dusting off my keyboard

No, it's the sterile antiseptic odor that clings to everything. It reminds you too much of the morgue, the fact that Peanut came into the world without her goddamn father—

"Hey, momma."

The nurse that enters your room wears a warm smile. Princess, she had introduced herself earlier, offers you a cup of water before glancing at the crib where Peanut's finally resting. A shot of epinephrine later and the terrifying swelling and rash had receded.

"Thanks," you whisper as your attention goes right back to Peanut. She looks just like her dad, dark tresses and that stubborn little frown on her lips.

"We'll be transferring you and Peanut to the pediatrics wing soon, they're just clearing up a room," Princess reports softly. The use of your baby's nickname brings forth a little smile to your lips; once Peanut's been stabilized, the nurses that had been assigned to you absolutely adored the cute nickname.

"Thank you," you say again. "Really— you guys have been wonderful, thank you."

Princess smiles again and her hand is gentle when she squeezes your shoulder. "Our pleasure. I'll be around but we'll have someone come in to escort you and the baby to your next room, alright? Stay safe."

The door opens and the loud atmosphere of the ER bleeds into your room before silence reigns when the door shuts behind Princess.

—

Lena's just as stubborn as Dana if not more so when it comes to juggling not just the nurses but the mental states of her doctors. Despite handoffs just being completed moments ago and day shift is finally out, she immediately sends Jack over to complete menial tasks until he's up for anything else. Arguments die on his tongue with just a sharp look and he concedes.

"South 20, Dr. Abbot. Just needs an escort to Peds, poor mom looks scared to death."

And it isn't like he's oblivious to the patient he's escorting (mom in her early thirties with an eight month old infant, admitted with a peanut allergy and administered epinephrine according to the board and her charts), except he would've liked at least a warning at the knockout sitting by her child's crib.

Jesus, Abbot. Get ahold of yourself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Abbot," he says in a low voice, not wanting to startle you or your child but it proves futile when concern and worry filters across your features. "Nothing's wrong, don't worry— just here to escort you and your daughter here."

You relax back into your seat with a shaky smile. The presence of another doctor had your mind jumping to another conclusion. "Oh— yeah, okay. Thanks." Your gaze returns back to your sweet girl, the hives and swelling reduced to nothing (the nurses had insisted on keeping her overnight for observation) and the back of your finger glides along her chubby cheek. Her nose is a tad bit crooked. Just like Mikey's. "If your dad was here, Peanut, he would've laughed his ass off…" Even now, Michael's presence sits on your shoulders.

Jack chuckles and settles into a wheely stool, deciding to take his time to do his own vital checks. He recognizes your hesitation from moving immediately, assuming lifting your daughter out of the crib would wake her after what may have been an hour of quiet. "How come?" he muses quietly.

You open up despite your instinctive need to hold anything about Peanut or Mikey close. A smile widens upon your lips. "Before her, I thought I was pregnant and my boyfriend— Mikey— and I nicknamed them Peanut. Turns out it was just a pregnancy scare. But when I finally had this one, Peanut stuck. And the family I grew up with, we all had our own nicknames."

Jack's smile grows. "What's yours?"

"Honeybee," you reply with a little laugh. "I was, uh… seven, I think? Natalie, childhood best friend, was with me and this bee stung me. First time ever getting stung, I was crying my little eyes out and her brother Mikey carried me to the emergency room. When the swelling went down, Mikey teased me to lighten the mood. Called me Honeybee."

"Mikey…" Jack tries out the name, gives a knowing glance to your daughter, and you nod at the silent question.

"Yeah, as cliche as it is, I fell in love with my best friend's older brother."

"Lucky guy." The words escape him before his filter could catch up but before he could even apologize about the lack of professionalism, your laughter fills the small room.

You finally get to your feet to carefully lift Peanut into your arms. Jack grabs your purse and baby bag, hauling it over one shoulder with ease. "Oh, he knew it. His whole family made sure he knew it too," you say with a quiet grin, careful to not wake your daughter as Jack leads you out to the elevator.

"Is he around—?"

"No. He's … he died before he got to meet her." The words still feel too large for your mouth but they don't get stuck in your throat at least. "When she was born, I wanted her to have his last name even if I never had the chance."

"My late wife and I wanted kids but we kept putting it off, said we'll get our chance soon," he shares quietly as he hits the button that'll bring you two floors up to the pediatrics department. "Then she got sick and… well, we never did get the chance."

Your heart breaks as you unwind one arm from Peanut to rest a hand on his shoulder. "I know we've barely met but you'd be a great father, Dr. Abbot."

"Please, it's just Jack. And I know I barely know the two of you, but you're a wonderful mother. A true mama bear."

You falter but he nearly misses the way something passes through your eyes. The elevator doors slide open and he escorts you to the front desk where the pediatrician assigned to Peanut meets you. "Thank you again, Jack. Hope the rest of your shift goes by smoothly."

He gives you a crooked smile and nods, fights the sudden need to stick around until little Peanut gets discharged.

—

Throughout the length of his shift, his mind had continued to wander over to you upstairs in Peds, the way you carried yourself that isn't so dissimilar to McKay. He had jokingly called you Mama Bear during that elevator trip and the smile you'd given him after had been heartbreakingly tragic. In that short time he had you, you reminded him of himself.

By the time dayshift rolled around, his eyes flit over to the elevator.

Handoffs are painless but he tries to leave quickly, ignore Robby's questioning gaze. His friend's too observant for his damn good and Jack's not in the mood to be interrogated for his odd behavior.

"Heading out already?"

Robby has him slowing down right by the nurse's station. "Just about," he mutters absentmindedly before turning tail to circle back around. He cuts the distance through the emergency department with his backpack on to punch the 'up' button of the elevator. When he disappears behind it, the door closing and bringing him upstairs, Robby wanders off to Dana with a bemused grin.

"Did Lena say anything about Jack?"

A chuckle escapes Dana. "Not much. Maybe somethin' 'bout a cute mom… and peanuts."

"Peanuts?"

"Peanuts," Dana confirms. "Night shift's weird."

—

The elevator jolts to a stop a few floors above. The layout isn't as different to the ED, save for a few muffled wails; the Peds department is calmer than anything else. Jack steps to the closes nurse and asks for you, explaining that he's the physician that initially treated your daughter before the transfer.

"Berzatto, right?" The nurse confirms. "They're just about to get discharged—"

"Dr. Abbot?"

Despite your obvious exhaustion from spending nearly the entire night at a hospital, your smile's a lot lighter as you cradle Peanut to your chest. "Is everything okay?"

Jack smiles back, hard not to when you're looking at him like that. "Yeah, I wanted to see if you two were still here before I clocked off. Heading home?"

You give a grateful nod. "We're good, just about to order a rideshare."

"Were you two dropped off last night?"

"No, um— we got here by ambulance. We just moved here so no car yet," you admit with a little sigh.

Jack's mouth moves before his brain could keep up. "I'll drive you."

You freeze. "No—no, I couldn't intrude."

"It's fine, come on."

Eventually, you chalk it up to exhaustion when you give in without a fight. In the back of your mind, you can hear Mikey's voice, praising you for accepting help and not being a stubborn little shit.

With the help from Princess, you secure a car seat from a sweet social worker to install into Jack's truck before hopping into the passenger seat. After rattling your new address, he pauses and barks out a surprised laugh.

"You don't live too far from me" he muses and brings up the GPS on his screen to show his own address; he lives in the same building. "Nice neighborhood, good school district."

"I can't take all the credit, the condo's my uncle's," you admit with a soft laugh. "He's letting us live there. Hated that we moved so far from home but he gets it. He knows we needed a fresh start— even for a little bit."

The conversation turns light as Jack drives you and Peanut home.

—

Your condominium — or rather, Uncle Jimmy's — looks like a hotel suite … or it would be if it weren't for the smattering of unpacked boxes and baby material. Aside from that, it did look like a home owned by a man in his late fifties judging by the generically modern furniture.

Jack would know, he's almost fifty himself.

"Home sweet home," you sigh as you hang your keys by the hooks near the door. You pointed ignore the mirror that hangs in the walkway of the entrance; you know you look like shit. "Make yourself comfortable, I'm just going to put Peanut down."

Fortunately, Peanut stays asleep and you set up the baby monitor before heading back out. When you do, you find Jack in your kitchen. "Ah-ah—! No, I said I'd cook, didn't I? Go sit."

After the drive home, Jack had pulled into his assigned parking spot in the garage basement beneath when you had offered to make breakfast, thinking it's the least you could do since he'd driven you home. When he refused and countered that it hadn't been a hardship, that he was heading this way anyways, you rebutted with the fact that you were going to make food anyways and he may as well join in. Realizing that it's damn near impossible to say no to you, he had relented and followed you up into your place.

A chuckle escapes Jack as he reluctantly steps away from the stove to settle into the bar stool by your island counter. You move around your kitchen with an air of efficiency that goes beyond being a stay at home mother.

"Are you a chef?" Jack asks curiously, watches you bring out ingredients and plastic containers labelled in green tape.

"No. Well— maybe by proxy." You whisk the eggs through a mesh sieve before adding a pad of butter onto the preheated pan. "Mikey — Peanut's dad — owned the Beef of Chicagoland and he was a decent cook. He was the one that taught me how to cook my first meal."

