summary: One glitchy tablet, one HR email, and suddenly you’re married to your attending, Jack Abbot. HR thinks it was intentional and has already started merging your records. Claim it was a mistake, and your residency could be delayed. With only three months left until you’re an attending, Jack agrees to play along. Pretending to be married might save your career—but can your heart survive the side effects?
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 135k┊ongoing┊updates weekly (might be later if life happens...)
⤷ CHAPTER INDEX:
⚕one.┊two.┊three.┊four.┊five.┊six.┊seven.┊eight.┊nine.┊ten.┊eleven. ┊twelve.┊thirteen.┊fourteen.┊ fifteen. ┊ sixteen.┊seventeen.┊eighteen┊ nineteen ┊twenty ┊twenty one ┊twenty two
⤷ BLURBS INDEX:
⚕ long shift
⚕ halloween
⚕ the q-word
i'm not keeping a tag list for this series anymore. follow @s-writing-s-fics to get notified when i post a new chapter <33
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In the spirit of democracy, this summer is going to be a DBF series double-header ;)
On a camping trip celebrating your father's fiftieth birthday party, you cross paths with Jack, his best friend and old military pal. What follows is a seventy-two-hour love affair that ends with his abrupt departure. No note, no calls. You don't even know how to find him - or if you want to.
Four years later, you begin your ER residency at PTMC. Your night shift attending? The same man who took your virginity, broke your heart, and then disappeared without a trace. But you're not the same wide-eyed girl he left behind, and you soon prove yourself as an impressive force of nature.
He’s a curse you can’t break. You are the temptation he can’t resist.
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synopsisyou and Robby have always had an un-spoken understanding, that if you were two different people you'd fall in love. but he was a mess and refused to bring you down. so instead, fate threatens to take you away forever
warningsANGST. so much angst. stabbing. blood. near death. operations. typical hospital stuff but a happy ending
authornotethis is just completely ripped from that episode of ER when John Carter gets stabbed, like the medical talk is all from that. I also feel like this may be slight ooc robby cause I have struggle with how this man would be affectionate. i had a hell of a lot of fun writing this, angst is by far my favourite, i hope you like too
Pitt masterlist. Other Robby fic!
You weren't sure if it was the thumping in your head or the drum in your heart but you watched Robby closely. It could have been the injury to your head or the closeness of him that had your heart reacting in such a way.
You blamed it on the injury.
“Give it to me straight, Doc,” you joked. One of his gloved hands cupped your chin, nudging your gaze up. The other dabbed gently at the cut to your forehead. “Am I gonna make it?”
There was a line of displeasure in his lips. “Not funny,” he mumbled.
“Sure it is.”
“No, it's not.”
You rolled your eyes before going back to focusing on him.
It was rare you got to watch him in his concentration. Usually you were in the middle of a trauma when he pulled out the serious face and things were moving too fast for you to even catch a glimpse. Now- his focus was all on you. You could study the creases at his brows and the flecks of grey in his beard.
“You ever notice you have these deep lines between your eyebrows when you're concentrating?”
“It's called age,” he said but there was the smallest hint of a smile there.
“Aren't you twenty-seven?”
This time he couldn't stop the smirk of amusement and finally you won.
Robby dabbed away the blood at your cut, changing the gauze. “Don't think you're distracting me.”
You hummed as he tilted your head into the light. “Distracting you from what?”
“Reporting him.”
You grew silent and looked away.
It was Robby's turn to stare at you, eyes without warmth, stern in ways he was with patients that didn't want to listen to good advice. You may be sitting on a bed in exam room four and you may have a chart written up but you were not a patient. “He was scared and confused-”
“ - he pushed you.”
“And I was the one that tripped and bashed my head.”
“He threw you down!”
You winced at his snap and then winced at the pain your wincing brought you.
Robby sighed with some sort of regret. His fingertips brushed your skin as he finished cleaning the cut and you couldn't help but think it was a deliberate move. He'd been so careful not to touch or apply pressure but suddenly the callous of his fingers were there.. “If we don't take care of ourselves nobody else will do it.”
It was the same thing Dana had said to you when she saw the patient push you down and run out the room in distress, hospital gown slipping on his shoulders. She'd taken you under her arm, stirred you to a chair. She was firm in both checking you were okay and that you were going to report him for hurting you.
You look past Robby, trying to see through the glass door. The Pitt carried on it's usual bustle but Dana kept a close eye out on you in the room. “Where is he now?”
“None of your concern,” he said. “The cut's clean, looks like you won't need stitches.”
“You've restrained him haven't you?”
Robby frowned. His head shook slightly in disbelief- like he couldn't believe you. “He hurt you. Jesus- you think I was gonna just tuck him back in bed- you think Dana was!”
You were used to the rise in Robby's voice, as attending it was his job to command everyone. You just didn't like to hear it risen at you. “He woke up, confused and startled.”
The patient was brought in un-conscious at the side of the road, a gash in his arm. Nobody knew his name but you'd admitted him and ran some tests while he was semi-conscious. He'd woken up as you were checking his IV and the next thing you knew hard hands were pushing you away. You'd taken the tray down with you and smacked your head in the process. Then he'd ran and then Robby had you in his arms, willing to pick you up and carry you off if it weren't for your insistence to walk to an exam room.
Robby's body heaved in a sigh as he put his hands on his thighs. “He hurt you,” he repeated, looking up at you through his eyelashes.
You slowly met his gaze as he got closer on the stall in front of you. “I've had worse.”
It wasn't supposed to be a dig but as his eyes met yours in a haze of dark anxiety you figured it came off that way.
Really what happened between you and Robby was ancient history. A whole six months since you'd stopped seeing each other; if that's what it could be called. It was really only one stupid kiss and several flirts that created the thick tension between you two. Nothing had ever been done to encourage it further, yet nothing had also been done to squash it.
Whilst his gaze remained on you, Robby got out his penlight and checked your pupil reaction.
“Any pain?”
“Well, the light's a bit bright.”
He put it down and with his gloved hands he slowly pressed around the small cut on your forehead, hands cupping your face tenderly. “Any pain?”
“No, you've done all this twice now.”
“It's procedure for any patient.”
“It's special treatment,” you grumbled.
Robby grabbed a bandage from the tray. “You're a special patient.”
The heat crept up your cheeks before you stared at the bandage.
“Robby-”
In one hand he held a bandage, in the other a small spider-man plaster that he so obviously got from pedes.
You stared at him. “Really?”
His cheeks tilted in a small teasing grin. “All we have, I'm afraid.”
You seriously doubted it but tapped the spider-man plaster nonetheless. “I'm sure I could have done this myself, you know,” you said as he peeled away the plaster. “Or at least got one of the nurses to do it. I'm sure you're needed somewhere more important.”
He frowned again. “More important?”
“There's a guy that came in with a GSW to the chest ten minutes ago and you're saying you don't need to be there?”
Robby's hands fell to either side of your face, gently taking your cheeks. His thumb brushed the curve of your cheek bone. He could feign he was checking your pupils but you both knew better. “There's nowhere else I need to be.”
Six months ago you'd kissed in a bar ten minutes away from the Pitt. Every day since- you'd been fighting the urge to kiss him again.
At that moment, with his gentle touch and soft gaze, you wondered if he'd been fighting to.
“Look up,” Robby said with a clear of his throat.
You weren't sure what he was trying to check for anymore. Maybe he was just looking for an easy way out.
“I still want you to get a CT scan.”
“Now that's dramatic, I didn't expect that from you.”
“Any nasuea?”
You shook your head as Robby steadied you, sliding the plaster in place.
“Have you been drinking enough today?”
“Two cups of coffee count?”
Robby gave you a plain look as he yanked off the latex gloves, throwing them into a corner of the room. “Ten minutes rest, I'll bring you some food and water.”
You sighed dramatically. “Robby!”
He pushed himself up from his stool. “As you're attending I'm not asking, I'm-”
“Telling?” you guessed.
Robby hovered as you pushed yourself up back on the bed. You wouldn't say it but your head was hurting from the fall. Nothing more than a headache that some painkillers couldn't stop. If you told Robby that yes, you were in pain, you were sure he'd pull the curtain, change you into a gown and play doctor all day.
You lied back on the pillow as Robby plumped it and smoothed out the sheets under you. He was lingering and for a moment you thought of asking him to stay.
Your mouth had opened to ask when the door was nudged open.
“Robby, we got a car crash coming in five,” said Dana. She looked at you then, eyes crinkled in worry. “How you feeling, hun?”
“I'm fine, thanks Dana.”
She nodded once, offering you a small smile before leaving.
You looked up at Robby as his body lingered over yours, one arm stretched high above your head, the other lower. Your gaze flickered up and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan over you. “Ten minutes?” you asked.
“On the clock.”
“Then I'm free to go?”
His head tilted, a sly smirk playing around his thin beard. “I'm not keeping you a prisoner.”
You folded your arms over your chest, glancing away. “Feels like it.”
He chuckled lightly. For a moment his breath lingered over your forehead, closer than before.
When you glanced up he froze, hands clenched on the bed, his jaw taunt. It was as if you'd caught him in the act.
Suddenly you wished you hadn't looked up. You wished you'd let him do whatever he was going to do. Because once he'd been caught he straightened up and threw you an awkward thumbs up. “Ten minutes.”
You trace your finger over the plaster as you slowly left your room, creeping out like you were a teenager sneaking out of your parents to meet a guy. Except you were trying to avoid the guy.
“That was eight minutes!”
You looked up and found Robby at the nurses station, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. “Were you timing me?”
Robby held up his phone, showing you the timer he had counting down as next to him, Dana snorted. “Have you had something to drink? Or eat?” he asked as you leant over the counter. He was still watching you eagerly, waiting for any sign you were in more pain then you let on so he could send you back to bed.
“Thought you were getting me a drink?”
He rolled his eyes before obliging, sliding away to get you a drink. He turned back only once. “Don't go near him!” he called, the both of you knowing who the he was.
You saluted him, watching him go before turning to Dana. “How is he?”
She peered at you over her glasses. “Terrible. He's been worried sick, was practically watching you through those windows. Didn't blink for a minute!”
“Not Robby, my patient. The John Doe.”
“Well that ain't your concern anymore," she said.
“I want to treat him.”
“He's awake now, we've restrained him in twelve but Robby wants you nowhere near him.”
“Robby is over-reacting,” you sighed.
Dana lifted her shoulders. “Of course he is, it's you. You think he's gonna react rationally?”
Nobody was supposed to know about you and Robby and the thing that lingered in the middle. But somehow, Dana always ended up knowing everything.
You backed away from the counter, assuring Robby was nowhere to be seen. “Twelve, you said right?”
Dana huffed but lucky for you there were a dozen more things she needed to do. “Fine! Go! But take security with you!”
You saluted and headed that way. Outside the door, Ahmed was already there.
“Hey, doc,” he greeted. “He's been asking about you, said he wants to apologise.”
You weren't scared like you thought you'd be, stepping into the room while Ahmed promised to stay outside, just a shout away of you needed him. Your heart wasn't pounding as you slowly moved the curtain, finding the patient lying on the bed, restraints around his wrists and tied down. He wasn't thrashing about. He was calm, clocking you as you walked in.
“You're the nurse?” he said.
“Doctor, actually,” you said, introducing yourself.
He smiled but it didn't reach his eyes or add colour to his face. There was nothing in his eyes anyhow. He was pale and the thin bandaging that had been done for his arm while he struggled was bleeding through. “I-I pushed you, I am so sorry.”
You were about to say it was fine, but it wasn't you shouldn't tell him it was. You could accept the apology but still acknowledge that whatever state he was in, you shouldn't have been hurt. “Do you know where you are?”
“The hospital?”
“That's right, PTMC. Can you tell me your name?”
He nodded, gulping. There was a thin layer of sweat over his skin. “David Brown.”
“And do you know what month it is?”
“M-March.”
“Okay, good,” you said, making a quick note of his name in his chart. You sat down on the stool, shuffling to the side of his bed. “Mr Brown-”
“David,” he corrected you.
“David,” you said. “You were brought in just under an hour ago with a pretty bad laceration to your lower right arm. You were found un-conscious. Do you remember anything?”
You watched the sweat bead at his forehead, his eyes scrunched as he tried to think. His breathing grew heavier, face morphed into pain as he tried to think. “It's okay if you don't.”
“I-I don't,” a stray tear fell down his cheek.
“That's okay,” you assured him. “I'm gonna order you a CT and a toxic screening just to rule out any drugs or alcohol in your system. Is that okay?”
David's head jerked in something like a nod before you door swung open, clattering on the other side of the wall.
Robby stood at the end of the bed, face red, hands at his hips. “What are you doing in here?” he snapped.
“Doctor Robby-”
He gave you no time to explain, jutting his head back. “Step outside please, doctor.”
You stood, slowly and walked out slower.
David called out after you. “I really am sorry!”
Robby looked back like he didn't believe him.
The two of you stepped out and you spoke before he could, beating him by a second. “I'm ordering him a CT and toxicity test. That gash on his arms needs to be cleaned and stitched up, it's bleeding out.”
Robby didn't care to hear it. He pulled the curtains over and closed the door as he followed you out. “What did you think you were doing in there?”
“Tending to my patient.”
“I told you to leave him.”
“He wanted to say sorry. Ahmed, didn't he want to apologise?” you said, looking to security for some help.
Ahmed held up his hands. “Oh- I want nothing in this!”
“If he wanted to apologise he could've wrote a letter. Told me to apologise to you,” he said, still holding onto his anger. “I told you to leave it, the guy attacked you!”
“Lightly shoved me from shock!”
“Have you seen what he did to your head?”
“Yeah, a small cut, doesn't even need stitches- that's what you said!”
“It's a wound! There was blood!” he yelled. “You are not to go anywhere near him from now on, do you understand?”
There was a new anger in Robby then, something you saw rarely in him. Dana had said he was worried about you but you saw none of that concern in him now, only anger. Anger because you hadn't listened to him not because of well fair.
“I'm a doctor, I'm supposed to be helping people,” you defended, your own anger not rising to his.
His hands balled into fists. “Help someone who's asking for it. I see you in with that guy again and you're on triage for a week, you understand?”
Where was that softness in his eyes? Where was that care he tended to you in the room all alone?
“You understand?” he snapped again when you didn't answer.
You knew if you turned there'd be several pairs of eyes on the pair of you. Watching, assessing, see how you reacted. Nobody had ever heard Robby speak to you like that because he'd never shouted at you before. “I understand, Doctor Robinavitch.”
“So you yelled at her.”
Robby thought he'd find solace on the roof, that with only him and the night sky he stood a chance at thinking things through logically, for once on the right side of the rail.
Then Jack's voice sounded behind him and the peace he was searching for fell further out of reach.
“Who told you?” he asked, head falling.
“Oh, you know,” he mumbled, shoes shuffling over the roof as he got closer to him. “Just everybody that was in attendance to your little show.”
Jack leant next to him on the rail, staring at him.
Robby could feel his eyes but looked out on the skyline that was more favourable to him. Jacks eyes felt like everybody else that watched him yell at you. He could call it worry- it didn't change the way your face dropped the louder his voice rose.
“You wanna talk about it?” asked Jack.
“No.”
“I heard she got attacked.”
“Or lightly pushed as she'd put it.”
“She's a soldier.”
Robby shook his head. “No, she's a doctor. Today she could have been neither if that man-” the words chocked in his throat. What if he had hurt you even more? Punched you? Strangled you? He'd seen it all in the ER and yes, you'd been hurt before but that didn't mean he needed to have you hurt again.
“I saw her when I was coming up, she seemed fine,” said Jack. “About to clock off, you sure you want to end the day on such a bad note.”
“She doesn't want to talk to me.”
“Come on, she always wants to talk to you,” said Jack. “And I only know that cause you always want to talk to her.”
Robby wished he could say that telling Jack about the kiss so many months ago was a mistake but he couldn't because that would mean kissing you was a mistake. The only mistake made with that kiss is that he hadn't pulled you back in, kissed you every day since. But he'd told Jack on one of those lonely nights when they'd each had one too many beers how much he missed you even if he saw you every day.
“I was so fucking scared, brother,” he admitted with a long exhale of breath. Robby slumped over the rail, catching himself. “Code hula-hoop was called and her name and I- I didn't know...”
Jack's hand was firm on his back. “I know.”
Robby nodded, head tucked down. He wouldn't cry, he wasn't sure how these days but he sure as hell felt like it. It had been a hell of day, worse when he couldn't join your side without you walking off.
“You were worried, you don't know what to do with that,” said Jack.
He could admit that much.
“You go home now, she goes home, you're carrying this weight to the next day and it'll continue,” he said, therapizing him. “You were scared you might have lost her?”
Robby glanced Jack's way. There was never any judgment, only a keen understanding he sometimes didn't like.
“You might lose her if you don't do something about it.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
Jack shrugged. “Apologise.”
Robby hesitated, the words 'I'm sorry' foreign on his tongue.
Jack chuckled low in his throat. “Is that really so hard for you?”
He nodded and Jack carried on laughing. By the end, even Robby was chuckling through watery eyes.
“Okay, okay, let's try,” said Jack, straightening up, encouraging him to do the same. “Repeat after me, I'm sorry.”
“Jesus-”
“Jesus, you can't even say it-listen we'll go slow, I'm-”
Robby's phone rung in his pocket, thankfully saving him from the embarrassment. “Dana-” he answered as he spotted Jack's phone going too.
“Get down here, now!”
“What's going on?” he asked, though his feet were already moving.
He didn't see the way Jack looked at him, he hardly heard how Dana said your name because when she did Robby dropped his phone and ran.
“Robby!” Jack called but he was off the roof and furiously pressing the elevator button. He managed to slide past the doors before they closed on him. “What did Dana say?”
But Robby couldn't speak. He heard Dana's voice re-play in his head again and again. That you had been attacked, that they needed him. He couldn't think beyond that. Beyond you and attacked there was nothing.
Jack was watching him closely. “Okay-” he must've known it was bad too. “Okay, Robby, we don't know what's going on down there but you gotta stay cool, okay? You gotta stay cool or leave us to it.”
He should've kept a closer eye on you, should've sent you home.
“Robby if you get in our way I'm taking you out of there, understand?”
The doors slid open and Robby ran out, Jack quick on his heels.
“Where?” he barked out. There were no faces around him he could figure out, no Dana, no Langdon- so everyone must have been in with you-
“Trauma one!”
Robby burst through the doors.
The chaos was everywhere and he paused. There were more bodies in the trauma room then he'd ever seen. In between them all a body that he could vaguely re-call as yours. Your trainers- usually white- were seeping in blood.
“Can you open your eyes?”
“No respond to command!”
“Two stab wounds to the left flank! First one L-two, second L-five.”
“Is it the spinal chord?” asked Whitaker.
“Can't tell it depends on the angle!” said Langdon. “Jesus- there's too much blood, I can't see a thing!”
You lied on the bed, blood splattered around your clothes, un-responsive to everyone around you. You were letting them prod, push and pull when you'd hardly let him asses your cut just hours ago.
Hours when you were teasing him and he was thinking about kissing you again.
What had happened.
If it was a papercut you'd be feigning death.
This was the closest you'd ever looked to dying and Robby couldn't feel his legs.
"Doctor Robby?" someone called in the room but it wasn't you. You weren't responding to anyone. “Doctor Robby!”
Jack moved past him, body knocking his. “I'm here!”
“BP seventy over fifty, pulse one-twenty.”
Jack moved around you, pressing the chest piece of the stethoscope to your chest. “Push in two litres of O-neg. Good breath sounds bilaterally.”
Robby's ears were ringing but he could feel himself shake his head. “She's not-she's not O-neg, she's B-positive,” he heard himself mumble.
There was a sharp beeping through the room and Robby thought it was a strange sound for his heart breaking.
“Pulse ox ninety-three!”
“Do we intubate?” asked Mohan.
Your body jerked and as if you were the puppet master tugging on his strings, Robby found his feet and moved to your side.
He moved around until he was the closest to you, replacing anyone else at your side. Others watched, un-sure if they should've told him to wait outside like he was family.
Jack gave them the nod and the room moved again.
“Give me ten by mask, no intubation. Send a trauma panel!” ordered Robby.
“We need X-ray for a chest!” yelled Jack.
“X-ray can come to us! I am not moving her!” he shouted. “Help me roll, let me see!”
The blood on the front of your scrubs was splashed but as they turned you, leaning you on your side Robby's body slumped, something like a chocked sob wracking through his body.
He couldn't see the puncture wounds through the blood that soaked you. Just as Langdon had said it was a mess. “Jesus chr- oh god.”
“Pressure's up to ninety palp!”
“Who did this?” he yelled out as they gently set you back.
“The guy who came in un-conscious earlier!”
Jack looked over at Robby.
Robby felt the muscles in his jaws work and he grunted. “I'll kill him,” he grumbled.
“Robby!” lectured Jack.
But he wasn't going to take back his words. “He's fucking dead.”
“He fled the hospital,” Langdon told him. “Left his knife in the room though, they'll find him.”
It couldn't have been a scalpel, it couldn't have been scissors. The guy came in, found a knife- or brought one from home- to harm you. If Robby ever saw him again he'd kill the guy and deal with the consequences that came.
“Toes are down going, no spinal injury,” said someone else in the room but he was losing all focus that wasn't you.
Garcia walked through the doors, joining the crowd of people around you.
“Tell me you've got an OR booked!” said Jack.
“With her name on it! How we doing in here?”
Santos pushed her way ahead, a small and un-characteristic tremble to her hands. There was another unit of blood pushed into your bloodstream and Robby was seconds away from hooking himself up and giving you his very blood. “Pressure's up!” she reported, lingering over you with a light. “Right pupil five millimetres and reactive -”
Suddenly your body jerked at the light. Your head thrashed side to side as you slowly returned to consciousness.
“Huh... I-wha-”
“Hey! Hey!” Robby pushed his way to you, looming over you and catching your eyes.
They were wild, looking around before settling on him.
“Robby?” you uttered, lips dry, dried blood at your neck. Your eyes were looking around like you couldn't quite see.
“Yeah- yeah it's me.” His hand flew to your hair, brushing it back as your eyes were going from him to around you, panic rising in your eyes. “Look at me, focus on me.”
“What-what?”
“You were stabbed,” he uttered.
Your eyes widened and he brushed back your hair again, doctors moving around the two of you. They could've been right on his back or a thousand miles away. All he focused on was you. Your hands waved around, getting in the way of tubes and the doctors.
Robby grabbed your hand, squeezing.
You focused on him and he tried to smile, tried to make himself convinced everything would be alright. He knew it was a grimace.
He'd never hated his medical training more. Because he knew this amount of blood loss was bad, he knew stabbing so close to the spinal chords was dangerous. He knew you were strong and hated staying still for too long and now you'd be forced to recover.
“My pressure?”
“It's up.” He watched as your eyes teared up, looking away from him again. “Good, that's good.”
Your hair sprawled out as you shook your head. “Am I gonna.... will I walk again?”
Robby hesitated. “Yeah- yeah we think it missed your spinal chord.”
Robby knew that but he couldn't help the tears that fell, couldn't help the small sob that ripped through his throat. You'd been calm at the cut with your head, damn right comedic. Now- you were quiet, whimpering and crying in pain and there wasn't anything he could do.
He was a doctor, he could help and check vitals and squeeze the bag of blood slow.
But he couldn't move from your side.
You nod before your back arched in pain and you yelled out.
“BP eighty palp!”
Robby got up, ignoring the ache in his knees as he loomed over you, trying to calm the pain. “Do something!”
“Robby!”
He looked.
You'd drained the blood dry.
“What?” you uttered, voice trembled in terror.
“Okay she needs to go up, now!” Jack called out.
“Let's get her moving!” yelled Garcia.
You groaned in pain. “What's going on?”
Robby didn't know what to do. It wasn't a conversation of telling a patient what was going on or what wasn't. It was telling you. He stuttered lamely, lost as another tear slid down his cheek. You hadn't even cried yet and he was close to blubbering.
His head bowed to you. He was mumbling, he thinks he was praying.
“Robby-” your hand waved out in front of him and he grabbed it, squeezing. “It hurts.”
“Okay, okay, we're gonna-” what was he gonna do? He pressed your hand to his lips, holding it there.
“Hey, honey,” Jack appeared at your other side and your eyes moved to see him but Robby didn't let go. “Hell of a way to get into the night shift.”
“Jack-” you winced.
Jack looked from you to Robby, the same way he looked at the family of unfortunate patients. “We're taking her up to the OR now.”
Your fingers wiggled in Robby's grasp and he looked back to you. “It's bad huh?”
“No, no,” said Robby smoothing back your hair again.
“Your losing a lot of blood, and your foley output is bright red,” said Jack. “But we're gonna sort it and you'll be fine. You trust me?”
Your breathing was shallow, hard breaths hardly coming out. Still, you tried to smile. “Do I- do I have a choice?” your voice came out through seethes of breath.
Robby closed his eyes tight, as if he could feel the own stabbing in his heart.
“Robb-Robby?”
He glanced at you, your eyes fluttering shut. The little hold you had on his hand weakening. He fumbled up, hands holding your cheeks. “Woah-woah- open your eyes! Look at me- look at me!”
You mumbled, head lulling.
“Going up!”
“Look at me, open your eyes!” he all but shouted at you as your eyes were still rolling to the back of his head, wavering between waking and whatever else was on the other side.
“Robby!”
Robby held onto the side of your bed as the team around you wheeled you away and through. There was a stutter of shock waving through the crowd, fear chocking them, shock eating at them. There was police around, all trying to get a look.
“Talk to her, Robinavitch!” said Garcia.
He didn't talk to patients, he evaluated them, stitched them up when he could.
Robby looked up at Jack, hoping for help. He looked grave, watching Robby un-sure but people came back from worse. You'd come back. “Hey, hey look at me,” he uttered and squeezed your hand. When that didn't work he pulled at your eyelids and finally you responded with a grumble.
The elevator doors slid open and you were hauled in, Robby squeezed in too.
“Wh-what?”
He got a flash of your eyes before they closed again.
Your lips were dry and chapped but Robby kissed you anyway, pressing his lips to yours soft, not pushing afraid he'd hurt you but he wanted you to know he was there.
He smiled. He'd never seen you first thing in the morning, he imagined this is what it was. Groggy eyes, words hardly there but with less pain and blood. Robby pulled back and ignored the blood drying in splatters on your neck. “Are you with me, honey?”
You blinked and groaned in pain. “I don't-I don't know.”
“You're with me, yeah you are, you're with me,” Robby mumbled. “You look very pretty, even covered in blood, you know that?” he mumbled, trying to say it so only you could hear.
There was a huff of a smile followed by pain.
“You can't flirt with me while I'm dying, Robinavitch.”
Your eyes fluttered shut.
Robby grabbed your face, smooching your cheek maybe a bit too harsh. “You're not going anywhere.”
“You've pushed four bags,” you whispered. “You're gonna push a five.”
There was a huff of laugh from Jack.
Robby sniffed. You were too good at your job sometimes, ignoring the ache in his back as he leant over you. “You shouldn't be counting.”
“What can I say I'm over-qualified,” your eyes shut again but your lips moved in mumbles.
“What is it? What are you saying?” he asked, a crack in his voice. “What? Tell me.... tell me.”
But you weren't really there anymore. You were incoherent, eyes not really there. None of you was really there. “Robby.... Rob.... please, Robby.”
“What? I'm here, I'm right here, okay? Okay, honey?” Robby felt his chest cave in. “What's taking this elevator so long?” he snapped.
“It's bad, I know,” you said, fingers drifting soft over his arm before it dropped. “I can't- I can't-”
The doors slid open, a team waited on the other side.
Garcia pushed you ahead into the team, spouting who she wanted to scrub in, telling them all who she wanted out front watching. Your condition was a perfect teaching sort.
You weren't for teaching. You were for saving!
Robby wanted to tell as much as the team wheeled you away and Jack's arm came out to stop him.
“You can't go in there man,” he said.
“Like hell I can't!”
“No, you can't!” said Jack.
Any other time Robby would have argued more but he had nothing to say. He needed to be there, he wanted to be there but as soon as they cut you open he'd break. As soon as he saw inside your body he'd tie himself to you.
He'd seen over a hundred bodies cut open in his time but yours might break him.
Robby nodded, hands going to the back of his head.
Someone in the room cried and it took him a moment to realise it was him.
“Hey-hey-” Jack embraced him and Robby couldn't reach to hug him back but he could let himself down. “I will go in, I will be there, you know I will do everything to save her. We will save her.”
To save your life, Robby let him go and stood alone. He looked down at his hand as if he could feel the ghost hold of you still there. When he looked down, all he saw was the hair on the back and the tremble of his fingers.
Robby- for the first time since he was a boy- learnt how to cry.
He tried- boy did he try- to get back into the swing of things. Robby walked into the Pitt with red, blotchy eyes and a waver in his voice. He looked at the board, picked up a sixty year old patient with migraines.
“Hello I'm Doctor Robinavitch, everyone calls me Robby. What seems to be the problem today?”
That was as far as he got before Dana walked in.
“No, no, no, no!” she said, putting the chart down and dragging him out. “I am so sorry Mrs Klepton, we'll get Doctor Shen with you in just a moment. Come with me.”
He was dragged out like a scolded child and shoved into the lounge.
“What do you think you're doing?” she'd snapped.
Robby had put himself in the corner, crowding himself in, arms over his head. What was he doing? Trying to be useful. You'd be up in the OR lord knew how long. If he sat and waited he'd go mad.
Dana leant on the counter. “What'd you think you're doing here, Robinavitch? Get outta here, go home! Better yet go wait for her.”
“I-I can't.”
“Robby.”
He could feel the tears start again. Didn't the human run out of tears eventually? They didn't teach that in med school. “I- I can't. I'm useful in-in here, I'm not- I'm not-”
“Right now there's only one person you can be useful to, so go to her.”
That's how he ended up in the OR waiting room, alone, not flicking through the magazines provided, not even watching the fish in the tank. He was just sitting.
Waiting.
At some point he'd taken the clock down to not watch the hands turn but eventually the sun rose and he was terrified like no other day.
It was going on 05:00 am when the door slowly pushed open. It wasn't with a rattle of relief or with a cheer, it was a slow push.
Robby thought his heart was broken before.
He was hunched over himself, elbows balanced on his knees as he hid his face in his hands and slowly rocked himself. “No... no... no...”
“Robby,” Jack said quietly. His steps were slow but he felt his hand on his back.
Robby flinched, shrinking into himself.
Where was the knife so he could stab himself?
“Robby- she's okay.”
There was a crack in his neck from how quick he looked up. It wasn't enough to convince him, his clinical trained mind wondering all the what would comes? Had it got into your spine? How much blood had you lost.
But Jack listed it off like he knew what Robby needed to hear first. It hadn't hit an aorta, it got an artery hence the bleeding but they'd stabilised it with more blood than they would have liked. But you were alive, though sleeping and they had no worries for you at the moment.
Robby nodded when Jack finished. He must have come right from the OR to tell him because he was still in scrubs and covered in blood. Your blood. “Can I see her?”
You didn't look peaceful. Robby had never thought how uncomfortable the hospital gowns must have been until he saw you lying in one. There was oxygen tube in your nose and an IV in your hand. There was some bruising he hadn't noticed before on your arms from the fall you took.
“What do I do now?” Robby mumbled. He was good at the saving lives part, he just wasn't sure what to do when they hung in limbo.
Jack patted his back, leading the way in the room. “For a doctor you're pretty clueless. You sit with her.”
Robby followed in, un-sure what to do with himself so he held onto either end of his stethoscope.
There was a chair already pulled up to your side as Jack busied himself on the other, checking your IV and BP- all looked good.
Robby had caught you napping at your desk once, fallen asleep while charting. He'd admired you for a moment before slowly waking you with a pen poked in your head. You'd looked so peaceful then- nothing like it now.
“Is she cold?”
“No- I don't think so.”
Robby slowly sank down in the chair and picked up your hand again. It stopped the trembling in his at once.
“I gotta get off, I'll cover the day, do something about the nights. Stay with her, call me if there's any changes,” said Jack.
“Thank you, brother,” said Robby.
There was a dull drumming in your head. Your back was aching and even moving your eyes hurt. Beyond all of that there was something else, something heavier.
Your eyes opened slowly and you found the lights ahead. They burned brighter than the sun, like every morning when you walked into PCMT. You tried to hide, to shield yourself with your hand but you couldn't move it.
Panic coursed through you. Why couldn't you move it? Why could you hardly feel your hand? Dear god-
“Hey,” a gentle voice greeted and you searched for them.
Jack stood over you, leaning at you bed.
Your mouth was parched as you tried to speak.
“You're okay,” said Jack in a whisper. “You remember what happened?”
Step by step you thought back. You were leaving, only checking on David once more before sharp pain hit you in the back and you were shoved. When you came too again faces blurred together and pain blinded you to them all.
There was Robby. Somewhere in all of that.
“I was... stabbed?”
Jack nodded, a small trembled in his chin. “Yeah you were. But you're gonna be okay, there was no injury to your spine.”
“I'll walk?”
“Twelve hours time we'll get you up.”
When you focused you could feel the ache in your arm as if someone was pulling it. There was something heavy at the end like someone was holding it, tight.
Robby was at your other side, lying on your arm and holding you down. His body was curved over, head turned away as his back moved in soft breaths.
“Thought I'd let him sleep. He's been up watching you since you came out the OR,” said Jack.
Robby. He'd stayed.
Had you asked him to? You'd wanted him to. Maybe he understood that.
“Thank you, Jack.”
Jack shook his head. There was no need to thank him, you knew that, but you were thanking him for the life you'd put in his hands and that he'd let Robby be at your side. “You want some time?”
You nodded stiff, feeling the ache in your back more and more. You knew you had months ahead of you of pain but you didn't want to dull it with drugs just yet.
Jack petted down your hair once before taking his hoodie off the back of the chair and leaving, closing the door gently.
In the silence you watched Robby a moment longer, matching your new breaths with his. The weight of him on your hand made you tingle as you slowly worked your fingertips back to life.
You tried to move your hand out from his weight but he stirred.
Groggily he turned and looked around the room, waking up more confused then you were.
“Robby?”
His eyes widened.
Robby moved up at once, looming over your bed as you tried to push yourself up. “Hey, hey, take it easy,” he fretted, eyes raking over your body like he was checking all of you were there. “Are you okay? Are you in pain?”
“Robby-” you tried to protest.
“BP is hundred over eighty.”
You tried to entertain him, just as you had with the cut on your head. If you let him go through the motions just might just end up holding his hand again. So you let him try your nerves, let him ask if you were in pain. You let him ask you to wiggle your fingers and toes. You let him lift one leg and the other as high as he could before you winced in pain.
“Can you stop being my doctor for a second and sit back down?”
Robby seemed startled but hid it quickly. He realised Jack was out the room. “He should've woke me, checked you over.”
“You were resting, he said you'd stayed.”
He looked at you, astonished you'd think he'd go anywhere else.
You watched him sink into his chair, clasping his hands together and wedging them between his knees. Your fingers ached to hold him but your body was weak even talking. “You look tired.”
He chuckled low and smiled. His face was pale, eyes red, hair a mess. His entire body was slumped. “I look tired?”
“A nice tired, a handsome tired.”
You focused on your hand, lifting it enough. You watched as Robby looked down and took it without hesitation, he held it tight, grasping it between his big hands and bringing it to his lips.
You felt him kiss your palm.
“I was stabbed?”
Robby nodded, slowly. “Two puncture wounds, missed the spinal chords, nicked an aorta, bled out. That was our biggest worry but-”
“But I'm okay now?”
Slowly, he nodded.
You groaned, shifting your head aside. You'd have rolled over to show your protest but you had a feeling you'd be putting as little pressure on your back for a while. “Is Mr Brown?”
“The police are looking for him,” said Robby, without letting you even work out just what it is you were trying to ask about.
You nodded slowly, looking down to where your hand disappeared in his. “I'll report him this time, I promise.”
Robby stared at you, eyes wide with something you couldn't name. “I just want you to focus on getting better. On coming back... coming back to me.”
You didn't think, even coming out of an op and the haze of pain, that you could ever be where he wasn't. You think, no matter how terrible it seemed, that it was meant to happen this way. The stabbing and scarring that would no doubt end up on your back might have been the best thing to ever happen to you.
“Robby,” you whispered.
He must have heard something in your voice as he slowly stood and hunched over you, a hand lying on the top of your head.
His eyes were watering with tears.
You could remember faint images of this happening before, as you were slowly lulled to sleep by drugs. His hand combing back your hair felt like it had always been doing it. Like you'd always woken to him.
“Did you kiss me?” You didn't know where the memory came from, or even if it was a memory. It could've been a dream.
To his credit Robby didn't startle or flinch. He slowly nodded, leaving room for objection. He leaned over close to you, another hand cradling your cheek. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
Robby inhaled sharply. “I wanted to. I wanted to kiss you months before I did. I wanted to kiss you last week and two minutes ago when you woke. I wanted to kiss you covered in blood and... I want to kiss you now.”
You smiled and it brought you no pain. “If my back wasn't in pain I'd be kissing you right now,” you chuckled and then the pain came.
Robby leant down to you, his eyes searching yours. Close enough you could see what was in his eyes, what he'd been hiding. Warmth. Admiration.
His large nose brushed yours as he kissed you slow with no rush of need. His hand was soft as he angled you so he could explore every line and curve if your lip.
Your own hand slowly wound up, around his head, stroking the back of his hair and resting there. He didn't mind the oxygen tube or that she couldn't reach up to meet him. In fact he kissed her like he'd planned it like this a hundred times.
When there was an alarming beep from the machines Robby pulled away quick, studdying them.
“It's just my heartrate,” you said. “Might have been beating a little faster there.”
He agreed but seemed solemn to do so.
You watched the crease between his brows appear again. “You know, if I knew I just needed to be stabbed to have you kiss me again I'd have-”
“Don't even think about finishing that sentence.”
For the sake of his nerves, you didn't.
“You know if I'd have known that it was just gonna take me getting stabbed for you to sell that motorbike, I'd have got stabbed a lot sooner,” you said teasingly as Robby pulled into his new designated parking space outside the ED.
It had been a month since the incident but you were still reaping the small benefits that came with it. Like Robby insisting you stay with him to get the best care, like him getting rid of his motorbike to get a better car that was more comfortable on your back.
Like having so much time with him.
Mornings where he dedicated time in messaging the sore spots of your back and spreading an oil that was going to help the scaring. Like the dinner times when you read him a recipe that he never followed to the t. Like the kisses you stole in the night when he'd watch you and kiss you without straining to go forward.
Robby parked the car and turned off the engine. “If I had a dollar every time you said that,” he grumbled, picking up his bag and exiting.
You were still moving slower, still kept a crutch with you to keep weight off your back. You were coming back to work with a much lighter work load and you were sure Robby would be glued to your side all day like he practically had the month you'd took to recover.
Even before you could open the door Robby was there doing it for you, your own bag in his hand.
“You think anyone's gonna want to see the cool scars I've got, they kind of look like stars,” you said as Robby stayed close by your side, walking in with you.
“You sent them all pictures,” he said, mildly irritated. You and everyone around you seemed to try to crack jokes about the thing. He felt sometimes he was the only one who saw the near death wound for what it was.
“Excuse me- most of them asked for pictures.”
“Completely inappropriate.”
A few ambulance workers saw you, greeting you with smiles you returned while Robby waited next to you, holding up a polite hand in greeting.
It dropped, grazed yours and picked it up, holding on as the two of you walked in.
Usually Robby liked to walk in through triage, get a feel of what was happening but he wasn't risking that many foreign bodies next to you even though they caught David Brown and he was being charged.
Robby had something to live for, had something to protect. Nothing was happening to it. To you.
“It's good to have you back,” said Lupe as the two of you passed her at the door.
“Do you think that was a pun?” you uttered to him, rewarded with the smallest tint of his lips as he pushed open the door.
Loud clapping greeted you with some cheap, paper, party poppers when you walked in. Thee was cheering to and a large banner was hooked up, saying 'welcome home!'.
A place that could have held such terrible memories was brightened up as you jumped from one smiling face, to another.
Next to you, Robby stepped back, blending into the admiring crowd and started to clap too with something more than fondness in his smile. Love. A word that had woven its way into your vocab since moving in with him to get help for your wounds.
A word that summed up so much of what you had.
“You did this for me?” you asked.
“It was all Robby's idea,” said Jack, leading the cheering.
You didn't have to even move. Like he knew what you wanted Robby stepped over to you and kissed you. He always kept his lips irritatingly light, encouraging you to stretch out muscles in your back to join meet him.
You grinned against his lips. “I should be stabbed more often.”
“Know I wanna beat it, wanna beat it bad
Oh, everyone looks happy in a photograph
I've crossed the county line, I cannot go back
I'm always on my own.”
-All Them Horses, Noah Kahan
summary: your family is in town for the annual ‘parents berating their kids for their decisions’ get together. jack overhears you talking about how much easier it would be if you had a boyfriend to shove in their face, and offers his services. No strings attached, of course.
wc: 15.7k (steak is too juicy lobster is too buttery)
tags/tropes: jack falls first and harder, reader is an eldest daughter (but not the eldest child) to a large judgmental family who are constantly disappointed in her, jack pretty much uses the fake dating as a chance to show reader what a good boyfriend he COULD be to her if she let herself have nice things, jack 'i'll pay for it' abbot, jack is YEARNING in this one, a teeny bit of mean dom jack as a treat
a/n: how are we all feeling about the latest noah kahan album. Doors is great. i do NOT repeat timestamp 2:14-2:21 of All Them Horses. i’m normal and can be trusted with noah kahan’s discography. this fic was supposed to be crossposted on ao3 at the time of post but ao3 crashed and i lost all of my tagging and uploading process so im saving that. for later. when it is POSTED it will be linked below :)
acknowledgements: thank you @wesandresons for the amazing gif and @saradika-graphics, @chrisssiren, and @uzmacchiato for the dividers! and thank you @leeknowpegger for your work in keeping up morale and being deranged with me
masterlist
“Your family’s in town?”
You’re at the nurses station, tucked into a corner with your head in your hands while Shen, of course, drinks what has to be his third Dunkin coffee of the day. Where he’s getting them is one of the world’s strangest unsolved mysteries.
You can’t see his face, on account of the heels of your hands being pressed into your eyes so hard stars are bursting and swirling behind your eyelids, but you can hear the grimace in his tone.
“Yeah. I moved out here to get away from them, but they decided to host the annual family dinner circuit here in Pittsburgh instead. My mom always complains about how it’s such a huge imposition to have the entire family fly out, but I never asked to do it and offered to just fly to them on multiple occasions. Apparently, my work schedule is too hard to work around.”
“Dinner circuit?”
You wave a hand. “It’s actually a lunch circuit now, since I work nights. Basically, for every single day that they’re here everybody has to attend a lunch, no matter what. Most of the time they’re at different restaurants, but sometimes my mom demands to have them at my place.”
“Yikes,” The attending says, sipping on the last bits of his coffee, “And the whole successful doctor thing doesn’t work on them? It got my parents off my back.”
You shake your head. “I’m the only doctor in the family, but they thought I should’ve been a hospitalist or go into general surgery.”
The sound of ice being shaken in a plastic cup rings in your ears. “There’s money in emergency medicine. Eventually.”
“There’s money in all medicine eventually,” You groan, lifting your head and leaning against the wall, blinking dazedly up at the flickering fluorescent lights. “I’m sure if I'd picked general surgery they would’ve found a problem with that too.”
“So your fucked, basically.”
Your eyes slip shut again. “Yep. Anything short of showing up with a rich boyfriend and a promise of grandkids on the way won’t get my mom off my back.”
Shen clasps you on the shoulder. “Best of luck with that. You’re the only intern the night shift has got, so we’d rather you don’t off yourself via poisoned wine.”
“I wouldn’t do poison. I’d choke on bread so they’d have to live with the guilt of not being able to save me.”
“Jesus fuck, man. I mean, clearly, they suck, but that’s brutal.”
You shrug. “Not as brutal as my mom not coming to my med school graduation.”
He gapes. “What reason could she have possibly had for not showing up?”
“I told her at dinner the night before that I was going into emergency medicine.”
“That’s…” Shen trails off, flabbergasted, “…Wow. Now I'm worried you’re going to kill one of them.”
“Way too much effort. They aren’t worth the jail time.”
The attending tosses his now empty coffee in a nearby trash can. “Well, if you snap and kill them all in a fit of extremely valid rage, please don’t call me. I can’t afford to be implicated.”
“You saying I can’t hide a body myself?”
“I’m saying I can’t hide a body.”
“Who’s hiding bodies?” Jack says, sidling up to the two of you with a tablet and a chart open in his hand.
Shen jams a thumb in your direction. “She’s killing her parents later today.”
You roll your eyes. “I’m not. Honestly, so long as I agree with whatever my mom says and don’t bring up any trigger topics, I’ll be fine.”
Jack snorts. “You’re describing being held hostage by someone mentally unstable.”
“Dr. Intern?” Ellis interrupts, using the stupid nickname Santos picked for you when she found out you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift, “There’s a woman in the lobby here to see you. Says she’s your mom.”
Your stomach drops to your feet and your heart seizes in your chest. “It’s six in the morning. Oh my god. Oh my god.”
Someone behind you says “Holy shit,” but you’re already gone. As you’re speed walking you whip out your phone, checking the dates of their flights that you’d only had a chance to skim and— fuck. They got in an hour ago. Why the fuck would she stop here? At the PTMC?
You practically slam the doors open and make eye contact with your mom across the crowded lobby.
“Mom?”
“There you are sweetie. I was trying to explain that there’s nothing wrong with me and I was here to see you, but they wouldn’t let me. Something about a security issue?”
“It’s not safe. We’ve had incidents in the past—“
She waves a hand, dismissing you. “I’m your mother. Honestly, I wouldn’t have had to come down here if you’d just respond to my texts.”
“I’ve told you mom, I’m really busy here and I don’t get very much time to look at my phone—“
“Your brothers take the time out of their busy schedules to text me back,” She sighs, then continues on, “Did you get time off this week for dinner?”
You frown. “I thought we were having lunch.”
“Well, I figured since we’re all making it easier for your work schedule to come to you, you could manage to take a few days off for your family. But if we need to make an extra effort—“
“It’s fine, mom,” You tell her with a gritted-toothed smile, “I can make something work. Can you just send me the dates again?”
“It’s this Friday and Saturday.”
Before you can even open your mouth to respond, a large, warm hand settles on your shoulder. Accompanied by the hand is a steadying one on your lower back, a familiar, rich scent and a low voice.
“Can I help you, ma’am?”
Jack.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Hottest man in the ED. Probably in the world.
Your mom blinks, clearly caught off guard, before regaining her judgy senses and narrowing her eyes at him.
“I’m trying to have a conversation with my daughter. Don’t tell me you’re security.”
You know for a fact that Jack has his stethoscope around his neck and his keycard in his scrub pocket that says ‘DOCTOR’ on it, so your mom’s just being bitchy. Figures.
Jack’s hand in your shoulder gives you a tiny, reassuring squeeze before he speaks.
“I’m Dr. Abbot,” He sticks out a hand for her to shake, the one that was on your shoulder, “I’m an attending here at the ED.”
And my boss, you mentally add. Your mom probably hears it anyway.
“You work with my daughter?”
“Yes ma’am. She’s the most promising intern we have here on the night shift.”
Your lips twitch at his words. He’s joking. Testing your mother— you’re the only PGY1 on the night shift. If your mom remembers that, she’ll pick up on his joke.
She doesn’t. She purses her lips for a moment before giving him one of her big, fake smiles.
“Well that’s good to hear. We’re very proud of her.”
Proud of the money I send home, maybe.
“If you’ll excuse us, I need her working on patients.”
“Oh yes, of course,” Your mom gushes, clearly already charmed by Jack. He has that effect on people. “I didn’t realize she was so important and busy here.“
You would if you’d ever let me talk about work before interrupting me and telling me what I should be doing better.
Jack’s thumb makes tiny sweeping motions on your lower back, little tingling motions that distract you enough to unclench your jaw and relax your shoulders.
“I’ll text you as soon as I can, okay mom?”
Your mom sweeps you into a hug, a rare show of affection. Putting on a show for Jack, more than likely.
“No rush. Whenever you get the chance, sweetheart.”
Jack gives her a parting nod, but you wait until your mom’s turned around and walking out of the lobby before allowing Jack to steer you back inside.
