was there for all of it. Sometimes they talked. Sometimes they didn’t have to. Their routine became its own quiet gravity—passing charts, sharing coffee, standing next to each other during codes. It was not dramatic. It was not even spoken. It just was.

One Friday night, the air felt strange the moment she walked in. The temperature was off, or maybe it was her. She could smell the rain outside, but the sky hadn’t opened yet. That always meant trouble. Rain made people reckless. Rain filled the ER.

Nicole was already at the nurses’ station, her expression sharp. “Full moon and payday,” she said flatly. “Brace yourselves.”

Ryan looked up from a chart. “That bad?”

Nicole nodded. “Three traumas on the board already and the night hasn’t started.”

Emma tied her hair back tighter. She felt the weight settle on her shoulders—the kind she always felt before chaos. She didn’t mind it anymore. The weight meant purpose.

The first trauma came in fast—a young woman, mid-twenties, car accident, glass cuts on her face, broken ribs, scared eyes. Emma worked through it smoothly, steady hands, calm voice. Ryan gave quiet commands and she answered them without needing to think.

The second came ten minutes later. A construction worker fell from scaffolding. Broken leg, possible concussion. Loud pain, loud voice. Blood everywhere but nothing fatal. They handled it.

The third was worse. A man in his fifties, motorcycle crash. He wasn’t breathing when they rolled him in. CPR started before the stretcher even stopped. Ryan’s voice rose above everything—steady, clear, firm.

Emma pressed her palms into the man’s chest again and again until her arms went numb. Sweat dripped into her eyes. The monitor kept flashing flat. She felt her pulse racing faster than the one she was trying to find.

“Switch,” Ryan said. He took over compressions while she caught her breath.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. They shocked him twice. Nothing.

Ryan looked at the clock, then at the nurse calling out vitals. “Time of death,” he said finally, voice even but soft.

The words dropped like a stone.

Emma stepped back, peeling off her gloves slowly. Her hands were shaking, just slightly, but she didn’t hide it. The body on the bed was still warm. She hated that part—the warmth fading, the silence settling.

Ryan’s hand brushed her shoulder, light, brief. “Go breathe,” he said quietly.

She nodded and stepped out into the hallway. The air outside the trauma bay felt thin. She leaned against the wall, staring at the floor. The noise of the ER moved around her, the rhythm still beating even when one heart stopped.

A few minutes later, Ryan found her. He didn’t speak right away. He just stood next to her, shoulder close but not touching.

“You did everything right,” he said finally.

“I know,” she said. “But it doesn’t feel like it.”

“It never does.”

They stood in silence. The storm outside finally broke. Rain hit the glass doors in hard sheets. The sound filled the hall, loud enough to drown out everything else.

“Do you ever get used to it?” she asked quietly.

“No,” he said. “But you learn how to keep living with it.”

She nodded, eyes still on the floor. “How?”

He smiled faintly. “You find something that pulls you back. Something that reminds you why you keep coming here.”

“And what’s that for you?”

Ryan hesitated, then looked at her. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He didn’t look away. “You.”

The word hung there, quiet but heavy. She felt it settle in her chest before she could react. No music, no dramatic moment, just that one word in the middle of a hallway where someone had just died.

Her voice came out soft. “Ryan…”

He shook his head slightly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just need you to know it’s true.”

Before she could respond, the intercom cracked again. “Code Blue, Room Seven.”

They moved together instantly—reflex, muscle memory, survival.

The patient in Room Seven was an older woman, cardiac arrest. Emma jumped back into motion, gloves on, adrenaline rising. Ryan led again, calling orders, steady as always. The team worked in sync, no wasted motion. After six minutes, a pulse returned.

Ryan exhaled, wiping sweat from his forehead. Emma leaned against the counter, chest heaving.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded. “I’m fine.”

He looked at her like he didn’t believe her, then smiled just enough to let her know he’d let it go for now.

The rest of the night blurred. Rain, stretchers, alarms, tears, paperwork. The cycle never stopped.

When it was finally over, dawn crept in gray and quiet. The city outside was soaked. Emma walked out of the hospital with Ryan beside her. They didn’t speak until they reached the parking lot.

The sky was soft, the kind of pale light that made everything look unreal.

Ryan stopped by his car. “You sure you’re good to drive?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

He nodded. “Go home. Sleep.”

“What about you?”

He smiled faintly. “I’ll get there eventually.”

She hesitated, then said, “You weren’t supposed to say things like that inside.”

He shrugged. “Then I’ll say them outside.”

She smiled a little. “You’re impossible.”

“Maybe. But I mean it.”

The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The air smelled like wet asphalt and coffee from somewhere nearby. Emma stood there for a moment, wanting to say something but not knowing how.

Finally, she said, “I’ll see you tonight.”

“Yeah,” he said. “See you tonight.”

She turned and walked to her car, the sound of rain fading behind her. Her body ached, her mind was foggy, but something inside her felt solid.

The ER never stopped. People would keep breaking, keep coming, keep needing her. But she was learning how to carry it now—not just because she was strong, but because someone else was carrying part of it with her.

For the first time in a long time, the idea of coming back didn’t feel heavy.

It felt like gravity pulling her home.