The memory feels like a warm weight settling upon your shoulders, the edges tinged with sepia like a well-worn photograph you keep pulling out whenever Michael had begun to drift away in your heart. You were nineteen, home for the summer (home being the Berzatto household), and Mikey had been up already. He didn't ask, just started cooking, and when you lingered a little too close? He started teaching.

Jack recognizes the smile on your lips; it reminds him of the one that blooms across his lips when he thinks about his late wife. Eventually, you finish and plate at the island counter where he sits. You settle into the stool beside him, waits for him to take the first bite. When he does, he moans around his fork.

"That good?"

"Absolutely delicious."

—

When Jack returns home, he stares at your newly added contact on his phone.

"Bee, it's what everyone calls me," you had corrected him gently at the door when he addressed you by your name. "I've made you breakfast, that unlocked nickname privileges." When he asked what else he could do to unlock more privileges, you had giggled and told him to come back another time for it.

Breakfast becomes tradition now. Whether you make him something or he's cooking or even just stopping by to grab bagels, Jack is in your kitchen after his usual night shifts.

It's becoming something even day shift is picking up on.

"Is he… smiling?" Dana mutters beneath her breath as Lena packs up her own stuff, peeking above the rim of her glasses.

"He's been like that for a month now." Lena smirks as he circles around the nurse's station to prep for handoffs. "Think he's got someone?"

"Who's got someone?" Robby cuts in, his readers low on his nose as he leans against the counter, tapping away at an iPad.

Dana looks up. "Jack. Is he dating anyone?"

"Oh ho—definitely not my place," Robby chortles but there's a gleam in his eye that tells everyone he knows more than he'll ever admit. "Ask him yourself, ladies."

—

Peanut's babbling at her high chair as you and Jack eat breakfast a couple weeks later. It's become a routine of it that his presence doesn't feel so startling but rather a set piece of your mornings, his coffee mug clinking quietly against the marble counter while he peruses through the newspaper. Uncle Jimmy had bought the subscription for actual newspaper and never bothered to cancel it. While you use it as makeshift tarp when you manage to steal moments of solitude to paint, it's nice that someone is actually reading it.

"Tough shift?"

Your question, quietly posed, breaks through the silence and Jack glances up to give you a half-smile. He's been comfortable enough to show you this side of him, the brooding side that still craves company despite the horrors he might've witnessed at work. He nods. "You can say that."

"Want to talk about it?"

His hand reaches across to take yours, gives it a gentle squeeze. "I had a family arrive," he murmurs quietly, solemn and grave. "The fathers were in critical condition but the children…" You understood immediately and slide off your stool to stand between Jack's knees, carefully tugging his head into the crook of your neck for a tight hug. His breath huffs against your skin and your spine slightly bows backwards when his arms wind around you to lean his weight against yours.

"You did what you could," you whisper against his silver curls, nails dragging bluntly against the nape of his neck. You feel him shudder against you before he melts. A moment passes and he lifts his head from your neck. The look he gives you is unmatched, unbelievably raw as your hands gently bracket the sides of his neck and jaw.

"You're extraordinary, sweetheart."

He says it like fact, no room for argument as his hand clasps together at the base of your spine. "Jack…"

"No, I mean it. Extraordinary woman, amazing mother. Whole package," he says but the mood lightens, his genuine smile steadily returning as he gently rubs circles against your back. "Might even be an amazing date."

Your brow lifts in mild surprise. You should've seen it coming, him asking you out; Natalie had already maintained that your breakfasts with Jack should count as dates.

"Is this you asking me out?"

"Depends. Will you say yes?"

Peanut shrieks delightedly and the two of you turn with fond eyes, laughing as she slams her tubby little hands on her table.

"I think that means yes, mama—" Jack teases but when he catches the hesitation, his voice shifts into something tender. "I'm asking you and Peanut out, darling. Can't exclude my favorite girl."

Your heart thunders and you have to fight back tears with a little smile. "I say yes but you might have to convince Peanut," you tease lightly.

"Yeah?" He asks quietly with a little hopeful grin, leaning in to kiss your cheek. "Alright, it's a date."

Last Shift Lager Co. was a staple for those getting off shift at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. There were takeout menus in the break room for those who wanted to pick up lunch if they were so lucky as to be able to leave the hospital, but often they were for daydreamers who thought about what they’d order the minute their ass hit the barstool. Dr. Michael Robinavitch was one of those daydreamers.

Michael hadn’t always been a “beer girlie” as Trinity Santos had once dubbed him. In his younger years, he drank vodka with any fruit juice available to try to cut the taste. Once he was in college and eventually medical school, beer became his drink of choice on account of price. There had been a time during his residency in New Orleans that he went for harder beverages, mainly whiskey and scotch, due to the effects of Hurricane Katrina, but nothing beat the sensation of the pop of a can tab and hurrying to skim the froth off the top with a gentle slurp. He wasn’t convinced God was real, but he was convinced beer was a gift from God. This was especially true for the craft beer at Last Shift Lager Co.

Coming off a grueling shift, Michael slung on his Beers of the Burgh hoodie, an ode to his favorite beer festival. On his way out, he ran into Mateo, another member of the Pitt staff who was a regular of the brewery.

"Dr. Robby," Mateo nodded to him.

"Mateo," Michael nodded back.

"Heads up if you're headed to Last Shift," Mateo stopped him, hand out for a brotherly shake, "they hired a new bartender." Michael shakes his hand with a "thanks, brother," and continues on his way out. As he opens the door to the outside and takes his first solid breath of fresh air since his morning walk to work, he pops in his AirPods and scrolls through his Spotify. He ends up shuffling his Liked Songs and chuckles as All I Want To Do Is Make Love To You by Heart plays. He continues his walk and thinks back to the last time he heard this song.

It was June 2025 the last time Michael had listened to Heart and it was not by choice. He had been attending Beers of the Burgh alone, which also was not by choice. He had met a woman on some dating app Jack Abbot had insisted he tried and ended up being stood up after a phone call revealed his department was where the woman's father had passed. He hadn't even been on shift to his recollection. So there he was, alone on a picnic bench as the festival space began to pick up and a band was about to go on. He stared at the beer flight that was placed in front of him.

Nickelodeon - Hazy IPA (6.6% ABV)

Charlotte St. Foeder Pilsner - Pilsner (4.4% ABV)

Waffle Sauce - Imperial Brown Ale (8.2% ABV)

Pink Nightmare - Lager (5.3% ABV)

He didn't even know why he chose at least half of the beer on the board in front of him. Half of them were far too sweet and each time he took a sip of one it felt like regret. His hand moved to lift the imperial brown ale to his lips once more in an attempt to get rid of it, but stalled at the vision in front of him.

She was fucking Aphrodite. Venus. The epitome of Renaissance art of the Greco-Roman woman. Michael swore he felt his jaw drop as he subconsciously looked her up and down. The woman he was supposed to meet was certainly pretty, but her? She had to have been sent down by the same God that sent down his beloved beer.

"Excuse me," the goddess said gently to break him out of his haze. "Are you sitting with anyone? I can't find a table." He shakes his head out of reflex. "No, I'm not. Feel free to join me, I'll be on my way soon."

She takes a seat and as she swings her beautifully plump legs over the picnic bench, he can't help but take note of her white boots and the way they hugged her calves. This was also where he realized that he was the dirtiest old man he had ever known. Michael was a fresh 50, having just had a birthday. She was young; maybe half his age if not a little bit older. His stomach went from feeling tight with attraction to churning in a way that made him feel disgusting. Or maybe it was this brown ale he was so desperate to finish.

She sits with him in silence as she quietly goes to rearrange her beer on the board by color. He watches her manicured finger tips, a hot pink, as she shifts the glasses. He clears his throat and goes to start a conversation, knowing that this wasn't right but what did he have to lose?

"Got quite the variety there," he comments.

"Oh, yeah," she laughs nervously. "New to the area. Figured I should try a little bit across the different profiles to get familiar."

"Where from?"

"Detroit."

He nods impressively. "What are your breweries around there? I feel like I've tried something from," he stalls. "Shit, what was it? Sounds like Harry Potter bullshit..."

She laughs. "Griffin Claw?" His eyes light up. "That one!" The blush brought to her cheeks actually makes him want to hang on to her every word. "I actually used to brew with them. I was their cicerone," she informs him.

"No shit," he muses. "What made you leave?" She shrugs. "Change of scenery? My parents moved to Florida to retire, so I had to find a place. Heard there was a bumping beer scene up here and wasn't disappointed." He agrees with her in a quiet nod and they fall into a quiet lull. He has never wanted to pull noise from a woman's lips quite like how he wanted to pull it from hers. She was arguably wearing no makeup, but he had lined her lips and glossed them in a way that made it clear she was badass. If the broken-in western boots had not been Michael's first clue of how cool she was, the lip liner and gloss were the writing on the wall.

"Any advice on how to make these stomach-able?" He asks, still desperate to hear this young woman's voice. She didn't seem perturbed by him, so, again, what did he have to lose?

"Spin your board," she smirks, twirling her hot pink finger tips in her hair for an emphasis that screams she knew exactly what she was doing in more than one context. Upon inspection of his board, the goddess looks at him in pure confusion. "Seriously, man? You ordered them in this order?" His eyes widen, his heart beating out of his chest. "What's wrong with the way I ordered them?" She scoffs. "You did it ass backwards, old man...no offense."