The second the doors close behind you and you’re enveloped in the sounds and smells of the heart of the PTMC, you shut your eyes and release a long exhale.
“I,” You start, “Am so sorry. I never thought she’d show up here, I got the flight times mixed up—“
“Hey,” Jack’s voice is low and steady, a much needed anchor. He uses the hand still on your lower back to turn you towards him, “None of that was your fault. We deal with patients like that every day. It is not your job to keep your mother in line.”
“I know. I know. Still, I’m sorry. She can be… difficult.”
He snorts. “Understatement of the year. But seriously. Don’t worry about it. If I didn’t want to get involved with her, I wouldn’t have swooped in there.”
You huff a laugh. “My hero. I’m pretty sure if you’d introduced yourself as my boyfriend she would’ve had an aneurysm. Or a heart attack.”
“Are those desired outcomes?”
“Mostly.”
He slides his hands into his pockets and leans against the opposite wall. “Might be worth a shot, then.”
It’s a very well kept secret that you’ve harbored an embarrassing, ‘think about him while you’re falling asleep at night’ crush on Jack.
So naturally, your response is to laugh. Loudly. And semi-awkwardly. Because he has to be joking. Obviously.
“Yeah, right,” You say, looking down at your feet because eye-contact has never been your forte and Jack’s gaze is too intense, “Could even take you to dinner with me. Maybe my dad would have a heart attack too. Really just wipe out the whole family.”
“You could.”
“Wipe out my entire family?”
“Take me to dinner with you.”
Jack’s body is relaxed and his tone is even. Not light and humor-filled. There’s no mischievous uptick to the corner of his lips. He looks like he’s serious.
“Are you joking?”
He can’t really be serious. He’s probably just fucking with you. He wouldn’t actually—
“No.”
You run a hand over your hair. “Yeah, sure, laugh it up, haha—“
“I’ll go to dinner with you. As your boyfriend.”
What. The. Fuck.
“No.” You gape, incredulous.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow.
“No, I mean— fuck. Dr. Abbot—“
“Jack.”
You purse your lips. “Jack. You can’t just… pretend to be my boyfriend at a family lunch.”
“Why not?”
“Why not?” You sputter, “For one, we hardly know each other—“
“You’ve been working here for three months. We’re hardly strangers.”
“You’re my boss, your way older than me, you’re—“ You cut yourself off before you can say something embarrassing like ‘you’re ridiculously fucking hot and I haven’t washed my socks in months’, “It wouldn’t even be believable. How would we even have met?”
“In the ED, obviously.”
“How long have we been together?”
“Month and a half.”
“Why are we even dating?”
“Because you’re a beautiful and intelligent woman, not to mention a good doctor.”
Your mouth goes dry, and your stomach does an entire gymnastics routine.
“Have you… thought about this?”
He makes a noncommittal hum, tilts his head back a bit. “Would it work?”
“Are you rich?”
There’s that devilish, pants dropping smile.
“I’m a senior attending on night shifts in an emergency department. I’m comfortable.”
You worry your lip between your teeth. “I still can’t… I appreciate the offer, but I can’t subject you to my family. No one else should have to suffer through these lunches and dinners.”
“But you do?”
“They’re my family.”
Jack doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t move off the wall and walk away either. Distantly, you really hope a patient isn’t coding somewhere.
You sigh. “Why would you even offer, anyway?”
“You need help, and I’m in a position to give it. Plus life has been kind of boring recently. My therapist told me to pick a new hobby that doesn’t involve people dying or getting shot at.”
“So you thought spending an evening being subjected to backhanded questions, comments, and not very subtle micro-aggressions was a good substitute?”
“Beats drinking beer in the park.”
You can’t say yes. It’s crazy. One, it would make your crush a million times worse and you might never recover on that fact alone, and two, when this inevitably blows up in your face, your family will never let you live it down and bring it up in literally every conversation for the rest of your life.
On the other hand, if it works, it will work. Your mom would probably get off your back for a while. You wouldn’t be a complete and total disappointment. If it works, it would be a much needed win.
“So. We’ve been dating for a month and a half?”
Jack nods, another smile playing at his lips. “I asked you out, of course.”
“Flowers?”
“Naturally.”
“You pay?”
“For every meal.”
“What’s my favorite color?”
“Navy blue. Mine?”
You roll your eyes. “Black. What are we going to tell my mom when she pokes at the age gap?”
Someone rushes by, pager beeping, and you both wordlessly start moseying towards your respective patients.
“Will she really be that upset about it?”
“Probably not, but she’ll definitely ask about it. My dad will probably be angry, but he’s easier to placate than my mom is.”
Jack hums thoughtfully. “When’s the lunch today?”
“Twelve-thirty, at that Italian place that has that mussel dish.”
“How about this,” He starts, apparently not needing anymore clarification on the location, “Lets focus on finishing our shifts right now. Then go home, get some sleep, and I’ll pick you up at eleven so you can pick my brain for every detail that you want to make this work. Deal?”
Last chance to back out. Say hell no, this is a crazy idea, why would you even volunteer for it, I changed my mind.
“Deal.”
—
Holy fucking shit. Jack Abbot is your boyfriend.
Fake boyfriend. But for the next few hours, he’s as good as yours. Kind of.
In a way.
You’re standing in front of your bathroom mirror, dressed in the outfit you picked out for the stupid lunch when your mom texted you the plane ticket details a month ago.
Neither your makeup nor your hair are cooperating and you really need them to because you have to be perfect, so you need your mascara and stop clumping and your hair to stop laying like that and you just don’t want to fucking go.
Before frustration induced tears can ruin your half-done makeup, a knock sounds at the door.
You rush through your apartment, nearly cracking your skull open on the corner of the couch when you trip over a stray shoe.
Shit, he’s here and you’re not ready, god he’s going to be so upset you have to make him wait it’s so rude—
“Hi!” You swing open the door and plaster what you hope is a cute-frazzled smile and not a panicked one. It’s a thin line between the two, “I’m almost ready, I’m so sorry, you can come in and sit down wherever, I promise I won’t take too long to finish up. Sorry.”
You turn, unable to bear the anger or frustration on his face and dart away (an old method— hiding and disappearing is much better for everyone in the long run) but a hand encircles your wrist before you can successfully escape.
“Woah, easy girl. Nobody’s mad at you. We have time, remember?”
Your smile is definitely coming across as panicked.
Your nails wander and find a hangnail to pick at while you talk. “I know, but that was so we’d have time to plan and it’s rude to make you wait and I really need time to plan, but I can’t get my makeup to look right—“
Jack nudges you into the house and you cut yourself off with another apology. Right. Cause he’s just standing in the hallway and you’re rambling on like someone deranged. God. Why can’t your brain just work? Get into gear? Actually function properly?
“First of all,” Jack starts, gently steering you towards your couch, “You look beautiful.”
Why does he have to say these things? Has he no care for what he’s doing to your heart? Is he unaware that Simone Biles would be impressed with the flip routine your stomach is currently doing?
He places a throw pillow in your hands which were previously clenched in your lap. It’s your favorite throw pillow, actually, because the texture is very soothing. You squeeze it and rub your fingers across the grain.
“Secondly, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I can go home and go to bed and if you want, I’ll never bring it up again. Not even to Robby.”
You crack a wobbly smile. “Not even to Nurse Evans?”
“She’d probably guess on her own, but I would never confirm her suspicions.”
You tuck your feet under your legs, shrinking into the corner of your couch. “I couldn’t even if I wanted to. I already texted my mom to add a person to the reservation, and if I show up without a plus one there’ll be hell to pay.”
“You could swap me with someone else?”
“Do you think I would have agreed to let my boss be my fake boyfriend if I had someone else to bring?”
“Touché.”
The corner thread of your throw pillow has begun unraveling, and your wandering fingers pull and tug at it erratically.
“I’m sorry. I’m not usually this neurotic, I swear. My family brings out the worst in me.”
“I ain’t judging, sweetheart,” Jack soothes, “Besides. We’re ER doctors. We’re all a little neurotic.”
Steadfastly avoiding his gaze (again, just a little too knowing, like he can see every insecurity you’re trying to hide) you stand on shaky legs and rush to the bathroom.
“I’ll just. Finish up. Sorry again.”
“I’m gonna start a tally of unnecessary sorry’s. You’re gonna owe me an hour of overtime for each one.”
Oddly enough, getting ready (the rest of the way) feels much more manageable and much less difficult with Jack nearby. He doesn’t critique how long it takes you, the fact that you change earrings three times, or tell you that you look good enough and should just go.
He just hangs out in your living room, on the couch, practically oozing calm and nonchalance. The foolish, romance-starved part of you wants to cancel on your mom and spend the rest of the day curled up next to him on the couch, like a cat. Lazily dozing while Jack watches TV or something sounds like a much better way to spend your time after work than experiencing all five stages of grief over the course of one lunch. Repeatedly.
Finally ready, and with your sanity intact thanks to Jack, you pause by the kitchen and debate the merits of taking a shot to loosen your nerves. Unfortunately, your mom would undoubtedly somehow smell the alcohol on you and no doubt chew you out for a minimum of twenty minutes. Heaven forbid you make the event bearable.
Ever the kind host, you peek your head around the kitchen wall. “Do you want a shot, Jack?”
“You’re aware that I’m fifty?”
Right. That's probably an unhinged question.
“Just thought I’d offer,” You say, meekly tucking the bottle back under the shelf, slightly embarrassed, “Sometimes alcohol is the only way I can survive these things.”
He’s leaned up against the couch, hands in his pockets when you exit the kitchen. “It was very considerate, thank you. But I think the days of vodka and tequila shots are behind me. I’m more of a whiskey man, anyways.”
“I’ll keep that in mind when we end up at a bar afterwards to drink away memories of the lunch.”
Jack raises an eyebrow. “You act like we’re going to be hung, drawn, and quartered after showing up.”
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Sorry. I just don’t want you to be unprepared, because they’re not always bad but when they’re bad they’re bad, you know? And I just don’t want to scare you off, and ruin the day you could be spending sleeping, and I really am thankful, by the way, I just don’t—“
“Do you always ramble when you’re worried?” Jack interrupts, tilting his head to the side.
“Um. No? I don’t know. I try not to. But like I said. My family brings out the worst in me.”
He searches your face for a moment, then taps the underside of your chin with a crooked finger, raising it slightly.
“We got this, okay? I’m not easy to scare. Combat med vet, remember? Plus, if it really gets that bad, I’ll fake a call from the hospital. Say there was some horrible accident and we’re being called in.”
“Won’t my mom get wise when she never hears it on the news?”
Jack shrugs. “It’s the city. Something horrible is always happening here.”
He holds the front door open for you when you’ve got your shoes on and purse ready, but as you’re sliding past him, he leans down, the angle of his jaw almost brushing the side of your neck, and breathes in deeply.
“You smell good.”
Fuck the gymnastics routine. Your stomach is going for Olympic Gold.
“Oh,” You exhale, a shiver running up your spine and a pleasant tingling sparking where your skin barely brushed his, “Uh— Thanks. Vanilla and spice. I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”
You manage to squeak out another awkward “Thanks” before hastily locking the door, hoping he can’t tell just how flustered he keeps making you. Judging by the smile playing at his lips, your hopes are in vain.
The car ride to the restaurant is longer than it should be, on account of Pittsburgh traffic, but the time goes by quickly as you pepper Jack with questions to prepare for the million and one that your mother will no doubt ask.
(“What should I say if she asks if we’ve slept together?”
“Do you really, honestly, truly think your mother is going to bring up the topic of sex at the table, in a nice restaurant, with your entire family present?”
“Fair point.”)
By the time you arrive, you’ve picked and torn every single hangnail and loose cuticle around your fingers down to raw flesh and tiny dots of blood. Jack parks the car (parallel parks easily in one go, no repositioning needed, in downtown Pittsburgh. It’s one of the hottest things you’ve ever seen in your life) a good distance away from the restaurant, so that your family wouldn’t be able to see you if you decided to flee to his car to escape them.
At least, that’s what he says.
“I want you to hang onto the car keys, okay? If they get too much, you can sneak out through the kitchen and go to the car. I’ll meet you there.”
You can’t help but smile at his efforts. “And what will you be doing while I’m sneaking out?”
“Singing your praises, of course.”
Exhaustion from the shift you worked in what seems like a lifetime ago lines your limbs, but as you step out of the car (through the door Jack insists on opening for you “In case they’re still watching,”) and loop your arm through Jack’s, you feel… almost capable.
The lunch is going to suck. That’s a given. But Jack assured you he’s seen worse (“Probably done worse, sweetheart,”) and will not leave the lunch in a fit of rage and cause a scene. His arm is firm and solid —and fucking huge, how are his biceps that big— under your arm, and his presence is steadying.
As you cross the street and begin your final walk towards the building, he un-loops his arm from yours, but after you make a questioning noise in your throat, worried you’d be completely untethered (how pathetic to already be this reliant on a man, but there’s no time to unpack that now) but instead he wraps his arm around your waist instead, drawing you to his side and effectively grounding you to his body.
The entire left side of your body lights up at the contact, and if this were your apartment, it would be very difficult to refrain from climbing him like a tree or doing something equally embarrassing, like plastering yourself to his side and begging him to never stop touching you.
You’ve almost managed to come off unaffected, but then he leans down, lips almost brushing your ear, and whispers:
“You’ve got this, baby. And if you don’t, I do.”
Forget your family. Jack Abbot is going to be the death of you.
When you walk into the restaurant, hyper-aware of Jack’s grip on your body (your delusional mind has you thinking how… possessive the hand almost feels, if you ignore the fact that this is all fake) your family is waiting in the foyer, talking amongst themselves.
Your mother immediately zeroes in on you. “Honey, we’ve talked about you being on time to these things. You can’t be late to important family—“
You watch in real time as your mother’s gaze finally flicks to Jack, and the shades of recognition, shock, almost disgust, and confusion before settling back into forced pleasantness.
Your father, however, looks downright murderous. Looks like the age gap isn’t going down too well.
If Jack is at all nervous or put off by the several stares and outright glares from your family, he does not show it. He exudes cool confidence, the same unflappable energy he has during chaotic night shifts. The same calm that makes him so alluring to you in the first place.
He sticks out his hand for your mother to shake, a mirror of earlier that day in the PTMC lobby.
“I believe we’ve met before, but I’ll introduce myself again. I’m Dr. Jack Abbot.”
Your mother shakes his hand, but looks between the two of you like you’ve just spilled wine on her Persian rug that she can’t afford in the first place.
“You’re my daughter’s plus one?”
Jack nods. “Her boyfriend, yes.”
Your brother’s gape. Your dad’s glare intensifies. You want to kiss Jack.
“Honey,” Your mother says, gaze darting to you, “You didn’t say—“
“I didn’t want you to meet him at the hospital,” You tell her, hoping the lie doesn’t come across as too rehearsed, since you did rehearse it several times with Jack in the car on the way over, “The lobby of the hospital isn’t the best place to introduce people. And we really did have patients to get back to.”
Your mother purses her lips. “Why the last minute addition? If you’d told me that he was coming before today, it would’ve been easier to make the reservation.”
Jack is quicker to respond than you. “That’s my fault, actually. I didn’t think I was going to be able to come, what with my shifts as a senior attending, but when we met in the lobby I understood how important it was to make the time.”
You have to try hard not to smile at Jack’s not-so-subtle flex. Senior attending.
“Yes, well. My daughter doesn’t always stress the importance of these things.”
Jack’s grip on your waist tightens ever-so-slightly at the backhanded remark, and your mother’s gaze darts to the point of contact. But your father jerks his head towards the tables before she can say anything. “I’m starving.”
Everyone files in behind him, with you and Jack at the back of the line. Again, he leans down to whisper to you.
“How’d I do?”
You elbow him in the side. “We’ll discuss your performance after this is over.”
“Looking forward to it.”
The hostess leads everyone over to a large table near a window (your mother is particularly about seating) and everyone finds a seat. One of your brothers, either as a test or just to be a shit (your money’s on the latter) slides into the open seat next to you before Jack can.
To his credit, Jack doesn’t cause a scene, but he doesn’t back down either. He just stares at your idiot brother for awhile before finally asking:
“Do you really wanna do this right now?”
Your brother must sense that Jack Abbot is not a man to be fucked with (just a man you want to fuck), and scurries to his own seat, tail between his legs.
Once everyone is seated and the food is ordered (you don’t bother ordering anything other than the salad; Jack orders the most expensive thing on their menu. He’s never seemed like one to care for finery and expensive Italian restaurants where you practically have to order in Italian, but again, his unfazed demeanor makes him fit in anywhere) your family immediately begins peppering him with questions. Questions you knew they’d ask and appropriately prepared him for.
“So. Dr. Abbot—”
“Just Jack is fine.”
“—How long have the two of you been dating?”
“A month and a half.”
“Why’d you start dating?”
You take a generous gulp of your wine.
“Because your daughter is an incredible woman and an even better doctor.”
“Do you think she’s pretty?” One of your brothers chimes in.
Jack takes it in stride, despite that not being a question you prepared. “I’d have to be blind and stupid if I didn’t.”
You feel hot from the tips of your ears down to your toes.
That’s going in the mental folder.
“Have you always wanted to be a doctor?”
“Pretty much. Took a bit of a detour as a combat medic first, though.”
“Why’d you leave?”
“Honorably discharged after I lost my right leg. Below the knee amputation.”
You drain the rest of your glass and inconspicuously motion to the waiter for more wine.
The table is silent for the customary length of time after someone drops the “got a limb chopped off” bomb. Your family is clearly mildly uncomfortable, but Jack just keeps sipping his drink, his free hand drifting down and brushing the side of your thigh.
Your dad clears his throat. Here we go. Home stretch. Final questions before we’re in the clear.
“Mr. Abbot—“
“Either Doctor or Jack works.”
Ooo. There was some bite in that one.
Your Dad frowns. He does not like to be interrupted or corrected. You’ve been on the receiving end of far too many hour long lectures (read: berating and borderline verbal abuse) to know better.
But Jack isn’t his daughter. Jack is pretty much his equal. Actually, the fact that Jack not only served but is now a doctor places him above your father, by social conventions.
This no doubt infuriates your father. He’s always hated it when he couldn’t tear somebody down to his level. A true coward.
“Jack,” Your dad continues, a trademarked forced smile to save face, “You’re a smart man, yeah? Haven’t you ever considered the age difference between the two of you might be a little much?”
Yikes. Questioning Jack’s competency is not the way to go. Jack is very competent. And smart. And capable. It’s really hot.
Your fake-boyfriend just reaches over and grasps your hand, over the table, and looks at you with such devotion in his eyes that you forget how to breathe.
“War doesn’t really lend to longevity. I’ve learned to hold on tight to things I care about.”
For a moment, it doesn’t feel fake. There’s raw, punched emotion in his voice, and his thumb rubs your hand gently. Like he really does care that much. Like he wants to hold on.
But then your brother fake-gags and your fake boyfriend looks away with that, he’s passed the tests, and the conversation moves onto to different topics. Jack laughs at all the right moments, doesn’t bring up any argument-starting topics, doesn’t rise to bait when it’s thrown his way.
He’s perfect.
Eventually lunch is drawn to a polite close. You have one last glass of wine while Jack settles the bill. Himself. With one card. He doesn’t even look.
Your mom sends a smirk your way after he waves off your father’s attempt at splitting the bill or offering to pay. It’s probably the third time she’s actually looked at you for the entire duration of the lunch, but since it’s positive, you’ll let it slide.
Pretty soon bags are grabbed, hands are shook, and Jack’s hand magically finds its way back to your lower back and you’re being (very gently) escorted out of the restaurant and to the car.
“Wow,” You breathe as you slide into the passenger seat of his car. “I think that’s the smoothest a lunch with my family has ever gone in my entire life. You’re really good at this.”
Jack doesn’t respond though. Doesn’t make any kind of noise that he heard you. His hands are nearly white knuckled on the steering wheel and he’s staring straight ahead.
“Jack?”
“They didn’t even talk to you.”
You blink.
“What?”
“Your family never tried to include you in the conversation. Didn’t even ask you any questions.”
You snort. “Trust me, it’s better that way.”
He hasn’t started the car yet, just keeps staring off into the middle ground. He can’t be old enough to start doing a thousand yard stare already, right?
“You ordered a salad.” He says, a very prominent frown on his lips.
“So? It wasn’t too expensive, was it? I swear, if I knew you were gonna pay for the whole bill I would’ve looked at something cheaper, I don’t know why salads are so expensive—“
“Please don’t apologize for ordering a salad,” Jack says, voice pained, “Especially because I know you hate salads.”
Oh.
“How do you know that?”
“I overheard you talking to Dr. King that time you two were discussing the merits of Olive Garden. You said the salad there was the only kind you like, because of the dressing and the pepperoncinis.”
Your cheeks heat. “I never said I hated all salads. I said I like that one in particular.”
“You hardly ate anything during lunch.”
“My family tends to have that effect on my appetite.”
Jack does not look placated. He doesn’t take the out that your little joke provides. Doesn't so much as huff. He looks upset. Distressed.
Something about what he said goes ding! in your mind.
“…Mel and I had that conversation like, last month. You seriously remembered that?”
He frowns harder, like the answer to your partly rhetorical question should be obvious.
(It’s not. Why would he remember that conversation? Why would he care at all?)
“Of course I remember.”
There isn’t much to say after that. You’re not really sure what in particular has upset Jack, what possibly blunder or error you’ve made to incur him going completely monosyllabic and frowny. Ever eager to appease, you refrain from any attempts to cajole him, make conversation, breathe too loudly, or make any kind of indication that you’re still present.
The tension in the car is thick and uncomfortable. It prickles at your skin and the hairs on the back of your neck, but the only thing you dare to do is scroll through Pinterest, only looking at the safest, basic boards in case Jack glances over (he doesn’t.)
But then he does glance over. He just doesn’t look at your phone.
Jack just keeps looking at you.
He’ll look over, eyes darting over your face like he’s looking for something, and then he’ll look away. Over and over for almost the entire course of the drive. He only stops when you accidentally time your staring (monitoring) of him wrong and make eye contact.
He parks by your place (he once again sexily parallel parks with ease) and then puts the car in park. And then he starts talking.
“You’re so much more than them.”
Jack has the heat on, but the air in the car suddenly feels cold.
“What?”
“Your family,” Jack clarifies, like that was the confusing part “Your parents. I hated watching you… disappear like that. You deserve better than that. You are better than that.”
You try to swallow, almost choking on the sudden lump in your throat.
“Listen,” You start, unaware of how to even begin processing what he said, let alone formulating the best response because your brain is just flashing abort! Abort! Abort! in big neon letters,, “Thank you for today. I really appreciate it. But if this is all just too much, I can handle things from here. Really. I can say that someone called out and you had to cover shifts—“
“No.”
Jack says it with such vehemence, bordering on vitriol, that it startles you, and you flinch backwards ever so slightly.
An old habit.
Something flashes across his face —gone before you can decipher it— and he noticeably forces himself calmer.
“I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I let you go alone again. Ever.”
Your brain starts short-circuiting at his words. “I really can’t ask you to—“
“It’s a good thing you’re not asking me then.”
“Jack—“
“Please.”
You’re stunned silent at the rawness in his tone— the pain.
He said please. He said it like he was begging. He is begging.
“I don’t know how you do it,” He continues, jaw working, “I can see it on you, plain as day. How you hate what they do, how it makes you hurt. But you keep going.”
You shrug uselessly. “Is there another option?”
Jack reaches out for you, then falters, like he thought better. A tiny part of you wishes he’d followed through; bridged the yawning gap between the two of you that’s made up of the center console in his car, a couple decades, and your own unwillingness to try at vulnerability.
“I’ll walk you to your door.”
The walk to your door is a stark contrast to the walk to the restaurant. There’s no mischief on his face now, only a mask of stony distress.
At the doorway to your apartment building, you pause. It seems customary. Appropriate. Necessary.
Really, you just want to look at Jack some more. Try to puzzle out why the lunch that felt like it went so well made him so upset. Where you’re getting signals wrong and crossing wires. Why success to you is failure to him.
(As an ED resident, you’ve seen child abuse cases. You’ve seen foster care children littered with cigarette burns and criss-crossing scars of broken bottles and the corners of coffee tables and haunted eyes.
You know your family isn’t great. But there aren’t any cigarette burns or glass scars or eyes that track fast movement.)
You have this burning inclination to apologize to Jack. Logically, you know you haven’t done something wrong, but you feel like you have because he’s upset so maybe you can make it better?
“You have that look on your face.”
You frown. “What look?”
“The ‘I’m gonna apologize for something stupid’ look.”
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You were thinking about it,” Jack ducks down, catches your eyes, “Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
“It’s freaky when you do that.”
“Do what?”
“You always know what I’m thinking.”
Jack just huffs; shoves his hands in his pockets.
Emboldened by his reassurance, you ask: “Why are you upset?”
“Because your family treats you like shit, and I want to fix it, but I can’t.”
“Oh.”
It’s not that bad. It can’t be that bad. You’ve seen bad. This isn’t it. It’s hard, but it’s not bad.
He stays quiet, seemingly sensing the inner turmoil his words have sparked. That, or he really is that good at reading you.
Jack nods towards your door. “We can talk later. Get some sleep. We both have shifts tonight.”
Right. Yeah. All of these events roughly occurred over the course of six hours. Time makes sense.
Despite the fact that you are exhausted and desperately need to sleep if you have any chance of surviving your –quickly approaching– shift, you linger.
“How am I supposed to repay you for all of this?”
The question that’s been burning a hole in your pocket since he said I’ll do it.
He just shakes his head. Like it’s simple. Easy. “This isn’t something I want repayment for. Now go. You’re no good to me as a zombie.”
“I’ll just have some of Shen’s Dunkin.”
“He doesn’t share that shit. Besides, he’s off tomorrow.”
“Maybe I‘ll—“
“Sleep,” He points at your door, “Now.”
You smile at his insistence. He’s sort of like cold coffee with sugar. Seems all bitter but then you get a bit of that sweet crunch, so it balances out. He balances out.
Sometimes it feels like he balances you out.
“Goodnight.”
He gives you a little smile of his own.
“Goodnight.”
—
Jack Abbot does not take his own advice. Mostly because he knows if he doesn’t talk about what happened during that lunch from hell, he’s going to do something that will end in him being thrown in prison and having his medical license revoked. More importantly, if that happens, he won’t be around to take care of you.
So instead he collapses on his couch, works his prosthetic off to give his stump a needed break, and dials the number at the top of his favorites in his contact list.
“This really isn’t a good time—“
“Robby,” Jack starts, “They didn’t even fucking talk to her.”
“Jesus, okay. Whitaker! Cover for me a sec, will you? I gotta deal with this.”
“They just…” Jack continues, genuinely at a loss for words. His vocabulary feels woefully unequipped to relay the depth of anger he feels about the events of the lunch, “…Ignored her. They talked over her, didn’t ask her questions, hardly ever let her finish speaking when she did finally get a chance to speak, and threw jabs at her constantly. It was fucking awful.“
The background noise quiets over the phone, and Jack knows Robby’s moved to either the break room or an empty patient room.
“She fight back at all?”
“No. Just… grinned and beared it. It was fuckin’ unsettling, man. I’ve seen her yell back at rude patients, watched her stand her ground to EMT’s who think they know better. It was like she hollowed herself out to sit at that table.”
“Christ.”
“She flinched away from me. Afterwards, in the car, when I raised my voice on accident.”
“Fuck. Do you think—“
“I don’t know. Maybe when she was younger. They don’t live in state, so if they are, she’s safe.”
Jack scrubs a hand down his face. “God. I don’t know what to do, Robby. It doesn’t seem like she’s got… anybody. She didn’t even understand why I was upset. She doesn’t get why that would be upsetting.”
“She’s friends with Mel and Santos, right?”
“And Whitaker by extension, yeah. But those are recent friends. I’ve never heard her mention anybody from back home. No boyfriend or best friend or anything. She’s just been doing everything on her own.”
Jack can picture Robby nodding. “We’ve done our fair share of that.”
“Yeah, and look where that got us. I can’t just leave her here. Fuck, it was like watching someone kick a puppy, over and over.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.”
The line goes silent for a bit, both men stewing on the subject at hand.
“She’s always had these habits. I thought they were just personality quirks, you know. I mean, we’re all fucked up, but watching it happen…”
“It’s different.”
“You could say that,” Jack sighs, “She soaks up praise like a fucking sponge. She looks surprised every time I do something nice for her. And she keeps trying to make me happy.”
“You lost me on that last one.”
“It doesn’t… She’s not doing it to make me happy, exactly. She just does everything she can to keep me from getting mad.”
“Is there a difference?”
“There is. Eager to please versus eager to appease.”
“Are you sure you want to get involved?”
“Bit late for that.”
“You could pull back.”
“Fuck no, I can’t. Then I’d be kicking the puppy.”
“She is a grown woman.”
“Who happens to look like a kicked puppy.”
He scrubs a hand down his face, groaning into the microphone.
“You finally realize how ridiculous you sound?”
Jack grunts. “I’m not giving you the satisfaction of answering that.”
The line crackles with the staticky sound of Robby chuckling. “That’s an answer in it of itself, and you know that.”
He lets the line go quiet again, briefly debating just hanging up.
“I don’t know, Robby. It’s just…”
“Worse than you expected?”
“Yeah.”
“Come on. You knew that was a possibility. Has it put you off, at all?”
“Fuck no.”
“Exactly. Now please, go to bed so I can get back to saving lives? Whitaker is covering for me and he’s only gone through two pairs of scrubs so far today. I’m not a betting man, but if I were, I’d bet money that he’s moved onto his third during this conversation.”
“I save lives too.”
“You won’t save any if you fall asleep on the drive over and die.”
“I would never fall asleep behind the wheel.”
“That’s what they all say.”
Jack really does hang up after that, plugging his phone in and rushing through everything he needs to do before bed.
But even as exhaustion pulls his body down into deep, dreamless sleep, he can’t stop thinking about that hollow look on your face. And he knows, even half-asleep, that he won’t be able to let it go.
—
The next night at work is weird, because nothing has changed, except now you know what the inside of Jack’s car looks like and how his voice sounded when he begged you to let him help.
It’s jarring, to say the least. Unsteadying and mildly world-rocking if you’re being honest.
But gossip travels fast within the walls of the PTMC, so by the time night shift is halfway over, you’re convinced you’ve heard every variation in existence of the same two questions:
“Did you and Jack go on a date yesterday?”
And:
“What’s Jack like on a date?”
The answer to the first question is complicated and embarrassing, so you don’t answer it or any of it’s variants. The answer to the second question is not complicated but it does, however, stir some very complicated feelings, so you refrain from answering that one too. You just try to refrain from thinking about or seeing him in general.
You’re not avoiding Jack, per se. Just keeping busy. With other stuff. That’s conveniently nowhere near him.
Ellis keeps shooting you entirely too knowing looks, Mckay, who’s pulling a double, pats your shoulder and tells you she’s there if you want to talk, Shen is absent as Jack said he would be, and Jack himself is acting like nothing happened and everything is normal and he’s never been to your apartment smelled your perfume.
(“…I like layering scents.”
“It’s nice. Suits you.”)
It’s all too much.
Hence the avoiding.
You try to curb your own ridiculousness for the sake of your patients, but it’s oddly difficult. You’ve always been amazing at compartmentalizing. If your family gave you any kind of skill, it’s the ability to shove your feelings in a box, and then shove that box in a corner of your mind you won’t access consciously until you end up on public transportation with your headphones. You should be more than capable of gathering up all the loose feelings labeled ‘For: Jack Abbot’ and tucking them all nice and neat in that little box and then shove it in a dark mental corner.
But you can’t. And along with the flurry of Jack Abbot causing a hurricane in your head, there’s a lesser storm that is the result of your family. More specifically, how they look to Jack.
All roads lead back to Rome. Or, in your case, to Jack.
You catch yourself during every spare moment or menial task that doesn’t require 100% of your brain power analyzing every interaction he had with them. Everything they said, everything they did, and how Jack would’ve taken it. And why. Because clearly, the act of dealing with them isn’t the problem. The ease and finesse in which he did so crosses that off the list. So it’s something else.
It’s how they treat you.
You understand, logically, that it would be upsetting, from his point of view. If you were in his place, you’d also probably be upset too.
But this feels different. Jack’s reaction is different. Jack is different.
It’s just never really been something that anyone should be upset over. Your family are who they are. Not great, but not truly bad either. You deal with them sparingly. You don’t even live in the same state anymore. It’s not a big deal.
“Why are you hiding from me in a supply closet?”
You whirl around, a box of gloves clutched in your hands.
“I’m not hiding from you.”
Jack crosses his arms and leans against the doorway. “This is the third time you’ve been here in two hours.”
“So? I just want to be… on top of things. I’m a productive person.”
“You are,” He amends, “But all of your productivity tonight has been pretty strictly nowhere near me. Funny how that works.”
You sigh, placing the gloves back on the rack. “Things are just… weird, okay? I don’t know how you’re being so normal about all this?”
Your fingers wander and find a loose piece of skin on the edge of your cuticle, and you begin absent-mindedly picking at it.
You can’t exactly disagree with him, right here, in the supply closet at the hospital. But you can’t quite bring yourself to agree either– because whether he acknowledges it or not, things have changed. Seeing him outside the hospital, perfectly placating your family into one of the most peaceful get-togethers you’ve had in years isn't just nothing.
It’s everything. And you, for one, can’t just pretend that it didn’t happen.
“Hey,” He calls your name softly, “What’s on your mind? What’s bugging you?”
“Nothing.”
He snorts, pushing off the doorframe and shutting the door behind him, so it’s just the two of you alone. “Liar.”
He doesn’t probe any further, just leans against the now closed door with his hands in his pockets, eyes flitting over you like they’re looking for an answer. An answer you’re too hesitant to give.
“I’m just worried.”
“You? Worried? No.”
You cut him a glare, “There’s a very real chance that this could all go horribly awry, you know.”
“Sure,” Jack dips his head, “But that’s not what you’re really worried about.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Because that doesn’t address the fact that you’re avoiding me.”
You sigh, scrubbing a hand across your face.
“Why do you care?”
The question that’s been nagging at you since the beginning. The little itch in the back of your mind that you just can’t seem to get rid of. The puzzle you can’t figure out; the tune you can’t place.
You’re a logic driven person. You like knowing how things works– why they work. Why things do the things they do.
You like having the why. Having the why makes the world make sense.
Nothing about Jack Abbot makes sense.
“Why do I care about what?”
“This,” You gesture vaguely to the air, “Me. I don’t buy that you just didn’t have anything better to do or whatever it was you said. People don’t just… do that. You’re really ruining your life for an entire week for what? So I'm a little less uncomfortable? Me? At the end of the day, we’re just coworkers. I know how important your down time is for you, so I just don’t get why you’re so okay with being miserable just for my sake. I’m not that important. These stupid lunches aren’t that important.”
It’s a stupid confession. Much too vulnerable for a supply closet and a man you’re harboring feelings for.
He doesn’t respond right away. Hums, stares at his shoes for a bit. Re-adjusts so his prosthetic isn’t taking so much weight.
“You are important. You’re important to me, to this hospital, to your patients. And for the record, I am not ‘ruining my week.’ If it was that easy for my week to be ruined, I never would have become a doctor, let alone joined the military.”
“But why?”
“Jesus, you watched a lot of the science channel growing up, didn’t you?”
You snort. “Guilty as charged.”
Now it’s his turn to sigh.
“You… seem to have this misguided belief that caring is reciprocal in nature.”
You frown. “It is.”
“It isn’t. At least it shouldn’t be, but I don’t think anyone ever told you that.”
You scoff. “So this is about my family.”
He shrugs. “Amongst other things.”
“They’re not that bad.”
“They are.”
“Other people have it worse.”
“It’s not a competition.”
You resist the urge to throw your hands in the air. “Why is this such a big deal to you?”
“Because it’s a big deal to you.”
The air gets quiet and tense. Like the supply closet and all the medical supplies in it are holding their breath. If they were alive, if they were holding their breath, you’re convinced they’d all be looking at you.
It’s Jack who speaks first though.
“I can see it. You do everything yourself, get back up even when it’s hard. You look out for other people more than you look out for yourself. You’re selfless and kind and I don’t think very many people give that back to you.”
A reflexive smile pulls at your lips, a habit you never quite managed to kick after years of people telling you ‘smile, look grateful, stop looking so upset, there’s nothing to cry about.’ It feels awkward and clunky on your mouth but you don’t know what else to do. There’s no pre-written protocol for something like this.
“I still don’t really get it.” You murmur, more to yourself than to Jack.
Jack sends you a light grin. “We’ll work on it.”
“We will?”
“Sure,” He shrugs, “Already started anyways.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” He opens the door, “Now get back out there. And bring the gloves too.”
You roll your eyes but comply, snagging the box off the shelf where you’d left it and following him out.
The rest of your shift passes much smoother than before, even with the routine influx of patients as the time inches closer to morning. Jack doesn’t hover, but doesn’t pull the disappearing act that you (totally fairly) pulled on him either. He truly seems unfazed. Like it really, actually doesn’t bother him.
Well. Correction. It does bother him, but not because it’s something he’s doing for you, the part that bothers him (apparently) is how all of this affects you. All this caring makes you feel like a deer in the headlights.
You recall something he said that night. Something that had made you shiver– something that hit the nail right on the head.
“Hey, listen to me. You cannot fix what I am upset about. It is not your job. My mood is not your responsibility.”
He always seems to know exactly what to say to you. How to act, what to do, what specific worry you’re feeling and the best course of action to soothe it. It’s great but it’s also difficult, because there’s a part of you that wants to let him keep doing it, but then there’s the part of you that bristles every time and wants to snap that you’re completely capable of doing things yourself.
That probably wouldn’t even work. He’d just say something infuriating and sexy, like “I know, but I want to do this for you.”
He would. He totally would.
The thought is equal parts haunting and reassuring.
(And maybe, also, a little, kind of really sweet?)
–
The next two lunches go great. Jack is still freakishly incredible at charming your family. And, with his help, you actually manage to hold a (mostly) civil conversation with your parents for the first time in… years.
The lunches are fine, but the part you’ve started looking forward to is the before and after. Before, Jack comes to pick you up, and sometimes he comes early and helps prepare (which mostly involves him either talking you off the ledge, pouring a shot or two, or assuring you that your makeup and outfit look great. Not fine, great) or just to hang out. The hanging out part is nice, because he never comes with any sort of expectation. He’ll sit on your couch and scroll through his phone and entertain all the inane chatter you like to get out of your system beforehand but never had an outlet for before.
The after is even more fun. You run through the highlights of the night and hate on all the annoying things your family said to you. This usually also involves stopping somewhere for food (only for you, Jack’s never hungry because he eats t=at the restaurants but you’re never allowed to order anything that isn’t a salad) and then the two fo you fight over who pays. You always insist since you’re the only one actually eating any of the food, but then Jack usually takes your card, puts it in his pocket, and uses his own.
It’s as frustrating as it is hot.
But for the most part, the lunches and your shifts at work have actually been pretty good– as good as night shifts in a trauma center can be, anyway. Jack’s presence is… steadying, even when he’s not physically there. He’s always present in some way– whether it’s little reminders he leaves at your favorite spot for charting (he only uses blue sticky notes) or a real lunch left for you in the breakroom fridge (you weren’t previously aware he actually knew how to cook, or that he knew how picky you are when it comes to what you’ll actually eat for lunch and how often you get too busy to properly make something.) Sometimes he’s there in your head; in little things he’s told or taught you that you remember in the moment.
It’s nice. To have someone be around. Someone you can relax with, joke with– someone who hasn’t looked down on you for the the way you turned out.
You were pretty ready to declare smooth sailing ahead, but then on the third lunch your mother shows up and is decidedly not in a good mood and the seas turn choppy and the boat smashes into the rocks below.
At least, two peach bellinis in, that’s what it feels like.
“Honestly,” Your mother puffs, “I don’t understand why making some simple appetizers could take so long. This is why I hate going to restaurants during lunch hours, the staff just gets so lazy. The menu is always better at dinner anyways.”
You ignore the thinly veiled dig and instead choose to quietly drain the rest of your third peach bellini. They taste like juice and take a much needed edge (or two) of the evening. Lunch. What-fucking-ever.
Jack, ever aware of the best way to survive these functions (somehow) whilst keeping his sanity, remains silent as your mom huffs and puffs, seeming to understand that trying to placate her when she gets in these moods is a fruitless endeavor that only leads to your mom getting more upset and everyone else more annoyed.
You, made slightly optimistic by the wonderful powers of alcohol, attempt to put her in a better mood.
“I have the next three days off, mom. We’ll be able to do dinners instead.”
Your mother, however, only scoffs. “That’s no good to anyone now. We’ve already spent half this week dealing with poor restaurant service. I mean, no respectable job would have such a ridiculous schedule."
“I’m a doctor, mom. It doesn’t get more respectable than that.”
Jack nudges your leg with his, either a silent laugh, show of support, or quiet question of your sanity. Maybe all three.
Another bellini appears in front of you, this one heavier on the alcohol than the last. Your server is getting a giant tip when this is all over.
“You work in the emergency department, dear. That’s hardly stable, and stable is respectable,” Jack clears his throat, and your mother at least has the manners to look mildly sheepish, “No offense, Jack.”
He smiles thinly. “None taken.”
Conversation from there is stilted at best with even your brothers tip-toeing around your mother. No one wants to be the subject of a nitpicking lecture, even when the version she gives them is a slap on the wrist compared to what you endure.
So you keep drinking your bellini’s and they keep coming. After your fourth, you think you should maybe slow down a little, but then your dad starts grilling Jack about his life (again) and you decide that alcohol is, in fact, necessary.
“Have you ever been in a serious relationship before, Jack?”
That one almost makes you ask the server for a shot of vodka, straight. That’s a question you ask a nineteen year-old pimple-faced boy, not a fucking fifty year old man.
“I have, yes. But, like most things in life, they were learning experiences. I’ve moved on.”
Your dad snorts, then gestures to you. “You could teach her a thing or two about moving on.”
Your blood runs cold.
Jack sets his glass down. “And what do you mean by that?”
It’s your mother who answers. Because one vulture circling your soon-to-be carcass wasn’t enough.
“I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. It was all she ever talked about for years. She’s had exactly one boyfriend before you– what was his name honey?”
“Christopher,” You answer hollowly, stomach churning.
Your dad snaps his fingers. “That’s it. It took ages for her to get her first boyfriend. We were fairly convinced it would never happen, but then one day she came home with Christopher. Whole family wanted to throw a party– finally found someone to put up with all that attitude!”
Your family laughs, but Jack doesn’t.
“Where’s the funny part, in all this?”
Your mother clears her throat, just a tad awkward. “When she broke up with him it was awful. She refused to leave her room for works, cried all the time. Honestly, I would have understood if he had broken up with her, but it was all her decision.”
Your dad nods in agreement. “We had to have a sit-down conversation with her about decisions and consequences before she finally stopped crying and hiding in her room. Christopher was such a nice boy, we hated to see him go.”
Jack opens his mouth, poised to fire something back and defend you, but you beat him to the punch.
“He cheated on me with my best friend.”
At that, your mother frowns. “That’s not what Christopher said. You were in your teen angst era, remember? Always picking fights? He told your brother that you were so distant with him he didn’t know you were still together.”
“I wasn’t distant, I was really busy. I was studying for the MCAT. He knew that. He knew how important medical school was to me.”
Your brother rolls his eyes. “Med school was all you talked about. It’s not like you were putting out.”
Your mother snaps her fingers once. “That is inappropriate talk for public. You know better.”
“Come on, mom. It’s true. Everyone knows–”
“Sorry to interrupt,” Jack says, not at all sounding sorry, “But the hospital just texted. There’s an emergency, and we’re needed, so we have to go.”
Jack does not wait for your mother or father to excuse him. He just stands, offering you his hand. It turns out that you need it, because there is, apparently, such a thing as too many peach bellinis. Your mom sends you a pointed glare as you stumble once, after which you make a concerted effort to look more sober.
Neither you nor Jack bother saying proper goodbyes. Once he grabs your jacket and purse (and your vision stops swimming so much and you’re sure you can walk in a convincing approximation of a straight line) you’re both gone. You pass your server on the way out, who is slipped a very generous cash tip for the excellent bellini service.
By the time you get to the car, you realize that you’re about to have to save patient lives and you are very, extremely, drunk. There is no way you are capable of doing any life-saving at the moment.
“Jack,” You mumble, fumbling with your seatbelt, “I think I’m too drunk to go in. Did they say how serious the emergency was? Can I just get a banana bag?”
“There is no emergency,” He says calmly, batting your hands away and buckling you in properly, “I made it up. I figured you’d be okay with ducking out of there.”
“Oh. That was nice of you.”
He clicks you in and gives you a wry grin. “Told you I would handle things.”
You nod, the movement exaggerated and lopsided. “I hate it when they bring up Christpher. They always take his side. Like, is there ever a situation where it’s okay to cheat on a girl with her best friend? I was studying for the MCAT. I didn’t even wallow or break up with him when I found out. I waited until after I took the exam so I didn’t fuck up my score.”
“That’s my girl.”
“Christopher was an asshole. He was a real dickhead. The whole situation sucked. I lost the only two people who I thought cared about me at the same time. My family acted like I was the fucking anti-christ for being upset about it, too. It was fucking terrible. I’m so glad I don’t live with them anymore. I mean, I still love them, and I care about them, cause they’re my family, but everything is just so much easier when they’re not around.”
“You’re allowed to hate them, you know.”
“I know,” You say, fiddling with a hangnail. “I know I probably should.”
You sigh, tilting your head back against the headrest. “I always keep holding out hope, you know? That one day they’ll apologize, figure their shit out, care about me in a way that matters. I know it’s stupid.”
“It’s not stupid.”
You frown. “It’s not? It kinda seems stupid. You’d think by now I would know better.”
“No,” Jack eases the car out of the parking space, “We’re biologically wired to love our families. It’s the reason why they can fuck you up so bad. Your brain can’t compute why the people who are supposed to love you above all else just… don’t. Not in any of the right ways.”
You blow air through your lips. “I think my parents fucked me up. I was so happy when I matched into the Pitt, because it was so far away. But then I got out here it just kind of hit me, all at once, that I was alone. My best friend was gone, my ex boyfriend sucked, and I was too busy in med school taking care of myself and my family to make any friends.”
Shit, that sounds so whiny. “But it turns out it wasn’t so bad. Now I've got Mell, and Santos, and I’m pretty sure I’m friends with Shen too. Mckay is nice too. I like her. She’s cool.”
Jack huffs something that could be a laugh, and you turn to study him; the angles of his face awash in the glow of the red light you’re currently stopped at. From here, you can see the tiny bits of tension he carries in his face— a slight pinch in his brow, the tiniest downturn of his lips. It’s the only evidence that he’s not as unaffected by your family as he pretends to be.
Then the light turns green, and his face isn’t illuminated the same.
“And what about me?”
Oh. Well. That’s a loaded question.
The alcohol emboldens you to answer honestly. “I don’t know what to think about you.”
“Oh really?”
“Mmm. Nope.”
“How come?”
"You're so–” You gesture vaguely, “Confusing. I can’t figure you out. For a while there, I was pretty sure you hated me, but then you offered to help me with this and you keep saying you care so I think I’m wrong.”
“You think you’re wrong?”
“Still can’t figure you out.”
“And how can I show you that I mean it?”
That’s. Hmm.
“I don’t know. I think what you’re doing is working,” You pause, debating the pros and cons of continuing to just say whatever the fuck you want before deciding you’re too tired to care, “It helps that you’re really hot.”
His lips twitch. “Oh, does it now?”
“Mhm. You’ve got this whole… capable thing about you. It’s hot. Competency is in.”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so. I feel like if I had a problem I could call you or something and you would fix it. You’re so…”
“Competent?”
“That’s the word.”
If he’s at all irritated, annoyed, or otherwise put off by your stupid rambling, he didn’t show it.
“You should call me whenever you have a problem. Chances are, I can fix it.”
“Are you like Bob the Builder?”
“I’m a doctor, so no.”
“You’re kind of like Bob the Builder.”
“Whatever you say,” He pauses at an empty intersection before continuing on, “Before I start heading towards your place, do you want to stop by mine? You didn’t even get to eat your salad, and I have leftovers. You can say no.”
“Are you gonna be mad at me if I say no?”
“No.”
‘Then yes.”
