The hum of the breakroom is usually the only thing robby can stand after a twelve-hour stretch in the Pitt, but today, the air feels localized. It’s heavy around the vending machine where Whitaker is currently losing a battle with a bag of pretzels.

Robby watches him for a second from the doorway. He’s a mess—curls going in four different directions, stethoscope tangled in his ID badge, and that frantic, high-energy vibration he gets when he’s running on caffeine and pure nerves.

"Whitaker," Roby says. His voice sounds like gravel, even to himself.

Whitaker nearly exits his own skin. “Sir! Robby. Dr. Robby. Boss. I’m just—the pretzels are stuck, but im winning!"

He’s not winning. He looks like he’s about to cry over a snack. Robby step into his space, and the shift is instantaneous. The frantic energy in Whitaker doesn't stop, but it changes frequency. Roby reaches past his head—close enough to smell the sterile soap and the faint scent of the cheap energy drink he definitely shouldn't be having—and give the glass a sharp jolt.

The bag drops.

Robby doesn't pull back. Instead, he lets his hand settle on Whitaker's shoulder. His palm covers nearly the whole thing; he feels small under Robby's grip, vibrating like a live wire.

"You’re shaking," Robby mutters. "When was the last time you actually sat down?"

"I sat! I mean, I leaned. Leaning is vertical sitting," he stammers. Whitaker looks up at Robby, and his face is a deep, sudden crimson. His eyes are wide, searching Robby's for a reprimand he won't find.

That’s when Robby hears it. The scuffle of a chair in the corner and a stage-whisper that cuts through the room. muffled ”Twenty dollars on 'Shoulder', Jesse!"

Robby's jaw tightens. He doesn't need to look at the board. He knows exactly what’s on it—the sticky notes, the names, the bets on when He'll finally crack and show Whitaker exactly how distracting he is. Robby's thumb moves of its own accord, tracing a small circle over the dark fabric of his scrubs.

"Ignore them," Robby says, voice dropping lower, intended only for Dennis. "Eat your pretzels. Then find a chair. That’s an order."

Robby lingers for a second too long—just enough to feel the heat radiating off Whitaker—before he lets go. He turns to leave, catching Jesse’s eye. He’s holding a fifteen-dollar bill and looking at Robby like he just paid off Jesse's mortgage. Robby rolls his eyes and walks off.

"If they’re going to bet on us, they might as well get their money’s worth." He thinks.