He stares at her in shock as her manicured fingers adjust his tasters on the board like she had watched her do moments earlier with her own. "How is mine different than yours? You adjusted yours," Michael challenges. The goddess rolls her eyes. Of course, he had to challenge her. "Because mine are organized by flavor. They're all the same brew style and have a similar ABV. You have multiple brew types and ABVs, man."

The board spins around at him again. The order had practically flip-flopped.

Charlotte St. Foeder Pilsner - Pilsner (4.4% ABV)

Pink Nightmare - Lager (5.3% ABV)

Nickelodeon - Hazy IPA (6.6% ABV)

Waffle Sauce - Imperial Brown Ale (8.2% ABV)

"Oh..."

"Yeah, man. You're supposed to organize them by ABV first. That usually organizes them by type, too. Once you're organized by ABV and type, you can organize by flavor as I did. All of mine were ales. You have a crazy variety going on. Drink them from lightest," her finger points to the pilsner, "to darkest. I fear it's simple..." Her voice stalls, almost searching for his name to avoid calling him man again.

"Michael," he slips into the conversation. "Michael Robinavitch." Maybe too much information for a literal girl he met at a beer festival, but when in Rome...

"Michael Robinavitch," she murmurs, testing his name on her lips. He seriously thought he could combust, feeling as though Aphrodite had wrapped her cestus tight around his abdomen for safekeeping. She introduces herself and he can't help but test her name the same way she did with his.

It felt right.

It felt wrong.

It felt so wrong.

At some point, they continued to talk about beer. He learned about her history with brewing and the process of becoming a cicerone. She majored in history and minored in hospitality, her research focus for an honors thesis being the substitution of water with alcohol in ancient societies. He revealed his work in the emergency department, revealing which emergency department in the event she ever found herself in need of care while living in the city. This conversation was far more intriguing than any he had on that dating app Jack had insisted on...and it was so wrong.

At some point, he's purchasing them a new flight, insisting she needs to try all of his favorite beers from Southern Tier. They're both feeling warm. It's visible in his cheeks and her body language. The flight is gone and they find themselves getting closer across the picnic table. One statement about how she knew no one in town had him going to sit on her side of the picnic table. Any young girl should have had the right mind to tell him it was time for her to go, but one of those stupid cover bands hired by the festival began to play All I Want To Do Is Make Love To You by Heart and both of them were stuck.

"I have a minivan," she gulps.

His eyes darken.

She returns the boards and taster glasses.

They end up in the back of her minivan with no regrets. He's sliding a condom over his cock and she's drooling at the thought of letting this man old enough to be her father ruin her. He pushes up her mini skirt and delves into her, his thickness keeping the weak gusset of her thong pushed to the side. She covers her own mouth, lip gloss gone from the making out they had done, in an attempt to keep herself silent so they don't get caught. He's got her legs pressed up to her chest and impulsively bites her left calf, causing her to yelp. He soothes it with his tongue. The quickie ends as fast as it began. He's grunting into her ear as he climaxes, his beard burning the sensitive skin of her cheek. She doesn't know how many times she's come, only knowing she's spent and that it'll be hard to drive herself home now that she's sobered up.

They exchange goodbyes. They do not exchange contact information.

By the time Michael has reached the door of Last Shift, five minutes and ten seconds of arguably the hottest flashback he’s ever had listening to music have passed by. He opens the door and walks up to the bar, getting clapped on the back by several other regulars on their way out. The bar was shockingly silent for once, likely due to someone letting the news break that a new bartender had started. The regulars were picky about who they let wait on them. Before he can sit down, he feels like he’s seen a ghost.

A ghost in a denim mini skirt and white western boots.

Fuck.

He dips into the restroom, fumbling to lock the door behind him. This is the only time he’s ever been grateful that Last Shift Lager Co. had a single restroom for men. He goes to call Jack, his hands shaking as he puts his AirPods away and switches to put his iPhone to his ear.

“Robby? You good, brother?” Jack is questioning him from the other line.

“Man, I’m in the bathroom at Last Shift. Not a lot of time,” Michael insists.

“What’s wrong? Does the new bartender suck or something? Mateo said she was okay and knew her shit.”

“Remember that girl I hooked up with at Beers of the Burgh?”

“The young one in the mini skirt?”

“The new bartender is her,” he chokes out. The admission makes him chub up in his boxers. He really was the gross old man he thought he was.

“Fuck,” Jack hisses. The sound of a door closing is audible over the line. He’s likely shut himself into an on-call room to make the conversation more private. “The sommelier or whatever the fuck she was? You actually sure that's her?”

“She was a cicerone. It’s like a sommelier but for beer,” Michael insists, but realizes there’s no point in defending this girl he’s hooked up with once. There are many more age-appropriate women he’s talked to since that night in June. Whether or not they produced any reasonable results was up for debate. “Brother, I have no clue what to do.”

He can practically see Jack chewing on the inside of his lip as he thinks. “Just go sit at the bar, Robby. Worst thing she could do is pretend she doesn’t know you or ask you to leave.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

He exchanges a goodbye with Jack after a few more pleasantries as their paths hadn’t crossed when leaving and entering the hospital.

Michael flushes the toilet and washes his hands in an effort to make it look like he had actually been using the restroom. He supposed that was better than presenting the idea he had been processing his morally questionable choices over the phone with his longest friend and colleague. After drying his hands, he goes to the bar and sets his backpack at his feet as he settles himself into the stool. He scans the tap list QR code with his phone and scrolls through, hoping for something different.

“Hey, Doc,” a sweet voice chirps, setting down a menu card and cocktail napkin. He knows she hasn't seen his face yet and has likely only made note of the title on his badge. He had a habit of forgetting to unclip it out of fear of losing it. She introduces herself even though he knows her name and the force of a thrust necessary to make her eyes water. “I’ll be your server today. I'm also a registered cicerone, so let me know if you need a walk-through of any flavors and pairings…” She stalls out. It’s like her brain has stopped responding and they were living in the record scratch of a shitty movie from 2002.

Was she even alive in 2002? Had she been alive in 2005 while he was a resident living through the horrors of Hurricane Katrina? Where the fuck had she been in 2020 during COVID? Her parents’ basement somewhere in the Thumb?

“Hi,” they parrot at each other. All they both can hear is a June night in the back hatch of a minivan, muffled moans and filthy comments the soundtrack.

The eye contact felt right.

The eye contact felt wrong.

The eye contact felt so wrong.

“Michael…fuck, how are you?” She’s trying to make small talk. She knows there’s no point. But part of her wants to get to the point where she can hear him growling next to her ear again as he nips at her neck.

Precious girl. Fuckin’ goddess. Little scholar must know that they painted girls like her. Gonna ruin you, Aphrodite.

She gulps, snapping herself out of hearing the distant memory of those words. Somewhere, a playlist pre-shuffled with 80s hits plays that damn Heart song. She busts out laughing because what else could she do in these conditions? “Always wondered what happened to you,” he admits. She throws her arms up in a shrug. “Someone from my last brewery used to work here in college. Phoned in a favor. Turns out they needed someone to man their tap list and the bar.”

In this moment, Dr. Michael Robinavitch wished he were still on whiskey and scotch like he had been in New Orleans. Or vodka and obscene amounts of fruit juice like in his undergraduate career. He wished Trinity Santos hadn’t dubbed him an honorary “beer girlie” because now he was in the position of staring at the most beautiful woman to ever grace Planet Earth once more.

you had a mega watt smile on your face as you reached the table. jack tried to ignore the slack jaws that his buddies were sporting as you smacked a kiss to his lips and rubbed his chest gently. "sorry jackie, but you forgot to put on sunscreen when you left and i can't have you burning up." you pouted as you added, "you know your freckles are extra sensitive in this heat."

jack abbot, military veteran and swat physician, fought a giddy smile as you batted your lashes while worrying over the fact that he could potentially burn up on the public parks basketball black top.

one of the guys coughed a laugh and you turned your attention towards all the weathered veterans that were missing limbs and marred with scars. and just like you had done with jack, you didn't tone your bubbliness down to match whatever hypothetical grief you thought they carried, you just kept that pretty smile on your face. "hi boys! jack has told me sooo much about you all! does anyone else need sunscreen after i apply his?"

you popped off the bottle cap and squirted some onto your hands while brightly introducing yourself, then started to rub the white paste on jacks already pink cheeks to between the creases of his crows feet with a tenderness that made his chest twinge. you had them all say their names one by one and what positions they played on the court.