“You sure? I wasn’t lying.”
“I know. But I like your cooking.”
You spend the drive to Jack’s continuing to ramble about nothing and everything, to which he entertains with a seemingly endless amount of patience. The only time he interrupts is to hand you a bottle of Gatorade he procured from his back seat. Apparently, he bought a few to keep in his car after the first lunch. “For any alcohol excursions.”
It’s freaky how prepared he is for every situation.
When you arrive, he unbuckles your seatbelt for you (unbuckling is just as difficult as buckling when you’ve had an unknown amount of peach bellinis) and helps you up the stairs to his apartment.
His gigantic apartment.
“Woah,” You mumble as you shuffle through the doorway, pulled along by your hand in Jacks, “I didn’t know they made apartments this size.”
“Its not that big.”
“I think, like, four of my apartments could fit in here. Your living room is the size of my entire place.”
You stumble once, heel catching on the little rug on the entry way, and he’s immediately motioning for you to sit on the little bench by the door and pats his thigh once. You clumsily raise your leg, barely managing to land your foot on the general area he gestures to. He pulls the first shoe off, then repeats with the second with an air of total calm. Like this is normal and he does this all the time for you. Like you regularly find yourself drunk in his apartment.
You decide to unpack the moment when you’re sober.
“One, it’s not that big, and two, that’s what you get for renting a studio apartment.”
“Like you could afford better when you were an intern.”
He snorts, leading you to his couch and gesturing for you to sit. “If you want to change clothes you can borrow some of mine.”
You chew on your lip. The outfits you choose to look nice for your mother are never exactly comfortable, and when else are you going to get the chance to privately live the scenario you fantasize about several times a week before falling asleep?
“Only if you don’t mind.”
“I wouldn't have offered if I wasn’t. Stay there.”
Jack’s only gone for a few minutes before he reappears with a dark grey sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants in a slightly lighter shade. The sweatshirt is oversized and looks well worn, but the sweatpants are suspiciously new, close to your size, and look eerily similar to a pair you changed into after a shift a few weeks ago.
He hands them to you. Neither of you mention the sweatpants. “You can change in the bathroom. Door locks from the inside. I’m gonna change too, and then I’ll heat up the food.”
Jack shows you the bathroom (you don’t bother unpacking why exactly he felt the need to tell you that the door locks and from the inside, that’s for when you’re significantly more drunk than you are now and when you’re not in his fancy-ass apartment.)
Because he’s a man and men take approximately three seconds to change, he’s already in the kitchen setting stuff on the counter by the time you emerge from the bathroom. His countertops are solid granite, because the apartment is clearly expensive and he’s a man. They’re an inky black color with tiny flecks that sparkle when the light hits them just so.
“What are you doing?” Jack asks when he turns from the fridge to find you tilting your head this way and that.
“Looking at the sparkles.”
“Oookay. Do you want me to heat up the vodka pasta or the chicken?”
“You made vodka pasta?”
He shrugs. “You said you liked it.”
You slide into a seat at the kitchen island, a flush creeping up your neck. “The pasta, please.”
Suddenly exhausted now that you’re in soft, comfortable clothes that smell like Jack, you decide to just rest your head on your arms for a bit. And close your eyes. But you’re not going to fall asleep. You’re not.
“Don’t fall asleep. You need to eat something first.”
“M’ not fallin’ asleep.”
“Mhm. Sure.”
With great effort, you blink your eyes open and watch Jack while he heats up the pasta and prepares something else. A salad maybe?
“What’re’you’ making?”
“Just a little salad. In case the pasta is too heavy for you.”
“Oh. How come?”
“Because I don’t want you to throw up.”
“I promise I won’t throw up on your furniture. I don’t usually throw up when I’m hungover.”
“You drink often?”
“No,” Your head lulls to the side, “I’m too busy. I’m actually not-so-secretly very boring. I don’t really like partying. I much prefer staying at home.”
“Thought you went to that thing with King and Santos?”
“Yeah, but that was ‘cause Trinity really wanted me to come and I felt bad and I didn’t want her to think I was a boring, uptight bitch.”
“I see.”
“Yeah. I kinda had fun, though. I wished you were there.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” You sigh, probably a hint too dreamily, “Makes me feel better when you’re around.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He slides a little bowl with a light salad in it to you across the counter, and it's perfectly refreshing. Not at all heavy like the pasta ends up being.
“Sorry I couldn’t finish it,” You say, forcing down a yawn and resisting the urge to burrow into your arms and go to sleep right there, “I feel bad that you went through the trouble of making it and heating it up.”
“It wasn’t that much effort. Besides, now you can just eat it for lunch tomorrow instead. I’ll send it home with you.”
“Mhm.” You hum, slowly inching your arms forward and down onto the counter, your head quickly following suit.
Jack chuckles, and you can hear the light step of his feet as he rounds the corner of the island and nudges you in the arm.
“Come on, sweetheart. You wanna get home to bed, don’t you?”
“No,” You shake your head, “I wanna sleep right here. It’s comfortable.”
“It won’t be when you wake up.”
You whine, curling away from him.
He just puffs another little laugh. “You can either sleep in your bed, or my bed. You can’t sleep on the kitchen island.”
“Why not?” You finally lift your head, “And why is your bed an option?”
“One,” He lifts up one finger in front of your face and slowly drags it back and forth, “Because the kitchen island is not a bed. Two, I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.”
“Why? Is your couch uncomfortable?”
“No,” He says, shuffling back over to where the leftovers are and tucking all the food away in the proper places, “It’s just not right to make a woman sleep on the couch.”
“I like sleeping on couches.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder, “I’m sure you do. But you’re still a little drunk, and my bed is closer to the bathroom than the couch is.”
You prop your head on your hand. “Who said I’m even staying here tonight?”
Jack closes the fridge. “Do you want to? Because I don’t care either way. We both have tomorrow off.”
“It’d be weird to wake up here.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my boss.”
“And I’m faking being your boyfriend so your parents get off your back. Pretty sure we’re past coworkers.”
“What would we even do in the morning?”
“Sleep.”
“I don’t want to kick you out of your bed. I’ll sleep on the couch.”
“You’re my guest–”
“You’re already doing so much for me,” You blurt, stomach clenching, “I– You know me. I can only handle so much. Let me do this one thing? Please?”
Jack glowers for a bit, then sighs.
“Only because you asked nicely and I believe in rewarding good behavior. And because I know my couch isn’t uncomfortable. I’ll help you make it up.”
Jack’s apartment is surprisingly tidy for the fact that a man lives in it (Christopher’s room at his parent’s house always looked like shit) and he pulls down a couple options for bedding. You go with the plain black sheet and its matching thick, fluffy comforter. He insists on making up the couch himself (despite the fact that the alcohol has mostly worn off by now) and even sets up a glass of water, a liquid IV packet, and a bucket– “Just in case those bellini’s don’t love you back.”
The sight of it all is almost too much. It’s just so much care. All of it. The fact that he’s helping out with you and your disaster of a family, the way that despite the horribleness of it all he hasn’t judged you at all for how you deal with them. He refuses to let you drive yourself, always pays for every lunch for your entire family and the little snacks you get afterwards. Listens to you rant and he makes you food and gets you blankets and–
“You okay there?”
“Mhm,” You hum, “Just thinkin’.”
He leaves you be for a moment, busies himself with fixing your pillows and and tugging the comforter into its proper place.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you turn, throwing your arms around Jack’s middle and burying your face in his chest.
“Thank you,” You say, voice muffled by the fabric, “For doing all of this. Thank you for looking out for me.”
Jack is still for a second, just long enough for you to second guess initiating physical contact –a line you were previously too scared to cross– but then his hands come up and it's so, immediately, remarkably over. Because you’re never ever going to draw that line again. You can never go back to your life without having this. Without having him.
Jack’s hands are big and deliciously warm as they slide up, around your waist, lingering to rub a few circles on the mid of your back before moving on. One arm stays, tightening around your waist and drawing you closer while his other glides further up, up, up, his callused palms sliding over the knob at the very base of your neck before his hand settles around your nape, fingers just barely brushing the edge of your hairline.
You barely manage to suppress a whine at how warm and incredible it feels to be fully enveloped by him. You never want him to let go. Goosebumps erupt everywhere he touches, little sparks of electricity lingering under your skin in his wake.
“I will always,” He presses the lightest of kisses to your temple, just a feathering of his lips, “Look out for you, baby. I’m always gonna be right here.”
His arms tighten around you, drawing you in— closer, closer, closer. Wrapped up in everything that is Jack you can’t help but sag, going completely boneless in his grip and allowing yourself to just bask in him.
“You smell good.” You mumble into his shirt, completely lost in the moment.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. Good. Like man.”
He chuckles, the sound vibrating pleasantly against your cheek. “Thank you sweetheart.”
“Why do you call me sweetheart?”
“Because you’re a sweetheart.”
“I am?”
“Don’t play dumb now,” He pulls back a little, just enough to get a good look at you, fingers curling in the fine hair at your nape and tugging down, angling your chin up so you’re forced to look at him, “You know you are.”
You shrug, eyes darting to the side, your cheeks flushing, “I don’t know. I was just making sure.”
“Mhm.” He hums, tone almost mocking, fingers tightening around your hair just before the precipice of pain.
You stay like that for a few moments of charged silence. Jack’s eyes shamelessly rove over the planes of your face, mapping it out in his mind. He keeps his grip on your hair, not completely forcing eye contact but keeping your head firmly in place.
It’s possessive. Bold. Probably too intimate for two people who (supposedly) are not actually dating
And you love it.
Jack only lets his hand (and your head) drop when your jaw opens in a splitting yawn.
“Okay,” He huffs, taking a step back, “Time for bed. Get going.”
Embarrassment is the only thing keeping you from whining at the loss of contact and impending reality of sleeping on the couch alone. But you made your bed (figuratively) so now you have to lie in it.
The couch does look comfortable. Especially since Jack put all the blankets together.
He waits until you’ve crawled under the comforter to bid you goodnight, followed by a parting reminder to “Wake him up if you start aspirating on vomit.” It’s a very Jack thing to say.
You’re out almost the second Jack turns the lights off. You fall into deep, blissful sleep, dreaming of that final moment in the living room, your eyes boring into each other.
Except in the dream, you tilt your head up those last few inches, and kiss your fake boyfriend as hard as you can.
–
Generally, the annual lecture event ends with a massive blow out argument. Something dramatic and filled with expletives, after which your mother will refuse to answer any texts or calls you send before finally telling you that’s she’s sorry if (always if) something she said offended you, but talking to you is just so hard sometimes so she doesn’t want to unless you’re ready to be more civil. By the time the two of you are on neutral terms again, it’s time for the next annual lunch circuit.
You’re a mess of nerves in the hours before the last one. Like usual, your mom requested that the last dinner be held at your place. “So it can feel like a real family dinner.” While you know that there isn’t any saying no to your mother, you also know that there is no way you’re cramming your entire family in your tiny ass studio apartment. It happened once. It will not happen again.
You originally asked Jack during a last minute shift you both got called in to cover if he would help you move some of the furniture at your place to accommodate them, and then he’d gotten this incredulous look on his face and then told you to tell your mom that you’re having dinner at his place.
“Jack,” You’d gaped at him, “It’s fine. My apartment isn’t that small, and you don’t have to help move the furniture if you don’t want to. I can ask Dennis to give me a hand instead. I really don’t think you want to host my family.”
“Sweetheart, it’s just logic. You’ve seen my place.”
“Okay. No need to rub it in.”
He’d just rolled his eyes and pinned you with a firm look. “Come on. You know this is the best option. If your mom throws a fit, tell her I insisted and give her my number.”
“Do you have a death wish?” You hiss, “That’s asking for torture.”
Jack had just shrugged. “Would having it at my place be easier for you?”
“...Yes?”
“Then we’ll do it there. You’re off in a bit, right?”
You’d nodded.
He fishes something small and shiny out of his pocket and tosses it to you. “That’s my spare key. I’ll be here later than you, so just let yourself in if you want to get there earlier to start setting up. I’ll be home soon.”
Robby shouted his name soon after and Jack was whisked away, leaving you standing in the middle of the ED, holding the fucking spare key to his apartment, gaping like a fish.
The line between real and fake has become so blurred you’re not sure if it ever was there to begin with.
He’s started calling you sweetheart more and more often– sometimes when no one's around. No familial audience to be persuaded into the romantic lie you’re selling. Is it still a lie if it doesn’t feel like one anymore?
The question and accompanying feeling follows you all day. All throughout your harried dinner preparation. Even now, with a solid hour until your family is supposed to start showing up, you can’t help but pace the length of Jack’s kitchen, heeled feet clicking on his floor. Jack himself is similarly dressed up, wearing a pair of dark jeans (“I’m not wearing slacks in my own home, and I’m not old enough to start wearing khakis with everything.”) and a black button down shirt with the first two buttons undone and the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He makes a very nice view and under other circumstances you might take the opportunity to climb him like a tree. But alas. Anxiety.
“Take your shoes off if you’re going to pace. You’re gonna give yourself blisters.”
You ignore him, chewing on an already stinging cuticle.
“Things have been pretty good this far, right? Do you think she’s just waiting until the very end to bring up some secret thing that she’s upset about?”
Jack begins preparing the wine –your mother only likes red– for decanting. “I think if your mother were that upset about something she wouldn’t be able to hide it.”
“True. But what if?”
“I’m not going to help you spiral.”
“Why not?” You whine.
He looks at you with a heavy glare and points to the shoe tray at the door. “Shoes. Off. You can put them back on when they get here.”
You grumble under your breath the entire way but comply. Only because your feet were starting to hurt.
When your family finally does arrive, it ends up being annoyingly anti-climactic. You spend the entire time on the edge of your seat (literally and figuratively) waiting for the other shoe to drop. Waiting for conversation to turn sour, arguments to erupt, someone to choke on a piece of lettuce and die despite professional intervention.
But the argument never starts, conversation remains what it usually is and becomes no worse (or better, unfortunately) and no one passes away due to unevenly chopped vegetables.
The torture is over fairly quickly. Most everyone’s flight back home leaves early the next morning and your dad is paranoid about flight times.
Pretty soon it’s all just… over. They leave, your mother bickering with your father on the way out about something that probably doesn’t matter, and then it’s just you and Jack and the entire scheme is just done. Finished. Just like that.
There won't be anymore knee's brushing under the table, no more shared glances and pecks to the cheek when you make a joke that actually lands. No more excuses just to sit and watch him under the guise of playing the adoring girlfriend. No more late night milkshakes.
You'll just go back to being coworkers-- People who pretend not to know each other intimately. Jack probably won't struggle with it. But to you, right now, the idea of just not having him anymore seems like a another wound, right over top all the others.
You don't want him to become another person who used to know you.
You’ve been staring at the closed door for upwards of five full minutes, clenching and unclenching your fists when Jack comes up next to you. He hands you the same clothes you wore the last time you were there and jerks his head in the direction of the bathroom.
“Why don’t you go and change, huh?”
Your lip wobbles a bit as you answer. “But I want to help you clean up.”
“You can,” He soothes, “After you change.”
“But–”
“Hey,” He interrupts, “No. You’ve been stuck in those clothes for hours. Go change. I’ll wait for you.”
Jack keeps his word. He’s leaned up against the kitchen island when you emerge, rubbing at your –now bare, having had the foresight to bring makeup wipes with you– face.
He looks up when the door opens. “Better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He just hums, heading back over to the kitchen table, stacking plates and cutlery. You follow in silence, and he thankfully doesn’t push for conversation.
Cleaning up doesn’t take long enough. Jack has a fancy dishwasher (and probably doesn’t want to stay standing any more than he has to this late in the day) and there aren’t any leftovers to pack up. Your brothers are bottomless pits when it comes to free food.
It can’t just be over like this. It can't.
When everything is finished and there isn't anything left to do, Jack wordlessly leads you to the couch and puts something quiet and calm on the TV. The white noise washes over you as you attempt to get comfortable, but the knowledge that it's all over proves to be an itch under your skin that you just can't seem to squash.
“So,” You say after the two of you are seated on opposite ends of the couch, “That’s it then.”
“So it is.”
“Guess I owe you big time, huh?”
“I’ve already told you I don’t care about that.”
“Right,” You look down at your lap, “Yeah. Sorry.”
You lapse into silence.
Jack sighs. “Sweetheart–”
“Was it fake to you?” You blurt, jiggling your knee, still staring at your lap, “Were you– did you mean it?”
It never felt fake. It never felt like pretending.
It felt real.
It felt like, for the first time in your life, things could be easy.
Maybe easy isn't the right word. But it life sure as hell didn't feel as hard.
When you look up, uncomfortable in his silence and hoping there’s answers in his face, but instead of finding something like disappointment or irritation, he’s grinning.
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
He dips his head once. “Yes you do. You’re a smart girl, I think you can figure it out.”
Your fingers are curled around the hem of his sweatshirt, white-knuckling the fabric as if to stabilize yourself. Like you’re liable to somehow float away if you don’t dig your heels into the couch and hold on tight.
“What if I’m wrong?”
“You won’t be.”
A scoff escapes your lips, “You can’t know for sure.”
He taps his pointer finger on his leg in an unhurried rhythm.
“You do.”
Your stomach is rolling in a combination of leftover anxiety from the dinner that went better than it was supposed to and the weight of Jack’s gaze on you.
“I think…” You pause, worry threatening to overwhelm you, and take a deep breath before continuing, “I think you might like me.”
“You think,” He drawls, “I might.”
“I don’t want to be wrong!” You cry.
Jack huffs, throwing his head back in a good-natured sigh.
“Come here.”
You scoot further down the couch, sitting criss-cross right in front of him. This is not going the way you thought it would. You were almost certain you’d walk away shamed and embarrassed, forced to fake your death and flee the country out of the sheer humiliation of thinking your boss would actually have a crush on you.
Jack does love to prove you wrong.
“Soo,” You start, still hesitant, “You do like me.”
Jack props his head on his hand, his expression something you’re starting to recognize as fond. “Yes.”
“More than a little?”
“Yes.”
“And you weren’t faking anything. You were serious about the— You know.”
“Use your words.”
“The flirting.” You clarify, ears burning.
“All correct,” He nods, “Though I would have said it differently.”
You frown. “And how would you have put it?”
“I would have said,” He reaches out, snagging your arm and tugging until you fall down onto his chest with a little oof, “That you have a hard time believing things that are good, so I had to audition for my role. Like old-fashioned courting.”
You want to be offended, but unfortunately, it did work.
You frown.
Wait.
“Have you known I liked you this whole time?”
Jack snorts. “Overheard you talking to Whitaker about it during your second week.”
He’s known since the second week?
“Oh my god.”
“Don’t worry, I didn’t tell anyone. Except Robby. He’s been hoping you would figure it out for awhile now.”
“Oh my god.”
“I thought it was cute,” He smoothes a hand over your hair, “You were so much more nervous back then. You’ve come a long way.”
You shift uncomfortably at the praise, but Jack’s having none of it. He wraps his arms around you, holding you in place.
“Can you take a compliment?”
“No.”
He re-positions under you, getting more comfortable. “We’ll try again later.”
“Am I– Can I stay here tonight then?”
“Of course,” he murmurs, “My one condition is that you’re not sleeping on the couch.”
“Fine,” You sigh, long and drawn out, “I suppose we can share.”
“How kind of you to share my bed with me.”
“I have been told I’m kind.”
You both smile, and everything just feels so right and so perfect that you can't help but lean up, clearing the last few inches, and pressing a hesitant, gentle kiss to his lips.
It’s just like your dream.
Only this time, it’s real. And Jack is kissing you back.
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Request - Hilli, I love your work, it's always super well written! Do you think you could do one where the reader is Robby's wife and she is diabetic and she has an episode and Robby takes care of her (it's not the first time she often has those and she sometimes isn't the most diligent). Thank you !!!
thank you for the request - I like having to think about a piece 🫶
Masterlist
************************************************
The first sign something was wrong was not dramatic. There was no collapse, no shaking hands dropping instruments onto the floor, no cinematic moment where the entire emergency department suddenly turned toward disaster all at once. It was smaller than that. Quieter. The kind of thing most people would miss entirely unless they knew you intimately enough to recognize the microscopic shifts in your behavior before your body fully betrayed you. Unfortunately for you, Michael Robinavitch knew you too well.
“You’re doing that thing again,” he said from across Trauma Two without even looking up from the chart in his hands.
You barely glanced at him while pulling on a fresh pair of gloves. “That narrows absolutely nothing down.”
“The jaw thing.”
“My jaw does not have a thing.”
“It does when your blood sugar’s dropping.”
You rolled your eyes hard enough that Whitaker, standing nearby trying not to get involved, physically backed himself out of the room with an awkward little retreat that made you snort despite yourself. Robby finally looked up then, dark eyes immediately landing on your face with the kind of focus that always made you feel simultaneously adored and deeply irritated.
“You checked it?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“And that,” you muttered while reaching for saline, “wasn’t an answer worth giving.”
Robby’s mouth flattened immediately. There it was. The tension. Not explosive yet. Not even hostile. Just old. Familiar. Worn into the foundation of your marriage in the same way his inability to sleep and your tendency to ignore your own body had become recurring arguments neither of you ever fully won.
The trauma patient on the bed groaned softly while Santos rattled off vitals from the monitor. Someone shouted for labs outside the room. The department buzzed with its usual overstimulated chaos, fluorescent lights reflecting harshly off tile floors while stretchers rolled endlessly down the hall. Normal. Busy. Loud enough that most people would miss the way your fingertips had started tingling twenty minutes ago.
You had noticed it. You had simply decided not to care yet. Because you were busy. Because your last meal had been somewhere around six hours ago. Because your insulin pump had alarmed during an intake and you had silenced it without checking. Because there were three traumas waiting, two combative psych patients, and one twelve-year-old with appendicitis crying for her mother in Room Nine. Because you were a doctor before you were a patient and sometimes you hated that your body forced those two identities to collide. And because some deeply stubborn part of you resented being watched. Especially by your husband.
“You’re pale,” Robby said quietly.
“I am literally always pale.”
“You’re sweating.”
“It’s an ER.”
“You’re irritable.”
“I married you, didn’t I?”
Whitaker made a choking noise somewhere behind the supply cart. Santos immediately turned away to hide her laugh. Dana, passing the doorway with a chart tucked against her chest, took one look at Robby’s expression and mouthed good luck to you before disappearing again.
You should have checked your sugar then. You knew that. Even now, later, you would know that. But the thing about being diabetic for years was that you became arrogant in tiny ways without realizing it. You learned the shape of your symptoms so well that you started bargaining with them. Five more minutes. One more patient. One more chart. One more procedure before you stopped to take care of yourself. Just enough time to become dangerous.
The little girl in Room Nine started crying harder and you immediately pushed yourself off the trauma bed. “I’m going to check on—”
Your knee hit the side rail harder than expected. Pain shot sharply through your leg. Robby’s head snapped up instantly. You recovered too quickly for anyone else to notice, straightening immediately and waving him off before he could say anything, but his eyes narrowed in that terrifyingly perceptive way that made you feel stripped down to nerve endings.
“Hey,” he said more softly now. “Come here a second.”
You hated that tone. It was never doctor-to-doctor. Never colleague-to-colleague. It was husband. Worried husband.
The one who had sat on bathroom floors with you during overnight lows. The one who knew exactly how your voice sounded before a crash. The one who could tell the difference between your exhausted silence and your dangerous silence. The one who pretended not to watch your hands shake whenever you got stubborn about eating during long shifts.
You exhaled sharply through your nose. “Robby—”
“When did you last eat?”
You avoided his eyes automatically and immediately knew that had been the wrong move.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.
“I’m working.”
“So is everybody else.”
“You don’t stop either.”
“That is not the same thing and you know it.”
Something hot flashed through your chest then. Not anger exactly. Exhaustion, maybe. Humiliation. The resentment of being called out in public by the person who knew you best.
“You do not get to micromanage my pancreas because you’re anxious,” you snapped quietly.
The words landed harder than you intended. Robby actually flinched. Tiny. Barely noticeable. But enough. For a second neither of you moved.
The sounds of the ER blurred around the edges while guilt twisted unpleasantly in your stomach. You loved this man more than your own heartbeat sometimes. You knew exactly where his fear came from. He had seen too many people die. He had watched too many bodies fail unexpectedly. The possibility of losing you lived under his skin constantly whether he admitted it or not. But you were tired of feeling monitored. And he was tired of being scared.
“You think this is about anxiety?” he asked finally, voice very calm now in the way that usually meant he was upset enough to become dangerous with restraint instead of volume. “You almost passed out in the parking garage three weeks ago.”
“I did not pass out.”
“You were on the ground.”
“I sat down.”
“You sat down unconscious.”
“That is medically not what unconscious means.”
Santos slowly backed out of the room entirely. Coward. You rubbed a hand over your face hard enough to press against the growing ache behind your eyes. God. You were tired. More tired than you had realized. The overhead lights suddenly felt too bright and your skin too tight. Your heart fluttered strangely in your chest for half a second before settling again.
Not good. Still manageable. Probably. Robby saw something shift in your expression immediately.
“Okay,” he said, stepping closer now. “That’s enough. Sit down.”
“I’m not a child.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“You’re acting like it.”
“No,” he said quietly, “I’m acting like a husband who knows his wife is about to crash.”
Something vulnerable flickered behind his eyes then. Fear. Real fear. The kind he usually buried under sarcasm or competence or overwork. And because you loved him, because you knew him, because you could suddenly feel your own pulse pounding too fast beneath your skin, your anger softened just enough for guilt to creep in.
“I’m okay,” you said more gently this time.
Robby stared at you for a long moment like he was trying to decide whether he believed you. Then your insulin pump alarm started screaming loudly from your waistband. The sound cut through the trauma room instantly.
Low glucose. Urgent low glucose. Every muscle in Robby’s body visibly locked. And suddenly you realized, with a sinking feeling in your stomach, that maybe you weren’t as okay as you had convinced yourself you were.
******
The alarm seemed to echo through the trauma bay far louder than it actually was. Urgent low glucose. Urgent low glucose.
Over and over again in sharp mechanical bursts that instantly transformed every ounce of tension between you and Robby into something much more dangerous. Your stomach dropped. Not from the blood sugar. From the look on your husband’s face.
Because Michael Robinavitch did not scare easily. Not after decades in emergency medicine. Not after mass casualty events and dead children and nights so horrific most people would never psychologically recover from them. He carried catastrophe differently than other people did. More quietly. More efficiently.
But this? This reached him. You saw it immediately in the way all the color drained from his face.
“Okay,” he said calmly, too calmly, already moving toward you. “Give me the monitor.”
“I can do it.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I am literally holding saline.”
“You’re swaying.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re arguing nonsense now.”
The room tilted slightly beneath your feet. Just slightly. Enough to make heat crawl unpleasantly across the back of your neck. Damn it.
You hated this part. Not the physical symptoms. Those were awful, sure, but manageable. Familiar. You hated the loss of control. The sudden awareness that your body had quietly crossed the line from inconvenience into emergency while you were still trying to pretend you had authority over it. You reached for your monitor anyway, fingers fumbling clumsily at your waistband.
That was worse. The second you couldn’t get the clip undone properly, Robby’s entire demeanor changed. Not panicked. Focused. Which somehow scared you more.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping directly into your space now. “Look at me.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
“I just need juice.”
“You needed juice twenty minutes ago.”
His voice remained level, but you could hear it underneath anyway. Fear sharpened into frustration. The kind that only existed because he loved you too much.
Dana appeared in the doorway then, took one look at the situation, and immediately shifted gears. “Santos, clear Trauma Two. Whitaker, get glucose.”
“I don’t need—”
“You do,” Dana cut in firmly.
Normally you might have argued harder out of sheer stubborn pride, but another wave of dizziness rolled through you so fast your hand missed the edge of the counter completely. Robby caught you before you fully stumbled. One hand on your waist. The other bracing hard against your forearm.
Jesus. His grip was tight. Too tight. Like he was already afraid you were slipping away.
“Okay,” he said again, voice lower now. “Sit down for me.”
The room suddenly felt strange. Too bright. Too loud. Santos talking somewhere behind you. Monitors beeping. A patient yelling in another bay. Every sound seemed disconnected from itself, arriving half a second too late.
Not good. Not good at all. You knew these symptoms. Confusion was coming.
“I can walk,” you muttered.
“You’re not walking anywhere.”
“I have patients.”
“You are currently the patient.”
“I hate when you say that.”
“I know.”
The softness in his voice almost broke you. Because he did know. He knew exactly how much you hated this. The vulnerability. The helplessness. The embarrassment of experienced medical professionals watching your body fail in predictable, repetitive ways. The humiliation of being the cautionary tale you lectured other diabetics not to become.
Whitaker rushed back in holding juice and glucose tabs. “I got—”
“Give it here,” Robby said instantly.
You tried taking the juice from him yourself and nearly dropped it. Your fingers weren’t working correctly anymore. The room blurred slightly at the edges.
“Shit,” Robby breathed.
There it was. Real fear. Not annoyance. Not irritation. Fear.
He crouched in front of you where Dana had forced you onto the trauma bed, his hands steady despite the panic you could now visibly see building beneath his skin. He unscrewed the juice bottle himself and pressed it into your hands carefully.
“Drink.”
You obeyed automatically this time. Apple juice. Warm. Too sweet. Your stomach rolled unpleasantly. Robby’s eyes never left your face while you swallowed. Monitoring every twitch. Every blink. Every delayed reaction.
“What’s your number?” he asked.
You stared at him. For half a second you genuinely could not process the question. His expression changed immediately.
“Hey,” he said more sharply now. “What’s your glucose?”
You blinked slowly. Right. Right. Your glucose. The monitor. You had it somewhere.
Your thoughts suddenly felt thick and sluggish, like moving through deep water. You reached toward your waistband again but your coordination had gone strange and distant, your hands no longer fully belonging to you. Robby gently caught your wrist.
“Baby,” he said quietly.
That word. That tone. Not doctor anymore. Husband. Terrified husband. Something inside your chest tightened painfully.
“I’m okay,” you whispered again, though now even you could hear how wrong it sounded.
“No, you’re not.”
Your vision swam. The fluorescent lights overhead stretched strangely before snapping back into focus. Sweat slid down the side of your neck. Your heart hammered too hard, too fast. Somewhere nearby a monitor alarm started going off and for one disorienting second you thought it was yours before realizing it belonged to a patient two bays over. You were losing the thread. Robby noticed instantly.
“Hey.” His hand slid gently against your cheek. “Stay with me.”
“I am with you.”
“You’re fading.”
“No I’m not.”
But the words came out slurred. Oh. Oh, shit. You saw the exact second genuine panic hit him. Not outwardly. Robby was too practiced for that. Too experienced. But his pupils widened sharply and his hand tightened against your jaw before he turned his head.
“Dana, what’s her sugar?”
Dana already had the monitor in hand somehow. “Forty-three.”
The room went dead silent for a second. Forty-three was bad. Not immediately catastrophic yet, but dropping fast enough to become dangerous very quickly.
“Jesus Christ,” Santos muttered quietly.
“I’m fine,” you insisted again automatically.
“You are absolutely not fine,” Robby snapped.
The sharpness in his voice startled you enough that tears pricked suddenly behind your eyes. Not because he yelled. Because he sounded scared. Actually scared. And that was worse.
Robby immediately saw your expression shift and regret flashed across his face so quickly it hurt to look at.
“Hey,” he said softer now, moving closer again. “Hey, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Just stay with me, okay?”
Your hands had started trembling violently now. The juice suddenly felt impossible to hold. You hated this. God, you hated this.
“I took insulin earlier,” you mumbled weakly. “I just forgot to—”
“To eat,” Robby finished tightly.
You nodded once. Shame burned hot behind your ribs. Because this was not rare enough. Because you knew better. Because he had warned you this morning before shift even started when you’d grabbed only coffee instead of breakfast and kissed him off distractedly in the kitchen.
“You need to eat something real today.”
“I will.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“And I was technically alive yesterday too.”
You had laughed then. He hadn’t. Now you understood why. Your thoughts lurched sideways abruptly. The room dipped. Robby’s face blurred.
“Hey,” he said immediately, voice sharper now. “Look at me. Look at me.”
You tried. But suddenly you were freezing cold and unbearably hot at the same time and your body no longer felt fully attached to itself. Someone touched your shoulder. Dana maybe. Voices blurred together.
“Get another line ready.”
“She’s dropping fast.”
“How much juice did she get down?”
“Not enough.”
Then Robby’s voice cut through everything else.
“Stay with me, sweetheart.”
The fear in it hit harder than the low blood sugar ever could. And for the first time since the symptoms started, you realized he was genuinely terrified he might lose you.
******
When you came back fully, the first thing you registered was warmth. Not physical at first. Presence. A hand wrapped tightly around yours. Fingers pressing into your skin hard enough to ground you before your eyes had even opened.
Robby.
Your brain recognized him before the rest of the world returned. Then came the sounds. The distant hum of monitors. The soft hiss of oxygen somewhere nearby. Footsteps outside a curtain. The familiar rhythm of the emergency department moving around you while you floated slowly back toward consciousness.
Your eyelids felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. You swallowed weakly and immediately regretted it when your throat burned dry. The movement must have woken him because the grip around your hand tightened instantly.
“Hey,” Robby said softly.
God. His voice. Exhausted. Frayed thin at the edges. Relief buried underneath something rawer. You forced your eyes open slowly.
Dim lighting. Observation room. One of the quieter ones tucked farther down the hall away from the trauma bays. Your IV line taped neatly to your arm. Continuous glucose monitor attached again. Blanket over you. And Robby sitting beside the bed still in his trauma scrubs.
There was dried blood on the sleeve near his wrist that definitely wasn’t yours. His hair looked wrecked from repeatedly dragging his hands through it. Dark circles sat heavily beneath his eyes. His shoulders were slumped forward like adrenaline had finally stopped holding him upright. You stared at him for a long moment. He stared right back.
“You with me?” he asked quietly.
You nodded once. The motion made your head ache immediately.
“How long?”
“About an hour.”
Your brow furrowed weakly. “That’s it?”
“You scared the shit out of everybody. Time slowed down.”
His attempt at humor landed flat. Because he meant it. You could hear it underneath every syllable. Your fingers shifted against his automatically and he exhaled shakily like even that tiny movement loosened something painfully tight inside his chest.
“What’s my sugar?” you whispered.
“One-twelve.”
Better. Stable. You closed your eyes briefly in relief. The silence between you stretched softly after that. Not awkward. Just tired. Heavy with things neither of you fully knew how to say yet.
When you opened your eyes again, Robby was still watching you too closely. Monitoring. Assessing. You knew that look. He was checking your pupils. Your speech patterns. Your orientation. Making sure you were really back.
“You can stop running neuro checks on me now,” you murmured.
“No, I can’t.”
Your lips twitched faintly despite yourself.
“There she is,” he said quietly, though the relief in his expression hurt to look at.
Guilt crawled unpleasantly through your stomach. You remembered pieces now. The trauma room. The juice. The confusion. Robby’s face while your sugar kept dropping.
Oh God. You remembered his voice.
Stay with me, sweetheart.
Your chest tightened.
“How bad was it?” you asked softly.
Robby leaned back slightly in the chair beside your bed, exhaustion suddenly visible in every inch of him now that the emergency itself had passed. “You bottomed out at thirty-eight.”
You winced immediately. Yeah. That was bad.
“You got combative for a minute.”
Mortification hit instantly. “Oh no.”
“You tried to pull your IV out.”
“Oh my God.”
“You informed Dana she was being dramatically annoying.”
Your face burned hot.
“You called Whitaker a narc.”
A weak groan escaped you. “Please kill me.”
That finally earned the smallest flicker of a real smile from him. Tiny. Gone almost immediately. Because then his eyes softened again and the fear came rushing back into them so quickly it made your chest ache.
“You stopped making sense for a while,” he said quietly.
There it was. The real part. You looked away instinctively. The thing about severe lows was that they terrified everyone around you far more than they usually terrified you. Your brain malfunctioned while you were inside them. Confusion swallowed logic whole. Time blurred. Fear became abstract because your mind literally stopped functioning correctly.
But the people watching? They saw all of it. Robby especially.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered.
His jaw tightened immediately.
“That’s not—” He stopped himself abruptly, rubbing a tired hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
You watched him carefully. This was the aftermath you knew best. Not anger yet. Not fully. Just the emotional crash after terror. The part where Robby stopped functioning as a doctor and became simply a husband who had almost watched something terrible happen to the person he loved most.
“You scared me,” he admitted finally.
The words settled heavily between you.
You looked down at your joined hands instead of his face because guilt suddenly felt too sharp to look directly at. “I know.”
“No,” he said softly. “I don’t think you do.”
That hurt. Not because he was cruel about it. Because he sounded so tired. You swallowed hard. Outside the room somebody laughed loudly at something down the hall. A stretcher rattled past. Life continuing normally while yours sat suspended in this strange fragile silence.
“I thought I was okay earlier,” you admitted. “I really did.”
“I know.”
“But then it hit all at once.”
“I know.”
“And I—”
Your voice broke unexpectedly. Damn it. Emotion rose too fast behind your ribs, exhaustion and humiliation and lingering adrenaline all tangling together into something sharp enough to make tears burn suddenly behind your eyes.
You hated crying after lows. Hated it. Your body always felt emotionally scraped raw afterward. Robby noticed immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured.
The chair scraped softly against the floor before he stood and moved closer to the bed. His hand slid carefully into your hair, fingers brushing gently against your scalp while his other hand stayed wrapped tightly around yours. And just like that, the tears slipped free.
Not dramatic sobbing. Worse somehow. Quiet exhausted tears sliding silently down your face while embarrassment curled painfully inside your chest.
“I hate this,” you whispered shakily.
“I know.”
“I hate when this happens.”
“I know.”
“I hate scaring you.”
That one visibly hit him. Robby closed his eyes briefly before resting his forehead carefully against yours. The movement was so intimate, so instinctive, it nearly undid you completely.
“You know what scared me the most?” he asked quietly.
You shook your head once.
“The second you stopped recognizing what was happening.”
Your breath caught. Because you remembered pieces of that too now. The confusion. The disorientation. The terrifying disconnect between what your body was doing and what your brain could understand. Robby’s thumb brushed softly across your knuckles.
“You looked at me like I was the one being irrational,” he said with a weak humorless laugh. “Meanwhile your glucose was tanking and you were trying to argue with everyone in the room.”
“You know I don’t remember most of it.”
“I know.”
“But you do.”
He didn’t answer immediately. That was answer enough. Guilt hit harder this time.
You squeezed his hand weakly. “Hey.”
His eyes lifted back to yours instantly.
“I’m okay now.”
Something complicated flickered across his face then. Love. Relief. Fear. Residual anger. All tangled together so tightly they were impossible to separate cleanly.
“I know you are,” he said softly.
But he still looked terrified anyway.
******
By the time Robby finally brought you home, the exhaustion had settled deep into your bones. Not normal tiredness. The strange hollow exhaustion that always followed a severe low. Your muscles felt weak. Your head still ached faintly behind your eyes. Every emotional nerve ending in your body seemed oversensitive and raw, like the episode had stripped away your ability to tolerate anything too sharp or loud. Unfortunately for both of you, unresolved tension counted as sharp.
The apartment was quiet when you walked in. Dark except for the small kitchen light Robby had left on that morning before shift. Normally the familiarity of it would have comforted you. Tonight it just made everything feel painfully intimate. Too close. Too fragile.
Robby locked the door behind you while you kicked your shoes off slowly near the couch. The silence between you wasn’t hostile yet, but it was dangerously close to becoming something heavier.
“I’m gonna shower,” you murmured.
“Eat first.”
There it was. Not cruel. Not loud. Just immediate. You closed your eyes briefly.
“Robby—”
“You need actual food in your system.”
“I had food at the hospital.”
“You had crackers.”
“It counts.”
“No,” he said flatly, “it doesn’t.”
Something hot sparked immediately beneath your ribs. You were too tired for this. Too emotionally wrung out. Too embarrassed still from the entire day. The last thing you wanted was to come home and feel monitored inside your own apartment too.
“I am not doing this tonight.”
“I’m not trying to fight with you.”
“Well, it feels like you are.”
Robby exhaled sharply through his nose and moved toward the kitchen anyway. “Sit down.”
God. That tone.
You turned slowly toward him. “You do realize I am still an adult, correct?”
“And you do realize you nearly coded in the ER today, correct?”
The words landed hard. You physically flinched. Robby saw it immediately and regret flashed across his face for half a second, but exhaustion and fear were already driving him now.
“You dropped to thirty-eight,” he continued more quietly. “You were confused, disoriented, barely responsive for a minute there and—”
“I know what happened.”
“Do you?” he snapped suddenly.
The apartment went silent. There it was. The real fight finally surfacing. Robby dragged a hand through his hair hard enough to shove it back from his face before pacing once toward the kitchen counter and back again. Restless energy radiated off him in waves now that the crisis itself had ended and there was finally space for all the terror he’d been suppressing.
“You silenced your pump alarm.”
You looked away.
“You skipped breakfast.”
“I was busy.”
“You skipped lunch too.”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot because you don’t take care of yourself.”
The sentence sliced straight through you. Immediately.
Your head snapped back toward him before you could stop yourself. “Excuse me?”
Robby looked wrecked. Completely wrecked. Tired beyond belief and still visibly carrying remnants of panic beneath his skin. But instead of softening, something inside you hardened defensively.
“No,” you said quietly. “You do not get to stand there and say that to me.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s hypocritical.”
His expression darkened instantly.
“Hypocritical.”
“Yes,” you shot back, stepping closer now despite your exhaustion. “You live on caffeine and nicotine and trauma. You sleep four hours a night on a good week. You ignore chest pain. You ignore migraines. You work until you physically cannot stand upright anymore and somehow I’m the irresponsible one?”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It absolutely is.”
“No,” Robby snapped, voice rising now for the first time all night. “It is not the same as watching my wife nearly lose consciousness in the middle of a trauma bay because she couldn’t be bothered to eat a sandwich.”
The words hit like a slap. Pain flashed hot across your face instantly. Couldn’t be bothered. You stared at him for a long moment. Then laughed once softly in disbelief.
“There it is.”
Robby’s jaw tightened.
“That’s what you think this is?” you asked quietly. “Carelessness?”
“You ignored every warning sign.”
“Because I was working.”
“So was everyone else.”
“I am trying to keep people alive too, Michael.”
“And what happens when nobody’s there to keep you alive?”
Silence crashed heavily between you. The words echoed. Too real. Too close to the thing both of you were actually afraid of. Your throat tightened painfully.
Robby looked like he regretted saying it immediately, but he was too emotionally wound up to stop now. Fear had cracked open into anger because anger was easier to hold.
“You know what it’s like for me?” he asked suddenly, voice rough now. “Watching you fade out while I’m trying to stay calm enough to treat you?”
Your anger faltered slightly.
“I know you were scared.”
“No,” he said harshly. “You don’t.”
The apartment suddenly felt too small. Too warm. Too full of all the things neither of you wanted to say out loud. Robby turned away from you abruptly, bracing both hands against the kitchen counter while breathing hard through his nose. You watched the muscles in his back tighten beneath his t-shirt. When he spoke again, his voice sounded lower. Rougher.
“You stopped recognizing me for a minute.”
Your chest ached instantly.
“You looked at me like I was a stranger trying to control you.” He laughed once quietly, painfully. “And I know you couldn’t help it. I know how severe hypoglycemia works. But Jesus Christ…”
He stopped talking. You stared at him. Really stared at him. At the exhaustion dragging down his posture. At the slight tremor in his hands now that adrenaline had nowhere left to go. At the way he kept swallowing hard like he was trying not to say something worse.
Suddenly the fight didn’t feel clean anymore. Just sad.
You leaned tiredly against the edge of the couch. “Robby…”
He shook his head immediately.
“No, because I am so tired of pretending this doesn’t terrify me every single time.”
There it was. The truth. Raw and ugly and vulnerable. His eyes finally lifted back to yours and the fear inside them nearly knocked the breath out of you.
“You know what I saw today?” he asked quietly. “I saw every worst case scenario I’ve ever had about you happen in real time.”
Your anger dissolved completely then. Because he meant it. Every word.
Robby laughed again softly, bitterly this time. “You wanna know the sickest part? I could handle it if it was anybody else. I’ve treated severe hypoglycemia a thousand times. But you…” His voice cracked slightly before he recovered. “You stop making sense and suddenly I can’t breathe.”
Tears burned instantly behind your eyes. Damn him. Damn both of you. You crossed the room before fully thinking about it and wrapped your arms carefully around his waist from behind. Robby went rigid for half a second like he hadn’t expected the contact.
Then he broke. Not dramatically. Just quietly. His head lowered and one of his hands came up to grip yours tightly against his stomach while he stood there breathing shakily in the dim kitchen light.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered against his back.
Robby closed his eyes hard.
“I know you are.”
“But you can’t keep acting like I’m your patient.”
“I know.”
“And you can’t save me from everything.”
That one hurt him. You felt it instantly in the way his body tensed beneath your arms. After a long silence, he finally turned in your hold until you were standing chest to chest. His hands slid carefully up your arms like he needed physical reassurance that you were actually still here.
“You know what the problem is?” he asked softly.
You shook your head once.
“I don’t know how to love people halfway.”
God. Your entire chest cracked open at that. Robby rested his forehead gently against yours, exhaustion radiating from him in waves now that the fight had burned through both of you.
“And I love you enough that this scares the hell out of me.”
******
The fight left behind a strange kind of quiet. Not unresolved silence. Not coldness. Just emotional exhaustion settling over both of you after too much fear, too much honesty, too many hours spent holding yourselves together by force alone.
You stood in the kitchen wrapped around each other for a long time after the argument ended. Long enough for the apartment to fall completely silent around you except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional distant traffic outside the windows. Robby’s arms stayed tight around your waist like he still did not entirely trust reality yet. Like some terrified part of him needed constant physical confirmation that you were upright, conscious, breathing.
Eventually he kissed your forehead softly and murmured, “Sit down before you fall over again.”
You huffed out the smallest laugh. “Very romantic.”
“I’m devastatingly charming under stress.”
“You’re devastatingly something.”
That finally pulled a tired smile from him. And God, you loved him. Even exhausted. Even overprotective. Even emotionally constipated and running himself into the ground while lecturing you about self-preservation. Especially then, honestly.
You settled onto the couch wrapped in one of his old sweatshirts while Robby disappeared into the kitchen with the singular intensity he brought to every caretaking task. A few minutes later he returned carrying a plate of peanut butter toast, apple slices, and a protein shake like he was personally offended by the concept of unstable blood sugar.
You eyed the tray immediately. “This feels aggressive.”
“You almost died today.”
“I did not almost die.”
“You hit thirty-eight.”
“And yet here I remain. Alive. Beautiful. Annoying.”
“You skipped breakfast.”
“There he is.”
Robby rolled his eyes but sat beside you anyway, one arm automatically stretching along the back of the couch behind your shoulders. The tension from earlier had softened now into something gentler. Fragile maybe, but honest. You picked at the toast slowly while he watched you with entirely too much focus.
“You are staring at me.”
“I’m monitoring you.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you married me anyway.”
Fair. You took another bite while Robby finally leaned back slightly into the cushions beside you. Up close now, without hospital lighting and adrenaline masking everything, you could really see how exhausted he was. His eyes looked bloodshot. His shoulders heavy. The emotional aftermath of the day still clung visibly to him.
You frowned softly. “Did you ever eat dinner?”
Robby blinked once. That answered the question.
You stared at him in disbelief. “Michael.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“Oh, that is rich.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.” You pointed your toast at him accusingly. “You literally gave me a speech forty-five minutes ago.”
“You passing out slightly outranked my appetite.”
Your expression softened immediately. Damn him again. The thing about loving Robby was that underneath all the sarcasm and sharp edges and impossible stubbornness lived one of the most devoted people you had ever known. He loved completely. Recklessly sometimes. There was no moderation to it.
Which meant when he was scared, he felt that completely too. You set the plate down quietly and shifted closer until your legs tangled together on the couch. Robby’s hand slid automatically onto your thigh like muscle memory.
“I really am sorry,” you said softly.
His eyes lifted to yours instantly.
“I know.”
“No, I mean it.” Your fingers found his wrist gently. “I know I get stubborn about this sometimes.”
“Sometimes,” he repeated flatly.
You ignored that.
“I just…” You sighed quietly. “I hate feeling fragile.”
