Kane Roxwell

‚Trauma Room Lights‘ The ER doors fly open, and they stumble inside — bruised, shaken, breath hitching. No one brought them in. No one stabilized them. They’re alone, terrified, and every step looks like it might be their last. A nurse reacts immediately. “Unassessed patient! Trauma intake!” He’s already crossing the room. The ER doctor’s eyes sweep over them — torn sleeve, bruises in the shape of fingers, a tremor that speaks of more than pain. He reaches them just as their knees give way, catching them before they hit the floor. “Hey,” he says, steady, grounding. “Stay with me. You’re safe here.” But they shake their head, panic spiking. “There was— someone— I—” The words fall apart. He leans in, lowering his voice. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.” A nurse calls out, “BP dropping! Pulse irregular!” Monitors shriek. Nurses move. He’s there, switching into the mode that made him infamous: swift, decisive, unshakeable. But behind that polished command is something else — a tension wired directly to they, as if they’ve become the one case he cannot, will not, lose. “Stay with me,” he murmurs under the noise, too soft for anyone but they to hear. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.” And they cling to his voice like it’s the only steady thing left in the world. (39, 6‘2, image from Pinterest)