"back court? that sounds like a tough one, do you play that too jackie?" you asked him innocently while you covered his freckled shoulders that were exposed from his muscle tee, your tongue cutely poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration.

one of jacks friends opened his mouth with a clearly crude intention at the ready, jack cut him off with a glare. "don't even think about it." jack raised a hand to point at him in warning, not realizing that he still gripped the pills in his hand.

your eyes snagged on the viagra bottle and your brows raised. "what's that?" jack tried to answer but it was too late, the vet with one arm and half a leg cut in swiftly, smuggly. "just a gift from us guys. from a few old timers to another, we thought abbot could benefit from some... alone time assistance." he winked at you.

you frowned in confusion. "but, jack and i have sex all the time."

jack choked on air, eyes widening instantly. "baby! you don't have to—" all the guys started to chuckle, half disbelief half pure amusement. "all the time?" someone chirped. "go on hon, tell us what you mean!"

you cocked your head to the side, truly not understanding that they were goading you. "well, he's never had to use any kind of pills if thats what you're asking. he can do it anywhere, anytime really. which we do"— jacks beet red face was not from sunburn as you started to list out examples on your fingers "—we've done it both of our cars—" his hand clutched at his chest, one guy spat out his water. "—we've done it in a few different elevators—"

the next few guys turned to gawk at jack, he felt faint all of a sudden as you just kept on talking "—oh! one time, i dropped him off thirty minutes early by accident and he was the first one here so we did it up against that tree over—"

"SWEETHEART!" everyone flinched at jack's shout. your pretty eyes simply blinked at him, innocent as a lamb, "w-what jackie?" he started to sputter, brain malfunctioning at the fact that you'd just shared more about his life to these guys than he had in the past twenty years. all the vets started to make their way to the court, patting jack on the back with congratulations and howling with laughter as they went, leaving the two of you alone.

jack exhaled when his heart rate was finally regulated, he didn't want you to know he was slightly mortified, you would've felt terrible. "just... i think they got the picture baby." he chuckled then placed a kiss to your forehead. the timbre of his voice dropped low, raising a suggestive brow as he added "you just had to add the time against the tree, huh?"

you bit your lip as you shrugged sweetly, "what? it's a personal favorite." jack shook his head as he pulled you into a deep kiss, the kind that had led to the tree rendezvous. only when you started to inappropriately paw at him did he pull back. "thanks for the sunscreen and a stroll down memory lane sweetheart." you rubbed in a stray streak of sunscreen on his stubbled chin. " 'course jackie."

“Hey, what’s the IV whisperer doing here?” Trinity asked as you walked in. Trinity quickly learned during the PittFest shooting that you could always find the veins for an IV - earning you the nickname IV whisperer. Most the staff had shortened it to IV.

Robby looked up. He swore it was your day off. Why are you walking into The Pitt?

Robby’s eyes met yours as you walked past him. A silent “I’ll tell you later” in your eyes, as you approached Dana.

“Ready to do hand off, brother?” Jack asked Robby, as he approached. The quickly turned his attention to you. “Thanks for coming in. I’m saving all the IVs for you.”

You laughed. “Yeah. Not a problem, Abbot.”

“Hey, IV, thanks for coming in,” Dana said as she patted you on the back. “Might have to stay myself if I can’t find anyone else to come in.”

“Who all on night shift is out?” You asked.

“The list of who isn’t out is shorter. Lena and Mateo. Vivi is going to work a double, she’s getting some Z’s in on call 1.”

“Not anymore I’m not,” Vivi said as she stretched and walked to you. “Hey IV.”

“Hey Vi,” you replied. The two of you had become close since she started working in The Pitt.

“Since we are finally working together you can tell me how that date went.”

You froze and closed your eyes. You felt like everyone around you stopped, and all eyes were on you. You were hoping she wouldn’t mention it in front of everyone, or at least in front of Trinity Santos.

“Date? You has a date?” Trinity asked.

“Yes,” you hissed.

“With who?”

“My boyfriend,” you said like it wasn’t a big deal. “First name none, last name of your business.”

“Oh! She got you!” Dennis said.

“You’re such a fucking huckleberry,” Trinity mumbled.

“Hey, a patient in triage needs an IV, and I can’t find a -“ Donnie didn’t have to finish his sentence before you were up and on your way.

You were throwing your gloves away in the trash, and using the sanitizer from the dispenser when you felt a hand ghost across your lower back. You turned to see Michael, walking backwards, motioning for you to follow him with his pointer finger, before turning down the hallway.

You followed, making sure to stay far enough behind that it didn’t look suspicious. You looked around at the hospital as you walked, looking into various rooms. Once at the lockers, Michael turned back to face you.

“Got rung into working tonight?” Robby asked.

“Yeah. Kim texted me about 2, asked if I could cover. Then Dana called and asked me. Then I tried to get a little sleep,” you sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t be sorry. I was just,” Michael sighed as he ran his hands over his face. “Today was shit. Lost a kid first thing this morning.”

“Oh, Michael,” you said as you reached up for him. You frowned as you looked at him. It was always the kids that hurt the most. You looked around to make sure no one was coming.

Michael caught on and he took you in his arms, as he buried his face in your neck. He inhaled taking in the scent of your peppermint body wash. “I was just looking forward to holding you. And smelling you.”

He started to pepper your neck with kisses.

You hummed at the pleasure, before you began trying to push him away. “Michael, stop.”

“Hmm, since when don’t you like the thrill of getting caught?” Michael asked as he pulled away.

You sighed. “Since Vivi asked how my date went in front of Trinity.”

“So. You’re saying if I place my bet now, I could win the betting pool,” Michael wiggled his eyebrows at you.

“I hate you,” you said as you laughed.

“Liar,” Michael said as he smiled at you. “You mind if I crash at yours tonight?”

“Of course, go ahead.”

“Great. Thanks. I’ll pack you a bag. So you can stay at mine tomorrow, and our day off.”

“If I have the day off,” you mumbled as you yawned. “Sorry. I- I’m tired already.”

“I’ll send you money to DoorDash Dunks,” Michael said as he pulled out his phone.

“You don’t have to.”

“But I want to.” Michael locked eyes with you as the two of you smiled at each other. “I love-“

“Brother, what are you still doing here?”

You both froze at the sound of Jack’s voice.

“I-“ Michael was trying to think of an excuse.

You looked at his phone in his hand. “M-Dr. Robby left his phone at central. I uh, brought it back to him,” you explained as you looked at Jack, and then back to Robby. “I should, uh, get back,” you said as you looked at Michael. A thousand unspoken words trying to beam through your eyes.

“Thanks for, uh, my phone. I will,” Michael cleared his throat, “see you in the morning,” he said as you turned to walk away.

“You know, she’s dating someone,” Jack said.

“Who is?” Michael said.

“IV. Apparently she had a date Saturday.”

“Did she now?” Michael asked with a smirk.

“Yeah, there’s a betting board.”

“Is there now?”

Jack studied the smirk still on his friends face. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Robby patted Jack on the shoulder as he walked past him to exit The Pitt. “See you in the morning, brother.”

A few hours later - you finally had time to DoorDash your iced coffee from Dunkin. You pulled out your phone and sent Michael a picture, and a text.

You: Thank you, handsome.

Michael🩺🫀: You are so beautiful, you know that?

You: Night shift and an iced coffee? Just call me Shen.

Michael 🩺🫀: Shen is the last person I want to think of when I think of you.

Followed by a selfie, his glasses on his nose, the latest book he was reading in his hands.

You: So, you want to think of other people when you think of me? Rude.

You: good book?

Michael🩺🫀: Would be better if you were in my arms while I read it.

Then, he replied to your previous message.

Michael🩺🫀: I’m ignoring this, by the way.

You: You’re ignoring me? 🥺

Michael🩺🫀: not what I said.

Michael🩺🫀: You know I love you.

You: I guess I love you too, handsome. Thanks for the coffee money.

Michael🩺🫀: of course. I’ll bring you another in the morning, Sweetheart.

You: Do you do this for all your nurses?

Michael🩺🫀: Just the ones I’m sleeping with.

Michael🩺🫀: That sounded sexier in my head..

You: I wish I was sleeping with you right now.

Michael🩺🫀: Me too. You have no idea how much I miss you, sweetheart.

You: you gonna show me how much you miss me🤭😉

Michael🩺🫀: Tomorrow. After shift. In my bed.

“Hey IV, Myrna is asking for you, and only you, to start her -“ Vivi started to say, when she noticed you smiling at your phone. “Who’s got you smiling like that? OHMYGOD is it your boyfriend?” Then she noticed your Dunkin “OHMYGOD did he buy you coffee?”

“Tell Myrna I will be right there and yes maybe he did.”

“Let me see him! Let me see him!” Vivi said as she reached for your phone.

“No!” You hissed slipping it in your pocket.

You walked up to central, and set your coffee down. You looked over at Myrna.

“I’ll be right there for the IV.”

You shot Michael a quick text.

You: I have to go - Myrna was just brought back. Wont let anyone else do the IV. Get some sleep? I love you, handsome. Thanks again for the coffee.

You shoved your phone in your pocket as you got back to work.

When Michael walked into The Pitt the next morning, he spotted you in the trauma room with Abbot. He couldn’t see the patient you were treating. But he could see the monitors - and you pushing what he assumed wasn’t the first round of Epi.

“They’ve been coding that kid for an hour,” Lena said, as she noticed Michael staring too long. “Ellis just went into check on them.”

“Think he’ll call it?”

The words weren’t all the way out of his mouth before the sound of metal on metal as Abbot kicked the trash can with his prosthetic.

“Looks like he did,” Lena said as she got back to work.

Jack walked up to Michael. “I’ve never been so glad to see you?”

“Rough shift?” Michael asked.

“Actually- just a bad last two hours. Rest of the night was typical. We had a 2 car MVA come in. 1 major 3 minor,” Jack started to explain. “Kid was one of the minors. In the back seat. IV checked him out with Ellis. He was fine. No bruising or swelling. Ultrasound didn’t show anything. 20 minutes later he was on the floor. Injury to the kidneys. Caused internal bleeding.” Jack shook his head at the memory.