Something shifted in his expression immediately.
“You don’t seem fragile to me.”
You laughed softly. “I literally had to be force-fed apple juice today.”
“You also worked a trauma while your body was actively trying to short-circuit itself.” His thumb brushed absently against your leg. “Which is part of the problem, by the way.”
You groaned dramatically. “Please stop making valid points. It’s exhausting.”
A real laugh escaped him then. Not huge. Not loud. But genuine enough to loosen something tight inside your chest.
“There she is,” he murmured.
You leaned your head carefully against his shoulder after that, exhaustion finally starting to pull heavily at your body again now that the adrenaline and emotion had faded. Robby immediately adjusted without thinking, one arm wrapping around you fully while his other hand rested lightly against your side. Safe. Always safe with him.
For a while neither of you spoke. The apartment remained dim and quiet around you while the city outside kept moving. Your glucose monitor buzzed softly with another reading update and you felt Robby tense automatically beneath you.
You tilted your head up immediately. “Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought something aggressively.”
“I am allowed to have internal concern.”
“You’re insane.”
“You love me.”
Unfortunately true. You smiled faintly against his shoulder before the silence settled again.
Then, very quietly, Robby said, “You know what the worst part was?”
Your chest tightened immediately.
“What?”
He was quiet long enough that you almost thought he might not answer. Finally his fingers curled slightly tighter against your arm.
“You stopped responding to my voice.”
The softness of the confession nearly broke you. You lifted your head slowly to look at him. Robby was staring somewhere past the coffee table now, expression distant in that dangerous way it got when old trauma and fresh fear started tangling together inside him.
“In the trauma bay,” he said quietly. “For a minute there, you wouldn’t focus on me no matter how much I talked to you.” His jaw flexed hard. “I’ve seen that look before on people and I…” He swallowed roughly. “I couldn’t handle it.”
Your eyes burned instantly.
“Hey,” you whispered.
His gaze finally shifted back to yours.
“I’m here.”
Something painfully vulnerable flickered across his face then.
“I know,” he said softly. “But for a second today, I thought maybe someday you wouldn’t be.”
You moved before thinking, climbing carefully into his lap despite his immediate protest about your blood sugar and exhaustion. You cupped his face gently between your hands until he finally stopped trying to deflect and just looked at you.
“You listen to me,” you whispered firmly. “I am going to try harder. Okay? Not because you can control me. Not because I’m your patient. But because I love you and I know this scares you.”
Robby’s hands slid instinctively to your waist, holding you there like he never wanted to let go.
“And,” you added softly, “you are going to stop pretending you’re somehow invincible too.”
His mouth twitched faintly. “That feels unrelated.”
“It absolutely is not.”
“I walked directly into that one.”
“You really did.”
Another small laugh escaped him before his forehead rested gently against yours again. The exhaustion in him felt enormous now that the fear had finally settled.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he admitted quietly.
The honesty of it wrapped straight around your heart. You kissed him then. Not desperate. Not heated. Just intimate in the deepest possible way. The kind of kiss built from years of loving each other through ugly things. Through fear and hospitals and exhaustion and sharp words said only because the alternative was admitting how badly you could hurt each other by disappearing.
Robby kissed you back like relief. Like gratitude. Like prayer. When you finally pulled apart, his nose brushed gently against yours while his hands stayed warm against your hips.
“Bed,” he murmured softly.
“You trying to seduce me, Robinavitch?”
“I am trying to make sure my wife doesn’t collapse again because she’s too stubborn to sleep.”
“Mm. Romance.”
“You love it.”
You did. You really, really did. And later that night, long after the apartment lights went dark, after your glucose stabilized and the adrenaline finally fully drained from both of you, you woke briefly to find Robby’s hand still resting lightly against your stomach beneath the blankets. Checking. Grounding himself. Making sure you were still there.
summary: you decide to come into work with a sprained ankle and hide it from abbot. he is not happy when he finds out.
warnings: minor injury, reader goes through like 10 different mood swings, flirting, teasing, forced proximity, reader also cries because abbot raises his voice at her, 2x sweetheart bombs, abbot is kinda mean for a sec but then makes up for it so its ok! yearning as always, because i am nothing without it ᝰ.ᐟ
wc: 4.7k
A sprained ankle is not a broken ankle. It’s simply a ligament that’s been twisted thanks to your own clumsy self who, for reasons that felt valid at the time, decided to go for a run and ended up catching it on a bit of uneven pavement that, frankly, should be investigated.
Because really, what kind of surface just does that?
You keep telling yourself it’s not broken, because you know it’s not, but that doesn’t stop it from hurting like an absolute bitch.
You did everything right before your shift. Iced it, elevated it, laid there with your leg propped up like you were in recovery from something far more impressive than a failed attempt at cardio. You even gave it time, which felt generous, considering your life does not pause just because your ankle decided to have a me-day.
And it worked. Sort of. It took the edge off enough that you could stand, walk, test a few steps without immediately wanting to swear at inanimate objects. Enough to convince yourself you could get through twelve hours.
You could’ve called in sick.
You did consider it, briefly, in that fleeting, rational window where you acknowledge what you should do before immediately choosing something else. But then you remembered your current financial situation, and decided to get your ass into work.
You have a wishlist. Not a small one either. A growing, evolving document that reflects your needs, your wants, your emotional state, and occasionally your poor impulse control. And unfortunately, your bank account seems to view it as more of a suggestion than a plan.
And bills, of course. Who could forget those. Always there.
And the closest thing you’ve had to financial support lately is Abbot dropping extra into your swear jar like he’s personally invested in your bad behaviour.
Which would be helpful. It really would.
If you hadn’t already spent it.
So you’re now limping into a twelve-hour shift instead of being horizontal in your bed like a sensible person. You adjust your bag higher on your shoulder as you near the hospital entrance, your pace severely delayed. Your balance and posture off too.
It’s fine. You can manage. You’d once stayed out for ten hours straight in eight-inch heels, this is basically the same thing. If anything, this has more arch support.
The automatic doors slide open like they’re welcoming you back into the worst possible environment for an injured ankle—bright lights, hard floors and a department that runs almost exclusively on people moving quickly and not looking where they’re going.
It all seems fine, until someone rushes past you with a stretcher, wheels rattling, and you instinctively shift your weight to avoid getting barged. Which is a terrible idea. You feel exactly how bad it is as soon as a sharp pain jolts your ankle, your whole body stalling mid-step.
You see white, your vision slipping somewhere unhelpful, jaw clenching, fingers flexing uselessly at your side.
You still until the pain fades and you can see colour again, before wobbling your way over to the nurses’ station.
“Nice of you to show up,” Diaz greets without looking up.
“I’m actually early today,” you bite back, dropping your bag under the desk and trying not to wince about it.
He glances up just as you’re taking in the patient screen, clipping your badge on, pretending everything is completely fine.
“How crazy has day shift left it?” you ask, turning back to him and doing your best to walk over normally to a seat. You lower yourself into the chair before Diaz has responded.
You look up at him, brows lifting in a silent well?
“Busy,” he says finally. “Couple holds, triage backed up for a bit.”
“So the usual then,” you mumble, scanning your badge and logging into the computer like that’s the only thing you care about right now, and not the throb trapped inside your shoe.
“You’re being weird.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Weirder than usual. Why are you walking like that?”
“New shoes,” you supply smoothly, clicking through charts.
Diaz looks down at your feet then back up at you.
“You wear those every shift.”
“Okay, that’s not true,” you say defensively, turning to face him and regretting the sudden movement because your ankle reminds you promptly what got you in this predicament. “I like to match them to my underscrub tops when I can. You don’t have to shame a girl so loudly.”
He narrows his eyes. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Was it a patient?”
“No,” you scoff. “I’ve just walked in—I haven't had the chance to piss someone off that quickly. It’s my own fault.”
“What does that mean?” he presses annoyingly.
“It means,” you sigh, like this is already being blown wildly out of proportion, “I might’ve slightly twisted my ankle on a run. That’s literally it. It’s fine. Barely even worth mentioning.”
“And you thought coming into work was a good idea?”
“I’ll walk it off ,” you counter quickly. “It’ll be fine. People do it all the time.”
He just stares at you like you’ve unlocked a new level of unbelievable. “You can’t walk off a sprain. That’s the exact opposite of what you should be doing.”
“Wow, really?” You blink at him. “Have you ever considered being a doctor?”
He shakes his head, a shit-eating smirk appearing. “Abbot’s going to send you home.”
“Abbot is going to do no such thing because he’s not going to find out. Now, don’t you have other things to be doing?”
“Yeah,” he nods, rapping his knuckles against the counter. “I do, actually—since both of my legs work and I’m capable of basic exercise without injuring myself.”
“Blow me,” you shoot back just as he’s walking away.
“Not on shift,” he throws over his shoulder.
By hour four, you’d decided that your bad mood was now a shared experience. Which, yes, was not entirely fair. But you’re never in a bad mood at work. You’re pleasant, you’re accommodating, you laugh at things that aren’t funny, you entertain the annoying patients, you care.
Which means that you’re allowed to be a little snappier, a little shorter, a little less interested in being everyone’s emotional support nurse today.
And anyway, you’re in pain. Which should legally excuse at least three personality defects per shift.
On the plus side, you’ve been very strategic about it. You’ve managed to limit your interactions with Abbot to moments where you’re already sitting down, which has worked beautifully. He can’t comment on your walking if you’re not walking.
It’s a solid system.
Except it only works if you never have to actually…do your job.
Which, unfortunately, is not how nursing works. Because as ahead as you are on your admin and charting, you still have actual patients to deal with.
You’ve just taken a patient’s bloods, chased up meds that should’ve been charted an hour ago, redone a set of obs because someone swore the machine was wrong (it wasn’t), helped reposition a patient who absolutely could not get comfortable, answered three separate calls that were somehow all urgent but also not urgent at all, and explained, again, that no, you cannot speed up lab results just because someone is bored.
And now—now—you are done.
Not with your shift, unfortunately, but with standing.
You are desperate for a sit down. Even if it’s just while you go pee.
Which is exactly where you’re going, keeping your head down to avoid eye contact with anyone who could possibly stop you and derail your very reasonable plan of resting your godforsaken ankle for two minutes. Maybe three.
You pass a patient bay, forcing your expression into something neutral when someone looks up at you, offering a quick, polite smile that says I’m here if you’re dying but, as long as you’re breathing, please do not bother me.
Everything seems to be going well—until you round a corner and slam straight into a very solid figure, taking a step back onto your bad foot which nearly makes you see heaven.
“Jesus Christ, watch where you’re going!” you snap, the words coming out tight, bitten through clenched teeth.
You realise who’s hand is on your forearm, and your mood gets worse. His eyes are already narrowed on you, giving you a slow once-over.
“Easy,” Abbot says lowly.
“Use your eyes next time.” You pull your arm back and try to step around him, but your ankle protests, your movement stuttering enough to give you away.
There’s a pause, long enough for you to think he hasn’t noticed, that maybe your bad attitude did its job and scared him off, so you do your best to continue walking.
“Wait—what was that?”
Maybe not.
You turn back to him. “That was you walking into me like you’re the only person in this hospital, apparently. Be more careful.”
“Okay,” he comes back pointedly, making a whole show of it—brows lifting, arms folding across his chest like he’s personally affronted. “Now I know something’s wrong.”
“There’s nothing wrong.”
“With that attitude? Yeah. There is.” He tips his head, watching you a little too closely for your liking. “What did you do?”
“Tripped.”
“Was it a patient?” he asks, like he’s just picked that straight off a script everyone seems to be working from today.
“That tripped me?” you shoot back, irritation climbing.
His expression doesn’t change. “Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not being difficult,” you snap. “You asked a stupid question.”
“I asked if someone hurt you.”
“No one hurt me,” you explain quickly. “It’s my own fault. I sprained my ankle on a run this morning and I’m walking it off. It’s fine.” You gesture vaguely past him. “Can I go now and do my actual job?”
“You’re walking it off?”
“Mhm. It’s not even that bad.”
“I think you’re lying,” he argues, eyes dropping briefly before coming back up. “You can’t even put any weight on it.” His arm lifts expectantly. “Come with me.”
“No.”
“No?”
“Yes. N—O. One syllable. Very popular word. Frequently ignored by annoying people.”
He sighs, slow and long, like you’ve personally worn him out, and shakes his head like he’s reached the end of his patience. “Alright.”
You narrow your eyes. “Alright what—”
His hand lands on your waist before you can finish the sentence.
“Abbot—”
He doesn’t even dignify your protests with a response, just adjusts his grip like you’re something inconvenient he’s decided to deal with anyway, shifting you up and into him. Your arm gets hauled over his shoulders, his hand firm at your waist, pulling you close enough that arguing about it feels…theoretical at best.
And then he moves.
Which means you move.
Because the alternative is eating tile, and as much as you’d love to make a point, you’d love not faceplanting in front of half the ER more.
“This is degrading,” you mutter, glancing around for witnesses, and of course Diaz is there. Watching this unfold like it’s the highlight of his shift. You look away immediately, deciding you’ll deal with that problem later. Much later. Possibly never.
“Well, maybe if you cut back on the attitude, you would’ve been able to get here on your own.”
He nudges the door open to an empty room with his shoulder, holding it there as he finally lets go of you. His hand leaves your waist, your arm slipping from his shoulder, and you try very hard not to register how much easier it had been with him holding you up.
“Can you walk to the bed?”
“Can I—? Yes. Obviously. I’ve been walking this whole time,” you reply, waddling in.
“Just get on the bed.”
You turn back to face him. “Jeez. Want my clothes off too?”
There’s a very small, but noticeable pause.
“Not unless you’re planning on making this significantly more complicated than it needs to be.”
You tilt your head, feigning thought. “Depends. Would that get me out of the lecture?”
“No.”
“Shame.” You turn back towards the bed and drop onto it with a quiet exhale, the relief immediate once the weight’s off your foot. The sharp pain dulls into a deep, throbbing pulse, like your heartbeat’s relocated to your ankle just to spite you.
You flex your foot.
Instant regret.
You grimace.
Abbot doesn’t comment on that, but you can feel him clock it anyway. He grabs a stool, dragging it closer with a scrape that feels louder than it should, and settles in front of you like he’s exactly where he intends to be.
He pats his lap. “Let me see.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. Let me see the damage.”
You reluctantly lift your leg up. Your calf brushes his thigh as you shift, your ankle settling into his lap, this whole ordeal feeling more intimate than it should. You decide you hate that. His hand slides along your leg and settles on your heel, the other bracing your ankle as he starts easing your shoe off.
But it moves wrong, making your breath stutter, the pain flaring up quickly.
He glances up immediately. “Sensitive?”
You swallow, eyes darting literally anywhere but his face. The ceiling. The wall. The floor. “Yeah. A little.”
“A little,” he repeats, like he doesn’t believe you for a second.
“Okay, fine. Not a little. It hurts. Are you happy now?”
“Over the moon.”
“Shut up.”
“Hold still.” He manages to get your shoe off, setting it down on the floor. His fingers hook around your sock next, peeling it down slowly. It shouldn’t feel like anything. It’s just a sock. Cotton. Friction. Basic physics. Except you can’t help but fixate on the way his hand seems to swallow your foot, which has probably tripled in size from the swelling.
“You planned to walk this off?” he asks, carefully lifting your leg so you can actually see the bruising starting to form—and properly take in the fact that your foot has, in fact, tripled in size, with absolutely no chance of it going back into your trainers without you cussing out the entire floor.
“It wasn’t that bad earlier,” you say weakly, noticing the pattern of bruising spreading across your foot like a bad anklet. You’d much rather something gold or silver with charms. Instead, you get tight skin with dark patches starting to bloom. That’ll look great with your sandals.
He meets your gaze, completely unimpressed. “Of course it wasn’t that bad earlier. You’ve spent hours on it.”
“I’ve spent hours working,” you correct, because that matters.
“You’ve spent hours making it worse, when you should’ve been resting it.”
You frown, the edge in his tone catching somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. “I didn’t think it was that serious,” you mutter, looking away.
“That’s the problem. You didn’t think. You just came in and decided to ignore it.”
You shift a little on the bed, the earlier irritation dulling into something else. “Okay—”
“You can’t put weight on something like this and expect it to just fix itself,” he continues. “You’re lucky it’s not worse.”
“I said okay.”
He doesn’t stop.
“And walking on it like that—”
“Can you not—” you start, but your voice catches and you feel that awful, familiar sting building behind your eyes. Oh, no. Absolutely not. Not here. Not now.
You blink hard, like that’s going to fix it. It never does. Then you try pressing your tongue to the roof of your mouth, apparently a trick that’s supposed to work, according to a very desperate Google search titled how to stop crying in situations that do not require tears.
Nothing.
You cannot be crying in front of your boss. That’s humiliating. That’s practically career-ending. At the very least, Diaz will somehow find out, and then you’ll have to relocate. Change your name. Start over.
He looks up and you look away.
“Hey,” he says, quieter now, thumb tracing circles over the sore skin.
“Just stop yelling at me. I get it. I made it worse.”
“I’m not yelling,” replies gently.
“Could’ve fooled me.” You’re still not looking at him, blinking suspended entirely because you can feel the tears sitting at your waterline, just waiting to embarrass you. One blink and it’s over.
“I’m sorry for coming in hot. It’s just—I know you know better. You could’ve texted me, taken the day, and came back on the next shift. Now you’re probably going to need twice the time with all this swelling.”
That right about does it. The way his tone changes completely. Your eyes slip shut for a second and the tears fall. You let out a frustrated breath, turning your head away like that might undo it.
It does not.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble under your breath, mortified, trying to swipe quickly at your cheek like you can get ahead of it.
“Hey… hey,” he murmurs, softer now, shifting closer. His hand stills where it’s been resting against your ankle.
“Ignore it. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I am.” You pause, wiping under your eyes again, annoyed at yourself more than anything. “This is so stupid.”
“Hey,” he repeats, a little firmer now. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
You hesitate, mostly because your mind has now latched onto the sweetheart part.
“Look at me,” he echoes, and you reluctantly turn your head to face him again. “It's okay to be upset. You’re in pain, you’re tired and I was being an ass. I’m sorry for making you feel worse.”
“It’s fine,” you sniff, wiping the stray tears again, tidying them away so you can move on from the most mortifying shift ever. “Can we please never speak of this again?”
He nods, going back to your ankle, fingers pressing in different areas. “But you were kind of an ass to me too earlier,” he mumbles. “Very mean. I think I might’ve had tears in my eyes too.”
“You’re mocking me now. Very funny.”
“A little bit,” he admits sheepishly.
You stare at him, unimpressed. “I’m pouring my heart out—”
“You told me to use my eyes.”
“—and this is what I get?” you finish, ignoring that completely.
“You also told me to be more careful,” he adds. “Very aggressive tone.”
“So, what you’re saying is that I was being a raging bitch?”
He pauses at that, looking up at you. “No,” he replies, a little more seriously. “I’m saying you were in pain and took it out on me.”
You swallow because even now he’s still being nice to you, even though you probably don’t deserve it. “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know.”
“I just—” you exhale, frustrated. “It really hurt, and then you were there, and—”
“And I got the attitude,” he finishes lightly.
“Yeah. You always do.”
That earns the faintest smile from him—because, yes, he does. He constantly puts up with your attitude, your badly timed flirting, your mood swings, all the things he very much does not have to tolerate—and yet he does. Every time.
“I am sorry, by the way. Just so we’re clear.”
“You’re forgiven,” he replies easily, like it’s not even a question. “Besides, you’ve got nothing to apologise for. I was only busting your balls out of pure enjoyment.”
“…That’s a terrible thing to admit out loud.”
“Honesty,” he shrugs.
“Is not always attractive.”
“Seemed to get your attention.”
“Well, if you’re so desperate for my attention, you could just ask next time,” you quip, right as he lifts your leg from his lap and carefully lowers it back down. “I’ll be more than glad to provide it.”
He very conveniently ignores that.
“Very cute,” he says instead, nodding towards your baby pink painted toes.
“Oh, so that’s what we’re focusing on right now?”
He laughs as he pushes his stool back and stands. “No. What we’re focusing on is you spending the rest of your shift off that ankle.”
You narrow your eyes.
“Lay down properly,” he continues, gesturing to the bed. “We’ll get some ice on it, keep it elevated, and try to get the swelling under control.”
“I’ll just drive home instead if I'm being benched. No point in taking up a perfectly good bed that could go to someone who actually needs it. Gloria would have my head on a stick if she found out.”
“You wouldn’t even be able to get your shoe back on,” he counters. “Let alone brake suddenly if you had to. Just lay down and let me worry about the rest.”
You pause mid-argument, because…irritatingly, he’s not wrong, and you don’t particularly fancy starring in your own ER admission later tonight. “I’ll just order an Uber,” you pivot instead.
“No you won’t. Just lay down and stop arguing with me. I’ll get Diaz to bring you an ice pack, and I’ll drive you home at the end of the shift.”
“Please not Diaz,” you say immediately. “Anyone but Diaz.”
“I’ll bring you one then. Now will you please lay down.”
You roll your eyes and shift on the bed, swinging your legs up as you try to get comfortable, which is now an impossible task.
“Can I trust you to be alone for five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to find you somewhere down the corridor?”
“No,” you answer, a little too quickly. Then, because you have some self-awareness, you add, “Probably.”
He gives you a look.
“Okay, no,” you correct with a sigh. “I’ll stay here. Scout’s honour.”
He nods, tucking the chair back into the corner as he moves to the door. “Be good.”
“Yes sir,” you call out, just as he gives you one more pointed look before opening the door and leaving.
You feel a gentle tap on your shoulder, then hear your name being called.
You hum in response, somewhere between asleep and not, face turned into a pillow you definitely did not have before you conked out, limbs heavy in that delicious, disorienting way that says you’ve been gone for a while.
“Wake up, sweetheart,” you hear Abbot say.
You groan, dragging yourself back into consciousness inch by inch. “M’awake,” you mumble, which is a lie.
You think he called you sweetheart again—but you’re still half under, brain slow and syrupy, and honestly it could just be your subconscious trying to sweet-talk you into waking up. Your mind does weird things when you’re this out of it.
“Are you?”
“Absolutely.”
“You were knocked out pretty good.”
“I was?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.
“Yup. You were even drooling.”
Your eyes snap open. “I was not.”
“You were. Right there.” He points to his own cheek.
You immediately wipe at your face, mortified. “You’re lying.”
“Nope. Even left a stain on your pillow.”
You glance down quickly, scanning the fabric like it’s evidence in a trial, relieved when there’s no obvious damp patch staring back at you. At least… not one you can see. Which somehow makes it worse, because now there’s doubt.
“How’s your ankle?” he asks, walking towards the end of the bed, his hand careful as it comes to inspect it.
You follow his gaze, like you forgot it existed for a second. “Not as sore I don’t think. But I haven’t tried walking yet.”
“That was the whole point. Think you can make it to my truck, or do I need to carry you?”
You sit up slowly, rubbing at your eye with the heel of your hand, still dragging yourself out of sleep. Everything feels slightly out of sync. “Is it already morning?”
He nods, that familiar almost-smile pulling at his mouth, like he’s enjoying this more than he should. “It is indeed. You can’t hear Dana yelling?”
You go still trying to hear it, and your brain manages to tune into the right frequency just in time to hear a very clear Jesus Christ almighty.
“…Oh my god,” you mumble, blinking around like the room might have changed overnight. “That’s aggressive.”
“It’s called day shift.”
“I don’t like it.”
“You’re not staying for it.”
You reach for your shoe, only to realise your sock’s been crammed inside it, another thing you also don’t remember doing. But before you can untangle that mystery, Abbot gets there first, picking the shoe up and tugging the sock free.
“Hold on.” He drops into a crouch.
Your brain lags a second behind your mouth. “I can do that,” you protest. “You don’t need to be abusing your old man knees.”
He scoffs, rolling the sock between his hands. “My old man knees are fine.”
“Well I’m pretty sure your leg feels worse than my ankle after twelve hours on your feet.”
“I’m fine,” he assures you in that voice that means the conversation is over whether you agree or not, guiding your foot forward and easing the sock back over it. “How does that feel?”
“Like I could go on another morning run.”
“Don’t put me in a bad mood.” He straightens, one hand instinctively coming to your thigh to steady himself as he pushes up, his joints giving a very audible crack on the way which sells him out.
You smile smugly. “Yeah. Sounded great, that.”
“Need me to help you up?”
You shake your head and brace your hands either side of you as you push yourself up. It’s not graceful and you let out a grunt once you stand properly. Abbot hovers anyway, close enough to catch you if you tip even slightly off balance.
“...Thank you,” you say once you’re steady.
“For what?”
You gesture between the two of you, because it’s easier than listing it all out. “For all of this. I know I made your night ten times more difficult by coming in.”
“You didn’t,” he says, too quickly for it to be brushed off as polite.
You lift a brow. “Be serious.”
“I am.” His tone doesn’t waver. “You didn’t make anything difficult.”
You don’t believe him. Even if he is using that same voice again. You know you push it with him. Always have. There’s a part of you that’s permanently braced, waiting for the moment it tips too far, when he finally has enough and decides you’re more effort than you’re worth. Like he’ll take one too many hits of you and realise it’s too much, spit it out, be done.
But that moment never comes.
And you don’t really understand why.
Half the time, you have enough of yourself.
So the fact that he hasn’t—hasn’t even come close, as far as you can tell—sits somewhere under your ribs, awkward and hard to place. Not quite comforting. Not quite anything you know what to do with.
“Come on, let's get out of here before Dana starts throwing things.” He pulls you back to earth, like he always does, like he can tell when you’ve drifted too far in your own head. “We can grab breakfast at a drive-thru before I drop you home.”
“You’re too good to me.”
He snorts under his breath, as though you’ve said something ridiculous. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious,” you insist, even if it comes out lighter than it feels. “You are.”
“Can’t be that good if I had you in tears just a few hours ago.”
You wave him off, taking a step closer. “That literally happens several times a day, don’t even worry about it.”
He reaches out as you close the distance, his hand settling at your waist, pulling you in enough to keep you balanced. “That’s not reassuring.”
“Well,” you shrug, lifting your arm loosely over his shoulders, “I do tend to cry less once I get a greasy breakfast and an iced coffee in me.”
“Is that right?” He turns towards you then, and it hits you properly, how close you are. Not just now. Several times throughout the shift. Closer than you probably should’ve been without either of you saying anything about it.
He smells good. Which feels unfair, considering he’s just come off a twelve-hour shift.
“…Proven method,” you add quieter, because you’ve momentarily forgotten your own argument.
“Well, we better hurry up then.”
You hum, even though there’s no real urgency in you. If anything, you’d rather drag it out as long as you can. You don’t say that, obviously. You just do your best to fall into step beside him and hope that he’s in no rush either.
summary: even after swapping from nights to days, you just can’t seem to escape the inconveniently attractive night shift attending. then a ptmc night out, a sparkly dress, and a not-so-innocent game of never have i ever leads to dr. jack abbot making sure you can never utter the words “never have i ever finished during sex” ever again.
notes: i really hope you guys enjoiy this! it was so much fun to write and i just feel like jack is a little easier to put into silly situations than robby, so here i am torturing the poor man! i'm sorry in advance if the smut is kind of mid, i was fighting tumblr's block limit rule with this fic so i feel like i didn't get indulge as much as i would have liked, but still! i hope you guys love it, and please, please let me know what you think! (p.s. i think i mentioned the title was originally 'unaffected' but i like this one better)
warnings: swearing, alcohol, blushing, italics, jealousy, implied age gap, jack is a yearner, reader wears a "revealing" dress (but description is very vague and there's zero detail about body-type), mildly uncomfortable male encounters, friend!santos, pittlings chaos, garsantos mention, jack gets a little possessive, reader has long enough hair to sweep off her neck, and SMUT (making out, fingering, "panties", a tiny bit of dirty talk, unprotected piv, "good girl", and jack says sweetheart a lot) 18+ only please, mdni.
word count: 18889
Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man.
Possessive, maybe. Protective, definitely. But jealous? Never.
He had never really had anything to be jealous of.
Until now.
Now there are far too many things.
Like the pen between your lips—and the way you bite down just hard enough to leave a little dent in the plastic while you read through Dana’s notes.
Or Dana herself, and the way you’re looking at her—soft, sleepy, warm in a way that twists something tight in Jack’s chest. The same way you used to look at him in the quiet hours at the end of a night shift.
Or your scrubs—God, your scrubs—and the way they fit just a little too well tonight. Too tight in all the right places. Distracting in ways that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
Jack has never needed to be jealous of anything before, but now he finds himself jealous of inanimate objects, coworkers you barely glance at, and your goddamn clothes.
So, yeah. Jack Abbot had never thought of himself as a jealous man—until you came along.
“Dr. Abbot,” Dana calls, peering over the top of her glasses. “You’re early.”
Beside her, you glance up from your tablet, meeting his eyes across the ER with that same soft smile.
“Dr. Abbot,” you say, like you can’t quite help yourself.
Jack squares his shoulders and starts toward the nurses’ station, determined not to let Dana and her all-knowing, all-seeing bullshit clock exactly why he’s at work almost two hours earlier than he needs to be.
“Yeah, I’ve got some stuff I didn’t get to wrap up this morning,” he lies.
Princess pops up from behind the desk. “I thought you said you stayed back this morning to make sure everything was sorted?”
Jack’s gaze cuts to her. “Yes. But I forgot something.”
Dana narrows her eyes. “Mhm. What’d you forget?”
“A few notes from the three a.m. GSW,” he replies quickly—too quickly.
It’s weak and he knows it, but there’s nothing else he could think of with Dana watching him like that and your warm, sleepy gaze still lingering from across the desk.
Dana nods slowly, adjusting the chart in her hands. “Right. Two hours early for a few notes.”
Jack just shrugs, avoiding her gaze as he walks past—and he doesn’t look back until he’s safely around the corner, standing in front of his locker. Only then does he risk a glance, just briefly over his shoulder, quick enough to catch a glimpse of you disappearing down the North hall.
God. It’s ridiculous, really. He’s a grown man.
More than that—he's an old man.
Yet here he is staying late at work and coming in early just to see more of you. Because ever since you swapped from nights to days, Jack doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. Sure, he could barely concentrate when you were on shift together, but who knew not having you around would be even worse?
He spends the first half of his shift hating himself for being so hung up on someone so young and so impossibly out of reach—then spends the second half anxiously awaiting your arrival for the day shift.
And it’s only been two weeks.
But the absolute worst part?
He doesn’t even know why you swapped shifts. You never even spoke to him about it. You just told him at four a.m. two Saturdays ago that you were switching to day shift. No reason. No explanation. That was it.
At first he wondered if it was his fault—if maybe you’d simply decided you didn’t like working with him.
But you still greet him every morning and every evening with that same warm smile. You still look to him first whenever someone asks for an attending and he’s still around. You still text him whenever the ER cat shows up outside the ambulance bay—which apparently happens much more often during the day shift.
And Jack still buys a packet of freeze-dried liver treats every Sunday to keep in the cupboard above the break room fridge—because he knows how much you love feeding that cat.
“What’re you doing here?”
Jack’s head whips around at the sound of his friend’s voice.
“I—uh—came in early to fix up a few notes,” he says, turning back to shove his bag into his locker.
Robby’s brows lift. “Two hours for notes?”
Jack sighs, slinging his stethoscope around his neck and shutting his locker before turning to face his fellow attending. “Are you of all people really going to lecture me about not having a life outside of this ER?”
Robby chuckles quietly, lifting both hands out of his pockets in surrender. “I wasn’t judging.”
“Good,” Jack mutters, already starting back toward central. “Anything I need to know?”
Robby falls into step beside him. “North Three’s waiting on a CT for possible appendicitis. Kid in Five came in with chest pain but his labs look clean so far. Dana’s still fighting with bed control about moving the pneumonia admit upstairs.”
They both stop at the nurses’ station, glancing up at the board.
“Otherwise it’s been unusually calm,” Robby adds. “Which probably means you’re about to get slammed.”
Jack gives him a flat look. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” Robby claps him on the shoulder. “Oh—and that R2 you gave me?”
“What about her?”
Robby shrugs. “She’s great.”
“I know,” Jack says, keeping his voice carefully even.
Robby studies him for a second, eyes narrowing just a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatening to lift. The man might be a disaster when it comes to his own feelings, but he has an uncanny talent for spotting everyone else’s.
“We’re alright out here if you want to catch up on your notes,” he says after a moment, already turning away. “Or go make the rounds. Get some very thorough handovers from the residents.”
Jack keeps his eyes fixed on the board. “I hate you.”
Robby huffs out a quiet laugh. “Then why are you here two hours early?”
Jack exhales sharply and steps forward, pulling one of the tablets from the rack.
“Notes,” he says, a little louder than necessary.
Robby just shakes his head, still smiling faintly as he disappears down the North corridor.
For a moment, Jack doesn’t move. He lingers at the nurses’ station, tablet in hand, pretending to analyse the board while ignoring the incredibly unsubtle looks from Perlah and Princess—both of them watching him with the kind of interest that usually means someone’s about to become the subject of a very entertaining conversation.
Then, with a polite nod to each of them, he clears his throat and steps away, turning toward the break room—trying very hard not to hope he runs into you on the way.
And trying not to be disappointed when he doesn’t.
The break room is empty when he steps inside, the noise of the ER dulling as the door falls shut behind him. He sets his tablet on the table—next to someone’s half-eaten lunch and a discarded Lean Cuisine container—and grabs a clean mug from the cupboard, pouring the last of the coffee pot into it.
Then he drops into the seat furthest from the door, his back to the bulletin board, and taps the tablet awake, pulling up the notes for the three a.m. GSW. The same notes he already finished in detail while staying back this morning—before Robby told him to get the hell out of his ER and get some sleep.
He barely makes it through two lines of the chart before the door swings open again.
“Shit, sorry,” you say quickly, stepping toward the table.
Jack’s pulse does the same stupid thing it always does whenever he sees you, making his chest feel hot and his head a little fuzzy.
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, as if it isn’t obvious.
You’ve already stacked the Lean Cuisine container on top of the half-eaten bowl of something grey and mushy-looking and are halfway to the sink with them.
“I only got, like, a five-minute break today and had to run out for a trauma, then completely forgot about my lunch,” you explain, cheeks flushed as you glance down at the bowl. “This is gross. I’m so sorry.”
Jack shifts in his chair. “I’ve seen worse in here, I promise.”
You glance over your shoulder as you turn on the tap, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly. “Really?”
He nods. “Really.”
He could almost swear your smile lifts a little higher before you turn back to the sink, scrubbing hurriedly at the bowl of slop that probably shouldn’t be going down the drain anyway.
Jack clears his throat. “But—uh—Lean Cuisine? Really?”
You look back at him again, brows drawn. “What’s wrong with Lean Cuisine?”
“Nothing,” he says lightly. “If you’re trying to survive a very stressful twelve-hour shift on only four hundred calories.”
You huff a quiet laugh, turning back to the sink. “I actually managed to eat lunch today. That’s already a win.”
“It’s mostly sodium and sadness,” he adds, almost absently. “Not much protein.”
You finally turn the tap off and spin around, leaning a hip against the counter. “Alright, Dr. Abbot. When I find the spare time to start meal prepping between my very stressful twelve-hour shifts, I’ll let you know.”
Jack opens his mouth—then closes it again. Because what he wants to say is ridiculous.
But it comes out anyway.
“…I cook.”
You blink.
“You cook?”
Jack clears his throat, suddenly very interested in his coffee mug.
“Yeah. Well.” He shrugs. “I’ve been told I’m reasonably good at it.”
You stare at him for a second, brows knitting slightly as you clearly try to figure out where the hell that came from.
“Well,” you say with a quick smile, “I guess your dinner guests are pretty lucky.”
Before he can respond, you grab the Lean Cuisine packet, toss it in the bin, and step toward the door.
“Sorry again for the mess.”
Then you’re gone—leaving Jack alone with his coffee, his notes, and the growing suspicion that there might actually be something seriously wrong with him.
-
“Is that Dr. Abbot in the break room?” Santos asks, falling into step beside you.
You keep your eyes fixed on your tablet.
“Yep.”
She leans closer, steering you out of the way of a gurney.
“But night shift doesn’t start for like two more hours.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, why is he here?”
You exhale sharply and finally look up from your tablet. “I don’t know, Trin. Maybe because the universe hates me.”
She snorts. “Or maybe because he likes you.”
You roll your eyes, turning toward the South corridor. “Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” she insists. “I seriously think that old man has a thing for you.”
“Don’t call him that,” you mutter.
“Okay, fine. I seriously think that hot, older man has a thing for you,” she says, stopping beside you at the South desks. “And we all know how you feel about him, so—”
“No,” you snap. “We don’t all know how I feel about Ja—Dr. Abbot.”
She presses her lips together to keep from laughing.
“Besides,” you go on, dropping into a chair. “I swapped to day shift so I could stop being distracted by my attending and actually focus on being a good doctor—so could you please stop distracting me?”
She leans a hip against the desk, completely ignoring you. “And don’t you think that’s a little strange? I mean, you swapped to day shift—what, two weeks ago?”
You glance at her from the corner of your eye. “And?”
“And,” she says dramatically, “for the past two weeks Dr. Abbot has been staying back every morning and coming in early every afternoon.”
Your gaze slides back to the computer. “So?”
She sighs, exasperated. “It’s not a coincidence.”
“Actually, I think it is,” you argue.
She stares at you for a second, eyes narrowing. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re annoying.”
She rolls her eyes and pushes off the desk. “Whatever. You’re still coming out tomorrow night, right?”
Your fingers hesitate over the keyboard. “Uh—I’m not sure yet.”
“Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift that’ll be there,” she says.
You let out a quiet sigh of defeat.
“Fine,” you mutter. “I’ll come.”
“Good.” She grins, already turning away. “Come to my place around six. We can get ready and pregame.”
“Why can’t I get ready at home?” you ask.
“Because,” she calls over her shoulder, “I get to pick what you wear.”
And before you can argue, she slips into a patient room, effectively ending the conversation.
“Great,” you mumble, turning back to the computer. “Can’t wait.”
It’s not like you’re not looking forward to finally joining in on a night out now that you’re no longer on the night shift.
You are. You’re just... nervous.
Nervous, perpetually stressed out, and still adjusting to life as a day-walker. And Santos knows that. She probably knows you better than anyone else at PTMC—even though you’ve spent the better part of ten months working opposite shifts.
Which is exactly why she’s pushing you to join this night out. Because she knows you need it. She knows you need to relax, forget about work, and do something other than obsess over the night shift attending who’s had you completely undone since the day you first met.
God.
Jack Abbot. The single most dangerous man in Pittsburgh.
Not only is he stupidly hot, but he’s also annoyingly competent, irritatingly attentive, and has the starring role in every single one of your most inappropriate fantasies.
He’s also the very reason you’re terrified of having to redo your second year of residency, because that man affects your focus so much you literally can’t function. Like three weeks ago, when you walked straight into the glass door of Trauma One because you were too busy watching him take his jacket off.
His damn jacket.
That was the moment you finally decided you needed to swap shifts—because Dr. Shen couldn’t look at you for the rest of the night without bursting into laughter.
Jack Abbot is a liability to your health and wellbeing—which means he is a liability to your career. And even though asking Dr. Robby to swap to day shift was one of the most ridiculously difficult things you’ve done since starting at PTMC, you stand by the fact that it was the right decision.
The smart decision. The professional decision. Even if… it might not be working yet.
Because now you can’t just glance across central anymore and see Jack leaning against the desk, talking through a case with Lena. You can’t have him step up beside you when you’re unsure about something and quietly walk you through it. He’s not the one across from you in the trauma bays. And there isn’t a coffee cup that magically appears in front of you during the three o’clock lull.
Now you just… think about him instead.
But it’s only temporary. You’re sure of it. You just need to get used to the day shift and figure out how to get Jack Abbot out of your head.
Which… you have a sneaking suspicion is what Santos plans on helping you with this weekend.
You’re pretty sure you overheard her the other day telling Whitaker that the only way to get over someone is by getting under someone else. And maybe that’s exactly what you need to do—get under someone else so you can stop thinking about the maddeningly hot man who’s nearly twice your age and most definitely does not have a thing for you. Regardless of what Santos seems to think.
You spend the rest of your shift catching up on charting and trying very hard not to think about Dr. Abbot.
When someone asks for an attending, you call Dr. Robby. When you hear his voice just around the corner, you change paths as quickly and inconspicuously as you can. And when your notes are up to date and night shift starts rolling in, you find Dr. Ellis and give her—and only her—the rundown on your patients.
By the time you shut your locker and sling your bag over your shoulder, the sky outside is dark and there are only a few day shifters left lingering around the nurses’ station.
“Did you drive today?” Whitaker asks, shutting his locker only a moment after you.
“Yeah,” you reply. “Need a ride?”
He nods sheepishly. “That’d be great. Santos left already, said I was taking too long.”
You roll your eyes. “Yeah, I bet it had nothing to do with whatever she and Garcia were whispering about in the stairwell.”
Whitaker winces. “I just hope they’re at Garcia’s tonight.”
You huff a small laugh and hitch your bag higher. “You ready?”
He nods.
You both turn and start back toward central—but just as you reach the nurses’ station, his steps slow.
“Do you need to…?”
He jerks a thumb over his shoulder.
You frown. “Need to what?”
He hesitates. “Don’t you normally say goodbye to Dr. Abbot?”
Your eyes widen slowly. “Uh—no. Why would you say that?”
He shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought you two were close.”
“We’re not close,” you say, a little too quick.
“Sorry,” he mutters, raising both hands in surrender. “I just—I don’t know. I thought because you were his resident you two were… close.”
“I’m not his resident,” you snap. “I’m just… a resident. I don’t belong to him.”
“Okay,” he says slowly, brows drawing together. “I’m sorry, I just thought—”
“You thought wrong,” you mutter, glancing over your shoulder to make sure no one is listening.
Thankfully, the two nosiest nurses in the ER have already gone home for the day.
“Let’s just go.”
You grab his wrist and walk quickly toward the ambulance bay doors, giving Ellis and Shen a small nod as you pass—completely missing the middle-aged attending who just overheard most of your conversation.
The car ride to Santos and Whitaker’s isn’t long. Whitaker fills most of it anyway—rambling about the shift, about the kid in Five and whether night shift is going to get slammed, about how Dana looked like she was two seconds away from strangling bed control by the end of the day. And every few minutes he circles back around to apologising for making you drive him home.
You wave him off each time.
“It’s fine, Whitaker.”
“Seriously though,” he says as you pull up outside their building. “I really appreciate it.”
He slings his bag over his shoulder and climbs out of the car, pausing on the sidewalk to give you one last wave before heading toward the front door.
The moment the passenger door falls shut, the quiet settles in. You let out a long breath, tipping your head back against the headrest and letting your eyes fall shut for a moment. And immediately—inevitably—your brain drifts straight back to the same place it always does.
Jack Abbot. Of course.
You scrub a hand over your face before shifting the car back into gear and pulling away.
The rest of the night passes the way most nights do—with a quick shower, something vaguely edible scavenged from the fridge, and half-heartedly scrolling through your phone until exhaustion finally drags you to bed.
When your head finally hits the pillow, you tell yourself you’re too tired to think about him. It’s been a long day—long week—and all you need right now is sleep, not fantasies.
But that doesn’t stop your brain from doing it anyway. Because sometime in the early hours of the morning, Jack Abbot shows up in your dreams. Not in the ER. Not standing beside you at the nurses’ station or leaning over a chart.
He’s in a kitchen. Cooking.
Sleeves rolled up to his elbows, moving around the stove with the same quiet confidence he carries through the hospital—like he knows exactly what he’s doing and expects the rest of the world just to trust him.
And in the dream, you do.
You lean against the counter and watch him the way you sometimes watch him in the trauma bays, telling yourself you’re just observing. Just curious. Just learning.
He glances over his shoulder eventually, catching you staring—and says something you can’t quite hear over the soft clatter of the pan. But he’s smiling.
Then the dream shifts the way dreams tend to—logic slipping sideways until suddenly you’re standing much closer than you should be. Close enough to smell whatever he’s cooking. Close enough that when he turns toward you the space between you disappears entirely.
His hand settles at your waist like it belongs there.
Your back meets the edge of the counter.
And when his mouth brushes your neck—
You wake with a sharp inhale, staring up at the ceiling, heart racing.
“Fuck,” you mutter, dragging a hand over your face.
So much for getting him out of your head.
For a while, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, watching the first pale line of sunlight creep across until it touches the wall opposite your window.
At some point you realise you’re still replaying the dream in your head.
The kitchen. The way his hand had felt at your waist. The warmth of his mouth against your neck.
You groan quietly and drag the blanket over your face.
“Get a fucking grip.”
Then you throw the covers back and force yourself out of bed, heading straight into the kitchen in search of coffee.
Your small apartment is always quiet—but this morning it feels too quiet. Too still as you silently sip your coffee, one hip leaned against the kitchen counter. Which, unfortunately, leaves far too much room for your brain to wander right back to its favourite topic.
Jack Abbot.
After coffee, you take yourself for a long walk around the block, hoping the cool morning air might help clear the remnants of the dream from your head.
It doesn’t.
But by the time you make it back to your apartment, your legs feel loose and your mind feels a little quieter, and for the briefest moment you almost manage to convince yourself that you’re excited about tonight. That you’re going to be able to do what Santos is clearly angling for and go home with an attractive stranger so you can stop draining your vibrator battery with inappropriate thoughts of your attending.
The rest of the day drifts past in a slow blur of small, forgettable things. Laundry. Answering a couple of messages in the group chat. Half-heartedly reviewing a few notes from earlier in the week before deciding you absolutely refuse to think about work on your day off.
Eventually the afternoon light begins to soften and stretch across the floor, which means it’s probably time to start getting ready if you’re actually going to make it to Santos’ place before she decides you’re bailing and comes knocking to drag you there herself.
So you shower, change, pack a bag, and throw it over your shoulder on the way out the door—trying very hard not to feel disappointed that Dr. Ellis is the only person from night shift who’s going to be at the bar tonight.
It really is for the best.
You, alcohol, and Jack Abbot in the same room is a terrible idea.
“Alright, I’m ready,” Santos announces, finally stepping out of the bathroom.
You, Javadi, and Whitaker—who have spent the last twenty minutes on the couch chatting and sipping beer—look up.
“Aw, I wish I could do winged eyeliner like that,” Javadi says. “It just doesn’t suit my eye shape.”
“Don’t look too close,” Santos mutters. “It’s super uneven, but I don’t have time. I still have to fix this one before we go.”
She tips her chin toward where you and Whitaker are sitting on the opposite end of the lounge.
Whitaker’s eyes go wide. “Me?”
Santos scoffs. “Not you, Huckleberry. God, I don’t have enough time in the world to fix whatever’s going on there.”
Whitaker frowns, glancing down at his navy-blue button-up shirt. “What’s wrong with this?”
“Everything,” Santos says, already turning away.
Whitaker lifts his head, glancing between you and Javadi. “Is it really that bad?”
Javadi leans forward, lowering her voice. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Whitaker. You look great.”
You pat his shoulder. “It’s fine, really. She’s just—”
The words die on your tongue as Santos reappears, holding what can only be described as a sparkly scrap of fabric on a hanger.
Javadi tilts her head. “What’s that?”
Santos grins. “A dress.”
Whitaker chokes on his beer. “That’s… not a dress. That’s a glittery napkin.”
“Oh my God.” Javadi snorts. “My mom would kill me just for buying that.”
“I didn’t buy it,” Santos says lightly. “A friend in college gave it to me, but it’s never fit quite right.”
She steps forward, extending the hanger toward you.
“But I know you’ll be able to pull it off,” she adds, her grin sharpening.
You stare at it—glinting in the low evening sun spilling through the windows.
“Santos… this is a work thing,” you mutter.
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not a work thing. It’s just an outing with people from work.”
“Isn’t that the same thing?” Whitaker asks.
Santos sighs. “No, it’s not. And are you forgetting our main objective?”
You blink at her.
“To get you laid.”
Javadi giggles nervously, trying to hide it behind a swig of beer.
“Come on,” Santos says. “Just put it on and if it doesn’t work, we try something else.”
You hesitate, staring at the glittery thing like it might catch fire at any moment. Which, given enough sunlight, it probably could.
“Fine,” you say at last, pushing off the couch. “I’ll try it on, but that does not mean I’m wearing it.”
Santos’ eyes sparkle with excitement. Or maybe it’s just the dress.
