Chapter Text
Dennis liked the breakroom best when it was quiet.
The ER was a constant storm — monitors beeping, stretchers rolling, voices overlapping in a messy chorus of urgency. But the breakroom at 1:15 p.m. was usually empty, just humming lights and the faint smell of stale coffee. He slipped inside with his water bottle, grateful for thirty seconds of silence.
The small rectangular window in the door gave Dennis a perfect view across the pitt.
Robby was at his desk, charting, head bent over the keyboard. His hair was a little messy — it always got that way halfway through a shift — and he kept doing that thing where he chewed on the inside of his cheek when he was concentrating. His pen was tucked behind his ear. His scrubs were wrinkled. He looked tired.
Fuck. He looked perfect.
Dennis felt something warm and stupid bloom in his chest.
He shouldn’t. He knew he shouldn’t.
But he did.
They weren’t dating.
They weren’t hooking up.
They weren’t anything with a label.
But they were… something.
They texted constantly.
They ate lunch together more often than not.
They worked side‑by‑side with an ease that felt lived‑in, like they’d been doing it for years.
Robby always brought Dennis coffee when he knew he’d forget to eat breakfast.
They bickered like siblings and hovered like partners.
Everyone noticed, but neither of them acknowledged it.
Dennis didn’t know what to call it. He just knew he liked being around Robby more than anyone else. He liked the way it felt easy to imagine more.
He shook the thought off and stepped farther into the breakroom.
He stopped short.
A Tupperware container sat on the counter, filled with cookies. A neon sticky note was slapped on top:
Chocolate Chip. Help yourself :) – Mel
Dennis grinned. Mel and her sister baked like it was a competitive sport. And Dennis? He was never one to turn down free sugar.
He popped the lid and grabbed a cookie.
Golden brown.
Soft.
Chocolate chips melting slightly.
He took a bite as he filled his water bottle, watching nurses and doctors pass the breakroom... some looking in to meet Dennis's gaze with a smile.
The cookie was sweet and… a little… spicy? Probably just darker chocolate.
Whatever. It was good.
He finished the cookie on his way out of the breakroom, licking a smear of chocolate off his thumb.
He stepped into the hallway.
And paused.
His stomach flipped — not pain, just a sudden wrongness, like the floor had tilted under him.
He swallowed, but the swallow didn’t go down right.
His throat felt thick.
Sticky. Like someone had pressed a thumb against the inside of it.
Dennis frowned, rubbing at his neck.
And then — like a match struck in the dark — a memory flashed.
He was four years old at a Christmas party. Snow outside. Kids running around. A plate of snickerdoodle cookies on a table.
He remembered taking one. He remembered the taste — warm, sweet… cinnamon.
He remembered his throat tightening.
His mom screaming.
The ambulance lights.
The week he spent in the hospital, tiny and terrified, learning the word anaphylaxis before he learned how to tie his shoes.
He hadn’t touched cinnamon since.
Until now.
He took another step toward the center of the ER where the doctors and nurses gathered in between patients.
His airway tightened with each step.
He inhaled — and the breath came in thin and high, like air through a pinhole.
His pulse spiked and his vision blurred at the edges. His legs felt heavy and unsteady as he waved desperately to get someone’s attention.
He tried to walk faster, forcing himself toward people, toward help. His chest was fighting for air, clawing for it, but nothing was coming in.
He pushed forward until his weight landed against the nurse’s station.
That’s when Dana looked up.
“Dennis? You look—”
He didn’t hear the rest.
His knees buckled, the floor rushed up, and hands grabbed him, rolling him onto his back.
Dennis tried to breathe.
Nothing.
His throat was swelling shut — fast, dangerously fast. His face felt hot and tight. His fingers tingled and at this point, his chest was barely rising.
Someone shouted, “He’s having an allergic reaction!”
Another voice: “What did he eat?!”
Another: “Call a code!”
Dennis tried to speak — to say cinnamon, to say anything — but his voice was gone, strangled by swelling.
His vision flickered.
And then, through the fog of consciousness: “DENNIS!”
Robby’s voice cut through everything.
Footsteps.
Fast.
Hard.
Robby dropped to his knees beside him, hands already on Dennis’s face, his neck, checking swelling, checking airway.
“Dennis, look at me,” Robby said, voice shaking. “What happened? What did you eat?”
Dennis couldn’t answer. His chest convulsed, desperate for air.
“Huckleberry!? What’s going on!?” Robby snapped his head toward Trinity, who had just rushed over.
A nurse shouted, “I think I saw him eating one of the cookies from the breakroom!”
Mel’s voice suddenly rang out from behind them — horrified, cracking:
“They’re just chocolate chip! I swear— I swear— we added— u-um—”
Mel listed ingredients, panicked, stumbling over her words.
Butter.
Sugar.
Chocolate chips.
Flour.
Vanilla.
Eggs.
And then—
“Cinnamon.”
Trinity froze.
“Cinnamon. He’s deathly allergic to cinnamon! He told me once!”
Robby’s entire face drained of color.
“Shit— okay— epinephrine now—” He grabbed the auto‑injector from the crash cart, hands trembling but fast. He administered the epinephrine, then scooped Dennis up bridal style, holding him tight against his chest as he stood.
“Santos, trauma room three, let’s go!”
Dennis’s head lolled against Robby’s shoulder, barely conscious, barely breathing.
Robby ran.
Down the hall and into the trauma room.
Trinity was already there, pulling equipment, barking orders.
Robby laid Dennis on the bed, hands hovering, shaking, eyes wild with fear.
Dennis’s face was swelling — lips, cheeks, throat. His breathing was ragged and shallow. His pulse was erratic.
Trinity worked quickly, efficiently, but her voice was tight — she knew how bad this was.
Robby stayed right beside Dennis, one hand gripping Dennis’s wrist, thumb pressed to his pulse like he was willing it to stay steady.
“Stay with me,” Robby whispered, voice cracking. “Dennis, stay with me. Please.”
Dennis couldn’t respond. But he heard him. Barely. Through the haze. Through the panic and suffocating tightness in his throat.
He heard Robby’s voice.
And then everything went dark.