“Hell of a way to end a shift,” Michael said drawing his attention back to you.

“Yeah. Can’t imagine being on for a double after this,” Jack said as he patted Robby on the back. Both men watched as you went inside the double doors and up the stairs leading to the rooftop. “Take care of her?”

“I always do,” Michael whispered, low enough so Jack didn’t catch it.

Michael watched those doors, waiting for you to come back. It had only been five minutes, but he couldn’t take it anymore.

“Hey Robinavitch, are you listening?” Dana said bringing Michael back to current day.

“Uh, sorry, what?” Michael asked.

“I asked if you were going to start rounds,” Dana said.

“Give me 5. I need to uh, get some air first.”

“This wouldn’t happen to have anything to do with a certain nurse would it? Who you happen to smell identical to?” Dana asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t start,” Michael said as he started to walk away.

Once you reached the roof, you sat on the side of the door, bringing your knees to your chest. The morning Pittsburgh air was cool. When you heard the doors to the roof open and close. You sighed. “I’m fine Abbot,” you said between the tears.

“It’s not Abbot, and you’re not fine.”

You looked up and tried to smile at Michael through the tears. “Hey,” you whispered.

“Abbot told me what happened,” Michael said as he sat next to you. “Wanna talk about it?”

You shook your head.

Michael nodded as he put his arm around you. “C’mere.”

You leaned into him. The minute you were in his arms - you lost it. Sobbing into his chest.

“Shh, let it out, I’m right here, sweetheart. I got you,” Michael said as he held you close, while rubbing a hand down your back and kissing your forehead. “You did everything you could.”

“I told him he was okay, then he died.”

Michael pulled away and cupped your face in his. “Hey. This isn’t on you. You did everything you could. Baby, this isn’t on you, sweetheart. You’re the best fucking nurse in this hospital.”

“You’re just saying that because we’re dating,” you mumbled.

“I’m saying it because it’s true. You’re the best fucking nurse in this hospital. Do you hear me?”

You nodded your head, as you leaned into hug him.

“Baby?”

“Hmm,” Michael responded.

“Did you use my body wash?”

Michael smirked. “Yeah. I uh, just missed you and wanted to smell like you.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re such a freak.”

“If I recall, you happen to like when I get freaky.” Michael wiggled his eyebrows.

“I fucking hate you,” you said as you laughed.

“I love you too,” Michael said with a smile. “Ready to go back down?”

You nodded, as you took Michael’s hand, intertwining your fingers together down the first few flights of stairs, and unhooking them the closer you got to The Pitt.

“Think Dana will let me get at least an hour in? I dunno if I can sleep without being cuddled next to you and the tv on, but I just want to-“

“Decompress?” Michael said, finishing your sentence.

You nodded.

“Yeah, go ahead. I’ll cover for you with Dana. I’ll page you if we need ya.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, as Michael held the door open for you.

“Not a problem,” Michael said as he smiled and watched you walk away.

You don’t know how long you were asleep before you heard the door open and close. You soon felt a hand moving a stray hair into place.

“Sweetheart?” Michael whispered as you started to stir.

You slowly blinked your eyes open. “Hmmm. Hey handsome.”

“We got a triple MVA trauma coming in. We need - I need you out there.”

“No please? No kiss?” You asked as you stretched.

“Please,” Michael said as he bent down and gently pecked your lips.

“Only for you, Robinavitch.”

“Hm, they’ll be here in 5. We gotta go. Plus we can’t get caught.”

“It’s not getting caught if you were coming to wake me.”

Michael rubbed the back of his neck, “Someone in the hospital is winning the betting pool, the longer we’re gone-“

“-The more apt someone is to put two and two together,” you said finishing his sentence.

“Yeah,” Michael said as he stood at the door.

You met him at the door as he opened it for you. The two of you walked down the halls to the ambulance bay, and out the doors to await the arrival of the EMTs.

Your worked the trauma seamlessly with Michael - the two of you dancing around each other as you helped the patients. While working on a patient with Trinity, and Jessie, you had a hard time starting the IV.

“The tourniquet is too tight, I can’t get a vein,” you said as you went to fix it.

“Tourniquet is fine. I’m the one that put it on,” Trinity said. She rolled her eyes and walked over to assist you. “Maybe you slept too long.”

“What was that?” You snapped.

“Oh or maybe not long enough,” Trinity said with a laugh.

“It wasn’t that long,” you said as you rolled your eyes.

“Just saying. Robby left you alone longer than any one. I’d love to get almost two hours uninterrupted in the on call room,” Trinity said as you turned around and locked eyes with Michael.

Michael began walking towards the two of you, past Jessie.

“Does anyone smell peppermint?” Jessie asked.

“What are you implying Dr. Santos?” Michael asked, feeling defensive by her comment.

“Just saying,” Trinity said as she threw her arm up.

“IV is in,” you said, as Mel walked into the room.

“Need any help in here?” She asked.

“Check the belly, Yoyo will probably be in here soon to check if she needs surgery,” Michael said. He watched as Trinity’s eyes lit up.

You shook your head. “Girl-“

“Stop Miss secret boyfriend,” Trinity said.

“What do we got?” Yolanda said as she walked into the trauma room.

Mel ran the patients stats to Yolanda, adding the belly tenderness.

“Alright. Let’s get her up to surgery,” she said as they started moving the gurney out.

“Weird question but does anyone smell peppermint?” Mel asked as Michael walked past her.

“I just asked that,” Jessie said.

“Yeah it’s just the IV whisperer’s body wash. Apparently, she thinks it’s always Christmas,” Trinity said.

“Then why does Dr. Robby smell like peppermint?” Mel asked.

Michael dropped utensils tray he was taking care of, as the two you locked eyes with each other.

“Oh. My. God,” Trinity said, as you turned your head towards her.

“Don’t,” you said.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Trinity,” you were pleading with her - this wasn’t how you wanted everything to get out.

“You’re fu- your boyfriend is - oh no wonder you wouldn’t say who it was. Damn IV girl,” Trinity said as she patted you on the back.

“Both of you,” Michael said pointing to the door.

“What just happened?” Mel asked as Jessie shook his head.

“I can’t believe you two are dating,“ Trinity exclaimed loud enough for the whole ER to turn around.

Michael rubbed his eyebrows. “I brought you out here to ask you not to tell anyone yet.”

“Oh i figured,” Trinity said. “Oh man but wait until Vi finds out!”

“Trin, let me tell her,” you said.

“Too late.”.

Your phone began going off with a string of texts

Trinity✂️: ITS DR ROBBY

Trinity✂️: DR ROBBY IS HER BOYFRIEND.

Trinity✂️: 🚨

Vi✨: WHAT

Vi✨: GIRL YOU GOT EXPLAINING.

You: 🙊🤐 my lips are sealed.

You: Also - I hate you both.

Vi✨: love you too. This is definitely the topic of girls night next week!

Trinity✂️: ❤️ reacted to a message.

You put your phone back in your pocket and groaned.

“You good?” Michael asked.

You nodded. “Yeah just not how I wanted to tell them, or anyone.”

“I know. Me either. We have to tell HR. But I have some good news,” Michael said as he put his arm around you.

“What’s that?” You asked as you walked into the elevator to go disclose your relationship to HR.

“I won the bet,” Michael said with a smirk as the elevator door closed.

Doesn't mean the room isn't crowded. People crammed into chairs, standing along the walls. The tvs play the news, a boring chart about stock prices or the cost of gas. Robby’s not really paying attention. His eyes dart across each patient, making quick assessment of what he can see.

Make sure nobody was dying. Making sure nobody is on the verge of-

Hold on.

Robby freezes, hand pausing against his shoulder as he turns back to the pair of girls in the chairs across the room. Two familiar looking twelve year olds, both sharing a chair, hips pressed together, brows furrowed in annoyance.

“Will you scoot over-”

“I’m as far as I can go-”

“Nuh uh. You're trying to hog-”

“I am not!”

Robby’s heart practically plummets into his gut as he registers he’s not just looking at a familiar pair of twins. He's looking at his twins.

Those are Robby’s girls- his Maddi and Liz.

Still in their pajamas and sporting messy hair, elbowing each other in the oversized chair they were sharing, a phone playing some disney movie between them.

Robby swallows thickly, moving on autopilot, apologizing as he skirts around an elderly man with a walker. The girls look up before he even gets to their chair, ‘dad’ radars going off. Because somehow they always knew. When his car was pulling into the culdesac, when he was the one picking them up from school.

Liz’ face lights up first, her crooked teeth breaking out into a big smile. She's got on her gray hoodie over pink pj's, converse kicking her sister. Maddi gives her a withering look, noticing Robby a fraction of a second later. She gasps in surprise, waving her thick pink sweater sleeve to garner his attention, teal pajama pants tucked into rain boots .

Not that she had to. Robby would know his girls anywhere.

“Dad!”

They scramble out of the chair, limbs clashing, the phone tossed on the floor as Robby hurriedly crouches down to embrace them.

“Hey,” Robby chuckles, an arm around each girl, hands already feeling for any bumps or bruises. He laughs as he looks both of them in the eye, a hand cradling Liz’s cheek, the other brushing along Maddi’s hairline. “What are you two doing here? It's Saturday. Isn't mom making-”

“Pancakes. But the pot holder was-”

“Mom burnt her hand and so we had to get dragged-”

“Liz was trying to grab the turtle for the car-”

“And she was screaming-”

Robby shakes his head, holding his hands up to try and calm them as they jabber over each other.