“That’s my girl.”
You take the hanger from her and trudge into her room, nudging the door shut behind you. It takes a minute for you to figure out how the glittery napkin is supposed to go on—but once you do, you shed your comfortable clothes and shimmy into the most sparkly piece of fabric you’ve ever worn.
And somehow, the shimmering scrap of nothing turns out to be an actual dress—short, sparkling, and just structured enough to stay where it’s supposed to while still feeling mildly illegal.
With a deep breath, you turn away from the mirror and open the door, stepping back out into the lounge room.
“So?”
For a moment, no one says anything.
Whitaker’s mouth falls open.
Javadi’s eyebrows lift. “Oh.”
Santos, meanwhile, tilts her head appreciatively, one hand on her hip, eyes gleaming as she looks you over from head to toe.
“I knew it,” she says smugly.
Whitaker blinks. “That is not a dress.”
Javadi elbows him. “Stop talking.”
You tug awkwardly at the hem—which doesn’t actually move much because there isn’t very much hem to tug.
“Santos,” you say carefully, “I’m not sure—”
“Relax,” she says. “You look incredible.”
She circles you slowly, like a stylist inspecting her work.
“And you’re definitely going to get laid.”
“I feel like I shouldn’t be here,” Whitaker mutters, his face bright red.
Santos rolls her eyes. “You’re only here because you live here, Huckleberry. Now go grab that bottle of tequila from on top of the fridge—we’re going to need some liquid courage before we head out.”
After two shots of tequila and Santos’ finishing touches to your makeup, you all head out the door. Whitaker calls an Uber, the four of you pile in, and you carefully keep Santos’ leather jacket wrapped around yourself for some semblance of modesty.
You don’t really plan on taking it off for the rest of the night—even if it isn’t that cold.
The ride to the bar isn’t nearly long enough. Javadi spends most of it excitedly talking about how she can finally go out drinking now that she’s twenty-one, which Santos encourages with the enthusiasm of someone who clearly intends to make the most of that milestone.
You mostly just stare out the window. Trying not to think about the dress you shouldn’t have agreed to wear and the night shift attending you definitely shouldn’t be missing right now. Because if someone asked you where you’d rather be tonight—the bar or the ER with Dr. Abbot—your honest answer would be incredibly depressing.
Who would rather be at work than out with their friends on a Saturday night?
“We’re here,” Santos announces, nudging your side a little too hard.
You all thank the driver before climbing out, gathering yourselves on the sidewalk in front of the familiar establishment Santos loves dragging everyone to.
“Relax,” she says, dropping a hand on your shoulder. “You don’t need this.”
She tugs at the leather jacket, pulling it off your shoulders until it’s bunched at your elbows.
“I feel naked,” you mutter. “Like this is some nightmare where I show up to work in my underwear.”
Whitaker snorts. “Not far from it.”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Well, you’re not at work. You’re at a bar. And this is supposed to be fun.”
Right. Fun.
That is the entire point of tonight. Go out. Have a drink. Meet someone who isn’t Jack Abbot. Ideally forget Jack Abbot exists for at least a few hours.
Completely achievable.
Right?
“Fine.”
You draw a deep breath and drop your arms, letting the jacket slide off completely. Santos grins as you sling it over one elbow, trying not to instinctively hold it in front of your body like armour.
“See?” she says. “Much better.”
“Let’s just go inside before I change my mind,” you mutter, already starting toward the door.
Javadi loops her arm through yours. “You look amazing. Seriously.”
You give her a small smile, trying not to feel quite so awkward as Santos leads the way toward the main entrance.
It’s just a bar. Just a normal Saturday night. You’ll be fine after a few more shots of liquid courage.
You glance through the front window as you approach—more out of habit than anything else, your eyes drifting lazily over the crowded room inside.
People. Low lights. Patrons lingering around the bar.
And—
Your brain stalls.
Because there’s a man leaning against the bar with one elbow braced on the countertop, his shoulders broad under a tight black shirt, head tipped slightly as he talks to someone beside him.
A familiar someone.
Dr. Ellis.
And the man—
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Your stomach plummets.
Jack fucking Abbot.
Your feet stop moving, your whole body suddenly forgetting how to function.
Your pulse kicks violently against the inside of your throat as a wave of heat rushes up the back of your neck, sudden and dizzying and sharp enough to make the edges of your vision blur for half a second.
Because he looks—
He looks so good.
Relaxed in a way you’ve never seen at work. One hand curled loosely around a glass as he frowns slightly at something Ellis is saying, that small crease between his brows you know far too well.
And suddenly you are extremely, violently aware that you are standing outside a bar wearing approximately three square inches of glitter.
“Hey,” Javadi says beside you. “What’s—”
“Santos.”
She doesn’t stop.
“Santos,” you say again, your voice almost breaking.
She glances over her shoulder. “Hm?”
“You knew.”
She stops, her hand hovering near the door.
Whitaker glances between the two of you. “What’s happening?”
“Technically,” Santos says slowly, “I didn’t know. I just... suspected.”
“You said Ellis was the only one from night shift who’d be here.”
She winces. “I did, but what I meant is… Ellis is the only one who actually told me she’d be here.”
You stare at her. “So you did know?”
“I knew it was his night off.”
“Santos, I—” You glance back at him through the bar window. “I can’t go in there like this.”
“Like what?” she asks. “Smoking hot?”
“Half naked.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yes, you can.”
“I will actually die.”
“No, you won’t,” she says firmly. “You’re an adult. You can wear whatever you want, talk to whoever you want, and just because your incredibly inconvenient attending crush happens to be inside does not suddenly revoke your civil liberties.”
She pulls the door open.
“Now stop panicking and get in the bar.”
-
“He swore the chest pain had nothing to do with the seven energy drinks he’d had that night,” Ellis says, still rambling about a patient who pissed her off two nights ago, “which was a bold position to take with a heart rate of one-forty.”
Jack snorts softly. “And did you believe him?”
Ellis’ eyes go wide, and she takes a long drink before continuing her rant about night shift patients and the strange confidence people have when explaining why their terrible decisions definitely have nothing to do with the symptoms they’re currently experiencing.
Jack nods along, offering the occasional comment or question where needed, meeting her gaze now and then—but mostly keeping his attention on the door. Waiting. Because he’s not stupid enough to ask anyone if you’re going to be here tonight, but he is naïve enough to hope you will be.
He wasn’t even supposed to be here tonight—his first night off in two weeks.
He was supposed to be at home, cooking something decent for dinner, enjoying the rare luxury of not wearing scrubs, and inevitably indulging in his favourite guilty pleasure—involving nothing but his hand and some very inappropriate thoughts of you.
But he’s not.
He’s here. In a crowded bar, sipping cheap scotch, listening to Ellis complain about the night shift patients and their weird confidence, just… waiting.
For you.
He’d wanted to ask you yesterday if you were coming to the bar tonight—before he agreed to join—but he’d barely seen you before the end of your shift. And you didn’t even say goodbye. Which isn’t unusual, given how chaotic the ER can be, but then he’d overheard your conversation with Whitaker—and something about it made his chest feel too tight.
It wasn’t anger. Not exactly. Not jealousy, either. It was just... wrong. Not because what you said was wrong, but because he hates that it was right. That you don’t belong to him. Even if Robby calls you ‘his R2’ and Whitaker thinks you’re close because you’re his resident—none of it changes the fact that he has no real claim over you.
Which is ridiculous. He knows it.
He shouldn’t feel territorial. He shouldn’t want this. Want you. And yet, his chest still feels too tight—a slow, hot coil of frustration and longing curling up into his throat, and he hates it. Hates hearing it out loud, hates how much it matters, hates that he can’t make it not matter.
“Oh.” Ellis glances over her shoulder. “Looks like Santos and the others are here.”
Jack’s gaze flicks back to the door.
He tries not to react, not to straighten, not to square his shoulders as if he’s bracing for something—but he can already feel his composure slipping.
Santos steps in first, her head turned slightly as she talks to Whitaker, who walks in behind her. Then it’s Javadi, an unusually wide smile on her face as she looks at—
You.
Oh.
Oh fuck.
Jack stops breathing.
His chest burns. His stomach flips. His hand tightens dangerously around his scotch glass.
It’s you. Of course it’s you. You’re perfect.
But then—
That dress.
God.
That dress—short, sparkling, clinging just enough to make every nerve in his body snap awake. It shimmers under the low lights as you move, and he hates himself for noticing every subtle curve, every shift of fabric, as if time itself has slowed just to torture him.
It’s all too much.
He can feel his pulse in his throat, heat burning beneath his skin, blood rushing in the one direction it really, really shouldn’t be right now. In public. In front of his coworkers.
He blinks, finally tearing his gaze away from you.
And that’s when he notices the rest of the bar. All staring. All stunned.
He hates them all.
He hates that they can even look at you. Hates that the universe allows it. Hates that they might see even a fraction of what he sees—and feel a fraction of what he feels.
And he hates, more than anything right now, that you’re not his.
“Dr. Abbot,” Robby says, appearing beside him and slinging an arm across his shoulders. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Jack lifts his drink, knuckles still white around the glass. “Scotch.”
Robby claps his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “You might not want to have too many of those.”
Then he slips past both Jack and Ellis and raises a hand to flag down the bartender.
“Alright,” Ellis says, pushing off the bar. “I’m going to go grab a seat before the table gets too crowded.”
Jack nods, but he doesn’t follow. He stays beside the bar, rigid now, eyes fixed on the group of men at a high table just a few feet from the front door. They’re muttering to each other, leaning in, voices low—but nothing about it is subtle. Their gazes are glued to you as you weave through patrons and tables to greet the rest of the PTMC crew gathered in a booth near the back.
One of them—the dumbest looking one, Jack’s already decided—slowly slides off his stool, nodding along while his friends murmur their advice.
Jack glances back at you, now standing beside McKay, sliding your arms into the leather jacket you’d been carrying. Santos grabs your wrist, tilting her head toward the bar as she starts dragging you with her.
And, like a fourteen-year-old boy with a crush, Jack’s pulse starts racing.
“Dr. Abbot,” Santos says, grinning as you both approach the bar. “Fancy seeing you somewhere other than the ER on a Saturday night.”
“I do have a life outside of work, you know,” he says dryly, lifting his drink and looking anywhere but at you.
“Like playing bingo at the senior centre?” Santos asks, resting both forearms on the bar.
You step up on her other side, squinting at the shelves of liquor on the back wall like they’re the most interesting thing in the room.
“Bingo’s on Wednesdays,” he says mildly. “Try to keep up.”
Santos snorts, shaking her head as she reaches for the small leather-bound bar menu. But out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees your head dip—just slightly—and you try to hide a small laugh against your shoulder.
Jack feels it like a punch to the ribs.
Because you’re listening.
And apparently… you think he’s funny.
“Alright,” Santos says, lifting a hand. “I think we need some tequila over here.”
The bartender steps away from where he’d been serving farther down the bar, but his attention quickly drifts past Santos and lands on you. He leans in, resting one palm flat against the bar while he wipes down the counter with a rag that doesn’t really need wiping.
“So,” he says to you, not Santos. “What are you drinking tonight?”
Santos blinks.
“I just told you,” she says flatly. “Tequila.”
The bartender barely glances at her.
Jack’s jaw tightens.
You look briefly confused, glancing between Santos and the bartender.
“Uh—whatever she orders is fine.”
“Yeah. Tequila,” Santos repeats, slower this time.
The bartender laughs like she’s joking—and Jack sets his scotch down slowly. Carefully.
His eyes stay locked on the man now lining up four small glasses in front of you, still completely ignoring Santos. The way he’s watching you is too much. Too close. The faint curl at the corner of his mouth makes Jack want to punch the smirk right off his face.
And by the way you shift a little closer to Santos—pulling your jacket tighter around yourself—he knows you’re uncomfortable.
His hand clenches at his side.
Robby pauses as he walks past, a beer in each hand.
“Easy, tiger,” he mutters. “She can handle herself.”
“I know,” Jack says, voice low. “Doesn’t mean she has to.”
Robby gives him a look—a brief, knowing glance, somewhere between amusement and warning. “Careful.”
Jack doesn’t respond. He just turns back to you and Santos, watching as you each knock back two shots of tequila, your nose scrunching as the burn hits. And he can’t help the small twitch at the corner of his mouth, because the face you make as you set the second glass down is ridiculously cute for someone wearing a dress like that.
“Okay,” Santos says. “I need a vodka soda before I start making bad decisions.”
The bartender nods, already reaching for another glass—and before he can even ask if you’d like another drink, someone else steals your attention.
“Hey,” the guy says, stepping up beside you. “Can I get you another one?”
He leans in, just enough to be heard over the noise—but it’s still too close.
You shift slightly, angling toward him. “Oh. Uh—sure.”
Santos presses her lips together, clearly fighting a smile as she turns back to the bar, suddenly very invested in whatever the bartender is doing. The second he sets the vodka soda in front of her, she scoops it up and drops a few bills on the counter.
She lifts the drink to her lips as she turns away, pausing just long enough to glance at Jack over the rim of the glass.
Her brows lift. “You really gonna let that happen?”
Jack frowns. “What—”
But Santos is already gone, drink in hand, halfway back to the booth where everyone else is.
Where Jack should be headed too—because there’s no reason for him to stay here. No reason for him to linger, to hover, to make sure you’re okay, to stand there glaring at the guy buying you a drink like that’s going to change anything.
It’s not like he can blame him. If Jack thought he had a shot with you, he’d take it too. The difference is, Jack wouldn’t need the dress. Or the drinks. Or the crowd. He’d take that shot with you even when you’re tired and stressed out and covered in blood at the end of a bad shift in the ER. He’d take it any time. Any place.
But Jack doesn’t get that shot.
Because you’re young. You don’t have baggage. And you’re a resident—maybe not his resident, but still a resident.
It’s just too inappropriate.
Jack sets his glass back on the bar a little harder than necessary—and the bartender glances over, brows raised as if silently asking if he’d like another, but Jack just shakes his head.
His eyes flick back to you. To the way you’re smiling now—soft, not uneasy. To the way you seem to have forgotten about keeping your jacket closed, and now the idiot talking to you is looking anywhere but your face.
Then you laugh—light, easy—and something in Jack’s chest tightens again.
He looks away. He can’t keep standing here. He’s not going to stand here and watch you flirt with some idiot at the bar like he has any right to care.
With a deep breath, he forces himself to turn away and start walking back to the table.
Where he should have been five minutes ago. Where he plans on staying for the rest of the night.
Half an hour later, most of PTMC’s day shift staff are gathered in the booth, half still wearing their scrubs after coming straight from the hospital. The volume of conversation builds with the growing collection of empty glasses in the middle of the table, voices overlapping, getting louder with every round—but Jack doesn’t order another scotch. At some point, Ellis sets a beer in front of him, which he nurses until it’s too warm to enjoy.
Every now and then, he makes a point of nodding or laughing or glancing at someone across the table—pretending to follow the conversation, pretending he’s paying attention—when really, all he can focus on is you. You and your smile. And your laugh. And the way your hand settles lightly on a man’s bicep when he says something that makes you blush.
Not the same man as before, either. No—this one is new. This one swooped in when the first one excused himself to take a phone call, and now that one is back at the table with his friends, sulking.
Kind of how Jack is right now, sitting at the table with his friends. Sulking. Glaring. Plotting.
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows it’s none of his business. But he can’t stop himself from trying to come up with an excuse to interrupt you. To get you away from those men and their lingering stares.
Not that he’s any better.
“Abbot.” Robby nudges his side. “Hungry?”
Jack blinks, finally dragging his gaze away from you to where Ellis is standing, looking expectant.
“Hm?”
“Are you hungry?” Ellis asks. “I’m going to order some wings.”
Jack frowns. “Uh—no. I’m good. Thanks.”
Ellis nods once and turns away, heading straight for the bar.
Robby huffs a quiet laugh beside him. “You might want to turn your hearing aids up, old man.”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. “Funny.”
“I’m serious,” Robby says mildly. “You’ve missed, what, three questions in the last five minutes?”
“I heard her,” Jack mutters. “I was just... thinking.”
Robby hums like he doesn’t believe that for a second.
Jack shifts, pushing his chair back as he sets his warm beer on the table. “I’m gonna hit the head.”
Robby’s brows lift, slow and knowing, his gaze flicking briefly toward the bar.
“Mm,” he says. “Sure you are.”
Jack does, in fact, turn toward the bathrooms first—mostly because he needs a second away from all the music and chatter to try and clear his head. To try and stop himself from doing what he really left the booth to do.
He locks himself in the accessible bathroom—not that he needs it, but it’s more private than the men’s—and stands in front of the vanity. He presses his palms into the porcelain sink, shifting his weight forward with a deep, steadying breath.
This is ridiculous, and he knows it.
He’s a grown man. He shouldn’t be acting like this.
This is trivial shit, for God’s sake. Jack is a vet. A seasoned ER doctor.
So why is a goddamn crush undoing him like this?
Why are you undoing him like this?
He lifts his head and stares at his reflection—jaw tight, shoulders rigid—trying to get a grip. Trying to remember that he is a grown ass man, not some idiot who can’t keep his shit together.
His gaze drifts across his face—the day-old stubble, peppered hair—then to the reflection of the bathroom behind him. The graffitied walls, covered in stickers and spray paint, a chaotic collection of late nights and inebriated thoughts. He wonders, briefly, how many people came in here intending to leave something behind.
Then he spots something scrawled in the corner of the mirror in thick black marker.
HESITATE AND SOMEONE ELSE WON’T.
Jack tilts his head.
That’s not exactly... subtle.
But that’s the thing, isn’t it?
He doesn’t hesitate.
Not in the trauma bay. Not out in the field. Not when it matters. Not when someone’s life is on the line and everyone else is waiting for someone to make the call.
So what the hell is this?
This… standing back. Watching. Letting it happen.
Like he doesn’t know what he wants. Like he hasn’t already made up his mind.
He drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head once—sharp, annoyed.
“Jesus Christ.”
It’s not caution. It’s avoidance.
With another deep breath, Jack reaches for the tap and braces his hands beneath the stream. He scrubs them together—quick and thorough—then turns off the water, grabs a paper towel, and dries his hands with more focus than necessary. He tosses the towel in the bin on his way out the door, his gaze sharpening as he scans the bar—finding you immediately.
You’re still standing where you were, maybe a few steps closer to the back of the room. There’s a new guy in front of you now, closing you in, crowding your space just enough to make Jack’s eyes narrow.
The man’s hand settles at your waist, a little lower than what could be considered innocent. And anyone else watching might think you’re okay with it—but Jack knows you. He sees the small flicker of discomfort that crosses your face, the subtle drop of your shoulder as you try to angle yourself away without seeming rude.
Good thing Jack doesn’t mind being rude.
He’s already moving before he’s fully decided to. Just a few long strides and he’s there—close enough to cut through the space between you and the guy without touching either of you, his presence alone enough to interrupt whatever the hell this is supposed to be.
He looks at you. Just you.
“Hey.”
Your head turns immediately—and the shift in your expression is instant. Relief.
“Oh—hey,” you say, a little breathless.
And then you step into him. Not too close. Not in a way that draws attention or suggests anything—but enough to make Jack’s pulse jump. Enough for him to feel your warmth and the way it settles under his skin.
“Hey, man,” the guy says, holding out a hand. “I’m Trent.”
Jack ignores him.
“You alright?” he asks you.
You nod slowly. “I am now.”
Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt, just for a second—like you didn’t even think about it. Like you just needed something solid to hold onto.
Jack goes still.
Trent clears his throat. “Sorry—uh—who are you?”
You glance at him with a tight smile. “This is my attending.”
Jack likes being called your attending.
Trent frowns. “What?”
“Remember how I said I was a doctor?”
Trent just stares at you.
“Well, Dr. Abbot is my attending,” you go on anyway. “He’s like my supervisor. I’m his resident.”
His resident.
“Right,” Trent mutters, eyeing Jack. “Cool. So—you’re a doctor?”
Jack doesn’t even look at him. His eyes stay fixed on you.
“Are you hungry?” he asks. “Ellis is ordering wings—we can grab a menu.”
“Starving,” you reply, the corner of your mouth lifting slightly as you look up at him.
“Great.” His hand settles at your shoulder, firm but casual. “Let’s get back to the others.”
“Wait,” Trent says. “Are you—”
“It was nice meeting you,” you cut in, flashing him one last tight-lipped smile before Jack steers you away.
He keeps his arm around your shoulders until you’re halfway back to the booth of PTMC doctors and nurses. Only then does he pull back, clasping his hands behind his back like he needs the physical restraint.
“Thanks for that,” you murmur. “He just wouldn’t take a hint.”
Jack nods. “I noticed.”
He doesn’t look at you as he turns back toward the other end of the table, toward his seat beside Robby—because if he did, he might not be able to leave your side. From the corner of his eye, he sees Santos reach for you, already asking what happened as she pulls you into the seat between her and McKay.
And for twenty blissful minutes, Jack feels okay. The most okay he’s felt all night.
Because you’re here, at the table, talking to Santos and McKay—and not some idiot who thinks he deserves a chance with the prettiest girl in the room. In the world, according to Jack.
But only for twenty minutes—because once you finish your drink, Santos drags you back to the bar.
Another shot. Another drink. Another guy.
Jack shifts in his chair, trying to listen to whatever it is Ellis and Mateo are arguing about, but he can’t focus—not when your hand settles lightly on this new guy’s shoulder. And especially not when it slides down his bicep, flirty in a way that makes Jack want to get out of his chair.
He tells himself he’s not going to. That he shouldn’t.
But the second the lights dim and the music gets louder, he pushes out of his seat.
He finds you at the edge of the dancefloor, catching your wrist before you can disappear into the crowd.
“Hey,” he says, voice raised over the music.
Your head whips around, your brows lifting slightly in that soft, expectant way—like you’re waiting for him to say whatever it is that’s so important he had to stop you right here.
Jack clears his throat. “Have you been drinking water?”
You frown. “Um. Not really.”
“You should really drink some water,” he says, tipping his head toward the bar.
You hesitate, glancing back over your shoulder at the man waiting for you to follow him into the crowd.
Then you look back at Jack.
“Uh, yeah. Okay. Water.”
He knows he shouldn’t have done it. He knows it was stupid and petty and jealousy-driven—but he can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you follow him to the end of the bar with the self-serve water tower.
The music is too loud for conversation—and even if it wasn’t, he’s not sure what he’d say. Not when you’re looking at him like this. A little drunk. A little curious. Your brows drawn, your skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat, your lips wet from the water.
God. This has the be the finest form of torture.
Because here you are—so young and so sweet, so trusting in Jack that he’s just trying to look after you, when all he can think about is the fact that you’re not his. That they think you’re fair game. That every man in this room thinks he has a chance.
And the fact that he’s not going to let them anywhere near you.
-
The third time Jack Abbot appears at your side, he catches your elbow just as you’re about to step out the door with a man named Leo. Not to leave the bar—just for some air—but then Jack says something about Mateo buying a round of shots and guides you back inside.
You don’t mind. Not really. Especially not when a free drink is involved.
So you line up beside your coworkers and sink another shot of tequila with a grimace before Santos drags you back to the dancefloor.
The fourth time Jack Abbot intercepts you, you’re just about to start dancing with a handsome stranger Santos accidentally made you bump into—but before you can even take the man’s hand, Jack pulls you away, insisting you take a seat for a minute and drink more water.
Which, fine. Whatever.
But by the fifth interruption, you’re starting to notice a pattern.
And you’re getting a little annoyed.
“Oh my God,” Santos says, her eyes going wide as the opening notes to ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! start blaring through the speakers. “We have to dance. Come on!”
You barely have time to scoop your drink up off the bar before she’s dragging you onto the dancefloor—into the throng of warm bodies all moving to the beat beneath the single, sparkling disco ball.
The music pulses through the floor beneath your feet, the bass thrumming in your chest as Santos drags you deeper into the crowd. Somewhere between Mateo’s round of shots and your tenth song on the dancefloor, your jacket disappeared—and now your dress catches the light with every movement, glittering under the shifting colours as bodies press in from all sides.
The bar is still pretty full, even if the PTMC booth has already lost a few soldiers. There are still plenty of prospects—plenty of strangers who might offer to take you home and make you forget all about Jack Abbot. Which is still very much the plan.
If only the man himself would stop interrupting every interaction like he’s doing you a favour.
At some point during the second—or maybe third—chorus, Santos subtly steps away and a guy ends up in front of you. You’re not even entirely sure how. One second you’re dancing and screaming the lyrics, the next he’s there—close enough that you can feel the heat of him, his hands hovering like he’s trying to decide where to put them.
You let it happen. Because this is what you want, right?
This is the plan.
He leans in and says something you don’t quite catch over the music, but you laugh anyway—more out of obligation than anything else.
Then his attention shifts.
His eyes flick past you. And just like that—he falters.
It’s subtle, but you feel it. The hesitation. The way his body pulls back a fraction, like something just snapped him out of it.
“Uh—actually,” he mutters, already stepping away. “I—yeah. Sorry.”
Then he’s gone.
You blink, frowning slightly as you glance over your shoulder and—
Of course.
Jack Abbot, standing just beyond the edge of the dancefloor, drink in hand, eyes locked on you with a look that makes your stomach drop.
Not angry. Not exactly.
But intense. Sharp. Focused in a way that feels… deliberate.
You stare at him for a second—frustration flickering across your face—then turn back to Santos, who is still dancing with her vodka soda lifted in the air.
You lean in, raising your voice just enough to be heard over the music. “Your plan isn’t working!”
She turns to face you, frowning. “What do you mean it’s not working?”
You stare at her. “The plan to get me laid? It’s not working.”
“Why not?”
You huff out a laugh, incredulous.
“Because of him,” you say, nodding toward Jack. “Because I let him save me from one bad interaction and now he’s just—hovering. Interrupting. Scaring people off.”
Santos’ mouth twitches.
“I think he thinks he’s being helpful,” you add, shaking your head. “Like he’s doing me a favour or something, but—God, I’m never going to get a stranger to take me home with a hundred-and-ninety-pound war vet glaring over my shoulder every five minutes.”
Santos just looks at you for a second—then smiles. Slow. Knowing.
“And what part of my plan isn’t working?”
You frown. “Are you even listening to me?”
“I said I was going to get you laid,” she says, lifting her drink to her lips. “I never said anything about going home with a stranger.”
It doesn’t land straight away.
You blink at her, still frowning as you try to follow the logic—because that doesn’t make sense, that’s not the plan. If you’re not going home with a stranger, then who—
And then it clicks.
Your stomach drops.
“Wait—Santos,” you start, eyes widening. “You don’t mean—”
Santos just looks at you over the rim of her glass. Calm. Patient. Smiling faintly, like she’s been waiting for this exact moment all night.
You glance toward the side of the dancefloor again—to the man still focused on you in a way that feels far too intentional now. Arms folded, jaw set. He doesn’t even pretend to look away when you meet his stare.
“Actually,” Santos says, her hand closing around your wrist. “I think my plan is working perfectly. Now, come on—” she nods toward the booth where everyone else is, “let’s play a game.”
A game?
Before you can argue or even question it, Santos is dragging you off the dancefloor toward the booth at the back of the bar. The thrum of the music dulls the further you get from the crowd, and by the time you both slide into empty seats at the table, you no longer feel like you need to yell just to be heard.
The PTMC crew has thinned since you were last sitting here. Robby, Dana, and Donnie are gone, and McKay is holding her purse in her lap like she’d been trying to leave when Mateo cornered her with another rant about how no patient actually seems to understand the pain scale.
“Alright,” Santos announces, picking up someone’s abandoned drink and taking a sip like she owns it, “we’re playing a game.”
Whitaker leans forward. “A game?”
“Yes, Huckleberry. A game.” Santos glances around the table with a lazy half-smile. “It’s called Never Have I Ever.”
Mateo snorts. “That’s a middle school sleepover game.”
“Great,” Santos replies. “Then it should be easy for you.”
There’s a ripple of laughter around the table, but no one else seems to object.
“Can I start?” Mohan pipes up beside Santos. “I’ve got a good one.”
Santos nods. “Be my guest.”
You’re not entirely sure when Jack rejoined the table, since he’d been at the edge of the dancefloor just a few minutes ago, but now you’re suddenly very aware of his presence across from you. Like the few people that called it a night have unintentionally left a smaller, more intimate group behind—and now Jack Abbot is almost directly across from you while you play one of the most notorious, tension-raising middle school games of all time.
“Okay,” Mohan says, sitting up a little straighter. “Never have I ever… called in sick when I wasn’t actually sick.”
McKay laughs. Mateo groans. Almost everyone at the table lifts their drinks.
“Really?” Santos says. “That was your good one?”
Mohan shrugs. “I thought—”
“Never mind,” Santos cuts her off. “My turn.”
Her gaze moves slowly around the table before landing on you, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly.
“Never have I ever,” she starts slowly, “fantasised about someone else sitting at this table.”
Your pulse jumps.
McKay snorts.
Mateo leans forward. “Like, intentionally. Or…?”
Whitaker frowns. “You’ve accidentally fantasised about someone here?”
He shrugs. “Sometimes the wrong people pop up, you know?”
Santos rolls her eyes. “Oh my God. Whatever. Intentional or not.”
Mateo nods once and lifts his drink. Javadi sinks lower in her chair as she lifts hers—and you try not to look around at the rest of the table as you bring your own up to your lips.
Beside you, McKay drops her purse to the ground and straightens, clearly invested now.
“Alright, I’ve got one,” she says, grinning. “Never have I ever… faked it.”
Javadi chokes, Santos snorts, and across from you, Jack huffs out a quiet laugh.
“Never?” Ellis asks, eyes wide. “So you always—”
“Oh, God, no,” McKay laughs. “Definitely not. I just refuse to fake it.”
Laughter moves through the table again, a little louder this time, and everyone takes a second to decide whether or not to raise their drinks.
You lift yours slowly, looking anywhere but at Jack.
“Okay, my turn,” Ellis announces, shifting in her seat. “Never have I ever… hooked up with someone at work.”
The table reacts around you, a mix of laughter and quiet protest, but it all blurs at the edges when you finally glance up—because Jack is already looking at you.
Not surprised. Not amused.
Just… watching.
He doesn’t laugh or say anything. He just lifts his drink, slow and deliberate.
And something sharp twists in your chest.
“What’ve you got, Langdon?” McKay asks, nodding at him across the table.
Langdon strokes his chin thoughtfully for a moment—then sighs.
“Alright, I already know I’m going to get shit for this, but—” He clears his throat. “Never have I ever… had sex in public.”
McKay laughs, loudly, and lifts her drink to her lips without hesitation. Ellis and Santos drink too, while Mohan laughs into her hand and Javadi sinks even lower in her chair.
Across from you, Jack sips his drink again like it’s nothing.
And that sharp twist in your chest doesn’t ease.
Because of course he has. Of course there are other people. Other women.
And you—
You catch Santos’ gaze from the other end of the table—sharp, knowing, daring.
Your grip tightens slightly around your glass.
And before you can talk yourself out of it—
“Okay, my turn,” you say lightly, sitting up a little straighter.
Everyone turns to you, but you keep your eyes fixed on your glass.
“Never have I ever,” you say slowly, “…finished during sex.”
For a second—nothing.
Then the table erupts.
“What—no—” Mateo is already laughing, leaning forward like he thinks you’re joking. “You’re kidding.”
Javadi chokes on her drink, coughing as she turns toward you. “Wait, seriously?”
“Oh my God,” McKay says, half-laughing, half-staring at you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re lying.
Langdon huffs out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head. “Well… that’s unfortunate.”
Whitaker just blinks at you, caught somewhere between surprised and confused, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with that information.
Santos doesn’t say anything. She just leans back in her seat, watching you over the rim of her glass with a slow, satisfied smile.
And across from you—
Jack just goes still.
Completely still.
His expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes does—sharp, dark, focused in a way that makes your stomach flip.
It takes you a minute to remember how to move. How to breathe. How to laugh and sip your drink and keep playing the game that doesn’t stop just because it feels like your heart did.
Eventually, everyone eases off the third-degree on your embarrassingly real confession, and Mateo pipes up next with something ridiculous that makes the table groan. Then Javadi comes out with something surprisingly rebellious—and blushes hard when Mateo flashes her a wink.
And so it goes on.
You know it does.
You can hear it—voices overlapping, laughter breaking out again, someone arguing over what counts, someone else swearing they’re being misrepresented—but it all feels… distant.
Like it’s happening a few steps away from you instead of right here at the table. Because now, all you can focus on is Jack. On the way he’s hardly moved. Hardly spoken. Hardly looked away from you.
At some point, he mutters his own confession with a small smirk and everyone laughs—but you don’t catch the words. You’re too aware of everything else to hear them. Too aware of your pulse pounding in your ears, the thrum of the music beneath your feet, the way Jack’s jaw ticks every time you glance back at him.
Another round starts. Then another.
Someone groans. Someone laughs too loud. Santos says something that earns a chorus of reactions—but it all slips past you, unimportant, forgettable.
Time stretches. Blurs.
Your drink empties, refills, empties again.
People shift in their seats. Someone stands. Someone leaves.
Then suddenly—
“You ready?”
You blink.
Santos is standing beside you, brows raised.
“Ready?” you echo.
She nods toward the door. “Time to go. Most of us have to work tomorrow.”
You glance around at the empty table. “Oh.”
Santos is already halfway to the door by the time you gather your things and catch up to her. You’re still pulling your jacket on as you step outside, bracing against the cool night air that nips at every inch of exposed skin—which, in this dress, is a lot of skin.
“The Uber’s just around the corner,” Whitaker says.
“Great,” Mohan mutters, hugging her jacket tighter. “I’m freezing.”
You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol or just the heat lingering beneath your skin from the way Jack had been watching you earlier, but you’re not nearly as cold as you should be.
“You sure you don’t mind if I stay over tonight?” Javadi asks, glancing between Santos and Whitaker.
Santos shrugs. “As long as you don’t mind the couch—and Dr. Shamsi isn’t going to have us arrested for kidnapping.”
Javadi lets out an awkward laugh. “Uh—no. It’s totally fine. I told my dad.”
“Are you working tomorrow?” Whitaker asks.
Javadi shakes her head. “Day off. You?”
Whitaker sighs. “Yeah.”
“So am I,” Santos adds. “And if I don’t get at least five hours sleep, I cannot be responsible for other people’s lives.”
“That’s reassuring,” Jack mutters, almost startling you as he steps out of the bar.
He buries his hands in his pockets, hardly sparing you a glance as he steps closer to the group. There’s a faint hitch in his step—something you recognise from the waning hours of a night shift, when he’s been on his feet for too long and starts to favour one leg.
“This is us,” Whitaker announces, nodding toward the car pulling up at the curb.
Mohan hurries forward first, yanking the door open and climbing into the back seat—and Javadi is next, flashing you a smile before she ducks in beside her. You step forward—then hesitate. Whitaker is already holding the front passenger door open, and Santos is standing at the curb, about to join the others in the back.
“Wait.” Your pulse jumps. “There’s too many—”
“You’re with Dr. Abbot,” Santos says lightly, her mouth twitching like she’s trying not to smile.
Your stomach drops.
“I—I’m what?”
Santos shrugs. “Javadi’s staying over and Mohan’s place is on the way to ours. Just makes sense.”
Then she climbs into the car, shuts the door, and rolls the window down.
“See you tomorrow!”
There’s a chorus of goodbyes from the others before the car pulls away from the curb—and the cool, quiet night settles in too quickly. The only sound is the dull thrum of music from the bar, and the pounding of your pulse in your ears.
For a second, you don’t turn around. You can’t. Not now that you’re alone with him.
Then—
“I’m this way,” he says, voice low and rough and maddeningly hot.
You nod, but don’t dare look at him as you start following the line of parked cars up the street.
The night air feels sharper now, cooler the further you get from the bar—and it makes you pull into yourself, arms folded tightly while your jacket barely does anything to help.
Jack keeps an easy pace beside you, not crowding you, not touching you, but close enough that you’re aware of him anyway. Of the space he takes up at your side. Of the way he adjusts slightly so you’re walking on the inside of the path, further from the curb, without making a thing of it.
Neither of you says anything.
It’s not awkward. It’s just… quiet in a way that feels heavy, like the silence is holding onto everything that happened inside instead of letting it go.
Your heels click unevenly against the pavement, catching slightly every few steps, and you’re suddenly, painfully aware of everything—the way your dress shifts as you move, the cool air against your skin, the way your pulse hasn’t quite settled.
You feel too sober. Too aware.
When his car finally comes into view, he moves ahead of you just slightly—just enough to reach the passenger door first and hold it open.
God. He’s so annoyingly considerate.
You give him a small, tight smile before climbing into the passenger seat.
The car is still warm, still holding onto the heat from earlier in the day, and it smells like him in a way that’s subtle but unmistakable—clean, familiar, something faintly sharp beneath it that you can’t quite place but instantly recognise. The seat gives slightly beneath you, softer than you expect, and for a second you just sit there, hands hovering like you’re not entirely sure where to put them.
It’s his.
All of it.
The way everything is exactly where it should be, nothing out of place. The faint scuff on the console. A pair of sunglasses tucked neatly into the centre compartment. His backpack thrown into the back seat like he’d discarded it in a hurry and never thought about it again.
The sound of the driver’s side door opening almost startles you.
You drop your hands into your lap, shifting slightly and smoothing your dress down over your thighs like that might ground you somehow.
The car immediately feels smaller when Jack climbs in. More intimate. Closer in a way that’s almost stifling.
You keep your eyes fixed out the windshield.
Waiting.
For the engine to start. For the car to move.
But nothing happens.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, settling into every inch of the space between you.
And then—
“You can’t say shit like that around me.”
You blink, finally turning toward him—and regretting it immediately. He’s so irritatingly handsome, so annoyingly gorgeous in a way that makes you want to be stupid and reckless and climb across the console into his lap.
“Say what?” you ask, your voice embarrassingly thin.
He looks at you—not fully, just turning his head slightly.
“You know what,” he says, his voice low and rough with something that sounds a little too close to control slipping.
And you do.
You know exactly what he means.
But before you can say anything else, he turns the key and the engine rumbles to life. The radio crackles a little before some late-night news station fills the silence—and he doesn’t move to turn it off, doesn’t even turn it down. He just drives.
The radio reporter’s voice hums through the car like white noise, talking about something you’re not really listening to as you try to focus on keeping your breathing even.
You can still hear his voice.
You can’t say shit like that around me.
The way he said it. Low. Controlled. Like it cost him something to keep it that way.
Your fingers shift slightly in your lap, smoothing over the fabric of your dress again without thinking, and your mind starts turning his words over before you can stop it—pulling at them, testing them, trying to make them mean something that makes sense.
Because what does that even mean?
You glance at him, quick, like you might catch something you missed—but he’s focused on the road, jaw set, one hand loose on the wheel like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just change everything with eight little words.
You look away again.
No. He didn’t mean it like that.
He’s just—he’s your attending. He’s responsible. Of course he’d say something. Of course he’d—
Except he didn’t say it like that.
Your stomach tightens as your thoughts circle back, slower this time, more deliberate.
The way he kept pulling you away from people tonight. The way he’d been watching you. The way he didn’t laugh, didn’t joke, didn’t let it go.
The way he said it.
Around me.
Not here. Not in front of people.
Around me.
Your breath catches slightly, and you shift in your seat, suddenly very aware of the space between you—of how close he is, of how easy it would be to just turn your head, lean in and—
No.
No, that’s not—
You swallow, gaze fixed stubbornly ahead.
You’re just reading into it. You have to be.
Because the alternative—
Your pulse jumps.
God. The alternative is too much to even consider.
But the thought lingers anyway.
It settles in the back of your mind, quieter now, but heavier—pulling at everything he said, everything he did, everything you might have missed until now. The words circle back, sharper this time—until—
The car stops—and you blink.
For a moment, you don’t move. You can’t.
Then Jack clears his throat.
“Oh—uh—thanks,” you mutter, reaching for your seatbelt buckle.
He nods once. “Anytime.”
You push your door open before you can think too hard about it, stepping out into the cool night air that hits a little harder this time. Your heart is still beating in your throat, your pulse still too loud, your thoughts are still circling those eight words—eight little words that feel like they weigh far more than they should.
You hesitate—one hand on the door, the other gripping your keys in your jacket pocket.
God.
This is stupid.
This is reckless.
This is—
“Do you—” You clear your throat, the words catching slightly before you force them out. “Do you want to come up?”
He stares at you for a second, then lets out a short, disbelieving breath, like he’s not quite sure he heard you right.
“You can’t be serious.”
Heat rushes up your neck, quick and unwelcome, and for a second you just stand there, wishing you could take it back—rewind a few seconds and keep your mouth shut.
What the hell were you thinking?
“Yeah,” you say, a little too quickly. “No, that was—that was stupid.”
You turn away before he can say anything else, pushing the door shut harder than you mean to as you step back onto the sidewalk. You don’t look back. You refuse to. You just keep walking toward the lobby door, drawing your keys from your pocket and fumbling through them to find the right one.
It takes longer than it should, but eventually you find the lobby key and wriggle it into the lock.
This door has never been your friend. It’s old, a little rusted, and the lock has always been janky—but now your hands are shaking, and this stupid old door seems to think that’s funny, because it won’t budge.
You jiggle the key and try again, but nothing changes.
Then—
“Here.”
His voice is low. Close.
Your hand stills as he steps in behind you, not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him at your back—the solid line of his chest just shy of pressing into you as he reaches past your shoulder.
His fingers brush yours as he takes the key—and the lock turns easily this time.
Of course it does. Traitorous fucking door.
His arm lingers there for a second longer than it needs to—then he pushes the door open.
You don’t even glance at him as you step inside, already turning back to grab your key before the door swings shut—but he’s still holding it, barely a step behind you.
He tilts his head slightly, nodding toward the lobby. “Go.”
It’s quiet. Controlled.
Not a suggestion.
Your breath catches, just for a second, and you hesitate—long enough to feel it, whatever this is, tightening between you—
Then you turn and keep walking.
And he follows.
He follows you across the lobby, up the fire stairs, down the corridor, all the way to your apartment door. He stands a little closer than necessary as you unlock it—almost like he doesn’t think you know how doors work now—but the key turns smoothly this time.
You push the door open and step inside.
The apartment is quiet, dim, and you shrug out of your jacket without thinking. You can feel him watching you as you drape it over the arm of the sofa, and it’s a little... thrilling. Dangerous. Because Jack Abbot is in your goddamn apartment right now, looking at you like he’s a man on the edge—
And you’re daring him to jump.
“Drink?” you offer, keeping your voice light—innocent.
He clears his throat. “Water, please.”
You can’t help the small smirk on your lips as you brush past him, a little closer than necessary.
“So polite,” you murmur.
He doesn’t move, doesn’t shift—but you can feel him there, tense just beneath the surface.
You open the fridge and bend over to grab a bottle of water, letting your dress ride up the backs of your thighs in a way that’s totally unnecessary. Jack clears his throat again, just a little too sharp, and when you glance back toward him, he’s turned away completely.
You press your lips together to keep from smiling too wide as you straighten again.
“Here,” you say, stepping toward him and holding the water out.
He turns hesitantly, taking it. “Thank you.”
Your eyes catch his, a slow smile tugging at your lips before you bite the corner gently, just enough for him to notice. He looks away quickly, jaw tightening as he focuses on uncapping the water bottle.
You brush past him again, still a little too close, and move toward the sofa, dropping onto it and leaning forward to take off your shoes.
Jack takes a long swig of water, then clears his throat for the third time.
“Are you working tomorrow?” he asks.
You glance up, still leaned forward, and it’s hard not to notice the way his eyes dip from your face.
“Isn’t that something you should already know?”
The corner of his mouth twitches, like he can’t quite help himself.
“You’re impossible. You know that?”
Heat rushes up your neck at the way he says it—short, sharp, loaded—and you bite back a grin, letting your eyes glint just a little as you straighten.
“Am I?” you murmur, tilting your head just slightly. “Only one way to find out.”
He freezes for a second, shoulders tight, hand curling slightly around the water bottle—and it crackles softly under his grip. His breath hitches, just barely.
“I should go,” he mutters, voice low and clipped.
He takes a step toward the door—and you shoot up from the sofa, heartbeat racing.
“Wait—uh—before you go,” you say, stepping toward him, “could you help me with something?”
He hesitates, turning slowly, as if every second in here is costing him something.
You move until you’re almost between him and the door, looking up at him through your lashes.
“Could you help me out of my dress?”
The second the words leave your lips, you forget how to breathe.
Jack’s jaw tightens, his shoulders coiling ever so slightly. His fingers twitch around the bottle, just a whisper of movement, as if holding himself together by force. His eyes catch yours, dark and sharp, taking in the faint scrunch between your brows, the small pout on your lips, the way you’re offering him something he never thought he’d be allowed to have.
He nods once—careful, controlled—but the tension radiating off him is almost unbearable.
Your stomach flips.
Without a word, you turn, sweeping your hair out of the way while your pulse hammers in your ears.
You feel him shift, his warmth, and the ghost of his touch at the nape of your neck. And that first, tiny contact sends a shock straight through you—hot, sharp, impossible to ignore.
He pauses, just a heartbeat, and you catch the tiniest hitch in his breath.
Then he moves again, slow, deliberate, dragging the zipper down almost painfully slow, his knuckles grazing your skin—warm, rough, controlled, just enough to make your heart pound in your throat.
“How do you do it?” you whisper, voice catching slightly. “How are you always so… unaffected by everything?”
“Unaffected?” he murmurs, almost tasting the word, as if testing it against himself.
His knuckles brush the small of your back, pausing where the zipper ends—but he doesn’t stop. His fingertips graze your skin, deliberate, teasing, tracing the line of your spine upward again, slow enough that it drags your breath with it, sharp enough that heat blooms through every nerve.
“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice low and rough, almost breaking, “how much you affect me.”
Your breath catches, sharp and sudden. Everything in your chest pulls tight, something hot and dizzying blooming low as his words sink in.
You turn before you can stop yourself—and he’s closer now. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the shift of his breath, the space between you narrowing into something fragile and dangerous.
For a second, neither of you move.
And then his hand finds your neck—
Not rough, not rushed—just firm enough to anchor you there, thumb pressing under your jaw like he needs to feel that this is real, that you’re real. His other hand tightens where it still holds the loosened fabric of your dress at your back, fingers curling into it like restraint is slipping through his grip.
He hesitates, just for a breath. Like he’s giving himself one last chance to walk away.
Then he kisses you.
It’s not tentative. There’s nothing careful about it. It lands like something he’s been holding back for too long, all that control finally snapping under the weight of you standing here, asking for him, looking at him like that.
His mouth is warm and certain against yours, a sharp inhale breaking through you as you lean into him without thinking, your hands finding him just as quickly—his stomach, his chest—anything to hold onto as the world tilts. He makes a low sound, barely there, but you feel it more than you hear it, the vibration settling deep in your chest as his grip tightens.
You melt before you can stop yourself.
Your head tilts back, giving him more, and he takes it immediately, deepening the kiss with that same quiet intensity that steals the breath right out of you. His thumb shifts along your jaw, not lingering, just enough to guide you where he wants you, and the control of it—God, the way he still tries to control it after everything, after all that restraint—makes something in your stomach flip hard.
His hand at your back slips under the loosened zipper, fingers pressing into your bare skin now, warm and steady, but there’s tension in it. You can feel it in the way his grip flexes, like he’s still trying—still—to hold the line even as he pulls you closer.
It doesn’t work.
Not when you press into him like this, not when your fingers curl tighter in his shirt, not when you kiss him back without hesitation, without thinking about consequences or lines or anything except how he feels against you.
He exhales against your mouth, sharp, like you’ve just undone him, and for a second the kiss falters—not because he’s pulling away, but because he’s trying to.
You feel it. The conflict. The split second where he almost stops.
Your hand slides up to his jaw, fingers catching there, holding him in place before he can even try.
“Don’t,” you whisper, barely pulling back, your lips brushing his as you speak.
And something in him gives.
You see it in the way his eyes darken, in the way his hand tightens at your back, pulling you flush against him this time, the last inch of space gone like it was never allowed to exist in the first place.
When he kisses you again, it’s deeper.
Less restrained.
Like he’s finally stopped pretending this isn’t exactly what he wants.
It’s different now—harder, hungrier, like something in him has shifted for good. His hand slides from your jaw to your waist, gripping tight as he steps into you, crowding you back without breaking the kiss, without giving you a second to think.