“Okay, wait. One at a time-”

It was always like this. Two girls bursting at the seams wanting to be heard first, needing their father to understand.

They ramble on.

“Of course then she had a blow out-”

“We offered to help but mom said no.”

“She didn't want to hurt the baby-” Robby makes a face.

“Woah, what about the baby? Where's your mom?” Liz sighs and Maddi rolls her eyes.

“Dad. Weren't you listening?!”

Robby gives Maddi a look, head tilted with the kind of silent parental authority that said “watch your tone.” Liz reaches out to tug Robby’s sleeve, her head turned around.

“There she is, dad.” She points toward the bathrooms, where in fact, you were. Robby feels himself tense up at the sight, diaper bag slung over your shoulder, six month old baby on your hip… and a tight, pained look on your face.

The cloth wrapped snuggly around your hand might explain that.

Robby stands with a grunt, hands finding the girls’ shoulders automatically, guiding them back to the chair.

“Sit here for another minute will you?”

Liz makes a face.

“Dad we've already been here an hour,” Maddi huffs.

“Just sit there. I’m gonna talk with your mom,” he presses a kiss to Liz’s head before marching off in your direction.

You're struggling to get something into the diaper bag, Hazel fussing against your shoulder, her sounds muffled by the stuffed turtle she was chewing on.

“I know, baby girl. Give me a minute and I’ll find your cheerios. I just need-”

“Hey,” Robby calls out your name softly as he reaches to caress your back, being careful not to startle you. You give him a surprised look, your eyes wide with relief.

“Robby- oh,” your head falls against his shoulder as he pulls you close. Hazel shrieks at the sight of him, socked feet kicking against your hip.

“What are you doing here?” Robby asks, the question rougher sounding than he’d like. Not that you notice. You're too busy feeling relieved as he takes Hazel from your arm, the turtle smushed between her little body as he pulls her close.

“I- Robby it was so stupid. We were making pancakes and the girls were getting water everywhere. The sausage was smoking in the oven- I didn't realize the potholder was soaking wet when I grabbed it- and the-”

“No honey,” Robby shakes his head, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. “What are you doing here?” Robby nods his head towards the crowded waiting room, the twins watching the two of you carefully from their chair, acting patient now.

“Waiting,” you purse your lips, glancing down at your hand. “The lady at the front desk said it wouldn't be too much longer.”

“You should have called me. I could have-”

“Robby,” you shake your head. “I’m not going to cut the line just cause I’m your wife.”

“Why not?” Robby shrugs, Hazel giggling softly at the movement. “I pull the chief attending card all the time.”

“Yeah. For free chips and guac at the mexican restaurant down the street. Not when there are actual lives on the line,” you gesture towards a man being wheeled in, blood dribbling from his forehead. Robby unconsciously shifts Hazel’s face away from the sight, glancing at the twins again. They're back to their movie, pretending like they weren't listening.

They were. They always were.

Robby sighs, looking you up and down. You hated the emergency room. Actively avoided it any way you could. He could count on one hand the number of times you had visited the ED.

When Maddi sprained her finger playing volleyball at school, the time Liv broke her tooth and split her lip riding a friend's skateboard. When Robby had cut his hand open trying to build the girls a playhouse for Christmas one year.

The most recent time had been during your last pregnancy; unable to keep any fluids or liquid down, you’d been sick as a dog.

Hazel whines in Robby’s arms, looking between you and him with a big pout. You sigh, giving her a smile as you carefully maneuver your bag so you can reach inside.

“I know, baby. I know you're hungry. I’m sorry.”

You were here.

Two girls haphazardly dressed, Hazel in an emergency onesie Robby knew she'd just been changed into; the outfit you had been wearing when Robby kissed you goodbye that morning still cozy around your frame.

And the towel wrapped around your hand.

Robby helps you zip the diaper bag, reaching for your injured hand.

“You said you burned it?” You hesitate for a moment, finally letting him take a peek when Robby gives you a look. You concede, the unnatural warmth of your skin radiating from the thick layers of terry cloth.

Balancing Hazel and her cheerios in his arm, scrub sleeve surely soaked with drool, Robby peels away the towel. You inhale sharply as the cool air hits the burn, your skin an angry red, palm peeling and blistering in places. Robby swallows thickly, looking at the painful wound.

You look away from it first.

“It doesn't hurt that bad anymore. I soaked it for twenty minutes before we came here.”

“How long have you been waiting?” Robby asks. You don’t meet his eye.

“Just a little while.”

“You don't have to lie to me. I know this hurts.” You take another shaky breath, your hand flexing against his touch.

“I can't just cut the line Michael. That's not right-”

“You're not cutting anything. Okay? Let me take care of you.” Robby lets go of your hand gently, thumb brushing your cheek as he cups your face.

You melt into it slightly, glancing over at your other girls. They're watching you expectantly, practically buzzing with anticipation of leaving the waiting room. Robby could see you were ready to cave, wanting to get out of there.

He adds a final nail to the coffin, crouching a bit to meet your eye.

“Please.”

Robby can see it. The resignation crossing your face, the pain of your hand catching up to you.

“Okay,” you nod slowly. “But only if l’m not messing with your work-”

“Of course not,” Robby presses a kiss to your temple. “Come on. You ready Hazel?”

The baby blows a raspberry, squealing happily before chewing on a cheerio she manages to grab. You nod towards the girls, gesturing for them to get up. They share an equally happy sentiment as their sister, quickly following you through the staff entrance.

“Finally!” Maddi sighs, pulling her sister up. “Come on.”

“I’m coming!”

------------------------------------------------------

You can feel the eyes on Robby as the five of you enter into the Pitt. The Emergency Department’s big bad chief… a smiley baby girl in his arms and two preteens following like baby ducks.

It was cute, you have to admit. Maybe cuter if your hand wasn't throbbing like you’d thrown it into a pile of glass.

Liv holds on to the sleeve of your sweater nervously, looking around at the bustling nurses and loud monitors. Robby glances back at the three of you, making sure you were still alright. You give him a small smile, observing the worry lines already creasing between his brows. The calculations and treatment plans and patient names he was likely filing through. Slotting your name next to an already crowded roster.

You really had tried to hold off going to the emergency room. It hadn't hurt that bad when it happened, surprised you mostly.

But your palm had gotten redder and hotter as the minutes ticked by, your girls looking at you with worry. Robby was always telling you to call him if something happened. Always leaving in the morning with the same goodbye whispered against your cheek.

“Love you. Call me if you or the girls need anything.”

But it just didn't feel right to skip the line. To get in simply because your husband was the chief attending. Although the sentiment was becoming a little stale as your palm throbs deeper.

As you pass by the nurses station, Maddi lights up, quickly finding her favorite person in the ED.

“Hi Mel!”

The blonde resident pauses, turning from her conversation with Langdon, a bright smile blooming when she sees your girls.

“Hey!”

Maddi runs, in spite of Robby’s warning to be careful, tall frame running into Mel’s open arms.

“Is everything alright? I never see you guys here.”

“Peachy,” you raise your injured hand. Frank cringes behind Mel, whistling as you show him the burn.

“Oof. You soak it?”

“Please, she's married to a doctor. Of course she did,” Robby says, chest puffing proudly. Langdon laughs.

Liz clings to your sweater shyly as Frank looks over at her. Then Hazel. His eyes light up like a kid getting candy.

“Ah, Miss Hazel. I see you've graced us with your glorious presence. My favorite Rovinavitch!” Hazel squeals as Frank tickles her foot, curling into Robby’s chest. Maddi lets out a protesting gasp.

“Hey. I thought I was your favorite!”

“Yeah. Before Mel stole you from me.”

“I did not,” Mel frowns, adjusting her glasses with a little smile. “Can't steal what you never had.”

“That’s alright. We all know who my real favorite is,” Frank glances down at Liz, giving her a quick wink. She blushes furiously, turning further into your side.

You laugh, glancing over at Robby. He just shakes his head, cringing as Hazel squeals again, turtle clutched tightly in her flopping hand.

Dana peeks her head out from behind a curtain, squinting over her glasses.

“Is that my happy Hazel I hear?” The charge nurse comes over, giving your older girls a tight squeeze before grinning at your youngest daughter. “Hi beautiful girl.”

Robby can't even protest before Dana is scooping Hazel into her arms, the six month old wiggling around happily. Always the center of attention.

You have a crowd forming, Trinity and Princess inching closer and cooing at the baby, Dennis giving high fives to your older girls.

Robby sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose tiredly as his staff fawns over his girls.

“Okay, most of you have patients you need to see.”

“Do we?” Princess asks, eyes wide as she makes faces at Hazel. Robby rolls his eyes.

“Yes. Now, go on and scram.”

“Mom,” Liz looks up at you apologetically.

“Yeah baby?”

“I’m really hungry now.” You sigh, closing your eyes and nodding.

“I know. I’m sure.”

The girls had really been troopers. Helping you clean up the mess breakfast turned out to be, waiting patiently to go to the hospital, keeping the complaints to a minimum. They'd grabbed some granola and fruit before you’d left the house, but they were growing girls. You'd seen them out eat Robby a few times already and it was getting closer to lunch time.