Your back meets the door with a soft thud.
He doesn’t stop.
If anything, it only makes him sharper, more certain, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of urgency that steals the air right out of your lungs. You barely get a breath before he takes it again, and you let him—God, you let him—tilting into him, giving him everything he reaches for.
His hand tightens at your waist, then slips lower, dragging you flush against him again, like he needs to feel exactly how close he can get before he loses control completely.
And you can feel it—how close he is.
It’s in the way his grip flexes, in the way his breath turns uneven against your mouth, in the way the kiss keeps deepening like he can’t quite stop himself from taking more.
Your fingers find his shirt again, pulling him closer, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to drag in a breath, his forehead almost brushing yours, like he’s trying—one last time—to get a handle on this.
He doesn’t.
His hands are on you again, immediate, sliding up your sides, pushing the straps of your dress from your shoulders in one smooth, decisive motion. The fabric gives easily, slipping under his hands like it was never meant to stay there in the first place—and it falls to the floor, pooling at your feet.
His breath catches, and his gaze drops—just for a second, but it’s enough.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice low, rough—nothing steady about it now.
You meet his eyes, chest rising and falling fast, heat still sparking under your skin.
“Bedroom,” you murmur.
For a second, he just looks at you.
Something in his expression shifts—tightens—like that word landed exactly where it shouldn’t. His gaze searches yours for a moment, checking for hesitation, for doubt.
But he doesn’t find any.
He nods once—and you turn, already moving toward the bedroom. You can feel him right behind you, close enough that his hand finds your waist again before you’ve even taken two steps, steady, grounding, like he’s not about to let you get too far ahead of him.
It’s barely a walk.
More like being guided—pulled—across the apartment toward your room, your pulse loud in your ears, every step charged with the knowledge of what you’ve just set in motion.
The door barely makes it closed before he’s on you again.
Not rushed—never rushed—but certain, like the decision has already been made and there’s no point pretending otherwise. His hands find you first, steady at your waist, turning you back toward him before you can take another step into the room.
Your breath catches as you look up at him. There’s something in his expression you’ve never seen before. It’s not soft, not gentle—just stripped of whatever distance he’d been holding onto all night.
Gone.
His gaze drags over you, slow and deliberate, and this time there’s nothing in the way of it—nothing to hide behind, nothing to buffer it—and the heat in it settles low in your stomach, heavy and immediate.
“Still want this?” he asks, voice rough, quieter now—but it lands heavier here.
You don’t answer. You just step into him.
And it’s all the permission he needs.
His hand tightens at your waist as he pulls you back into him, and the kiss this time is slower, deeper in a way that feels intentional—like he’s choosing it, not chasing it. His mouth moves against yours with a kind of controlled hunger, every shift measured, every breath deliberate, like he’s letting himself feel it fully instead of fighting it.
Your fingers curl into his shirt, and he exhales against your mouth, something unsteady finally breaking through.
His grip shifts—firmer now—guiding you back a step, then another, not hurried, not careless, but unrelenting all the same. You feel the edge of the bed behind your knees before you fully register moving at all, your focus too caught in the way he’s kissing you, the way his hand anchors you like he’s not about to let this get away from him.
His mouth breaks from yours just long enough to draw in a breath, his forehead pressing briefly to yours.
Not hesitation. Control.
Or what little he has left of it.
“Last chance,” he murmurs, quieter now.
You drop back onto the bed, gaze locked on his, breath still uneven.
“I’m not the one holding back.”
You barely have time to move up the mattress before he’s there, crowding over you, hands braced on either side as he follows you down. The mattress dips under his weight, the space between you gone in an instant—replaced by the solid heat of him, the firm press of his hips against yours.
His mouth finds yours again, hot and insistent, teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to pull a soft sound from you—but it’s different now. Slower. Not restrained, but deliberate. Curious, almost.
Like he’s learning you.
The way you react. The way you move under him. The way you give.
Your hands slide up his chest, fingertips digging in as heat coils low in your stomach—but they don’t stay there long. He shifts his weight slightly, steady, controlled, one hand lifting off the mattress to catch your wrist.
His fingers close around it—not tight, not forceful—just certain, guiding.
He lifts your hand above your head.
“Jack,” you whisper. “I—”
He shushes you.
“Let me do this, okay?” His voice is rough, thick with something unsteady beneath it—something that makes your stomach knot. “I’ve got you.”
And you believe him.
His hand slides down your body, slow and sure, brushing over your chest, your waist, the curve of your hip—each touch deliberate, like he’s taking his time even now, even like this. His fingers hook at the inside of your thigh, grip firm as he nudges your leg wider.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl.”
The words go straight through you.
You can already feel the damp heat between your legs, the slick fabric pressed close, but the way he says it—the way his voice drops—makes your hips shift up instinctively, chasing something you can’t quite reach.
Chasing him.
And he notices. Of course he does.
You only just catch the faint lift at the corner of his mouth before his lips are back on yours, swallowing the breath from you as your back arches, pressing yourself up into him without thinking. Your fingers curl into the sheets above your head, tension pulling tight through your body as everything narrows down to where he’s touching you—where he isn’t touching you.
His hand drags back up your thigh, slower this time. Intentional. And when his fingers finally press against you through the thin fabric, you gasp.
He takes the sound from you immediately, mouth moving against yours, deeper now, like he’s feeding off it, like every reaction just pushes him further. His fingers start to move—slow, circling, testing—while his mouth leaves yours to trail along your jaw, your cheek, the side of your neck.
With your mouth free, the sounds slip out before you can stop them.
Soft. Unsteady. Needy.
And he loves it.
You feel it in the way his breath shifts, in the way his grip tightens just slightly, in the way his hips rock—slow, controlled, a subtle pressure of denim that’s more suggestion than friction.
“Jack—” your voice catches, breaking on his name. “Please. I want—”
“Tell me, sweetheart,” he murmurs, mouth brushing your shoulder, voice low and coaxing.
“More,” you manage, breath shaking. “Need more.”
He groans against your skin, the sound low and rough, his body settling heavier over yours like any space between you is something he can’t stand.
Then his hand shifts.
Your breath catches as his fingers slide beneath the damp fabric, dragging through your wet heat in one slow, deliberate stroke.
Your whole body jolts. “Fuck—Jack—”
The reaction pulls something from him—a sharp inhale against your neck, his mouth pressing there like he needs to ground himself for a second before he loses it completely.
You’ve never felt like this before. Never this hot, this open, this aware of every inch of your own body.
And you’ve never wanted anyone like this before.
“God,” he murmurs, voice thick, lips tracing back up your throat. “You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.”
All you can do is nod, whimpering softly, your hips lifting without permission, chasing him, asking for more without the words—and he gives it to you. Of course he does.
His finger slides inside you, slow at first, letting you feel it—the stretch, the heat—before he pushes deeper, and the sound that breaks from you is swallowed instantly as his mouth finds yours again, your back arching beneath him as he starts to move. Not fast. Never fast. He sets a rhythm instead, steady and controlled, curling his finger just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your hips move against him again.
And when you press into it, when your body starts to chase that feeling properly, he adds another finger, the stretch pulling a broken sound from your throat as your hands tighten in the sheets and your body rolls beneath him, helpless to it now, completely caught in the slow, deliberate way he works you open.
Every movement is intentional. Every curl hits deeper, sharper, building something tight and aching low in your stomach that makes your whole body tremble, your breath coming out in uneven gasps as you press into his hand, chasing, needing.
Then his thumb finds your clit, and the contact is immediate—devastating.
You cry out, sharp and breathless, your whole body tightening as he starts slow, deliberate circles that send heat spiralling through you, your hips lifting again, desperate now, unable to stay still under him.
You can’t answer—not when his mouth is everywhere, your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth, like he can’t decide where he wants you most before he finds your lips again, and this time the kiss is different again. Hungrier. Messier. His tongue presses into your mouth just as his fingers push deeper, his thumb working harder, more deliberate now, and the moan that tears from you is swallowed whole.
“Please,” you whimper against his mouth, breath breaking. “Please, I—need you.”
He lifts his head, dark eyes searching yours, brows pulling together just slightly.
“You sure?”
You stare at him, trying not to whimper as your whole body clenches around his stilled fingers, the sudden stillness almost worse than anything he was doing before.
“Never have I ever finished during sex, remember?” you manage, breathless but steady enough to land. “You gonna fix that, or what?”
Something feral flickers across his face.
And then it’s gone—replaced by something heavier. Something decided.
He kisses you again before you can catch your breath, all teeth and tongue, the restraint he’s been clinging to snapping clean in half as he groans into your mouth, the sound dragged straight from his chest. You feel the loss of his fingers immediately, your body protesting it, but it’s replaced just as quickly by the slow, deliberate roll of his hips, the friction of denim against your soaked panties making you gasp against him.
“Fuck,” he breathes, like he can’t quite believe it.
He pulls back just enough to shift, bracing himself on one arm while the other moves to his belt, not rushed but far from steady now. There’s a hitch in his breath, a tension in the way his fingers work at it, shoving his jeans and briefs down just enough to free himself, and your gaze drops before you can stop it.
He’s already hard—fully, heavily—flushed and slick at the tip, and the sight of it sends a sharp pulse of heat straight through you, your mouth going dry even as your body reacts in the complete opposite way.
“Fuck—” he chokes, the word breaking out of him. “I haven’t been this hard in—” His eyes flick back up to yours, dark and molten, and whatever he was going to say changes. “—ever.”
It hits you low and deep, twisting something tight in your stomach that makes your hips shift under him without thinking. You finally let go of the sheets, your hands finding him, sliding up to wrap around his neck as you pull him back down, needing him closer, needing him everywhere.
Your legs come up around his waist, drawing him in, urging him forward, and his breath stutters as he presses in, his swollen tip dragging against the damp fabric between you. The contact is just enough to make your head fall back, a broken sound slipping from your throat as he tries—tries—to hold himself up, one arm braced, the other moving between you.
You can feel the strain in him now, the way everything is slipping in real time, in the slight shake of his arm, in the uneven rhythm of his breathing as his hand hooks into the waistband of your panties.
“I’ll buy you new ones,” he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, almost distracted, like the thought barely registers before it’s gone. “Promise.”
And then the fabric gives.
The sound of it tearing—sharp, sudden—goes straight through you, your breath catching hard as he pulls the fabric out of the way, the last barrier gone in an instant.
It shouldn’t be as hot as it is.
But it is.
Jack Abbot—controlled, composed, always holding the line—losing it enough to rip your panties off you?
Fuck.
He sinks into you in one steady thrust, and both of you gasp at the stretch—the sudden, overwhelming closeness, the way want crashes hot and heavy between you. Your pulse hammers in your ears, that dizzy edge of fear and urgency tangling together until all you can think is him—here, now, inside you.
For a moment, you just breathe—pant, really—eyes squeezed shut, hands locked on his shoulders as your body clenches around him, like you’re trying to keep him right there, like you never want to let him go. He drops his head to your neck, breath hot against your damp skin, and you feel the way it shakes out of him.
“You—fuck—you’re so tight, sweetheart,” he pants, voice rough and muffled where his mouth presses into you. “I’m not gonna last—”
“Then don’t,” you murmur, your voice softer but no less certain. “Just fuck me. Please, Jack.”
A groan tears out of him, low and wrecked, and you feel it through his chest as he shifts above you, hips pulling back, his cock dragging against your walls in a way that makes your stomach coil tight, sparks chasing across your skin. You suck in a sharp breath, your grip tightening on him—and before you can brace, he drives forward again, deeper this time.
“Fuck—” you cry out, the sound breaking loose without warning. “Jack—”
He doesn’t stop. His hips roll back again, slower now, controlled in a way that almost makes it worse, his head lifting so he can look at you, really look at you, like he’s checking, like he needs to see it.
The anticipation coils tighter in your chest, sharp and electric, lighting up every nerve in your body until it almost hurts.
“Mhm,” you manage, breath unsteady, nodding as your arms wind tighter around his neck, pulling him closer, needing him closer, like it still isn’t enough.
For a second—just a second—you’re distracted by something stupid, the feel of his shirt between you, the barrier of it, the way you want it gone, want skin on skin, want to see him, feel him, all of him—
And then he thrusts forward again. Harder again. And the thought disappears completely.
Your body jolts beneath him, every movement knocking the breath from your lungs, and the sound that leaves you is loud—too loud—echoing back off the walls in a way that would make you self-conscious any other time.
But not now.
Right now, you don’t care who hears. Not when it feels like this.
His name spills from your lips in broken gasps, tangled with raw cries, and he answers with a rough sound against your shoulder, biting it back as his hips drive into you at a relentless pace. He’s barely holding himself up now, his weight pressing into you in a way that feels like too much and somehow still not enough, the strain in him obvious in every uneven breath, every sharp exhale against your skin.
His hand drags down your side, back to your thigh, fingers digging in as he pushes your leg wider, and the shift—small as it is—hits something deeper, sharper, your vision flashing white as your head tips back and the knot in your belly pulls tight. His grip slides to your hip, anchoring you there, holding you in place so every thrust lands exactly where it needs to, deep and unrelenting, the sound of it filling the room, wet and rhythmic and impossible to ignore beneath the broken sounds you’re both making.
And then his hand moves between you.
You feel it immediately—the change, the focus—as his fingers find your clit in the slick mess between your bodies, steady despite everything else, despite the way he’s losing himself in every way. Your back arches, breath catching sharp as his touch turns deliberate, circling, pressing, coaxing, sending jolts of sensation straight through you until it’s too much, not enough, everything all at once.
“Jack—” you whine, the sound falling apart as soon as it leaves you. “Fuck, I—”
“I know, sweetheart,” he mutters against your jaw, voice wrecked. “Come on my cock, yeah?”
Your hips lift to meet him without thinking, chasing the rhythm he’s set, chasing the pressure, the friction, the way he’s working you with a precision that feels almost cruel now. His hand doesn’t falter, his fingers moving with intent, building and building, every touch sending sharp bursts of pleasure up your spine as the tension in your stomach pulls tighter, tighter, until it feels like it might snap.
It’s never felt like this before. You’ve never felt like this before.
Your whole body tightens, back arching, legs trembling around him as your hips grind up against his, desperate, chasing something you can’t hold onto. He keeps hitting that same spot, again and again, relentless, his pace rougher now, less controlled, while his fingers stay locked on you, steady, practiced, pushing you right to the edge and holding you there.
You cry out, the sound raw, breaking from your chest as everything finally tips.
The release hits all at once—sharp, overwhelming, tearing through you in a rush that steals your breath and leaves nothing behind but heat and tension snapping loose. Your body locks up around him, tightening, pulsing, your hands gripping at him as your legs shake, your hips still moving against his like you can’t stop, like you don’t want to.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, his voice wrecked as he keeps moving inside you—slower now, but deeper, like he’s chasing every last pulse of you, like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”
His rhythm falters, hips stuttering, and then he loses it completely—a broken sound tearing from him as he drives into you one last time, deep and hard, spilling inside you as his whole body tenses, shuddering above yours.
You feel it—every part of it—the way he comes undone, the way he clings to you through it, like he needs something to hold onto just as much as you do. Your bodies keep moving together, slower now, instinctive, chasing the last fading edges of it as your breathing stays uneven, your chests rising and falling in sync, skin slick and overheated where you’re pressed together.
It takes a moment to come back down—a long one.
But eventually, the tension drains from him and he collapses almost fully above you, face buried into your shoulder, his weight heavy and grounding as he exhales, slow and spent. It makes it a little harder to breathe—but you don’t mind.
Not when you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, strong and real, still racing like yours.
-
For the first time in two weeks, Jack Abbot isn’t stupidly early for his shift. He couldn’t be, really. Because he’d woken up late this morning, limbs tangled with yours in warm sheets that smelled so much like you it made his head spin—and that had thrown off everything else he needed to get done today.
If it was up to him, he wouldn’t have left at all—but he had to. He had police paperwork to finish, a neighbour’s cat to feed, and sleep he should’ve caught up on before being back in charge of an entire emergency department for twelve hours. But on the bright side? He knows you have a swing shift today, which means he doesn’t need to be early to see you, because you’re going to be stuck at PTMC until at least ten p.m. tonight.
With him.
And he really shouldn’t be looking forward to that as much as he is.
“Afternoon, Dr. Abbot,” Dana says, glancing over the top of her glasses. “Wasn’t sure we’d see you today. Aren’t you usually here by now?”
“I’m on time,” Jack mutters. “I’m a busy man.”
Dana hums, the corner of her mouth lifting slightly as her eyes drop back down to the tablet in her hands.
Jack tries not to appear too conspicuous as he scans the department, glancing toward the trauma bays and South corridor as he passes the nurses’ station. He shouldn’t be this anxious to see you again—not in the apprehensive kind of way, but in the way that makes it feel like his lungs won’t quite fill until you’re near him again.
“She’s not here,” Dana says without looking up from her chart. “Wasn’t feeling well, so Ellis came in early.”
Jack spots Ellis across central, exiting one of the rooms with Santos at her side, and he opens his mouth to say something—defend himself, maybe, lie about what or who he was looking for—but he hesitates, unsure what he could say that wouldn’t incriminate him further.
So instead, he just drops his head and keeps walking, fumbling for his phone in his pocket.
He’d seen you this morning. Just this morning. You were sleepy, had a headache, so he got you water and Tylenol and kissed you before he left—but you hadn’t said anything about feeling so unwell you were going to call in sick.
Jack doesn’t stop until he reaches the lockers, then turns back to survey the ED one last time before leaning a shoulder against the wall and pulling up his text thread with you. He hadn’t texted you today because he knew he’d see you tonight and didn’t want to seem… overbearing. Even now, he’s not sure if he should—but he feels off in a way he hasn’t in years, like he’s waiting on something he can’t control and it’s making him feel sick.
What if last night hadn’t meant what he thought it did? What if you regretted it? What if it was just—
“Hey, kid,” Dana calls from the nurses’ station. “Big night?”
Jack’s head snaps up—and there you are.
The relief hits before he can stop it, sharp and instant, loosening something in his chest he hadn’t realised was wound so tight. He swallows it down just as quickly, his expression settling before anyone can clock it.
“You don’t know the half of it,” you mutter.
Dana huffs a short laugh. “I have a feeling I don’t want to know.”
Jack can’t help but watch as you cross the floor toward him, your backpack hanging from one shoulder while the other hand presses two fingers to your temple, like you could massage the headache away. There’s a smug little smile on your lips when you reach him, slowing your steps until you pause just beside him—not too close, but enough to make his breath catch.
You glance down at his phone, at the open message thread where his thumb is hovering, and your smirk curves a little higher.
“Miss me?”
Jack locks his phone and tucks it back into his pocket.
“Thought you were sick.”
You lift one shoulder. “A little hungover, so Ellis swapped with me.”
For a second, neither of you move. He just looks at you—and you look right back, like you both know exactly what’s changed, even if neither of you is about to say it out loud. Not here. Not now.
“And I missed the night shift attending,” you say finally.
Then—before he can respond, before he’s even fully processed what you said—you lean in and press a quick kiss to his cheek. Only brief. Barely anything.
But it feels like everything.
And just like that, Jack Abbot is done pretending he isn’t yours.
summary: you have a sex dream about your attending that leaves you hot, flustered, late for work, and completely off your game. then things go from bad to worse when gossip spreads and the entire emergency department finds out—including dr. robby.
notes: i honestly haven't been this excited or motivated to write in forever, and i just really hope it doesn't suck. this one feels a little different, kind of like... it just flowed? my writing feels less mechanical, i think? i don't know, i feel like i've been stuck in a rut and even though this isn't perfect, it feels like i finally enjoy writing again. i put so much love into this and tried so hard to get the characters right, i just really hope you guys enjoy! please, please let me know what you think!
warnings: more sitcom than drama (just let them have a good day, i beg you), swearing, italics, reader can drive, medical descriptions, blood, medical procedure descriptions (it's not super graphic though), most definitely incorrect medical information (my friend is a doctor, i am not), implied age gap but never specified, very likely incorrect tagalog (i'm sorry in advance), reader doesn't know tagalog, implied smut but nothing explicit, reader gets injured (and stitches), and making out (on shift, lol, nothing graphic but still, mdni please).
word count: 12763
You wake all at once.
Not slowly, not gently, but with one sharp inhale like you’ve surfaced from deep water.
For a second you don’t know where you are. Your room is too warm, the air too heavy, every inch of your skin flushed and slick with sweat. Heat clings to you, your heart pounding wildly in your ears, sheets twisted tight around your legs, and for one disorienting moment you swear you can still feel him—warm hands, breath close, the dizzying pull of something forbidden and overwhelming.
The echo of his voice follows you up from sleep, low and wrecked and impossibly real.
Dr. Robby.
Your stomach flips.
“Fuck,” you mumble into your pillow, already mortified, already knowing your brain has crossed a line it absolutely shouldn’t have this time.
Because it didn’t feel like a dream. It still doesn’t. Fragments flash behind your eyelids—the way he touched you, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard it, the teasing burn of stubble where he shouldn’t have been close enough to touch.
You roll onto your back and drag both hands over your face, groaning quietly as awareness settles in piece by piece. Your pulse refuses to slow, every nerve still humming like your body missed the memo that none of it actually happened.
You stare at the ceiling.
“…You have got to be kidding me.”
This wasn’t random. Not by a long shot.
It was him. Your attending. The stubborn, overworked, infuriatingly competent man who makes unresolved emotional baggage look hot. The man you have to see in barely two hours.
A small, helpless sound escapes you as you roll onto your side again, squeezing your eyes shut.
This is a problem.
A very real, very immediate, absolutely unprofessional problem.
And yet, you still don’t move. You lie there too long, cheeks burning despite the fact that no one else can see what you’re replaying in your mind. Warmth lingers beneath your skin, pooling low in your belly as you let yourself remember every phantom touch. Every whispered word. The look in his eyes as he’d settled between your legs and—
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
You bolt upright, your hand flying out to find your phone.
You’re still hot, still flushed and sticky. Still half-dreaming about Robby and his goddamn hands—but now? Now you’re late. Horribly late. Because that alarm isn’t your wake-up alarm—it’s your backup alarm. The one that goes off when it’s time for you to leave for work.
“Fuck!”
You throw the covers back and rush into the bathroom. You strip quickly out of your damp sleep shirt, tossing everything on the floor before stepping into the shower without even waiting for the water to warm. Which is exactly what you need, you remind yourself as you hiss beneath the cold spray.
Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in front of the mirror in your black scrubs, trying to fix your hair and will the colour to drain from your cheeks. But it’s stubborn. Bright. Hot to the touch and utterly telling.
“Jesus Christ,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut for a second too long.
A second you don’t have.
With a deep breath, you turn, grab your bag, and sling it over your shoulder, wondering whether running to the hospital might actually be quicker than your usual commute at this time. Traffic is never great—you never truly know which route will get you there fastest—but now you’re about to hit peak hour.
You spend the entire drive trying to think about literally anything other than the dream—patient charts, upcoming shifts, whether your stethoscope is in your bag or your locker—but your thoughts keep slipping sideways, traitorous and vivid.
So vivid.
Stop thinking about his hands.
Stop thinking about his voice.
Stop—
You groan softly and turn the radio up louder.
It doesn’t help.
By the time you pull into the hospital parking lot, you’re almost twenty minutes late. You slam your car door shut, hike your bag higher on your shoulder, and practically run toward the ER doors.
“Woah,” Donnie says, quickly stepping out of your way. “Someone’s in a hurry.”
You don’t reply. You just keep going until you hit central, then slow to a hurried walk—head down, eyes fixed on your feet, praying everyone is already too busy to notice you.
“You’re late,” Dana says.
You stop mid-step, more out of habit than intention.
“Yeah, I’m sorry. I—”
“Shit, hon, you okay?” She steps around the desk, peering over her glasses. “You look like you’re burnin’ up.”
You step back before she can press a hand to your forehead.
“I’m fine, I swear.” You keep backing up. “Just my—my car’s A/C isn’t working and I’m a little warm. That’s all.”
You know she doesn’t believe you. This is Dana you’re talking to, not some brand-new, bright-eyed RN. Dana can see through any and all bullshit, and by the look on her face, she isn’t buying this at all.
“I’m fine,” you say again, forcing a smile before turning sharply on your heel.
Only to turn right into something solid.
Warm. Tall. Unmoving.
“Shit, I—”
You look up.
And your entire nervous system shuts down.
Dr. Robby.
“Sorry,” you blurt instantly, stepping back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet. “I didn’t see—I mean, I was looking, just not—”
His hand is still wrapped around your elbow, grounding you in place, and for one terrible second all you can think about is how close he is. How close he’d felt last night. How real it feels right now.
His eyebrows lift slightly, confusion flickering across his face. “You alright?”
“Yes,” you say too quickly. “Fine. Totally fine.”
You are not fine.
Your face feels nuclear, and you’re suddenly aware of everything at once—his height, his proximity, the way his sleeves are pushed up, the fact that he’s looking directly at you like he’s trying to figure something out.
His head tilts slightly.
“You’re late,” he says, not unkindly.
“I know.”
Neither of you move for a moment.
You can feel your pulse in your throat. Your chest. Lower.
“I—I’m gonna—”
You don’t even finish before you turn away, hurrying down the hall toward the lockers. Every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire—and every thought in your head is so wildly inappropriate for where you are right now you feel like you might throw up.
“Damn.” Santos appears beside you, her eyes flicking between your face and the tablet in her hands. “Either you’re febrile or you just did something really embarrassing.” She tucks the tablet under her arm. “What gives?”
You shoot her a flat look as you key in the code to your locker. “Nothing gives. I’m fine.”
She snorts. “Sure. That tone is really selling it.”
You take a deep breath and turn toward your locker, shoving your bag inside before unzipping your jacket and shrugging off. You stuff that in too—then sling your stethoscope around your neck, shut the door, and turn back to your fellow R2.
She looks concerned now, brows drawn as her eyes track over your face and neck.
“You’re seriously flushed,” she says. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
“I’m fine.” You turn and start walking back toward central. “Just running late, okay? Now can I start my shift before—” You stop yourself, his name catching somewhere in your chest. “Before I have an attending down my throat for slacking off?”
God. You could have chosen better words.
“Okay, whatever,” Santos mutters, holding her tablet out again. “Sorry for caring.”
She gives you a sarcastic little eye roll before veering off around the other side of the nurse’s station and ducking into one of the active patient rooms. You watch after her for a second before a voice across the room steals your attention.
He’s on the other side of central, nodding along while Mohan and Whitaker brief him on a patient—and looking entirely too hot for seven-thirty on a Monday morning beneath harsh fluorescent lights.
“Stop it,” you whisper to yourself, pausing at the nurse’s station to collect a tablet.
“Stop what?”
You startle, head snapping toward the man suddenly beside you.
“Jesus Christ, Dr. Abbot,” you sigh. “Are you trying to get me admitted for a heart attack?”
The corner of his mouth twitches. “You already look halfway there.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, I get it. I’m red and I’m sweaty—can everyone please stop commenting on it now?”
He chuckles. “Sorry. Didn’t realise you’d already been bullied about it.”
You sigh again and turn your attention to the board, tipping your head back to read it.
“Why are you still here, anyway?” you ask.
“Wanted to see my favourite resident,” he says. “You sure you don’t want to come back to nights?”
You huff a laugh through your nose. “I love you, Abbot, but nights aren’t for me.” You glance across the nurse’s station, where Dana and Robby are now discussing the latest incoming trauma. “I just miss Dana too much.”
Abbot snorts. “Dana?”
You look back at him. “Yes. Dana.”
Amusement flickers across his face. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you say, too quickly. “I mean, who—what else would—”
“Doctors,” Javadi interrupts, stepping in front of you both. “Sorry to interrupt, but could I get a second opinion on a patient in South Twenty-One, please?”
Abbot nods, glancing at you. “I’ll go. You settle in.” The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Maybe check in with your attending.”
Then he turns and walks away with Javadi at his side.
You stare after him—eyes wide, pulse racing, wondering what the fuck he meant by all that.
You’ve always suspected Abbot might be a mind reader, but that? That was something else. Too knowing. Too dangerous. And now you need to figure out what the hell he thinks he knows.
“Doctor,” Perlah calls from behind the desk. “Could you check on Central Twelve? She’s still complaining of pain after morphine and Zofran.”
You turn to her, shaking your head as if that might knock your thoughts back into place. “Uh—yeah. Of course. Central Twelve, heading there now.”
She gives you a curious look, brows drawn, but you turn away before she can ask any more questions.
On your way to C12, you pull up the patient’s chart—seen by Whitaker about half an hour ago—and double-check the morphine and Zofran doses she received. You pause just outside the room, drawing a deep breath and reminding yourself that you are at work. You don’t have time to be flustered. You don’t have time to worry about what Jack Abbot may or may not know. And you definitely don’t have time to obsess over the imaginary rasp of Robby’s beard against your thigh that you can somehow still feel.
When you push the door open and step inside, you’re the picture of professionalism. You offer the patient a polite smile, introduce yourself, and start the routine checks that feel more like second nature than work.
After the exam and a brief conversation, you order two more milligrams of morphine, review the labs Whitaker sent, and make a note to check back in fifteen minutes. Then, still intent on avoiding your attending, you bury your nose in your tablet and move on to the next patient waiting in South Sixteen.
Pressure-like chest pain. Diaphoretic, no shortness of breath. Initial ECG normal. Labs pending.
“Alright, Mr. Mullens,” you say, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm. “We’re going to get some scans done so we can get a better idea of what’s going on. If the pain gets worse before then, let us know.”
The man nods. “Thank you, Doc.”
You smile, stepping out into the hallway. “I’ll be back soon to check in.”
As soon as you turn around, you look for Robby, making sure you’re not about to run into him again. Literally.
You spot him all the way across central, walking with Santos toward the North hallway. Good. You’re safe. And if all goes well, maybe you’ll manage to avoid him for the entire day. Maybe you won’t have to come face to face with the face you can still see buried between your legs.
Fuck.
Your pulse kicks, heart beating too fast as you remember the way his eyes had watched you in your dream. It’s almost too much. Even the phantom memory of it is making you breathless.
God. If it ever actually happened, you might pass out.
“Why would you even think of that?” you mutter to yourself, stopping at the nurse’s station.
When you finally look up, Perlah and Princess are watching you closely, speculation sparkling in their eyes.
“Sobrang pula ng mukha niya,” Perlah murmurs.
Princess nods. “Hindi lagnat ’yan.”
Perlah lowers her voice even more. “Sa tingin mo ba may kinalaman ito sa crush niya?”
They both laugh quietly, turning away from you as if it isn’t you they’re gossiping about.
“Malinaw,” Princess says.
You give them both a tight smile before glancing up at the board, searching for something suitably distracting and far away from nosy nurses and unfairly attractive attendings.
You’re just about to head back toward the South hallway when a gurney crashes through the ambulance bay doors.
“Trauma Two!” Dana calls. “Robby!”
Abbot is already moving, meeting the paramedics halfway and guiding the gurney toward T2.
He points at you as he walks. “With me.”
“Shit,” you mutter, dropping your tablet on the desk and jogging over.
“Thirty-two-year-old male, MVC, restrained driver,” the paramedic says. “Front-end collision, airbags deployed. No LOC. Increasing shortness of breath during transport. Breath sounds decreased left side.”
“Let’s get him on monitor,” Abbot says, moving to stand opposite you at the head of the bed. “On my count.”
Robby steps in at your side, like he always does—close enough that you feel him before you see him.
His arm brushes yours.
Your stomach flips.
Focus.
“One. Two. Three,” Abbot counts.
You transfer the patient from gurney to trauma bed, and Santos starts cutting away clothes.
“Two large-bore IVs,” Abbot tells Jesse. “Trauma labs. Portable chest X-ray.” Then he looks at you, brows raised. “Breath sounds?”
“Oh—uh—” You fumble with your stethoscope, pressing it to each side of the patient’s chest. “Diminished on the left.”
You reach for the patient’s neck, fingers steady despite the noise around you.
“Trachea midline.”
Abbot nods, then turns to Santos. “Let’s get ultrasound.”
“BP holding?” Robby asks.
The sound of his voice sends goosebumps racing along your arms—and you shiver before you can stop yourself.
“Pressure’s 118 over 76,” Jesse replies. “Stable.”
Robby glances at you, brows drawn. “You okay?”
You nod quickly, without looking up. “Never better.”
“Absent lung sliding on the left,” Santos announces.
“Likely pneumothorax,” Abbot says, looking at Robby.
“Sats dropping,” Jesse calls. “Eighty-nine.”
Robby nods once. “Okay. We’re putting in a chest tube.”
“Chest tube tray. Twenty-eight French. Left side,” Abbot orders.
You try to move out of the way, but Robby’s hand catches your elbow—and you can’t help but look up. His dark eyes meet yours with an intensity you’ve never noticed before, and suddenly your lungs forget how to work.
“You’re up,” he says. “I’ll walk you through it.”
You know there’s no time to argue. You know you can’t. Shouldn’t. This is your job. And it’s not like you could say no to this man even if you wanted to.
You swallow. “Okay.”
Robby nods, then looks at Jesse. “Alright, let’s get some lido. Sutures ready. Hook up suction.”
You turn back to the patient, watching Abbot position the left arm above his head while Jesse preps the area—chlorhexidine swab, sterile drape. The rustle of sterile gowns and the snap of gloves fill the room as you pull on your own and push a pair of protective glasses up your nose. Then you grab the lidocaine from the tray and lean over the patient’s left side, steadying your hand as you guide the needle in.
The room is quieter now—save for the steady beeping of the monitors—chaos narrowing into focus as everyone watches you sink the needle into the patient’s skin.
“A little deeper,” Robby murmurs.
Your breath catches, but your hands stay steady.
You can feel him just behind you, leaning close, his warmth bleeding through your scrubs and setting your whole body on fire.
“Now find the rib,” he instructs. “Stay above it.”
You discard the needle onto the tray and start feeling ribs, counting down until you find the space.
“Scalpel,” you say, refusing to take your eyes off the spot your fingers found.
Jesse places the scalpel in your hand, and without hesitation, you cut a three-centimetre incision.
“Good,” Robby murmurs.
Your pulse thrums beneath your skin.
“Clamp,” you say, your voice almost breaking.
Jesse takes the scalpel from your hand, replacing it with a curved clamp.
You insert the clamp, pushing past muscle layers, and begin to spread. It feels forceful. Too much. Invasive, even though you know this is exactly what you’re supposed to do.
Robby steps closer. “Commit to it.”
His hand covers yours to adjust the angle, add pressure—until you feel the pop. And it takes every ounce of your self-control not to react. Not to whimper at the very normal, very professional way your attending is guiding you right now.
“Now sweep,” he says, so close you can feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek.
You insert your finger into the space, confirming entry into the pleural cavity and checking for adhesions—then nod. You don’t dare turn your head as you hold your hand out for the tube. He’s too close, too warm. You can smell the faint scent of soap on his skin even over the antiseptic and metallic tang in the air.
“Inserting tube,” you say, more to yourself than anyone else.
You start guiding the tube in—slow and controlled—feeling every millimetre of movement.
Until it stops.
Too much resistance.
“Up,” Robby says, his hand covering yours again. “Aim higher.”
He adjusts your wrist slightly, guiding the pressure.
You swallow hard and nod, hoping no one else can hear your uneven breathing—but knowing Robby definitely can.
He helps you apply more pressure, firmer now, angle corrected, and the tube starts moving again.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Good girl. Keep going.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Heat floods your face. Your chest. Lower.
His voice echoes from your dream. Breathless. Panting. Words whispered against your skin.
Fuck. Now is not the time.
You tighten your grip on the tube and push.
Then—
A rush of air.
“Air return,” Abbot says, a hint of pride in his tone. “Now secure it.”
Robby steps back, and you hear the snap of his gloves coming off.
“O2 sats climbing,” he announces.
“Cool,” Santos says, grinning at Abbot’s side. “I’m doing the next one.”
You barely look up. You can’t. Your whole face feels like it’s on fire. You've never blushed this hard before. You’ve never been this hot in your life. And you’ve definitely never been this horny in the goddamn trauma bay.
“You good to finish up?” Robby asks Abbot.
Abbot nods.
From the corner of your eye, you see Robby step toward the door, glancing over his shoulder with a small, impressed smile.
“Nice work, Doctor.”
You don’t reply. You just nod, lips twitching with a soft smile as you keep your eyes on the patient.
As soon as you finish suturing and securing the tube, you step back, tearing off your gown and gloves as if that’ll somehow give you a reprieve from the heat beneath your skin. Jesse takes your place beside the patient, nodding along to Abbot’s orders while he and Kim start cleaning up.
You shove your gown, gloves, and glasses into the biohazard bin and head for the door without looking back—which is exactly why you don’t notice Santos trailing you.
“That was so cool,” she says, startling you.
“Jesus,” you mutter. “Don’t sneak up on me like that.”
She frowns. “Sneak? I was right behind you. It’s not my fault you’re all weird and jumpy today.”
“I’m not—” You glance across central to make sure Robby isn’t somewhere in your path to the ambulance bay. “I’m not weird and jumpy.”
Santos scoffs. “Right. And I’m not behind on my charting.”
You don’t bother arguing with her. You just keep walking—and she follows. All the way through the ER and out to the ambulance bay, where you stop just before the curb and draw a deep breath. It isn’t nearly as refreshing as you’d hoped, but a break from the fluorescents is always welcome.
“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What is with you today? You’re never this off. I’ve seen you perform procedures you’d only read about without a single assist from the attending. And I know you’ve done a chest tube before.”
You don’t answer. You don’t even look at her. You just tip your head back and stare at the roof of the ambulance bay, wondering whether it might collapse and save you from this conversation.
“And on that note,” she goes on, “Dr. Robby knows you’ve done a chest tube before, so why the hell was he being so patient? I swear he’s got a soft spot for you. Javadi pointed it out a few weeks ago and I honestly don’t know how I missed it. I mean—has he ever yelled at you?”
You finally look at her, brows drawn. “I—uh—no, I don’t think so.”
“Exactly,” she says, stepping closer. “And please tell me I heard wrong, but did he say good girl to you back there?”
As soon as she says it, your cheeks burn with renewed intensity. You can feel your heart in your throat, beating out of rhythm and way too fast for someone who is definitely not in a life-or-death situation.
And Santos notices—because of course she does.
Her eyes go wide. “Oh my God. This totally has something to do with Dr. Robby.”
“Shut up,” you mutter. “It’s not—”
You stop yourself, squeezing your eyes shut and pinching the bridge of your nose.
Santos isn’t going to let this go. You know her. She’s too inquisitive, too nosy, and there’s not nearly enough chaos today to distract her.
“Okay, fine,” you sigh, looking up, face burning. “I had a sex dream about him and now I can’t stop thinking about it.”
She stares at you for a second.
“A sex dream?”
You nod miserably.
Her mouth twitches—then she snorts.
Not a polite laugh. A full, startled snort she tries—and fails—to muffle behind her hand.
“Oh my God,” she says. “I knew you had a thing for him, but a sex dream?”
“Would you stop saying it?” you hiss, glancing nervously around the empty ambulance bay.
She laughs a little harder. “Was he good?”
“Oh my God,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “I regret everything.”
“Hey,” she says, still laughing as she drops a hand on your shoulder. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.”
Your head snaps up. “If I asked?”
She shrugs. “Why not shoot your shot?”
“Because he’s my boss!”
“He’s your attending,” she says. “Technically, Dr. Underwood is your boss. Dr. Robby just supervises you.”
You shut your eyes again and draw a deep breath, trying to steady your pulse.
“Okay,” you say, squaring your shoulders. “I’m done with this conversation. I’m going back to work, and you’re not telling anyone what I just told you. Okay?”
She mimes zipping her lips. “I’m a vault, I swear.”
You nod. “Good.”
Then you turn and start walking back inside, trying not to conspicuously check for Robby on your way to the nurse’s station. Santos is still at your heels, still wearing an amused grin as if your humiliation is her exact brand of humour.
“One more question,” she says, stopping beside you as you grab another tablet from the rack.
You sigh. “What?”
She leans in. “Did he say ‘good girl’ in the dream too?”
Your pulse jumps.
“Goodbye, Dr. Santos,” you say, turning quickly on your heel.
“I’m taking that as a yes,” she calls after you.
You ignore her, turning toward S16 to check on your chest pain patient.
“Hey, Mr. Mullens,” you say as you push back the curtain. “How are you feeling?”
The older man sits up a little. “I’m okay.”
“Good.” You pull up his chart on your tablet. “The pain hasn’t gotten any worse?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
“That’s good to hear,” you say, quickly flicking through his lab results. “Your first labs look reassuring, but we’ll repeat them in a couple of hours just to be safe.”
You glance up, and he nods.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
You smile softly. “If the pain gets worse, or if you start having trouble breathing, press the call button.”
“Will do.”
You offer him one last nod before tucking your tablet under your arm and squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you exit the room.
The second you step into the hall, you take a deep breath, finally feeling like your lungs remember how to work. Like your pulse might finally be settling into something resembling a normal rhythm. Like maybe—just maybe—you can survive the day if you stay distracted with work long enough not to think about last night.
About his voice—low and rough in your ear, whispering something you can’t quite remember.
Except the way it made your spine arch.
Or the moment he’d braced his hands on either side of you, his head dipping just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath before he—
“Doctor.”
You jerk slightly, heat rushing straight back into your face as the memory evaporates.
“Sorry—what?”
Whitaker, now standing in front of you, clears his throat. “Nothing. I just—you looked a little out of it.”
You shake your head and turn toward central. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m a little off today.”
He nods, falling into step beside you. “Santos mentioned.”
Your head snaps toward him. “Santos mentioned what?”
“Just that you were out of it today,” he says quietly, staring at the floor.
You stare at him. “And?”
He shrugs, but it’s stiff. “And nothing.”
You stop at the nurse’s station and drop your tablet on the desk.
“I swear to God, Whitaker, if she told you—”
“She didn’t tell me anything,” he says, clearly panicked now. “I—I’ve got to go check on a patient.”
Then he’s gone, hurrying off toward the South hallway.
Fuck.
You told Santos barely ten minutes ago and she’s already told Whitaker?
So much for being a vault.
“What’d I tell you about swearin’ on God, little lady?” Dana asks, peering over her glasses from the other side of the desk.
You sigh, resting both forearms on the counter. “Sorry. Rough morning.”
“Tell me about it,” she says, glancing down at her tablet. “Sprained ankle in North Four wants an MRI and a wheelchair escort to the parking lot. Psych hold in B2 tried to climb out the bathroom window. Ogilvie ordered the wrong labs and blamed the computer. And someone—” she pauses, squinting toward where McKay is assessing a patient, “—keeps leaving half-empty coffee cups everywhere like we’re running a café instead of an emergency department.”
You huff a quiet laugh.
“And we’re only on hour two,” she adds, looking back up at you.
“Lucky us,” you mutter.
She sets her tablet down and slides her glasses off, folding them into the breast pocket of her scrubs.
“What’s with you, hm?” She leans in. “First you’re late, then you run out of trauma like you’re about to pass out. That’s not like you, kid.”
You shrug. “Just a little off today.”
She watches you for a second, her eyes narrowing just a fraction. She’s not stupid. She knows there’s more to it than that—but Dana isn’t the type to push.
She hums quietly.
“Alright,” she says. “I’ll pretend I believe that.”
You give her a small, appreciative smile as you push off the counter. “Love you, Dana.”
She just shakes her head, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glances back down at her tablet. “Yeah? Then check on North Four for me and see if you can get ‘em discharged.”
You nod. “North Four, on it.”
You start to turn away, then stop yourself and swivel back toward her.
“Hey—uh—is Abbot still here?” you ask.
“No, he left right after the MVC trauma,” she replies without looking up.
“Oh.”
“Why? You need him?” she asks. “I’m sure whatever you need, Dr. Robby can—”
“No,” you say quickly. “Nope. I’m good. Totally fine. Don’t need anything at all.”
You hug your tablet to your chest and start turning away again.
“Everything’s fine!”
You don’t dare look back. You just keep walking toward the North hall, completely missing the sceptical look Dana sends after you—and the confused look on Robby’s face as he glances between the two of you.
On your way to N4, you pull your phone out of your pocket and tap on Dr. Abbot’s contact, typing quickly.
So much for saying goodbye to your favourite resident.
Then you hit send and tuck your phone back into your pocket.
You’re not actually offended. Not really. This is the ER. People barely have time to finish a sentence, let alone say goodbye.
You’re just… nervous.
Nervous because Abbot thinks he knows something—and you need to figure out what that is before he decides to say something to Robby and make this whole situation infinitely worse.
You stop outside N4 and take a deep breath—your hundredth deep breath of the morning. You can do this. This is the easy part. The patients. The work. The familiarity of what you do every day. You just need to focus on this for the next twelve hours and definitely not the way you can still feel the weight of his hand on your hip, steady and certain, holding you exactly where he wanted you as he—
“Nope,” you tell yourself out loud. “Absolutely not. Focus.”
You shake your head as you step into the room and slide the curtain back, greeting the patient with your practiced mask of cool, calm, and collected. You manage to convince them they don’t need an MRI, since their ankle is only sprained, but you do get Ahmad to escort them out in a wheelchair—and now you owe him ten bucks and a bagel tomorrow morning.
Then you move on to the next patient. And the next.
The next few hours pass by in a blur of minor catastrophes. A migraine that melts away with the standard cocktail of Toradol, Reglan, and Benadryl. A Lego piece extracted from a three-year-old’s nose while Whitaker distracts the squirming patient. Three stitches in the eyebrow of a man who swears he doesn’t drink before 10AM—even though you can smell the alcohol on his breath. An overworked woman with chest pain that turns out to be a panic attack. A teenager with a swollen knee and a devastated look on his face when you suggest he might be benched for the rest of the season.
And at half past noon, you step into C9. Mid-thirties, right lower quadrant abdominal pain, nausea, mild fever—what you can already guess is appendicitis.
“Hi, Ms. Park, how are you feeling?” you ask, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm.
She winces. “Not so good.”
“It says here you’re having abdominal pain, nausea, and a bit of a fever,” you say. “When did that start?”
She nods. “Early this morning. Four, maybe.”
You set your tablet on the cart, grab a pair of gloves, and drag a stool beside the bed. “Mind if I take a look at your abdomen so I can get a better idea of what’s going on?”
She nods and tips her head back against the pillow, hands falling either side as you start palpating her lower abdomen. It doesn’t take more than a few presses for her to hiss and lift a hand, trying to push you away.
“Sorry,” she says, voice strained. “It hurts a lot.”
“That’s okay.” You scoot back and rise from the stool, peeling off your gloves. “I’m going to order a CT scan to take a better look, and we’ll give you something for the pain and something for the nausea in the meantime.”
You step around the bed and grab your tablet off the cart.
“A nurse will come in shortly to start fluids too,” you add. “You’re probably a little dehydrated if you haven’t been able to eat or drink much this morning.”
She looks at you with wide eyes. “I don’t know if I want a CT. Isn’t that a lot of radiation?”
“It’s a relatively small amount,” you reply evenly, “and it’s the best way for us to see what’s going on inside your abdomen. I can assure you, it’s very safe.”
“I try to avoid unnecessary radiation,” Ms. Park argues, shifting uncomfortably. “Is there another option?”
“Ultrasound can sometimes help, but it’s not always reliable in adults,” you say. “A CT scan will give us the clearest answer.”
She hesitates, eyes dropping to her lap. “Well—could I please speak to the doctor in charge?”
You open your mouth to reply when someone steps in beside you. Tall. Solid. Close enough to make your pulse skip and your stomach take a nosedive.
“You are,” Robby says, arms folded. “She’s the physician managing your care right now, so we’ll follow her recommendation.”
You step to the side, nearly tripping over nothing, clutching your tablet to your chest.
“Uh—Dr. Robby, this is Ms. Park,” you say quickly. “Thirty-five, right lower quadrant pain since early this morning. Nausea, no vomiting, low-grade fever at triage. Tenderness at McBurney’s point. I’ve ordered labs and a CT abdomen to rule out appendicitis.”
Robby nods once. “That sounds appropriate.”
Ms. Park sighs.
“Alright,” she says, a little more pleasantly now. “If that’s what you recommend.”
She doesn’t even look at you as she says it—her eyes stay fixed on Robby, softening in a way that makes you briefly consider poking her appendix again.
Not that you can blame her.
Your gaze flicks to Robby, wondering if he’s noticed the sudden change in demeanour—or the way she’s practically making heart eyes at him.
But he isn’t looking at Ms. Park.
He’s looking at you.
You clear your throat, quickly glancing back down at your tablet. “Uh—that’s good. Great. I’ll finish the orders now, and a nurse will be by shortly with some pain relief.”
Ms. Park gives you a brief nod before turning back to Robby with a smile that makes you want to roll your eyes. Robby just nods, squirts a pump of sanitiser into his hand, then steps out of the room—and you try not to follow too closely.
You slide the curtain shut before turning into the hall, half expecting Robby to be gone—but he isn’t. He’s still standing there, holding his tablet in one hand while the other scrubs at his jaw in that mildly anxious way it always does.
“Nice work in there,” he says without looking up.
Heat floods your face.
“Thanks,” you say with a tight smile. “And thanks for backing me up.”
He glances at you over the top of his glasses.
“You had it handled.”
You clutch your tablet to your chest. “Well—uh—thanks anyway.”
Then, before you completely lose the ability to function, you turn on your heel and start down the hall—but not fast enough to miss Dana’s voice.
“Careful, Robinavitch,” she says dryly. “You’re hovering.”
“I supervise,” Robby mutters.
Dana hums.
“Uh-huh. I’ll pretend I believe that.”
Hovering?
You tighten your grip on your tablet as you hurry down the South hall, pretending you know where you’re headed.
Robby wasn’t hovering. He was just doing his job. Right?
He hovers around every resident and med student.
It’s not like he was—
You shake your head.
No—Dana’s just teasing. It’s her thing. It’s practically her love language.
You stop short when you reach the end of the hall. Elevator ahead. Restrooms to your right.
Nowhere else to go.
“You okay, Doctor?” McKay asks, stepping out of the ladies’ room.
You blink. “Uh—yeah, I just—”
You’re not sure what excuse to use now—standing in the middle of the hall, staring at the elevator, white-knuckling your tablet like you’re one bad patient away from a psychotic break.
“You look like you’re buffering,” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Why don’t you take a break?”
You shake your head. “I don’t need a break.”
Her brows lift as she gently places a hand on each of your shoulders, turning you back the other way. “Alright. Well, why don’t you go sit down and catch up on your charting?”
She starts guiding you slowly back up the hall.
“Charting,” you echo, a faint frown forming between your brows. “Yeah. That’s a good idea, actually. I haven’t done much all day.”
She nods. “See? I’m full of good ideas. And you are seriously concerning me today.”
You give her a look. “I’m fine. Everyone is just being—”
“Caring?” she offers.
You roll your eyes. “Overbearing.”
She shakes her head, laughing quietly as she steers you toward the nurse’s station.
“Here,” she says, pulling out a chair in front of a vacant computer. “Sit.”
“Yes, ma’am,” you mutter, dropping down at the desk.
She steps behind you, pushes the chair in, then leans over your shoulder.
“Good girl,” she murmurs.
Your entire spine locks.
“What was that?”
McKay straightens, already grinning.
“Charting,” she says lightly, tapping the monitor. “Try it.”
“But—you just—”
She laughs under her breath, already backing away.
“Finish your notes, doctor. You don’t want to have to stay late.”
Then she’s gone, shaking her head again as she disappears back toward triage.
You sit there for a few seconds longer than you should, staring after her while your brain desperately tries to reboot.
“Fucking Santos,” you mutter, finally turning back to the computer.
“You called,” Santos says, appearing on the other side of the desk.
Your eyes snap up. “You.”
Her brows lift. “Me?”
“Yes,” you snap. “You’ve been telling people.”
She tries—and fails—to suppress a smile.
“Not technically.” She leans forward, resting both forearms on the counter. “I only told Huckleberry, but McKay overheard. Can you blame me, though? It’s the most interesting thing to happen around here today.”
“Yes,” you hiss. “I can blame you. And I will blame you if—”
You stop, your eyes flicking past her to where Robby has just stepped out of C8, chart in hand and head bowed. Santos frowns for a second before following your gaze over her shoulder.
She snorts. “Oh my God. You can’t even function.”
“Who can’t function?” Whitaker asks, stepping up beside Santos.
You drop your head into your hands and sigh. “Great. They’re multiplying.”
Santos leans closer. “Hey, what’s the song that plays in your head whenever he walks past? Is it, like, SexyBack, or more… Like a Prayer?”
Whitaker snorts softly, his cheeks turning pink.
You glare at Santos. “Neither.”
“You’re right.” She nods thoughtfully. “I can practically hear the Careless Whisper sax playing in your mind right now.”
Your eyes go wide as you snatch a pen off the desk and lob it straight at her—but she dodges it easily.
“Wow,” she says, still laughing. “I’m on fire today.”
“Is that so, Dr. Santos?”
You recognise the voice before you even see him—because of course you do. You dream about that voice.
“That would mean you’ve caught up on all your charting and discharged your patient in North One?” Robby asks as he steps up beside Santos.
Her grin drops. “Uh—yeah. Actually, I was just on my way to North One.”
Her eyes slide back to you as she pushes away from the desk, lips pressed tight to keep herself from laughing.
“Dr. Whitaker,” Robby says. “Are you hovering?”
Hovering?
Whitaker glances up. “Oh—uh—no. I was just finishing some orders.”
“Good. You can finish them on your way to discharging South Twenty.”
Whitaker nods, barely even glancing at you as he grabs his tablet off the desk and turns toward the South hall.
Then Robby looks at you, holding up the pen you threw at Santos.
Your pulse stutters.
“Think you lost this,” he says, leaning forward to drop it on the desk.
“I threw it,” you blurt.
He hesitates, the corner of his mouth twitching before he turns away.
“I know.”
You watch him go until he turns a corner and disappears—then you look down at the pen.
“Fuck,” you sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. “I need today to end.”
You slide the pen aside and force your attention back to the computer—to the cursor blinking patiently beside the single word you’d managed to write since sitting down.
Right.
Charting.
You manage exactly four more words before you’re interrupted again—something about your abdominal pain patient in Central Nine.
With a sigh, you push away from the desk, grab your tablet, and head for C9.
After confirming Ms. Park does indeed need an appendectomy and contacting Garcia for a surgical consult, Dana stops you in the hall to ask if Mr. Mullens can be discharged from South Sixteen. Then Javadi grabs you to present a calf laceration that you end up supervising while she sutures it, and after that Whitaker calls you in for a second opinion on a dizziness patient in North Five.
The hours start to blur together. You bounce from one room to another, just barely finishing your notes in between patients and med students and reviewing labs. By the time you finally make it back to the desk again, you’ve almost—almost—forgotten about why your heart is still beating a little too fast.
“Back to charting?” Princess asks.
You nod. “The never-ending task.”
She gives you the same quiet, speculative smile she gave you this morning.
“You seem off today,” she says.
“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just tired.”
“And red,” she adds before turning away.
You frown, pressing a hand to your ridiculously hot cheek as you turn back toward the computer. If this keeps up, you’re more likely to end the shift as a patient than a doctor.
With a small sigh, you scoot your chair closer to the desk and pull the chart back up. Your eyes flick to the corner of the screen, to the little clock telling you that you only have a few hours left. A few hours to finish your charting, discharge a couple more patients, and keep avoiding Dr. Robby. Then you’re free. Then you’ve got at least eight solid hours to sort yourself out before you’re back here tomorrow.
Just as you position your fingers over the keyboard to start typing, your phone vibrates in your pocket—and your pulse jumps.
Abbot.
You quickly pull it out, swipe up, and open the notification.
Sorry. Too busy mourning the loss of my status as your favourite attending.
Your stomach drops.
What the fuck is that supposed to mean?
You stare at the text for an unreasonable length of time—heart pounding, face burning, thoughts racing. Abbot definitely thinks he knows something. Something he shouldn’t know. Something he’s probably very wrong about. Something you need to figure out and shut down immediately.
Before he decides to say something to Robby about whatever it is he thinks he knows.
“Hey,” Dana says, stopping on the other side of the desk. “Thought you were working?”
You clear your throat. “Uh—yeah. Sorry. Got distracted.”
Her brows lift. “Distracted, huh? That’s exactly what we want in emergency medicine.”
Then she shakes her head and walks away.
You tuck your phone into your pocket and turn your attention back to the chart in front of you. The chart of exactly five words—the first of many unfinished charts standing in your way of going home on time.
And today is not a day you want to stay back.
Your fingers hover over the keyboard again, eyes flicking over the few words already written. It takes a minute—probably longer than it should—but eventually you remember how to do your job and start typing.
The ER fades into background noise—monitors beeping, nurses chatting, the rumble of beds rolling past—and for the first time all day, you feel focused. Steady. Until—
“Robby,” Dana calls, “can you come over here for a sec?”
Your fingers slow over the keys—and against your better judgment, you glance up.
“Mrs. Alvarez,” Robby says fondly. “What brings you here?”
Your brows draw together as you study the older woman sitting on the bed. She looks familiar, and Alvarez rings a bell, but you can’t quite place it.
“Perlah,” you say, without fully looking away from the woman. “Who’s Mrs. Alvarez?”
“She used to work here,” Perlah replies. “She was the night shift charge nurse before Lena. Partially retired a couple years ago, but she’s covered a shift or two since then.”
You tilt your head. “Oh.”
“She probably asked for Robby,” Princess chimes in. “She always had a soft spot for him.”
Perlah tries to muffle her laughter. “Katulad ng ibang kakilala natin.”
Princess laughs behind you, but the sound barely registers. You’re too captivated by the scene unfolding in front of you. The very normal, very professional interaction that is hardly out of place in an ER—yet for some reason, it feels like you’re watching an adult film made specifically for you.
Mrs. Alvarez’s bed is parked up against the wall—a sight that would normally remind you to look for patients to discharge, but right now that’s the furthest thing from your mind.
Robby has pulled a stool up beside her, leaning in while she talks, forearms resting loosely on the bed rail. He nods along as she explains what’s wrong, his expression soft, his posture relaxed. There’s absolutely nothing obscene about it—but your pulse is still racing.
There’s just something about the way he listens—really listens—that makes it difficult to look anywhere else. That makes it difficult not to envy Mrs. Alvarez right now.
“Let’s take a listen,” he says after a moment, voice low and steady.
Your stomach does a strange little flip.
It’s such a normal sentence. Completely harmless. Totally professional. You’ve probably said the same thing yourself at least three times today. But hearing it in that voice—calm, warm, just rough enough at the edges to carry across the department—does something deeply unhelpful to your concentration.
He slips the stethoscope from around his neck, the tubing sliding through his fingers with the kind of easy familiarity that only comes from years of doing the same motion over and over again. The movement is quick, practiced, almost absentminded.
Still, your eyes follow it.
They follow the way he leans forward, one hand bracing lightly against the mattress while the other presses the diaphragm of the stethoscope gently against Mrs. Alvarez’s chest.
“Deep breath for me.”
Your pulse stutters.
Because suddenly—unhelpfully, vividly—you remember exactly how those hands felt in the dream.
The same steady fingers. The same calm voice, dropped just a little lower when he leaned close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath near your ear.
His hand had been wrapped around your wrist—firm but careful—guiding your hand above your head and pinning it against the pillow.
“Hold still,” he murmured.
The memory is sharp enough that for a second you can almost feel it again. The weight of his body pressing into the space between your knees, the quiet authority in his voice when he spoke, the way his fingers tightened against your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted you.
Your hands had curled into the bed sheets as his lips traced the line of your jaw, his voice dropping again—softer now, almost thoughtful.
“Look at me.”
Your breath had caught in your throat when you did.
Because he was watching you the same way he watches patients—calm, focused, completely absorbed—except the attention felt different in the dream. Slower. Heavier. Like he was studying every reaction you gave him and deciding exactly how much more you could handle.
Your pulse had started racing the second his gaze dropped to your mouth.
It wasn’t subtle.
Just a brief shift of his eyes—thoughtful, almost curious—but the heat that followed it made your stomach tighten.
His thumb found its way back to your jaw, tracing slowly along the curve of it as if he were considering something. Following the line of your chin as he tipped your head back just slightly beneath his hand.
You hadn’t realised you’d stopped breathing until his fingers stilled.
“Breathe,” he said quietly.
The word brushed over your lips.
You remember the way your chest rose when you obeyed him—slow, unsteady—and the way his gaze followed the movement before drifting back to your mouth again.
God.
The corner of his mouth had lifted slightly then, like he’d noticed exactly what he was doing to you.
Like he wasn’t in any hurry to stop.
His hand slid from your jaw to the side of your throat, fingers warm against your skin, thumb resting just beneath your chin as if he were holding you there—not tightly, just enough that you stayed exactly where he wanted you.
And the entire time he watched you with that same quiet concentration.
Like this was just another thing he was very, very good at.
“Hey,” Santos says, appearing beside the desk. “Your abdominal pain in C9 just went upstairs.”
You blink at her. “Already?”
She shrugs. “Garcia signed off.”
You nod once, shifting awkwardly in your chair as you turn back toward the computer, trying very hard to ignore the heat pooling low in your belly.
“You good?” Santos asks, as if you haven’t been asked that enough today.
You clear your throat, eyes flicking briefly back to Robby and Mrs. Alvarez. “Yeah. Fine.”
She follows your gaze, the corner of her mouth twitching.
“Wow,” she says. “You’re down bad.”
You glare at her. “I’m charting.”
“You’re drooling.”
You quickly lift a hand to your mouth, swiping at the corner.
Santos grins. “Well, it depends who you’re asking, because if you ask—”
“Santos,” you warn.
She laughs. “Come on. It’s just a joke.”
“Isang biro?” Princess says, smiling. “Walang nakakatawa sa paraan ng pagtitig niya kay Robby.”
Your stomach drops.
You might not understand Tagalog, but you sure as hell know what that last word was.
“Santos,” you say, slowly rising from your chair. “How many people have you told?”
She presses her lips together sheepishly. “Again, technically? Just Huckleberry.”
“And—and I haven’t told anyone,” Whitaker adds quickly.
“Ano ang pinag-uusapan nila?” Perlah says behind you.
Princess shrugs. “May alam lang na sikreto si Santos.”
Your eyes widen. “Santos, I swear—”
“Relax,” she says. “They’re not talking about the dream. They were talking about your staring.”
Princess steps forward. “A dream? What dream?”
You bury your face in your hands. “Oh my God.”
“Wait,” Perlah says. “Did she have a dream about—”
Santos smirks. “Yep.”
“Oh,” Princess gasps. “That’s why she’s been so weird today.”
Perlah snorts.
Princess mutters something else in Tagalog that makes them all laugh again.
“Oh my God, Santos!” you say again, louder this time. “I’m just trying to get through the day without my attending finding out I had a sex dream about him and you’re telling the entire emergency department?”
Silence.
Perlah is staring at you.
Princess is staring at you.
Whitaker looks like someone has just pulled the fire alarm inside his head.
And Santos—
Santos is very carefully not looking at you anymore.
“What?” you snap. “No more jokes?”
No one answers.
Instead, Princess’s eyes flick slowly past your shoulder.
Whitaker clears his throat.
Santos presses her lips together, the corners twitching like she’s fighting for her life not to laugh.
“What?” you repeat, glancing over your shoulder.
And there he is.
Your attending—standing just a few feet from the nurse’s station, tablet still in one hand, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he looks at you over the top of them.
Your stomach drops so violently it feels like all your organs have fallen out of your body.
He clears his throat.
Once.
“Alright,” he says evenly. “Back to work.”
That’s all it takes.
Perlah and Princess busy themselves on the other side of the nurse’s station.
Whitaker rushes off toward triage.
Santos lingers just long enough to give you a look that promises she will never let this go before she slips away too.
And then it’s just you.
And him.
He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just adjusts the tablet in his hand, pulls his glasses off, folds them into the pocket of his scrubs, and turns away.
And as he steps away, you could almost swear you see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Almost as if he’s fighting a smile.
But that would be ridiculous, right?
It takes an embarrassingly long time for you to remember how to move.
How to function.
You can feel Perlah and Princess watching you. Waiting for you to do something other than stare at the spot your attending had been standing when you announced your sex dream about him to the entire department.
God.
This has to be some kind of HR violation.
Robby is probably on his way to find Dana right now so she can tell you to go upstairs and talk to someone about misconduct. If you’re not fired, you’ll be transferred.
Or worse—night shift.
You gasp and fumble for your phone, pulling it out of your pocket.
Abbot's message thread is already open when you swipe up and start typing.
What’s that supposed to mean?
Then you hit send and tuck your phone away again.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but maybe if you can talk to Abbot and explain that this was all just one giant misunderstanding, maybe he can convince Robby not to hate you for it. Maybe he can convince Robby to let you finish your residency at PTMC without it being painfully awkward for both of you.
Because as funny as this is to Santos and the nurses, you’re not so sure Robby will see it that way.
Not when you’ve let it affect your work.
Not when you just embarrassed him—and yourself—in front of the entire emergency department.
You draw in a slow breath and grab your tablet off the desk.
All you can do now is your job.
All you can do for the next hour is avoid Robby and pray Abbot will hear you out when he comes back on shift.
You turn deliberately toward the North hallway and pull up the lab results for Whitaker’s dizziness patient, keeping your eyes fixed on your tablet as you walk.
The department hums around you like it always does—monitors beeping, beds rolling past, nurses calling out vitals—but you can still feel eyes on you. Whether it’s the nurses or the med students, or even a patient who overheard your outburst, you know you’re being watched.
Whispered about, probably.
But if you don’t look up, it doesn’t count. Right?
By the time you circle back to central, Mrs. Alvarez has already been discharged, which you take as a small mercy. Then you duck into South Fifteen to check on a teenager with a sprained ankle who is mostly interested in whether he can still play soccer this weekend. After that it’s a quick review of labs for a chest pain patient in Central Ten—normal troponins, thank God—and a brief stop at the nurse’s station to sign off on discharge instructions Dana has already printed.
None of it requires you to look up very much.
Which is ideal.
You spend the next half hour moving steadily from room to room—listening to a set of lungs for a persistent cough in North Three, answering a worried daughter’s questions about her father’s blood pressure in South Twenty-Two, and checking a set of repeat vitals on a dehydration case Princess flagged earlier. Every task is perfectly ordinary. Completely routine.
And through all of it, you make a very conscious effort not to look for your attending.
Not that you’re avoiding him.
Obviously.
You’re just… busy.
You still see him, though—across the hall, talking to patients, nodding along while med students present. He doesn’t look up. Never looks at you. Just keeps walking, keeps working, keeps nodding.
Like nothing happened.
And somehow, that’s worse.
You’re on your way back from dropping discharge paperwork at the front desk—walking a little slower than you should as you wonder how long until the end of your shift—when McKay calls out from triage.
“Hey, you busy?”
You stop mid-step. “Always. What’s up?”
“Can you grab me a suture kit?” she asks. “I’m out in here.”
“Of course. What size?”
“Four-oh nylon. Whatever's closest.”
You nod. “On it.”
“And maybe send a med student to grab more from supply,” she calls as you walk away.
You don’t reply. You just duck into Trauma One—thankfully empty—grab a kit, then call out to Ogilvie on your way back, telling him to go get more suture kits for triage as soon as he’s free. You don’t even wait for him to answer, but you do hear him turn to a nurse and ask where supply is.
You wedge your tablet under one arm as you head back toward the triage bay. With the kit held against your chest, you start peeling back the sterile packaging—since you know McKay’s already halfway through cleaning whatever it is she needs to suture up.
You’re just being helpful.
But the plastic seam is stubborn, and just as you turn into the bay the wrapper gives with a jerked tear—and the scalpel slides free.
You shift to catch it, but the blade grazes the inside of your upper arm before you can pull away.
“Oh—shit.”
It’s not dramatic. Just a sharp sting at first, and for a second you assume it’s nothing more than a scratch.
Until the warmth starts to trickle down your arm and drip from your elbow.
“Damn,” you sigh, watching a small droplet of blood hit the floor.
McKay glances up, eyes going wide. “What the hell happened?”
She quickly takes everything out of your hands, and you lift your arm to inspect the damage.
“Scalpel slipped.”
McKay winces. “That’s going to need stitches.”
Ignoring the confused patient still sitting in the triage chair, she grabs a wad of gauze off the cart and presses it against your arm.
“Hold this,” she says. “I’ll go get someone to take over here, then we can—”
“It’s alright,” a familiar voice says from somewhere behind you. “I’ll deal with this.”
Your stomach drops.
“Oh.” McKay glances over your shoulder, the corner of her mouth twitching. “Thanks, Dr. Robby.”
Fuck.
You turn slowly, one hand still clamped over the gauze on your arm.
He’s already so close—barely half a step away—and you have to tip your head back to look up at him.
“Let me see,” he says, voice low.
You hold your arm out obediently.
His fingers brush yours as he peels back the gauze, and your pulse jumps.
“Alright.” He nods once, something indistinguishable flickering across his face. “That needs stitches.”
Before you can respond, his hand closes lightly around your wrist, guiding your arm back toward your side as he turns you with him.
“Come with me.”
The touch is brief, professional—but when his hand shifts to the small of your back to steer you out of triage, the warmth of it makes your heart stutter out of rhythm.
“Dana,” he calls, walking quickly through central. “What’s open?”
Dana looks up from the desk just as the two of you pass. Her gaze flicks from the gauze on your arm to Robby’s hand still resting lightly at your back, and something sharp and knowing slides into her expression immediately.
“Central Eleven just got cleaned,” she says.
Robby nods once. “Thanks.”
Dana’s brows lift just a fraction as she watches the two of you step into the room, like she’s just connected several very interesting dots.
You move automatically toward the bed, trying not to feel disappointed when Robby’s hand leaves your back. He shuts the doors on both sides of the room, then slides the curtain closed—and every move makes your heart rate climb higher.
“Lay back,” he says.
Your whole body flushes with heat as you adjust yourself on the exam bed, trying desperately not to think about the other circumstances in which he might give you that instruction.
He rolls the stool beside the bed and reaches for your arm, turning it out gently.
His fingers are warm as he removes the gauze.
You try not to think too hard about his fingers.
“It’s a clean cut, at least,” he says after a second.
You nod. “Sharp blade.”
Like he didn’t already know that.
He releases your arm long enough to pull on a pair of gloves and gather what he needs from the tray beside the bed. You watch him move around the room with that same quiet efficiency that has been ruining your concentration all day—steady hands, calm voice, not a hint of hurry even though the department outside the door is probably chaos.
“Come a little closer,” he says, almost absentmindedly—as if he doesn’t know what saying something like that is going to do to you.
You shift against the mattress while he lifts your arm again, angling it under the exam light.
He’s so close now you can hardly breathe. You can feel his breath against your cheek, his warmth bleeding through the thin fabric of your scrubs, every touch careful as he starts cleaning the cut.
The antiseptic stings enough to make you tense.
“Easy,” he murmurs, steadying your arm. “It’s not that bad.”
“I’m aware,” you say quickly. “I do actually work here.”
“Yes,” he says mildly. “I’m aware of that too.”
You risk a glance at him then—and immediately regret it.
He’s standing now, leaning close enough that you could count every fleck of grey in his beard. Close enough to notice the way his glasses have slid slightly down his nose while he concentrates on the wound. His fingers move with careful precision as he prepares the needle driver, completely focused.
Completely calm.
Completely unaware that your brain is still stuck somewhere between the nurse’s station and a very inappropriate dream.
“Hold still,” he murmurs.
Your stomach flips—and when you squeeze your eyes shut, that exact moment from your dream flashes through your mind again.
The lidocaine burns for a second when he injects it, and you suck in a breath before you can stop yourself.
“Breathe,” he says automatically.
God.
If he could stop with the direct quotes from your dream, maybe you would actually be able to breathe.
You clear your throat, staring stubbornly at the wall now while he begins the first stitch.
“Try to relax,” he adds quietly.
You let out a short, incredulous laugh. “I’m trying.”
His hands pause for the briefest moment.
Then he glances up at you over the rim of his glasses.
“You of all people should know better than to open a suture kit while walking.”
You let out a small, embarrassed breath and shift slightly on the bed while he works, trying not to react every time the needle passes neatly through the edge of the cut.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “It’s been a weird day.”
“Mhm.”
The sound is absentminded, the same one he makes when a patient is explaining symptoms he already understands. His attention stays on your arm while he ties the knot and reaches for the next stitch, movements calm and precise, like this is the most ordinary thing in the world.
“You seemed a little distracted earlier,” he adds after a moment.
Your stomach tightens.
“Busy department.”
He hums again as he adjusts your arm slightly.
“Not exactly what I meant.”
You stare at the ceiling again, your pulse racing dangerously fast.
“It’s not unusual, you know,” he says after a moment, his voice calm and thoughtful as he works. “There’s actually quite a lot of research on it. In high-stress environments people’s subconscious tends to latch onto someone they admire rather than… straightforward attraction. It’s a way of organizing all that pressure—long hours, constant adrenaline, the need to trust the people around you.”
He pauses briefly to adjust the stitch.
You feel like you’re about to throw up.
“Hospitals are particularly good at creating that kind of dynamic,” he goes on. “Everyone’s exhausted, everyone’s relying on each other, and if there happens to be someone who seems steady in the middle of all that—someone people look to when things go wrong—it’s very easy for admiration to blur into something else.”
Another small pause, the thread tightening neatly under his fingers.
“It’s rarely intentional,” he adds, quieter now. “Most of the time the person experiencing it doesn’t even realise what their brain is doing.”
You finally look at him. His face is barely inches from yours, close enough that you can see the faint crease between his brows while he concentrates on the last stitch, all of his attention focused on closing the cut.
“Wait,” you say slowly. “So… I—I’m not fired?”
His hands still for the briefest moment before he glances at you, genuine confusion flickering across his face.
“Fired?”
You swallow. “For… you know. The thing I said. Out there. To the entire department.”
He huffs a small laugh—barely a breath.
“Why would you be fired?” he says mildly. “Embarrassing yourself in front of the nurses isn’t exactly grounds for termination.”
Your face burns.
He sets the needle driver down and reaches for the scissors, his tone settling back into that same calm, matter-of-fact rhythm.
“You shouldn’t have let it distract you from your work, though,” he continues. “That’s the only part I was concerned about. But one off day doesn’t suddenly erase an otherwise solid record.”
You stare at him.
“Concerned?”
“Mhm.”
He snips the suture, then reaches to adjust your arm slightly under the light, examining his work.
“First you were late,” he says, almost absently. “You were flustered during the chest tube. You’ve been avoiding traumas all day—” His eyes meet yours briefly. “And your attending. You’ve barely caught up on your charting, and you’ve unintentionally encouraged the nurses’ gossiping.”
Your stomach drops.
“Not to mention,” he adds, just a little drier now, “the pen you threw at Dr. Santos for—what? Teasing you, I presume.”
Your brain short-circuits.
Because suddenly, Dana’s voice echoes through your mind.
Careful, Robinavitch. You’re hovering.
Hovering?
Like the way he’d stood so close while you placed that chest tube. The way his hand had settled at your back when he guided you out of triage.
Why was he even there to begin with?
Santos’ voice cuts through your mind next.
I swear he’s got a soft spot for you.
I’m pretty sure he’d go there if you asked.
And suddenly the entire day looks… different.
Not like an attending keeping an eye on his resident.
Like a man trying very hard not to make it obvious he was paying attention to you.
Robby smooths the edge of the dressing over the sutured cut, pressing it down carefully as he glances back up at you.
“Keep that dry for the next—”
And that’s the moment your brain finally catches up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, your hand shoots out and grabs the front of his scrubs, fingers bunching the fabric at his chest as you pull him the few inches closer.
Then you kiss him.
It’s not graceful.
It’s barely even planned.
Just a quick, impulsive press of your mouth against his—warm and startled and over almost as soon as it begins.
For half a second, he doesn’t move at all.
“Oh—fuck. I—”
You drop his shirt like it’s suddenly on fire and lean back on the bed, horrified.
“I’m so sorry,” you blurt. “I don’t know why I just—”
The apology dies halfway through, because Robby hasn’t stepped away.
He hasn’t leapt back, shocked or offended. He’s just… there.
Where he was when you grabbed him—close enough that you can still feel his warmth, with one hand resting lightly near your arm where he’d been finishing the dressing. For a second he simply watches you, studying your face with the same quiet concentration he uses when he’s working through a diagnosis, like he’s trying to decide whether the last thirty seconds actually happened.
Your pulse is hammering.
“I shouldn’t have—” you try again.
His hand lifts.
The movement is slow, deliberate, and before you can finish your sentence his thumb and forefinger settle lightly around your chin, tilting your face upward just enough that you have to look at him.
Your breath catches.
He hesitates for the briefest moment, his gaze moving across your face as if he’s still weighing the decision.
Then he leans in.
The first contact is firmer than you expect—his mouth warm and solid against yours, the faint scrape of his beard against your skin as he adjusts the angle. His glasses are still on, the frame nudging the bridge of your nose when he shifts closer. His nose bumps yours before he tilts his head, finding a better position.
For a second it’s almost restrained.
Then it isn’t.
His grip on your chin tightens a fraction as he deepens the kiss, tipping your head back against the pillow while he leans over you. The change is sudden enough that your hands catch the front of his scrubs again without thinking. The fabric bunches in your fingers as he moves closer, the pressure of his mouth shifting—slower now but more certain, like he’s stopped pretending he’s about to pull away.
The beard you’d been trying not to notice all day brushes your cheek again when he moves, softer than you expected, and when his teeth graze your lower lip for half a second the sound that escapes you is embarrassingly honest.
He exhales quietly through his nose against your skin.
Not stopping.
If anything, the opposite.
His free hand comes down beside your shoulder on the mattress to brace himself as he leans over you, the movement tilting your head back further while his mouth finds yours again—deeper this time, the rhythm of it suddenly practiced enough to make your stomach flip.
Like this is something he hasn’t done in a while.
But definitely knows how to do.
And the entire time his thumb stays lightly under your chin, holding you exactly where he wants you while he kisses you like he’s still trying to decide whether this is a mistake—and losing that argument by the second.
You barely notice when he shifts closer again, the movement subtle but unmistakable, his hand tightening slightly against the mattress beside you as if he’s about to lean in further, about to let himself forget the door, the department, the fact that this is an exam room in the middle of a shift—
The curtain whips open.
“Been looking for you, Robinavitch—”
Abbot stops dead.
For half a second no one moves.
You’re still on the bed, Robby bent over you, your hands fisted in the front of his scrubs while his hand is still braced beside your shoulder.
Abbot’s gaze flicks from your grip on Robby’s shirt, to Robby’s face, to the dressing he’d just placed on your arm.
His eyebrows climb slowly toward his hairline.
“Well,” he says after a beat. “I wish I could say I'm surprised, but…”
Robby straightens immediately.
Not panicked. Not flustered.
Just very, very still for a second before he adjusts his glasses and steps back from the bed like he’d simply been finishing a routine procedure.
“Jack,” he says evenly.
Abbot folds his arms, the corner of his mouth already curling upward.
“Michael.”
The silence stretches just long enough for the humiliation to fully settle in.
Abbot glances at you again, then back at Robby.
“Should I come back later,” he asks mildly, “or are you two… just about done here?”
The heat that floods your face is instantaneous, and you slide off the bed so fast you nearly fall.
“Don’t get it wet for twenty-four hours, stitches out in a week unless there’s redness, swelling, drainage, fever—I know the drill,” you ramble, slowly backing toward the door.
Robby has already turned back to the tray, calmly disposing of the suture needle like none of this is remotely unusual. Only the faint redness creeping up the back of his neck gives him away.
Abbot doesn’t move. He just stands there, arms folded, with a look of deep theatrical satisfaction on his face.
“This,” he says pleasantly, “is exactly what I meant, by the way.”
Your stomach drops.
“What?”
His brows lift.
“Your text.”
Your eyes widen.
Abbot tilts his head, studying you for a moment before glancing toward Robby again.
“I mean, honestly,” he adds. “I leave you two alone for what—ten hours?”
“What day shift does is none of your business, Dr. Abbot,” you mutter, trying to slip past him.
Abbot’s mouth twitches.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” he says. “It seems very much like my business now.”
You snort, the sound escaping before you can stop it.
“Don’t be jealous,” you say, glancing over your shoulder as you step out the door. “He’s still your boyfriend.”
Behind him, Robby drops the gauze into the bin and gives a quiet shake of his head, laughing softly despite himself.
“That’s my girl,” he murmurs.
Abbot’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Your girl, huh?”
Robby scrubs a hand over his beard and turns away.
“Shut up.”
You’re not sure you were supposed to hear that last bit—but it makes your heart race anyway.
The second you step into the hallway, the emergency department crashes back in around you—monitors beeping, nurses calling for labs, a stretcher rattling past that you have to dodge. Almost like the last fifteen minutes never happened at all.
“Hey, Doc,” Princess calls from the nurse’s station. “North Five, dizziness patient’s daughter is looking for a doctor, but Whitaker’s stuck in chairs.”
“And Javadi needs you in South Seventeen,” Perlah adds. “Something about a rash.”
“Oh—and imaging’s back on your sprained ankle kid,” Santos says. “He’s asking when he can get out of here.”
You nod. “Uh—right. Okay, yeah. I’ll just—”
“Hey,” Dana cuts in, appearing beside you. “You okay? How’s the arm?”
You blink down at the fresh dressing like you’d almost forgotten about it.
“Oh. Yeah. It’s fine.”
She studies it for a second before her gaze drifts up to your face—and her brow lifts.
“Uh-huh,” she says slowly.
You frown. “What?”
“Nothing,” she says lightly, starting to walk away. “Just thought that looked like beard burn.”
She gives a small shrug, then glances back over the top of her glasses.
“But I know my doctors are far too professional for that.”
Your entire face goes hot.
You open your mouth—then close it again, because there is absolutely nothing you can say to that without making it worse.
Santos leans across the desk at the nurse’s station, squinting at your face.
description: you and your attending butt heads—and it’s no secret around the ED that Dr. Jack Abbot is harder on you than the other residents. He pushes you further, critiques you sharper, expects more—and you’re done with it. Just as you’re about to go to Dr. Robby to request a switch to days and finally put some distance between you and him, your patient—and his patient—tests positive for COVID-19. Suddenly, you’re both exposed, and with hospital protocol leaving no room for argument, you have no choice but to quarantine together.
tags/warnings: 18+, forced proximity, implied age gap, power imbalance (reader is a senior resident but abbot is still technically her boss), quarantining when no one does that anymore, tension tension tensionnn, fine line between hate and horny, headstrong reader, mutual pining
A/N: i DONT WANT TO HEAR IT THAT THIS IS UNREALISTIC. It’s fun and it’s my fanfic I’ll cry if i want to and u know you’d quarantine in abbot’s house too if given the chance
AS OF 4/9/26 I DONT HAVE A TAGLIST. Pls follow @meep-updates and turn your notifications on <333 the tags aren’t fully working so i want to make sure everyone gets notified
exposure || day 1 || day 2 || day 3 || day 4 || day 5 || day 6 || day 7 || day 8 || day 9 (12am) || day 9 || day 10 || day 11 || day 12 || day 13 || day 14 ||
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Pairing: Michael Robinavitch x Chronically ill!F!Reader
Summary:
You hide inhalers in coat pockets and scars beneath scrubs. You hide the way you've been in love with your attending for years.
You tell yourself it's professionalism. Survival. Pride.
You never wanted to be the inspirational story.
But when Robby is the one holding your hand while you can't breathe it becomes impossible to keep pretending you don't matter to each other.
Word count: 12,5K
Rating: Teen and up
Tags/Content warnings: chronic illness, medical trauma, hospitalization, ICU stay, mentions of death, medical procedures, slow burn, mutual pining, somewhat medically realistic, hidden disability, recovery, caretaking, Robby being protective, vulnerability, fluff, confessions, angst with a happy ending, hurt/ comfort, second person POV, no use of Y/N
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AN: Finally managed to finish a draft 🥹 Sorry for the long silence, I am still crazy busy with real life stuff, but for now enjoy this one. Also: I've gotten through my DMs and added people to the taglist, haven't gone through the comments yet, so if you're not on it you can either comment here again or just wait till I have time to look through the other comments, sorry for the inconvenience 😞 Anyway. hope you enjoy this one 💚
You wake up already tired.
Not oh, the weight of existence tired but the practical, bone-deep exhaustion that settles in your chest before your eyes are even open. Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. You can tell because the room is still quiet, the city outside your window holding its breath in that narrow hour before morning traffic starts screaming again.
Your lungs feel… tight. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like someone’s cinched a belt one notch too far and left it there overnight.
Fantastic.
You stare at the ceiling for a moment longer than you should, negotiating with yourself.
Okay. We’re not panicking. We’re not catastrophizing. We are simply acknowledging that breathing is currently a conscious activity.
You swing your legs out of bed anyway.
The floor is cold. You wince, more out of habit than pain, and shuffle toward the kitchen, shoulders already hunched forward like you’re trying to protect something fragile inside your ribcage. Which, rude as it is to admit, you are.
Meds first. Always meds first.
You line them up with mechanical precision, hands steady because they have to be. Inhaled corticosteroid, long-acting beta agonist—the familiar plastic weight of the inhaler fits your palm like muscle memory. You exhale fully, lips tight around the mouthpiece, inhale slow and deep until your lungs protest, then hold it there.
One Mississippi. Two. Three.
Your chest burns faintly, the way it always does. You tell yourself that means it’s working.
Spiriva next. You hate this one—the dry powder catches sometimes, makes you cough if you rush it—so you don’t. You take your time, breathing carefully, deliberately, like your lungs are temperamental animals that might bolt if startled.
Then the pills. The rattle of the bottle is too loud in the quiet apartment. You swallow them with lukewarm water, chasing them down like they might try to escape.
Supplements follow. Vitamin D. Magnesium. The illusion of control.
By the time you drag yourself into the bathroom, your chest has loosened just enough to be functional. Not comfortable. Functional. You’ll take it.
The mirror reflects someone who looks… fine. That’s the infuriating part. No obvious signs of weakness. No visible struggle. Just you, hair pulled back, dark circles softened by fluorescent light, scrubs hanging off your shoulders like armor you’ve worn long enough to forget the weight of.
You brush your teeth while mentally running through the day. Trauma call. Likely understaffed. Definitely overcrowded. The usual.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
By the time you badge in, the ER is already loud.
Not chaotic—not yet—but vibrating with barely contained energy. Monitors beep in overlapping rhythms, stretchers line the hallways because rooms are a luxury you no longer pretend to have, and someone is already arguing with triage about wait times.
You step into it and the noise swallows you whole.
This is the part of the day where you stop noticing your lungs.
You move through trauma bays with practiced ease, voice sharp and steady as you give orders that land clean and precise.
“Two large-bore IVs.”
“Let’s get a FAST exam.”
“Type and cross, now, not eventually.”
Your hands are sure. Your brain is faster. You crack a dry joke at a intern whose gloves are on backward, just to cut the tension, just to keep everyone breathing—metaphorically, at least.
The tightness in your chest is there, a low hum beneath your sternum, but you ignore it the way you ignore a hundred other discomforts. Hunger. Thirst. The ache in your feet. All negotiable. All secondary.
From the corner of your awareness, you feel Robby.
He doesn’t hover. He never does. He stands at the periphery, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed, eyes tracking everything—you included. He steps in only when necessary, when something teeters just slightly too close to the edge.
You pretend not to notice the way his gaze lingers a beat longer than strictly professional.
Dana passes you near the med room, voice low as she falls into step beside you.
“You’re gonna burn yourself out, kid.”
You don’t slow down. Don’t look at her. Don’t give the comment the dignity of consideration.
“After sign-out,” you reply, already moving toward the next crisis.
She snorts. “Sure.”
Later—or what feels like later, though time in the ER is elastic and cruel—Robby corners you at the board. Literally corners, planting a hand against the wall so you can’t just slide past him like you usually do.
“You should take a break.”
You don’t look up from the chart. “I’m fine.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
You finally meet his eyes then, irritation flaring sharp and quick. “I didn’t realize this was a therapy session.”
His jaw tightens. Not angry. Concerned. Which is worse.
“You’re running yourself into the ground,” he says quietly. “And you don’t have to.”
You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Funny. Because it feels like I do.”
For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you hums with unspoken things—looks held a second too long, proximity justified by medicine but charged with something else entirely.
Then a monitor alarms down the hall.
You slip past him. “Duty calls.”
He watches you go.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
That night, the locker room is mercifully empty.
You peel off your scrubs, muscles aching now that adrenaline has finally abandoned you. The quiet presses in, broken only by the distant echo of the ER and the harsh hum of fluorescent lights.
That’s when the cough hits.
Harder than usual. Deeper. It claws its way up from your chest, sharp enough to make you brace a hand against the bench until it passes. You breathe through it, slow and controlled, waiting for your lungs to remember how to behave.
They do. Eventually.
You straighten, grab your bag, and head out.
No one notices.
You prefer it that way.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
You call out sick for the first time in years.
The realization lands with a strange, hollow feeling—not guilt, exactly, but disbelief. You stare at your phone after sending the message, half-expecting someone to knock on your door and accuse you of fraud.
Nice try, an imaginary charge nurse says. Get your ass in.
But no one does. The apartment stays quiet. Too quiet.
You’re back in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, your chest buzzing with that low, angry tightness that never fully lets go. Your skin feels too warm, like you’re wrapped in damp wool. Feverish, definitely. Congested. Wheezy in a way you recognize and resent.
Upper respiratory infection, you decide firmly. Unpleasant, inconvenient, but not dramatic.
You’ve treated a thousand of them. You know the script.
Your phone vibrates.
Samira: You okay?
You consider typing a reassuring lie. You settle for something vague.
Yeah. Just wiped.
Another buzz.
Trinity: Don’t die, I don’t want your patients.
You huff out a breath that turns into a cough halfway through. “You’re all heart,” you mutter to the empty room.
Then a private text lights up your screen.
Robby: Check in when you can.
You stare at it longer than the others. There’s no joke. No emoji. Just concern stripped bare of pretense.
I’m fine, you think reflexively. Then, more honestly: I don’t want to be seen like this.
You set the phone facedown on the mattress and close your eyes.
Sleep comes in fragments. Fever dreams and shallow dozing, your breathing loud in your ears, every inhale a little too deliberate. You wake coughing, you wake sweating, you wake convinced you forgot something important—an order, a chart, a patient—before remembering you’re not there.
Good, you tell yourself. You’re allowed to be a person today.
Sometime later—you’re not sure when—you wake up wrong.
Not groggy-wrong or disoriented-wrong. This is sharper. Immediate. Your eyes fly open and your body knows before your brain catches up.
You can’t breathe.
Not it hurts to breathe. Not this is uncomfortable.
You gasp, chest heaving, and nothing comes in. Your lungs feel like they’ve turned to stone, frozen mid-exhale. You suck in air again, harder this time, panic spiking hot and fast—
Nothing.
“Oh,” you rasp, the sound barely audible. “Oh, that’s… bad.”
Your heart is racing now, pounding so hard it shakes your ribs. You fumble for your inhaler on the nightstand, fingers clumsy, vision already starting to blur at the edges. You press it to your mouth, inhale sharply, trigger the dose.
Once.
Twice.
It does nothing.
The wheeze worsens, a high-pitched, traitorous sound you recognize from textbooks and trauma bays—from other patients. You sit up too fast and the room tilts violently.
Okay, you think dimly. We are officially outside the home management plan.
For one dizzying second, a cold, awful thought slices through the fog.
If I pass out before I call for help, this is how people find me.
The idea snaps something into place.
Your hands are shaking as you grab your phone. The screen swims. It takes two tries to unlock it. Dialing 911 feels surreal—like an out-of-body experience, like you’re doing this for someone else.
You’re vaguely aware of how bad you must sound. You’re very aware of how little air you’re moving.
The minutes stretch unbearably long. Every breath is work. Your fingers tingle. Your vision tunnels further, the room dimming around the edges like someone’s slowly closing a lens.
Then—distant but unmistakable—sirens.
Relief hits you so hard your eyes burn.
The knock at the door is loud, urgent. You manage to get up, legs weak but functional, and fumble it open.
The paramedics take one look at you and move fast.
“Hey, hey,” one of them says gently, already slipping an oxygen mask over your face. “We’ve got you.”
You nod, or think you do. The cool rush of oxygen feels like mercy, like something you don’t deserve but are taking anyway.
They help you toward the stairs. You make it exactly three steps before your legs betray you completely, buckling without warning.
“Whoa,” someone says, and suddenly you’re being lifted, strong arms cradling you like you weigh nothing at all.
“I can walk,” you protest weakly, mortified even now.
“That’s okay,” the other medic replies, kind but firm. “You don’t have to.”
You cling to that sentence as they carry you down, fear finally punching through the professional detachment you’ve clung to all night.
You’re scared.
Not abstractly. Not clinically.
Viscerally, achingly scared.
And for the first time in a very long while, you’re not the one in control.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
You arrive at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center barely coherent, which feels unfair considering you know this place blindfolded.
The automatic doors part and the world assaults you all at once—fluorescent lights drilling straight into your skull, the echoing clatter of gurney wheels, overlapping voices that refuse to separate into anything intelligible. Everything smells like antiseptic and plastic. Your chest tightens again, sharp and panicked.
Great, you think distantly. Dying at work.
Your hands are trembling. You try to slow your breathing, but your lungs refuse to cooperate, shallow and frantic like a bad parody of respiration. Someone says your name. Someone else says your oxygen saturation. Numbers float past your awareness without sticking.
Then—
“Hey. Hey. I’ve got you.”
Robby’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade through fabric.
It’s immediate. Instinctive. Your brain latches onto it with embarrassing desperation. You don’t even have to look to know it’s him—the exact cadence, the low steadiness he uses when everything’s about to go to hell and he needs people to listen.
You turn your head, or try to. The movement makes the room tilt unpleasantly.
There he is.
Robby is suddenly everywhere. One second he’s at your side, crouched slightly so his face is level with yours, the next he’s reaching for an oxygen mask, snapping instructions over his shoulder.
“Non-rebreather. Fifteen liters. Now.”
Someone moves fast. Someone always does when Robby sounds like that.
The mask settles over your face, cool plastic against your skin, elastic snapping into place behind your head. Oxygen floods in, sharp and dry. You suck it down greedily, but it barely helps. Your chest still burns. Your breaths still stutter.
Robby’s hand finds yours. His fingers are warm, solid, anchoring. His thumb brushes across your knuckles in a small, grounding motion that he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing.
You cling to it anyway.
“Robby—” you manage, voice muffled and pathetic beneath the mask.
“I know,” he says immediately, leaning closer. His eyes flick over your face, sharp and assessing, but his voice stays calm. “Don’t talk. Save your air.”
You want to argue—you always argue—but another wave of breathlessness hits and steals whatever retort you’d planned. You nod instead, which feels like a personal defeat.
You’re dimly aware of IV access being established—a sharp pinch in your arm, the practiced efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times. You feel hands adjusting monitors, stickers tugged onto your skin, leads snapping into place. The beeping of the monitor grows louder, more insistent.
Robby glances up at it, then back at you.
“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “Okay.”
You don’t like that tone. You’ve heard it before. Usually from the other side of the bed.
Your lungs refuse to improve. The oxygen feels decorative at best.
You see the moment he decides.
It’s subtle—a tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders square—but you recognize it instantly. The same expression he gets when the plan changes from let’s see to we’re doing this now.
He straightens and speaks clearly, decisively.
“Noninvasive isn’t cutting it. We’re intubating.”
The words land with an odd sense of inevitability. You’re too tired to be scared. Mostly you’re annoyed.
Robby leans back into your space, one hand still holding yours.
“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “Listen to me.”
You force your eyes to focus on his. They’re dark, intent, threaded with something you don’t let yourself name.
“We’re going to help you breathe,” he continues. “I’m going to give you some sedatives. I’ll be right here the whole time.”
You snort weakly despite yourself, which turns into a wheeze.
“Lucky me,” you rasp, then pause to drag in another shallow breath. “Always wanted… the VIP experience.”
His mouth twitches despite the tension.
“That’s you. Always angling for special treatment.”
They tilt your bed back slightly. Gravity is not your friend. The room swims.
As they prepare, you watch with a detached, professional fascination. Laryngoscope. ET tube. Syringes drawn up with practiced speed. It’s surreal, recognizing every step while being utterly powerless to stop it.
Robby takes the laryngoscope from the tray. His movements are precise, economical — no wasted motion. He steps closer, positioning himself at the head of the bed.