You look over at Robby who takes Hazel back from Dana, brow furrowing as he looks you up and down.

“What's going on? You okay?” You nod, your uninjured hand running over Liz’s short hair.

“The girls need food.”

“Sustenance,” Maddi groans. She then gets a look on her face, turning to her sister. The two lock eyes and huddle, shoulders pressed impossibly close as they whisper. You raise your brow suspiciously, Mel laughing behind her hand as she watches from her computer.

Liz nods and stands beside Maddi as they approach Robby. He frowns.

“Uh oh. What’s the council discussing this time?”

“Can we get Starbucks?” He cocks his head.

“Um. Here?”

“Yeah. You can order it on your phone,” Liz adds quietly.

Robby shares a look with you. You shrug.

“I could use a chai.”

"You're encouraging bad habits," he mutters.

"Robby, you know they're not gonna eat the soggy pb and j's they try to pass off as food in the cafeteria," you whisper back.

Robby sighs, looking between your two girls. You can see the torn expression on his face, the fight between saying no because he still wasn’t thrilled about the girls drinking coffee just yet and also saying yes because they’d already been through a wreck of Saturday-

“Please,” Maddi pouts, hands clasped desperately. Her big brown eyes, mirrors to her fathers’, shine beneath the hospital lights. Robby opens his mouth, the words lost as Liz adds another please.

“Please papa.”

Oh. Your girls were good.

You snicker to yourself as you watch Robby become undone in real time. Any pushback he might’ve had lost at the name. The first name the twins had called him.

‘Papa.’

Before they decided they were too cool and the social norm of ‘dad’ was adopted.

Robby sighs, head lowering in defeat. Dana gives your arm a squeeze as she passes by, smiling fondly.

“Okay, fine. But I don't want you two drinking straight sugar for breakfast. You're getting egg sandwiches too.” Maddi makes a face.

“Egg?”

“That's the deal Mads.” She crosses her arms, a familiar looking pout crossing her face.

“Fine.”

“Hey Boss,” Perlah calls out, the red phone pressed to her chest. “We’ve got an GSW coming in five.”

Robby looks up, nodding. “Uh, okay. Give me just a minute.”

“Sure,” Perlah smiles at Hazel who gives her a friendly wave. Robby fishes his phone out of his pocket, handing it to Liz.

“Here. You can get one drink and a sandwich. One,” he gives the twins a pointed look. They giggle, nudging each other knowingly. “Mel can take you guys to the breakroom. Stay in there until I come to get you.”

“What about Hazel?” Maddi asks, reaching over for Robby’s phone in spite of the way Liz keeps it clutched tightly to her chest.

“She'll stay with me honey,” you smile. “She's got to eat soon.” Robby checks his watch, looking between you and the baby. You had her on a pretty strict schedule; the girl loved her consistency.

Liz frowns, looking down at your hand with sad eyes. “Mom. Are you gonna be okay?”

“I’ll be fine, baby. Your dad will fix me up just fine.” You smile again, meeting her eye reassuringly.

But with each passing minute your hand starts hurting even more. You know Robby can see it. The forced line of your smile.

It's the same smile he's shared a hundred times over. The brave face of a parent.

“Cap-” Dana starts, giving Robby a look. “GSW is here in two.”

“Right,” Robby hums, the sound gravelly and tired. He had that look on his face, the one you'd seen plenty of times over. When he was being pulled in multiple directions and didn't know which he should choose. “Okay, uh, Mel-”

“I got the girls, Dr. Robby,” she smiles. He nods, gratefully.

“Feel free to get yourself something too, okay.”

“Oh, that's alright-” Mel shakes her head as Maddi tugs her hand, pulling Mel away towards the break room.

“Mel. Starbucks has boba now!” That gets her attention.

“Really?” Liz nods in agreement, fingers already zooming across the screen.

“Well, they're tapioca pearls. Not really boba. But the same thing…”

You feel the tension in your shoulders release slightly as the girls follow Mel into the break room, and you allow yourself to finally let out the whimper you'd been holding.

“Ow,” you hiss under your breath, cringing as you bring your hand closer to your chest.

Robby turns, his hand moving to rub a soft circle on your back.

“Okay mama, let's get you taken care of.”

“Robby-” Dana’s voice cuts in, the red phone in her hand. “Another ambulance on the way. Three minutes out.”

Robby lets out a frustrated sigh, cursing beneath his breath. “Okay. Okay that's fine. I’ll have Dana look over your hand first and then I’ll be right there.”

“Whatever you have to do,” you nod. “Remember, I’m just like any other patient you’d see-”

“You're not just any other patient,” Robby shakes his head. He presses a kiss to your forehead as he passes Hazel over to Dana, her arms already ready for the baby. “You're my wife. And you deserve the best, okay. I’ll be right back.”

Robby gives Hazel a little wave goodbye, a pair of gloves seemingly materializing in his hands, face already set with a determined focus. You watch him head off to a gurney being wheeled in, voice steady and authoritative. Dana stands beside you, bouncing the baby slightly.

“He hit the jackpot with the four of you, you know.”

“I know,” you smile. Dana nods.

“Good. Let's get you taken care of, okay?”

------------------------------------------------------

“Ow!”

“Sorry,” Robby looks at you apologetically over his glasses, gloved hands gently prodding your burnt palm. It looks somewhat better after being cleaned and sterilized. Although Dana is a master at making even the most frightening cases look appealing.

“No sorry, it's not you,” you look down at your daughter- or rather what you could see of her beneath your nursing cover. Just the sliver of a onesie covered foot kicking rhythmically. “She's being extra aggressive today.”

Robby smiles to himself, leaning over to grab something off the tray laying between you.

“Told you she's teething.” You roll your eyes, shaking your head in disbelief.

“I can't believe it- ow! Hazel,” you hiss. Robby pauses, watching as you try to peek at the baby with one hand. “Gently honey. Mommy already has enough she's got to try and do with one hand.”

“Are you sure you don't want me to wait till you're finished feeding her?”

“It's okay,” you shake your head and smile. “You guys are busy enough. The Robinavitch’s are multitasking pros. I can manage.” Robby chuckles, shaking his head.

“Come on. Indulge me. I think this is the longest I’ve sat all morning.” You smile, your eyes raking over Robby.

He's sure he looks a mess, after two trauma cases and a patient consult. Hair mussed from running his hand through it, scrubs rumbled and splattered with something he couldn’t quite identify.

It still surprises him how much can change in just thirty minutes. Someone's whole life flashing by, blood on his hands and decisions on his head.

You hum, looking down at Hazel.

“Alright Doctor Robinavitch. Whatever you say.” Robby groans slightly, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, don't call me that.”

“What,” you laugh. “It’s appropriate, no?” You gesture at the patient room, the walls lined with medical posters, curtains still drawn shut to give you privacy.

“Yeah, well not when it's coming from you. That's how we got this little one,” Robby reaches over and gently shakes Hazel’s small foot. She kicks back and you smile, arm adjusting to hold her closer again.

“Well it’s not my fault you have a thing for role play. And I wouldn't trade her for anything.”

“No. Me neither,” Robby chuckles. She'd been a surprise for sure. Almost more jarring than the first time around when you found out you were having twins. But it was hard to imagine life without her now.

Robby shakes his head and hums, picking up the medicated balm and beginning to smear it gently over your palm.

You sigh, eyes closing as you lean your head back against the chair. Robby smiles, watching you.

“Tired?” You nod.

“Yeah," you say slowly. "More frustrated, I think. I wanted to get some things done around the house today. Get the living room picked up at least.”

“It’s fine,” he shrugs, gathering a long strip of gauze to wrap around your palm. You peek your eyes open, unenthused.

“Robby, the same basket of laundry has been sitting by the couch for a week.”

“So have the girls put it away.”

“It’s your laundry.” He smiles sheepishly, looking down as he continues to wrap your hand.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” you tease. Robby can see a shift cross your face, and you get more serious. “I am going to need your help though. At least, for a couple days.”

“I know,” Robby scratches the scruff of his beard. “I figured I’ll have to rearrange some things.”

“By some things you mean getting home on time, right?” Robby gives you a look.

“Woah, hey. I’ve been getting home at a decent hour.” You throw him a look.

“Ten at night is not a decent hour, Michael.”

Oof. Michael.

Robby shifts in his seat, setting your now wrapped hand on the table between you. You slide it away, closer to you. Robby narrows his eyes.

“I thought you said you weren’t mad.”

“I’m not mad,” you huff. “I just… it’s hard sometimes. And I get it. I know you’re the boss and the hospital needs you. But we need you too, you know.”

“I know.”

“I mean it Michael. Those girls are growing up faster than you’d think. And while yeah, I wouldn’t mind you being home earlier to help around with dishes or watching the baby, I want you around to just be with them.” You smile sadly.

Robby knows he’s been busy. The long hours he’s been putting in, the overtime. The late nights where he’d get home and crash on the couch with barely a hello and goodnight to the girls. Dana always chided him for staying so late. Even when she was doing the same thing-

“You’re turning her into a single mother, Robby.”

“She’s okay. She hasn’t said it’s bothering her.”

“Of course it’s bothering her. Your wife is just a saint and won’t say anything because she hates seeing you worry.”

Robby looks at you now in the patient room, carefully pulling the nursing cover away now that you had both hands back, oddly adjusting your daughter as you check her.