You look up at him, at the concentration etched into his face, and the absurd thought occurs to you that he’s very handsome when he’s about to take over your airway. Your brain immediately follows it with: Focus. You are actively suffocating.
He meets your eyes again.
The meds are ready. You feel the cold sting as they push something into your IV. A creeping heaviness starts at the edges of your limbs.
You gather what little air you can manage and murmur, breathless and crooked:
“If you chip my teeth…” you pause, fighting for air, “…pray I don’t survive.”
For half a second, something raw flickers across his face — too fast for anyone else to catch.
His mouth tightens.
“You’re going to survive,” he says, firm, almost fierce.
The room feels farther away now. Sounds dull, like you’re underwater. Robby’s hands come to either side of your face, fingers firm but gentle as he tilts your chin upward, positioning you just right. It’s oddly tender for such a clinical moment.
“You're okay,” he says, voice low and steady, right in your ear. “You’re doing great. Just let it happen.”
You want to tell him you hate that phrase. That nobody ever “does great” while being rendered unconscious.
But the words slip away as the medication deepens its hold.
The last thing you register is his thumb brushing your jaw — a grounding, reassuring touch — and his voice, calm and unwavering, anchoring you as the world dissolves into dark.
“I’ve got you,” he says.
And then there’s nothing at all.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
You wake up the way people always say you do in the ICU—confused, heavy, dragged back into yourself like you’re being reeled in through thick water.
The first thing you notice is the pain.
Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just… everywhere. Your throat feels like you gargled sandpaper. Your chest aches deep, bone-deep, the kind of ache that suggests your lungs are still offended you asked them to do anything at all. Every breath burns, shallow and cautious, like your body doesn’t trust itself anymore.
You blink.
The ceiling is wrong. Too white. Too close. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, a sound that feels personal, like it’s mocking you for waking up at all.
Then you realize what’s missing.
The tube.
Your tongue feels huge, your mouth dry, but there’s no plastic foreign object clawing down your throat. You swallow experimentally and immediately regret it. Pain flares hot and raw.
Fantastic, you think. I survived and my reward is feeling like I swallowed a cactus.
You turn your head slowly. Everything feels sluggish, like your brain is still half-asleep.
That’s when you see him.
Robby is sitting in the chair beside your bed, slumped forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he forgot what to do with them. His scrubs are wrinkled, darkened in places like he spilled something hours ago and never noticed. His hair is a mess. Not the intentional, charming mess—this is pure exhaustion. Dark circles are carved deep beneath his eyes, the kind that don’t come from one bad night but from too many strung together.
He looks wrecked.
The word lands with surprising weight. You’ve seen Robby after bad shifts. After codes that went sideways. After paperwork hell. This is different. This is hollowed-out.
For a moment you just watch him, stupidly fixated on the rise and fall of his chest, on the way his shoulders seem permanently braced for impact. You wonder how long he’s been there. The answer, you suspect, is too long.
Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets. The movement must register somewhere in the universe, because his head snaps up immediately.
“Oh—” He’s suddenly alert, halfway out of the chair before he seems to remember he’s human. “Hey. Hey.”
His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it properly in a while.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.
You try again, forcing sound past the burn. “Hh—”
He’s already moving. “Don’t push it. Easy. You were intubated for a bit, your throat’s going to be angry.”
Angry is a generous word, you think.
You take a shallow breath, gather whatever dignity you have left, and mutter, “Hope… You didn’t chip any teeth.”
There’s a split second where he just stares at you, eyes wide, like he’s not sure he heard that correctly.
Then he lets out a startled laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. It cracks out of him before he can stop it. He scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head.
“Jesus,” he mutters. “You wake up extubated and that’s your first concern?”
You try to smile. It probably looks terrible.
His laughter fades almost as quickly as it came, like it burned through its fuel and left ash behind. He sobers, eyes dropping back to you, expression tightening.
“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asks quietly.
The question isn’t accusatory. It’s worse than that. It’s hurt.
You stare up at the ceiling again, suddenly very interested in the fine cracks in the paint.
Your throat hurts. Your chest hurts. Answering hurts most of all.
“I didn’t want to be…” You pause, swallow, wince. “That story.”
He waits.
“You know,” you continue softly. “That inspirational story. Look at her, she’s so brave, living with chronic illness.” Your lips twitch. “Simply existing, but make it motivational.”
Robby exhales slowly through his nose.
“I didn’t want the pity,” you say. “The looks. The careful voices. People pretending they don’t see you counting your breaths.” You glance at him. “Didn’t want to be fragile.”
“You don’t get to decide that alone,” he says, not harshly—but firmly.
“I know.”
Silence settles between you, thick and humming with machines you don’t bother looking at. You already know what they’re doing. You don’t need the reminder.
Robby leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.
“You have no idea what it’s like,” he says, “to intubate someone you care about.”
That word lands hard.
Care.
It hangs there between you, heavy and unignorable. You feel it press against your ribs, right where breathing already hurts.
“I’m sorry,” you say, immediately. Too immediately. “I didn’t— I never wanted you to—”
“I know,” he interrupts, softer now. “I know.”
He reaches out, hesitates, then sets his hand over yours where it lies on the bed. His fingers are warm. Solid. His thumb rests lightly against your knuckles, not moving yet, like he’s afraid to assume permission.
“But,” he adds, eyes locking onto yours, “never do that again.”
It’s not a request.
You nod. “Okay.”
He watches you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then, with infinite care, he lifts his other hand and smooths two fingers back through your hair, tucking it away from your face. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts more than the illness. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.
Your eyes burn unexpectedly. You blink it away, annoyed.
“Hey,” you murmur, voice still rough. “If you’re going to hover, you could at least pretend I’m not your worst nightmare.”
A faint huff of a smile pulls at his mouth. “You already were,” he says. “This just confirmed it.”
You breathe—carefully—and let the quiet stretch again.
“I was twenty-five,” you say suddenly.
He stills, thumb beginning its slow, absent sweep over your knuckles.
“Halfway through med school,” you continue. “Finally felt like my life was… moving forward.”
You swallow.
“Then I got diagnosed.”
Hospitals. Tests. More hospitals. You list them clinically, like reciting labs. Pneumonia that didn’t respond to antibiotics. A lung that decided it was done participating. Surgery. Recovery. Rehab. Months of learning how to breathe without panicking. Months of medication adjustments, side effects, alarms, inhalers, checklists.
“And now,” you finish quietly, “I’m here. Years later. And my lungs are still trying to kill me.”
Robby doesn’t interrupt once.
He doesn’t tell you you’re strong. He doesn’t say everything happens for a reason. He doesn’t offer platitudes or statistics or false reassurance.
He just listens.
His thumb keeps moving, slow and steady, grounding. When your voice falters, his grip tightens just a fraction, like an anchor.
“I’m tired,” you admit. “Of being careful. Of pretending this isn’t always in the background.”
“I know,” he says again.
For the first time since you woke up, you let yourself believe him.
The monitors hum. The lights buzz. The ICU breathes around you.
And Robby stays, hand in yours, like leaving was never an option.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
They move you out of ICU on a Tuesday that smells faintly of antiseptic wipes and rain.
The step-down unit is quieter, but only in the way a library is quieter than a nightclub—still full of noise, just less obvious. The monitors are fewer. The alarms less dramatic. No one is hovering over you like you might spontaneously decide to die out of spite.
Progress, apparently.
You sit propped up in bed, lungs still sore, ribs, staring at a beige wall that has absolutely nothing to say for itself. There’s a window, but it looks out onto a brick wall and the vague suggestion of Pittsburgh weather. Today’s forecast appears to be gray.
You are contemplating whether pudding counts as breakfast when there’s a knock—not a polite one, not a formal one, just a quick tap like the person on the other side already knows the answer.
Robby slips in anyway.
Of course he does.
He’s not in scrubs today. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers that have definitely seen things. He looks… off-duty, which feels illegal somehow. Like spotting a teacher at the grocery store buying frozen pizza.
“Good,” he says immediately, scanning you with his eyes in that clinical-not-clinical way. “You’re sitting up. They finally trusted you with gravity again.”
“Barely,” you say. “I could still topple. It would be dramatic.”
He smirks, then lifts the brown paper bag in his hand.
“I come bearing gifts.”
You eye it suspiciously. “If that’s hospital pudding—”
“It is not,” he says, affronted. “I have standards.”
He sets the bag on your tray table and pulls out a small plastic cup with a peel-off lid. Chocolate pudding. The good kind. Smooth. Dark. Definitely not something that came from the nutrition department.
You feel something warm and traitorous bloom in your chest.
“Oh,” you say weakly. “Real pudding.”
“Real pudding,” he confirms. “Procured legally. No bribes were involved. Probably.”
You laugh before you can stop yourself, a short sound that immediately turns on you. Your chest tightens. A cough claws its way out.
Robby’s smile vanishes.
“Hey—easy,” he says, already moving closer. His hand hovers, uncertain, like he’s trying to remember which version of you he’s allowed to touch. “Slow breaths. In through your nose.”
You obey, because apparently your autonomy packed up and left sometime during intubation. The cough passes, leaving you annoyed and vaguely embarrassed.
“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You made me laugh. This is your fault.”
“I’ll live with that,” he says, but his brow is still creased. He watches you for another few seconds, like he’s waiting for the universe to take another swing.
When it doesn’t, he relaxes a fraction.
He pulls the visitor chair closer, spins it around, and sits on it backward, arms folded over the backrest. It’s casual. Too casual. Like this is just something he does—drops by your hospital room with contraband pudding and concern he pretends is professional.
“So,” he says. “Step-down unit. Big milestone.”
“I miss ICU,” you say solemnly. “The constant surveillance. The thrill of wondering which alarm is for me.”
“Ah yes,” he deadpans. “Very relaxing.”
You peel the lid off the pudding. The smell alone is enough to make your eyes close for a second. When you take the first bite, you make an involuntary sound that is frankly undignified.
Robby grins.
“There it is,” he says. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”
You swallow. “I could cry.”
“Please don’t,” he says. “I don’t think I’m equipped to handle that.”
You eat slowly, savoring it, aware of him watching you like this is the highlight of his day. Which is ridiculous. He is a grown man with a job and a life and approximately eight million other things he could be doing.
And yet.
“So,” he says, leaning back slightly. “You want to hear something incredibly stupid?”
“Always,” you say. “I’m bored and medically fragile.”
“Matteo tried to flirt with a patient,” he says.
You pause mid-spoonful. “He what now?”
“This one was actively vomiting,” Robby adds.
You choke on pudding this time. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Please tell me Dana saw.”
“Oh, Dana saw,” he says with relish. “Dana nearly murdered him. I thought she was going to use the IV pole.”
You laugh again, softer this time, more careful. Your chest protests but allows it.
“What did he say?” you ask.
“He told the patient she had ‘beautiful eyes.’”
“While she was vomiting.”
“While she was vomiting.”
You shake your head. “Bold strategy.”
“He’s lucky she didn’t throw up on him out of spite.”
“Or attraction,” you say. “Who can tell.”
Robby snorts. The sound surprises both of you. He looks down, like he’s embarrassed by his own amusement.
For a moment, it’s just that. You. Him. Pudding. Ridiculous ER gossip. It feels… normal. Too normal.
Domestic, your brain supplies unhelpfully.
Dangerous follows right behind it.
You shift slightly, the sheets rustling. You’re painfully aware of how small you feel in this bed, how your body still doesn’t quite feel like yours. How he’s seen you at your worst—gray-skinned, gasping, unconscious.
And still he’s here, telling you stories like this is just another shift overlap.
“Why are you really here?” you ask lightly, because if you don’t make it a joke it will sound like something else.
He doesn’t answer right away.
He tilts his head, considering you in that careful way he has.
“I was nearby,” he says finally. “Thought I’d check in.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Nearby.”
“Very nearby,” he admits. “Okay, I came on purpose.”
There it is.
Your stomach flips, traitorous again.
“Well,” you say. “Good thing you had a medically relevant excuse.”
“Nutrition is essential care,” he agrees.
Another silence settles, not awkward, just… full. You can hear the soft beep of a monitor down the hall. The murmur of voices at the nurses’ station. Life going on without your permission.
Robby shifts closer without realizing it, his knee nearly touching the bed. His voice drops.
“You scared the hell out of us,” he says.
Us.
You look at him, closely. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tension he hasn’t quite shaken. The way his hands are clasped together, tight.
“I know,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” he asks.
“For being dramatic,” you say. “For making you all work so hard.”
He exhales, something like a laugh, something like a sigh.
“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t apologize for almost dying.”
“Fine,” you concede. “I’ll apologize for the coughing.”
“That I’ll accept.”
You finish the pudding. He takes the empty cup without comment, like this is a routine you’ve done a hundred times.
Something domestic. Something dangerous.
He stands, lingering.
“I’ll come by again,” he says. It’s not a question.
You nod. “Bring vanilla next time.”
He smiles, soft and genuine, and for a moment you forget you’re in a hospital at all.
“Rest,” he says.
“You say that like it’s optional.”
He hesitates at the door, then glances back.
“I’m glad you’re still here,” he says simply.
So am I, you think.
You don’t say it out loud.
He leaves, and the room feels quieter without him—like something essential has stepped out and taken the oxygen with it.
You lie back against the pillows, heart a little too full, lungs a little too tight, and think, not for the first time, that this is going to complicate everything.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Robby’s arrival announces itself with the unmistakable crinkle of plastic and the soft, conspiratorial thunk of a bag being set down like contraband.
You don’t even look up at first.
“I swear to God,” you say, staring at the television that’s muted and playing a cooking show you cannot hear and would not watch even if you could, “if that’s another pudding—”
“It’s not pudding,” he says, far too pleased with himself.
That gets your attention.
You turn your head slowly, suspiciously, and there he is—leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there, hoodie half-zipped, badge flipped backward, holding a clear plastic sleeve of brightly colored popsicles.
Popsicles.
Your brain takes a moment to reboot.
“…Robby,” you say carefully. “Where did you get those.”
He grins. Not sheepish. Not apologetic. A victory grin.
“Pediatrics.”
You stare at him.
“You stole from sick children,” you say flatly.
“I liberated,” he corrects. “Two. Maybe three. They won’t miss them.”
“They’re children,” you hiss. “They’re ill. They’re tiny.”
He shrugs, entirely unrepentant, and steps farther into the room, already tearing open the sleeve.
“Worth it.”
You snort before you can stop yourself. “You’re going to hell.”
“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I’ll be warm.”
He hands you one—red, still frosty, the plastic already slick with condensation. It’s absurdly cheerful against the sterile beige of the room.
You take it. Of course you do. You are weak and cold things taste good.
“You’re lucky I’m not strong enough to report you,” you say.
“You are absolutely strong enough,” he counters. “You’re just morally flexible.”
You peel the plastic open and take a tentative lick. Cherry. Artificial in the best way.
Your eyes close for half a second.
“Oh no,” you murmur. “This is good.”
“Told you,” he says, smug. He pulls a chair closer but doesn’t sit, perching on the edge like he might bolt at any moment. “Ice helps with inflammation.”
“You stole medical supplies,” you accuse.
“I practiced medicine creatively.”
You take another lick. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”
He watches you with a soft, fond expression that makes your stomach do something unnecessary and unhelpful.
“How are you feeling today?” he asks, quieter now.
You roll your shoulders experimentally. “Like my lungs were sandpapered. But upright. Which feels like winning.”
He nods. “Good.”
There’s a beat. Comfortable. The unit hums around you—distant call bells, a cart rattling past, the low murmur of voices. Normal hospital life. You are still here to hear it.
“So,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Want to hear the stupidest thing that happened last night?”
You sigh happily. “Desperately.”
He rubs his hands together, already gearing up.
“Okay. So. We get this patient—middle-aged woman, chest pain, nothing dramatic at first. Comes in clutching this carrier.”
You frown. “Carrier.”
“Carrier,” he confirms. “She tells triage it’s her emotional support animal.”
“Please tell me it wasn’t a ferret.”
“Worse,” he says solemnly. “A pigeon.”
You freeze. Popsicle halfway to your mouth.
“No.”
“Yes.”
You stare at him. “Like. A city pigeon?”
“Like,” he says, nodding, “a full-grown, extremely confident pigeon.”
“Oh my God.”
“We’re trying to get her settled,” he continues, eyes bright now, clearly relishing this. “Dana asks her to keep the carrier closed. The woman says he gets anxious.”
You already know where this is going.
“She opens it,” Robby says.
You cover your mouth. “Oh no.”
“And the pigeon,” he says, gesturing broadly, “immediately launches.”
You laugh—a sharp bark of a sound that surprises you.
“He starts flying around the trauma bay,” Robby says. “Wings everywhere. Feathers. One of the interns screamed. I think Matteo ducked.”
“I would have paid money to see that.”
“Dana tried to shoo it with a clipboard,” he adds. “Like that was going to help.”
You laugh again, harder this time. “What did security do?”
“They refused,” he says. “Said it was a ‘personal boundary.’”
That does it.
You laugh properly now—head tipping back, chest shaking, a real laugh that feels good for exactly half a second before your lungs decide to revolt.
The sound catches. Breaks.
Your chest tightens abruptly, breath stuttering. The laugh turns into a cough, sharp and uncontrollable, each one scraping your throat raw.
Robby is on you instantly.
He drops down into a crouch beside the bed, all humor gone, one hand firm and warm against your back. His palm settles between your shoulder blades like it’s always belonged there.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got you. Easy.”
He rubs slow, steady circles, grounding, instinctive. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just there.
“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “In through your nose. Out slow.”
His touch doesn’t waver, pressure consistent, reassuring.
“Sorry,” you rasp between breaths. “Stupid—laughing—”
“Shh,” he says. “Not stupid. Just breathe.”
You follow his lead, inhaling carefully, counting it out. The fit eases, leaving you shaky and embarrassed and painfully aware of how close he is.
His thumb presses gently, grounding you back into your body.
“There you go,” he says quietly.
When the coughing finally subsides, you sag back against the pillows, exhausted. He doesn’t move his hand right away. You don’t ask him to.
“Pigeon got caught eventually,” he adds softly, like an afterthought. “Landed on the crash cart. Refused to move.”
You huff weakly. “Of course he did.”
Robby smiles, still crouched there, still rubbing your back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. Just… lungs throwing a tantrum.”
“They do that,” he says.
You look down at him then. The concern in his eyes. The care he’s pretending isn’t personal.
“You’re going to get caught stealing popsicles,” you say faintly.
“Worth it,” he repeats.
You believe him.
And that, somehow, is the scariest part.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Robby shows up this time with coffee.
Real coffee.
You know it’s real before you even see it—the smell hits first, rich and dark and almost obscene against the sterile hospital air. It cuts through disinfectant and plastic and the faint sadness of overcooked vegetables like a promise.
You lift your head slowly, wary. Hope is dangerous.
He nudges the door shut behind him with his foot, both hands occupied: one paper cup, double-lidded, and a small tower of sugar packets tucked precariously under his arm like an offering.
Your eyes narrow.
“…Is that,” you say, “actual coffee?”
“Actual,” he confirms solemnly. “From the cafeteria. Not the vending machine one that tastes like mop water.”
You push yourself a little more upright, interest thoroughly piqued. “And the sugar?”
He dumps the packets onto your tray table. There are… many.
You count automatically. One. Two. Three. Four—
“Robby,” you say faintly. “This is enough sugar to kill a small horse.”
He shrugs. “I didn’t know your dosing.”
“I am not a hummingbird.”
“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, already popping open packets. “You look fragile.”
“You’re trying to kill me,” you accuse.
“I’m trying to make you happy,” he corrects. He stirs, hands you the cup.
It’s warm. Solid. Comforting in a way that borders on emotional manipulation.
You take a careful sip.
Your eyes widen.
“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh wow.”
“Yeah?”
“That’s… aggressively sweet.”
He grins. “Good.”
You sip again, slower this time, savoring it. It tastes like mornings you don’t have anymore. Like being awake on purpose. Like normalcy.
You sigh. “I might cry.”
“Please don’t,” he says. "I'll panic."
He pulls the chair close again, this time actually sitting, stretching his legs out beneath the tray table like he’s planning to stay awhile.
He watches you drink, something gentle in his expression, something that makes your chest feel tight in a different, quieter way.
“You know,” he says casually, “doing ER residency with your FEVs is either very bold or very stupid.”
You choke on the coffee slightly—not coughing, just sputtering in surprise.
“Wow,” you say. “Good morning to you too.”
“I mean,” he rushes on, holding up a hand, “respectfully.”
“Ah yes. Respectfully calling me an idiot.”
He smirks. “I prefer ‘optimist.’”
You lean back against the pillows, cradling the cup. “In my defense, becoming a pulmonologist felt a little too on the nose.”
He laughs. “Fair.”
He tilts his head, studying you. “So why emergency?”
You hesitate, just a beat. The question isn’t invasive. It’s curious. Genuinely so.
“I was almost done with it,” you say finally. “My internal medicine specialty.”
He nods. “Almost.”
“I wasn’t happy,” you admit. “I was good at it. But it didn’t… fit.”
He waits. Doesn’t rush you. You appreciate that more than you should.
You stare into the coffee, watching the surface tremble slightly with each breath you take.
“You know what they tell you when you’re thinking about putting your dog down?” you ask.
He blinks. “That took a turn.”
“Quality of life matters more than quantity,” you say. “They tell you to stop counting days and start looking at joy.”
He exhales slowly. “That’s bleak.”
“No,” you say, immediately, more firmly than you expect. You look up at him now. “Think about it.”
He does. You can see it on his face.
“Dogs don’t know,” you continue. “They don’t sit around catastrophizing. They just… wag their tails. They go full tilt for every scrap of joy they can find.”
He smiles despite himself.
“A sandwich crust,” you say. “A good walk. Someone coming home.”
You gesture vaguely with the coffee cup, sloshing a little dangerously.
“I want to live like that,” you say. “Like I don’t know when it ends, but it could be soon, so I better enjoy the sandwich crust.”
Robby’s smile fades into something softer. Something more careful.
“I want to treat every day like it’s the last good one,” you add quietly. “Like I’ve still got time to chase a ball.”
The room feels very still.
He looks at you like you’ve just said something important and he’s afraid to mishandle it.
“You’re making me sad about an imaginary dog,” he says finally.
You laugh.
A real laugh.
It comes out smooth and unbroken, no coughing, no sharp edge afterward. It startles you both.
You pause, blinking. Then you laugh again, just because you can.
“Oh my God,” you say. “Did you hear that?”
“I did,” he says, eyes bright. “Small miracles.”
You grin at him. “I've always suspected you had a soft spot for animals.”
He scoffs lightly. “Untrue.”
“Mm,” you hum. “This feels like confirmation.”
He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Don’t tell anyone.”
“Your secret’s safe,” you say, lifting the cup in a mock toast.
For the first time in days, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.
You feel like you’re just… here.
Chasing the ball while you still can.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Discharge planning happens the way everything in hospitals happens: abruptly, between alarms, with a clipboard shoved gently but firmly into the space of your life.
The nurse perches on the edge of the chair, pen poised, eyes kind but efficient. She has the voice of someone who has learned to ask difficult questions without sounding like she’s asking anything at all.
“So,” she says, glancing down the checklist. “Who’s helping you at home for the first few days?”
The room hums. Ventilation. Footsteps in the hall. A cart rattling past with a tray of untouched Jell-O cups.
You look down at your hands because they are safe and familiar and currently doing nothing incriminating. Your IV tape is peeling at the edges. There’s a faint bruise blooming underneath, yellow and purple like a bad watercolor.
“My family’s…” You pause, because the sentence wants to end dramatically and you refuse to give it the satisfaction. “…far.”
Geographically far. Emotionally far. Functionally useless in a crisis. Take your pick.
The nurse nods, already writing something, and for half a second you think that’s going to be it. That she’ll circle home health consult and move on. That this will be solved with pamphlets and a phone number and the gentle implication that you are, technically, an adult.
“I’ll drive her.”
Robby’s voice lands in the room like it’s always been there.
You look up.
He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, wearing the same hoodie he’s been wearing for three days straight, the one with the frayed cuff he never notices. He looks tired in that specific ER-doctor way—wrung out but alert, eyes sharp, posture deceptively relaxed. Like he’s braced for impact even while offering help.
He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He looks at the nurse. Calm. Certain. No qualifiers.
The nurse blinks once, then smiles. “Okay,” she says easily. “That works.”
Of course it does. Of course the universe accepts this without question. Of course Robby saying it makes it real.
You open your mouth, ready to object on principle—something about independence, something about being fine, something deeply unconvincing—and then you close it again.
Because you’re tired.
Because you don’t want to navigate stairs alone.
Because your lungs still feel like they’re negotiating with you rather than cooperating.
Because a small, traitorous part of you wants to see what happens if you don’t push him away this time.
Robby glances at you then, just briefly. His mouth tilts, not quite a smile.
“We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly, like this is already settled.
You swallow. Nod once.
The nurse finishes her notes, explains medications you already know by heart, gives you the look that says don’t be brave at home, and disappears back into the controlled chaos.
When the room finally empties, the silence feels louder than the alarms ever did.
“You didn’t have to—” you start.
“I know,” he says immediately. “I wanted to.”
There it is. No argument. No martyrdom. Just a fact.
You sigh. “You’re going to get sick of me.”
He snorts. “Bold of you to assume I’m not already.”
You roll your eyes, but it comes out weak. He steps closer, reaches for the bed rail, steadying it while you shift. His hand brushes your wrist—accidental, probably—and you hate how much you feel it.
He keeps showing up after that.
Not in grand gestures. In quiet invasions.
The first time you come home, your fridge is empty in that way that feels more like an accusation than a fact. You sit on the couch, breathing carefully, cataloging all the things you should do and won’t.
The next morning, there are groceries.
Not dropped dramatically on your counter. Not announced. Just… there.
Soup you actually like. Crackers that don’t taste like despair. Fresh fruit. A stupidly expensive brand of electrolyte drink you once mentioned offhand in the break room.
You stare at the bags for a long time.
You do not text him.
He doesn’t mention it.
Later, when he stops by “to check in,” he pretends not to notice you eating the soup. You pretend not to notice him checking your breathing without looking like he’s checking your breathing.
Nothing is said.
Everything is understood.
He sits in the armchair like he belongs there, scrolling through his phone, telling you about a patient who insisted on keeping a lizard in his hoodie pocket. You listen, half amused, half exhausted, your body slowly unclenching in ways you didn’t realize it had been holding.
Your breathing gets easier.
Not perfect. But easier.
You catch yourself taking deeper breaths without thinking about it. Laughing without immediately coughing. Sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch.
Emotionally, too.
That’s the part that scares you.
Because illness is familiar. You know how to be sick. You know the rules. You know the exits.
This—being cared for, quietly, without obligation or expectation—this feels dangerous.
You watch him from the couch, the way he moves around your kitchen like he’s already memorized it. The way he washes his hands automatically. The way he glances back at you every few minutes, like a reflex.
You think, dryly, Ah. This is how people get into trouble.
Your chest tightens—not from bronchospasm this time, but from the creeping realization that you’re letting this happen. That you’re not stopping it.
That you don’t want to.
Robby looks over. “You okay?”
You force a shrug. “I feel like someone who was discharged from the hospital less than a week ago.”
He smiles, soft and knowing. “Fair.”
You lean back, close your eyes, let yourself breathe.
And for the first time since you landed in that trauma bay, the fear isn’t about whether your lungs will hold.
It’s about what happens if your heart does.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
The sink chooses that moment to betray you.
It doesn’t do anything dramatic—no geyser, no catastrophic failure—but there’s a steady, petulant drip from the cabinet below, the kind that suggests it’s been happening for a while and you’ve been politely ignoring it out of mutual disrespect.
You notice it because Robby notices it.
He pauses mid-sentence, head tilting. “Do you hear that?”
You do not look toward the sink. You know better. “Hear what.”
“That,” he says, already crouching.
“Robby.”
He opens the cabinet door. The drip becomes visible, obscene in its persistence. A slow bead of water gathering, falling, splashing into a warped plastic container you shoved under there weeks ago with the full intention of dealing with it eventually.
He straightens slowly. Looks at you.
“How long has this been leaking?”
You consider lying. Decide you are too tired to construct a believable narrative.
“A while.”
“A while as in—”
“Time perception is subjective,” you say mildly.
He stares at you.
You add, “I was going to call someone.”
“When?”
“When I could breathe without bargaining with my alveoli.”
He exhales through his nose, already rolling up his sleeves. “I’m fixing it.”
“You absolutely do not have to—”
“I’m fixing it,” he repeats, firmer this time, like he’s announcing a trauma protocol.
You push yourself up from the couch, wobble slightly, and immediately regret it.
“Sit,” he says without looking at you. “Actually—no. Sit on the floor. I don’t want you passing out and cracking your head open.”
“That’s very romantic of you.”
He shoots you a look over his shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”
You sink down onto the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, legs stretched out. The tile is cool through your sweatpants. You tell yourself this is fine. You tell yourself you are absolutely not watching the way his forearms flex as he reaches under the sink.
You are offering moral support. This is a noble position.
“You know,” you say, “I could call a plumber.”
“And wait three weeks while it turns into a mold ecosystem?” He reaches into the cabinet. “No.”
“You’re a doctor.”
“I’m a man with YouTube and a basic sense of spite.”
Water drips onto his knuckles. He hisses quietly.
“See,” you say. “This is where I’d stop.”
He glares at the pipe. “I’m not losing to a sink.”
You tilt your head back against the cabinet, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His hoodie has ridden up slightly, a sliver of skin visible at his waist. You think, unhelpfully, This is how people end up emotionally compromised.
“You really don’t have to do this,” you try again, softer.
He pauses. Crawls back out from under the sink and sits on his heels, looking at you properly now.
“I know,” he says. “I still want to.”
Something in your chest shifts. Not tight. Not painful. Just… exposed.
You clear your throat. “Well. I’m here for… encouragement.”
He snorts. “Thrilling.”
“I can say things like ‘good job’ and ‘wow, you’re so capable.’”
“That would help tremendously.”
He goes back under the sink. You watch his legs stretched out behind him, the ridiculous domesticity of it all. This is not an ER. There are no alarms. No urgency. Just a man fixing your sink because he decided you shouldn’t have to deal with one more broken thing.
Your brain tries to make a joke out of it. Your heart does something quieter and more dangerous.
“How’s it going?” you ask.
“Ask me again in five minutes.”
“I’m very good at waiting.”
He laughs, muffled by the cabinet. The sound warms the room more than the radiator ever has.
You rest your chin on your knees, breathing slow and steady. The drip stops.
“Hey,” he says. “I think I got it.”
You lean forward, peering into the cabinet like you have any idea what you’re looking at. “I never doubted you.”
“Liar.”
“Okay, I doubted you briefly.”
He emerges, wiping his hands on a towel, hair slightly mussed. He looks… pleased. Ridiculously so.
“Fixed,” he declares.
You smile up at him. Real. Unguarded.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Anytime.”
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
Eating together becomes a thing without either of you ever calling it that.
At first it’s practical. Necessary. You need calories; your lungs are burning through them like they’re fuel in a failing engine. Robby insists, in the same tone he uses to insist patients take their antibiotics, that soup alone does not constitute a meal.
“This,” he says one evening, setting a container on your table, “is not dinner.”
“It’s warm and it has sodium,” you counter. “What more could a woman want.”
“Protein.”
“I had crackers.”
He just looks at you. That look. The one that says I will absolutely die on this hill.
So you eat together.
Sometimes it’s takeout he brings under the pretense of having “ordered too much.” Sometimes it’s something embarrassingly domestic—pasta, scrambled eggs, toast with peanut butter because that’s all either of you has the energy for. You sit at the small table by the window, knees occasionally knocking under it, your apartment dim and soft in the evenings, the city humming faintly outside like background noise you’re both too tired to notice.
Sometimes you talk.
Sometimes you don’t.
On quieter nights, you chew slowly, deliberately, focusing on breathing between bites. Robby doesn’t fill the silence. He just eats, glancing at you now and then like he’s monitoring something important but invisible.
It’s comforting. And irritating. Mostly comforting.
Then there are the nights with the TV.
It starts innocently enough. You’re curled on the couch, blanket tucked around your legs, when he flips through channels with the vague indecision of someone who has opinions but no solutions.
“You can put something on,” he says.
“I did.”
He squints at the screen. “Is this… Grey’s Anatomy?”
“Yes.”
He looks at you like you’ve admitted to a minor crime. “You don’t even like hospital shows.”
“I like this hospital show.”
“They defibrillate asystole,” he says flatly.
You smile sweetly. “I don’t watch it for accuracy.”
“What do you watch it for?”
“The drama.”
He groans, dropping back against the couch. “They’re all sleeping with each other.”
“That’s the point.”
“That’s not a point.”
“It’s a soap opera with scrubs,” you say. “Let people live.”
He gestures at the screen as Meredith Grey launches into a monologue about love, loss, and something metaphorical involving elevators. “This is ridiculous.”
“And yet,” you say, spooning another bite of food into your mouth, “you’re still sitting here.”
“I’m eating.”
“You could eat anywhere.”
He opens his mouth, closes it. Scowls faintly.
You hide a smile behind your fork.
You argue about it the way you argue about everything—half serious, half performative. He complains about the medical nonsense; you complain about his lack of imagination. He insists real life is dramatic enough; you tell him real life is exhausting and fictional drama is safer.
“At least on TV,” you say, “the worst thing that happens is someone gets amnesia or married to the wrong person.”
He snorts. “That’s not the worst thing.”
“You’ve clearly never been married to the wrong person,” you say dryly.
He quiets at that, just for a moment. Then the show cuts to commercial and he clears his throat.
“You want dessert?” he asks, like an offering.
You glance at the clock. At your half-empty plate. At the way your chest feels—tired but steady.
“Sure,” you say. “If you don’t judge me.”
“I will absolutely judge you,” he says, already standing. “But quietly.”
He brings back ice cream. You eat it straight from the container, knees tucked up, the spoon clinking softly. He leans back, one arm along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel his warmth without touching.
You realize, distantly, that this has become routine.
That you expect him now.
That when he doesn’t show up until later than usual, you feel it like a skipped heartbeat.
You tell yourself this is temporary. Recovery-adjacent. A kindness with an expiration date.
You also tell yourself a lot of lies.
The episode ends. Another starts. You breathe easier than you have in weeks—physically, yes, but also in the quieter, more treacherous way.
Robby glances down at you. “You good?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
And for once, you mean it.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
It happens on a Thursday, which feels important only in retrospect.
You’re halfway through an episode you’ve seen before—something dramatic is happening, someone is crying attractively in a stairwell—when you notice the silence beside you has shifted. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy kind.
Robby’s head has tipped back against the couch cushion, mouth slightly open, breath slow and even. His reading glasses are still on, crooked now, sliding down the bridge of his nose. One arm is folded across his chest, the other dangling loosely at his side like he just… powered down.
You stare.
For a long moment, you assume this is a trick. That if you move, he’ll wake up and make a comment about how terrible your show is.
He does not move.
The TV murmurs on. The apartment is dim except for the blue glow of the screen and the faint orange light from the streetlamp outside. The radiator clicks. The city breathes.
You lower the volume slowly, bit by careful bit.
Still nothing.
“Well,” you whisper to yourself. “That’s new.”
You shift closer, your movement deliberate. Your lungs cooperate, which feels like a small miracle. You reach out and hesitate, fingers hovering near his face.
You have done harder things than this. You have intubated people. You have held pressure on bleeding arteries. And yet.
You slide the glasses off his face with exaggerated care, holding your breath like that might help. They come away easily. He stirs, brow furrowing slightly, then relaxes again.
Unfair, you think. Completely unfair.
He looks younger asleep. Softer. The perpetual tension in his jaw has eased. His lashes rest against his cheeks, ridiculous in their length. You feel something tug in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs.
You set the glasses on the coffee table. They make the faintest click.
He doesn’t wake.
You stand slowly, joints protesting, and fetch the blanket from the back of the chair. The one you usually reserve for yourself. You drape it over him, adjusting it around his shoulders, tucking it in without thinking.
You freeze halfway through, your hand resting briefly against his chest.
Steady. Warm.
You pull back like you’ve touched something hot.
The TV keeps playing, muted now. You sit on the other end of the couch, knees drawn up, watching the familiar scenes unfold without sound. You’re not really watching, though. You’re watching him, out of the corner of your eye, like this might be temporary and you need to memorize it.
This is nothing, you tell yourself firmly. This is just a tired man on a couch. This does not mean anything.
Your heart does not listen.
Sometime later—hours or minutes, you’re not sure—you drift off too, head tipped to the side, blanket pulled around you, breathing slow and easy.
Morning comes quietly.
Light filters through the blinds, pale and early. You wake to the sound of movement.
Robby is sitting up, rubbing a hand over his face, hair sticking up. The blanket has slipped down around his waist. His T-shirt is rumpled. He looks disoriented, blinking like the world hasn’t quite come into focus yet.
He looks… good. Annoyingly so.
He notices you watching and stills.
“Oh,” he says. His voice is rough with sleep. “Hey.”
“Hey,” you reply, trying for casual and landing somewhere near fondly horrified.
He glances around. At the TV. The blanket. You.
“I, uh,” he says. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
You shrug, already standing. “You looked like you needed it.”
He watches you as you move toward the kitchen, tracking you like this is a new behavior he needs to understand.
“You didn’t wake me.”
“You’re welcome.”
You fill the kettle, set it on the stove. Your movements are practiced, automatic. You do not examine why this feels so natural.
“You have a shift,” you say.
He nods. “Yeah. I should—”
“Sit,” you interrupt, not looking at him. “Coffee first.”
He hesitates, then obeys, slumping back into the couch with a soft exhale.
You make the coffee the way he likes it. You know how he likes it. This is information you did not mean to acquire.
You hand him the mug. Your fingers brush. Brief. Electric.
“Thanks,” he says quietly.
You nod, pretending very hard that this doesn’t feel like something dangerous. Like something you might want.
He takes a sip, sighs. Smiles at you, small and real.
You turn away before he can see your face.
Domesticity, you think, is a slippery slope.
And you are already halfway down it.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
The doors sigh open like they always do, like the building itself is tired of breathing, and for a half-second you stand there wondering if it’s going to let you back in or spit you right back out.
The ER smells the same. Antiseptic and old coffee and the faint trace of blood. The lights are still too bright. The noise still lands a little too sharply in your skull.
Good. Familiar is survivable.
“Look who decided to rise from the dead.”
Samira is on you before you can make a clever remark—arms warm and firm around your shoulders, cheek pressed briefly against your temple. She smells like citrus hand sanitizer and cheap peppermint gum.
“You’re squishing my lungs,” you croak, because of course that’s what you say.
She pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes scanning your face with the clinical precision of someone who has watched you turn blue.
“Still funny,” she says, unimpressed. Then softer: “I’m glad you’re back.”
You swallow. Nod. Do not get emotional in the hallway like a Victorian child with consumption.
From behind her, Trinity appears. "I knew it.”
You blink. “Knew what?”
She grins, wicked and unapologetic. “I had twenty bucks riding on you pulling through.”
You stare at her.
“Wow,” you say. “That’s… touching. Did you at least hedge your emotional investment?”
She shrugs. “I’m an optimist. And a gambler.”
Samira snorts. “She also bet Dana you’d be back within two weeks.”
“That was a reasonable estimate,” Trinity says defensively.
You glance down at your badge, clipped back onto your scrubs like it never left, like none of this happened. Like you didn’t scare the hell out of half the department.
“Well,” you say dryly. “Sorry to disappoint the odds-makers.”
Then the shift starts. No fanfare. No easing in. Just a trauma alert overhead and the familiar surge of motion pulling you forward whether you feel ready or not.
You do. Mostly.
And Robby—
Robby is careful.
Painfully so.
He’s everywhere without being obvious about it. A hand on the gurney rail before you reach it. A quiet, “I’ve got this,” when a patient needs to be boosted. He steps in smoothly, redirects with a tilt of his shoulder, a murmur in your ear meant only for you.
“Let me take that.”
“I’ll grab labs.”
“Why don’t you run point from here.”
You notice every single time.
You hate that you do.
You bristle, a low-grade irritation buzzing under your skin, but you let it slide because the alternative is snapping at him in front of everyone, and that feels worse. Because he’s not wrong. Because your chest still feels like it’s lined with sandpaper some days. Because you don’t want to prove him right by keeling over dramatically next to Room Three.
Still.
You overcorrect.
You take the stairs instead of the elevator. You volunteer for one more consult. You talk too fast, move too much. You make a point of lifting things you absolutely do not need to lift, just to prove that you can.
Your lungs register their disapproval immediately.
Dana notices first. Of course she does. Dana notices everything.
She leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrow climbing slowly toward her hairline as she watches Robby intercept you again.
Interesting, that eyebrow says. Very interesting.
You pretend not to see it.
Later—much later, when the department settles into that uneasy late-shift rhythm, when the adrenaline dips and the exhaustion creeps in—Jesse sidles consideredly into the break room.
You’re halfway through your coffee. It tastes like mop water with a hint of caffeine. Comforting.
“So,” he says, casual to the point of suspicious. “You dating Robby?”
You choke.
Full-on aspirate coffee like a rookie. It goes down the wrong way, and suddenly you’re coughing hard enough to see stars, slapping the counter as if it personally betrayed you.
“What—no,” you rasp, when you can finally breathe again. “Jesus. Where did that come from?”
Jesse watches you with open amusement. “Just asking.”
“Don’t,” you say hoarsely. “Ask. Ever.”
He raises his hands. “Relax. It’s just… you know.”
You do not, in fact, know.
“He’s hovering,” Jesse continues. “Like a very competent, very intense mother hen.”
You glare into your coffee like it might offer answers. Or poison.
“He’s a colleague,” you say. “And I was sick.”
“Mmm.” Jesse nods. “Sure.”
You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Drop it.”
He grins. Drops it. Obviously files it away for later.
You leave the break room before your face can betray you further.
By hour ten, your chest is tight in a way you recognize too well. Not panic. Not yet. Just that creeping pressure, that subtle resistance when you inhale, like your lungs are quietly renegotiating their contract.
Your hands start to shake.
Just a little.
You tell yourself it’s caffeine. Adrenaline. Dehydration. Everything except what it actually is.
You keep working anyway.
You’re in a trauma bay, charting, when Robby’s voice cuts in softly behind you.
“Hey.”
You don’t turn around. “Hey.”
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
There’s a pause. You can feel his eyes on you, assessing, cataloging details you wish he’d miss.
“You’re breathing shallow,” he says. “And your hands—”
You clench them into fists. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not breathing right.”
That one lands.
You straighten, bristling. “I’m breathing fine.”
He exhales through his nose, sharp. “Come with me.”
Before you can argue, his hand is at your elbow—not rough, but insistent—and he steers you down the corridor, past curious glances, past the noise and chaos and beeping life support of the department, until he shoves open a stairwell door.
It slams shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot.
The stairwell smells like dust and disinfectant and old concrete. It’s quiet in the way hospitals never really are—muffled, sealed-off, like you’ve stepped into a pocket outside of time.
Robby turns on you.
He’s furious.
Not loud-furious. Worse. Tight-furious. His hands are clenched at his sides, shoulders rigid, eyes bright with something sharp and dangerous and very close to breaking.
“What were you thinking?” he demands.
Your hackles go up instantly. Reflex. Survival.
“What was I thinking?” you snap. “I was thinking it’s my first day back and I didn’t want to be treated like a patient.”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” you cut in, heat flaring in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs. “You don’t get to manage me like a liability.”
His mouth opens, then shuts. For a second you think he might actually shout.
Instead, his voice cracks.
“I barely survived taking Adamson off ECMO,” he says, words coming out raw, unarmored. “I watched that man hover between here and gone for weeks. Doing that to you—” His breath stutters. “That would destroy me.”
The world tilts.
That stops you cold.
You really look at him then. The red-rimmed eyes he’s been pretending aren’t there. The tension carved into his face like he’s been holding himself together with stubbornness and caffeine. There are tears shining, unshed but very much present, clinging to his lower lashes.
Oh.
This isn’t about protocols.
This is fear. Naked and shaking and standing right in front of you.
Your chest tightens for an entirely different reason.
“Hey,” you say softly, stepping closer. Your hands come up without thinking, cupping his face, thumbs warm against his jaw. He leans into the touch like he’s been falling and finally found something solid.
“Look at me,” you murmur.
His eyes flick up, searching.
“You’re not losing me,” you say. Steady. Certain. “I’m still here. I’m stubborn. You know this.”
A broken sound slips out of him—half laugh, half sob—and then he’s kissing you.
It’s not careful.
It’s not polite.
It’s desperate.
His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding his breath all day and only just remembered how to inhale. There’s anger in it, and fear, and this aching, unspoken don’t leave me that pulses through the contact.
You gasp, startled, and he makes that small, fractured sound against your lips—like something inside him finally gave way—and suddenly your back is against the wall, cool concrete biting through your scrubs as he crowds in close.
You kiss him back.
Hard.
Your fingers fist in his scrubs, dragging him closer, closer, like proximity alone might stitch him back together. His hands are everywhere and nowhere—at your waist, your shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of your head as if afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t keep a hand on you.
Your lungs burn, but you don’t care. You’re dizzy with it—him, the taste of peppermint and coffee and something unmistakably Robby. The way he kisses like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he needs proof you’re real.
When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead presses to yours, breath uneven, yours matching it.
For a second, neither of you speaks.
Then reality taps politely on the glass.
“We need to get back,” he says, voice rough.
“Later,” you reply immediately, without opening your eyes. “We’re talking later.”
He huffs a weak laugh.
You add, because it feels necessary, “You don’t get to kiss your way out of this.”
His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle and trembling.
“Damn,” he murmurs. “Worth a try.”
You smile despite yourself—soft, tired, resolute.
Yeah. You’re definitely not done with this conversation.
But for now, you straighten your scrubs, take a breath you probably should have taken an hour ago, and open the stairwell door—together.
⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖
After the shift, you talk.
Really talk.
It happens in that strange limbo after sign-out, when the department exhales and the noise dulls to a manageable hum. The lockers clang shut one by one. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall. The world keeps going.
You’re sitting on the edge of a bench in the staff room, shoes kicked off, feet aching, chest finally behaving itself. Robby stands across from you, arms crossed—not defensive, exactly, but contained. Like he’s afraid if he relaxes, something important might spill out.
You break the silence first. Of course you do.
“Okay,” you say. “We need to talk about… all of that.”
His shoulders tense. Then he nods. “Yeah.”
You tilt your head, studying him. He looks wrecked in the quiet aftermath way—eyes tired, jaw tight, hair flattened from running his hands through it too many times. He’s listening already, which is a good sign. Encouraging.
“You don’t get to act like my—” you search for the right word, then huff softly. “Like my keeper. Especially when we never named whatever this is.”
He flinches, just a little. Not from the words—more from the accuracy.
“I know,” he says quickly. “I crossed a line.”
“You were scared,” you say, not unkindly. “I get that. But fear doesn’t give you ownership.”
His gaze drops to the floor. He nods again, slower this time.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to make you feel… managed. Or trapped. Or like you owed me anything.”
You let that settle. Let him feel the weight of it, because he can handle it.
“Thank you,” you say. “And for the record—I will tell you if I’m not okay. You don’t have to read tea leaves.”
He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting all day to escape.
“I’m still learning,” he admits. “I’m better at protocols than… people I care about.”
You snort. “Shocking.”
That earns you a faint smile. Then he straightens, visibly bracing himself.
He takes a breath.
“I want to take you out,” he says. Clear. Direct. Terrifyingly earnest. “Somewhere not fluorescent. As a date.”
Your heart does a stupid, traitorous little skip.
You pretend to consider it, because you’re not a monster. Or maybe because you enjoy watching him sweat.
“Hmm,” you say thoughtfully. “A date.”
“Yes,” he says, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.
You nod slowly. “Okay.”
Relief flashes across his face so fast it’s almost comical.
“But,” you add, holding up a finger.
He freezes. “Okay.”
“I need a ride home.”
“…Okay.”
“And,” you continue, sweetly, “I need you to kiss me like that again.”
He blinks.
Once.
Twice.
Then color blooms across his cheeks—actual, honest-to-God blush. It spreads fast, like he’s lost a battle with his own circulatory system.
“Oh,” he says. Eloquently.
You grin. “Those are my terms.”
He rubs the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. “You drive a hard bargain.”
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