“I think she’s finally asleep,” you murmur. Robby watches you carefully. Not assessing. Not diagnosing. Just watching.

It hits him then, watching you juggle his daughter and your injured hand and your other girls in the break room… just how much you truly kept everything held together.

The glue of the little Robinavitch clan.

And Robby had been playing the part of chief attending much more than he’d been playing father and husband. Leaving you to gather the pieces and try to make something good out of it. Robby scoots his chair closer to you, cupping your cheek as you look at him in surprise.

“I’m sorry.” Your eyes widen at the sudden movement.

“For what?”

“For not being here like I should. For having you worry about whether you’re bothering me at work when you’re hurting.”

“Robby-” He cuts short whatever you were going to say with a soft kiss, lips pressed gently against yours. You melt slightly into it, cheek pressed against his as he moves to press another against the corner of your mouth. Then the corner of your nose. And-

There’s a knock at the door. You hum, giving Robby a smile.

“I think that’s for you.”

“They can wait.”

“Robby…” you give him a look. He pulls back, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Go. It’s okay.”

Robby sighs, grunting as he pushes off from the chair. He pushes the curtain aside, taking in Whitaker standing nervously at the door.

“Yeah?” Robby asks, brows drawn low with curiosity. “What’s happening?”

“Uh, I was told I had to give this to you,” Whitaker holds out a perspirating plastic cup and a paper bag with something sweet smelling. “I believe the instruction was ‘make sure mom eats. So she feels better faster.’”

Robby laughs, taking the drink and bag, the smell of banana bread wafting towards his face. He also takes the phone Whitaker holds out, the dark phone case splattered with something that smells like whipped cream.

“Thanks for relaying the message huckleberry.”

“Oh sure. Your girls are quite the pair.” Robby smiles.

“They are.”

Whitaker stands awkwardly for a moment more before adding- “Also Dana said we’re in shambles without you.”

"Yeah, okay. Hang in there for a couple more minutes. I'll be back soon."

“Aye aye captain,” Whitaker gives a two finger salute. “Just don’t be too long. Dana might start threatening to recruit your girls.”

The two laugh and Robby closes the glass door gently, balancing the goodies in his hand. Your eyes are wide with appreciation as Robby holds up your food.

“It was for you.”

“Oh thank the Lord,” you grin.

Robby laughs, helping you take off the nursing cover, Hazel gently passed into his arms. You pick at the banana loaf, pushing a generous chunk over to Robby as he sits down again.

“Here.”

“No, I’m okay,” Robby shakes his head as he settles his sleeping girl on his chest. You give him a look.

“Robby…”

“I’m fine. Really.”

“I know you haven't eaten all morning.”

Robby huffs and takes a piece with a mumbled thank you. You give him a bright smile, letting out a pleased hum as you eat. Robby sits, enjoying what he knows is the last bit of quiet before he's thrown back into the throes of the ED.

------------------------------------------------------

Bonus:

You're packing up the diaper bag, the twins helping you tuck in extra bandage wraps and medicated ointment into the side pockets. Maddi happily slurps on a caramel lined coffee cup, Liz sipping at something tall and green. Robby watches them fondly as they hover over you, Hazel still sleeping in his arms.

"Mom, I got that."

"Here, I can hold the bag!"

"No I can-"

"Girls," you chuckle. "It's fine. One of you can hold the bag and the other can hold my drink."

Robby's phone pings and he fishes it out of his pocket, frowning as he reads the notification. You don't notice as you take the baby from him, holding her closely.

"You girl's ready to go?"

They nod enthusiastically, giggling softly beneath their breaths. Robby's frown deepens as he looks at them over his glasses.

“Hey… why does it say my card was charged a hundred and thirty dollars?”

------------------------------------------------------

Ellis makes a dramatic vomiting noise as you both head out the door, her keys jingling as she turns to lock it.

“I thought Deran was your usual Thursday morning appointment,” she says.

You shrug. “Scheduling conflict.”

She turns and starts down the hall, glancing at you from the corner of her eye. “You are the schedule.”

“I’m restructuring,” you say lightly, falling into step beside her. “Don’t think Deran’s making the cut.”

Ellis doesn’t say anything else. She just watches you for a second—eyes narrowing, brows drawing a little tighter—before shaking her head and turning toward the fire stairs door. You both make your way down to the parking garage in silence, crossing the dimly lit basement until you reach Ellis’ car.

The drive to the hospital isn’t long. Ellis fills most of it complaining about a patient she handed off to McKay this morning who insisted his diagnosis was wrong because he’d googled it—and she’s still muttering angrily by the time she pulls into the hospital parking lot.

“I swear,” she says, yanking the parking brake a little too hard, “if I hear the words ‘but I googled it’ even once tonight, I’m going to lose my mind.”

You snort softly as you climb out of the car, slinging your bag over your shoulder before shutting the door. You both head inside through the ambulance bay, keeping out of the way of an arriving trauma as the paramedics wheel the gurney through—something about chest pain, you overhear.

“Trauma one’s open,” Dana calls.

“Dr. Toomarian, with me.”

Your head snaps up at the sound of Jack’s voice, your gaze landing on him beside the gurney as he guides it through the trauma bay doors, that familiar mask of focus already in place.

Then he looks at you, something flickering across his face.

“Hey—don’t disappear. I need to talk to you after this.”

You lift your hand, pointing a finger at yourself. “Me?”

He nods once before turning into the trauma bay, the glass door swinging shut behind him.

“Ooh,” Ellis murmurs as you both turn down the back hall. “You’re in trouble.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“Maybe he’s restructuring,” she adds, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Think you’ll make the cut?”

You shoot her a flat look. “Very funny.”

Ellis smirks as she opens her locker, shrugging her bag off her shoulder and shoving it inside. You do the same—moving on autopilot as you sling your stethoscope around your neck, clip your badge at your hip, and stuff your backpack in your locker before shutting the door.

You head back toward the hub side by side, both peering into the trauma bay as you pass. The patient is stable now, half-conscious on the bed while Jack gives orders and Jesse preps for transfer to a room for monitoring. Dr. Robby is in there too now, looking as tired as always with his arms folded and protective glasses pushed up on top of his head.

“Evening, ladies,” Lena says from behind the nurses’ desk. “Get a good sleep?”

“Always,” Ellis replies as she grabs a tablet from the rack.

“Good enough,” you mutter, tipping your head back to read the board.

“Mm.” Lena peers at you over the top of her glasses. “Well, maybe you should start prioritising sleep over extracurriculars.”

Ellis snorts beside you.

“Lena,” you gasp, voice thick with mock offence. “I don’t—”

You stop short as Jack steps up beside you, offering Lena a polite nod before looking back at you.

“You have my badge.”

You frown. “What?”

“My badge,” he says again, already reaching for the badge at your hip.

He unclips it from your scrub pants and holds it up, brows lifting just slightly.

“Attending physician, huh?”

You shrug. “Thought it was time I got a promotion.”

He huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head as he fastens the badge to his scrub top and fishes your badge from his back pocket. Then he steps in closer, his fingers grazing your hip as he tugs on the waistband of your pants and clips the badge where his had been.

“Try to keep track of it,” he mutters, already turning away.

You don’t respond. You just roll your eyes and turn back to the nurses’ station, where Lena is still watching you over the rim of her glasses, utterly unimpressed.

“You didn’t even notice?” Ellis asks.

You lift one shoulder. “I just grabbed it off the floor.”

“Okay,” Lena mutters, glancing back down at her chart. “I’m choosing not to know.”

Ellis shakes her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I know,” you say, tipping your head back again to read the board. “But you love me.”

She snorts, not even looking up from her tablet.

“Come on.” You bump your shoulder against hers. “Let’s go check out the elbow dislocation in One.”

“Fine,” she sighs, “but I’m not doing traction.”

You roll your eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as you start moving, heading toward the North corridor with Ellis at your heel. When you pull back the curtain at North One, the man lying there is exactly what you expected—mid-twenties, gym shorts, red with embarrassment and trying not to wince even though the shape of his shoulder is very wrong.

“Alright, Mr. Donovan,” you say, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Let’s have a look at that shoulder.”

His eyes flick up to your face, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you a doctor?”

“Sure am,” you reply as you step closer to the bed. “And with me is Dr. Ellis. She’s going to help me get that bone back in place, but first you’re going to have to tell us how you did it.”

He grimaces as you gently prod his upper arm.

“Yeah—uh—I was just at the gym,” he starts, voice strained.

“Benching?” Ellis asks.

He nods. “Yeah.”

“Let me guess—personal best?”

He nods again. “Yeah. How did you—”

“Happens more often than you think,” you cut in, your fingers finding the pulse at his wrist. “Move your fingers.”

He wriggles them slowly.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“I was just putting the bar back,” he says. “My arm twisted a bit and it just… popped.”

You glance over your shoulder at Ellis, and she nods.

“Okay, Mr. Donovan—”

“You can call me Chase,” he interrupts, the corner of his mouth lifting a little higher.

You nod once. “Alright, Chase. We’re going to give you something for the pain and a muscle relaxant so it’s easier to get it back into place. Then Dr. Ellis and I are going to do the reduction.”

“Will it hurt?”

“Not much,” Ellis replies. “Maybe a little discomfort, but it’ll be quick.”

“Okay,” he mutters, wincing again as he tries to shift in the bed.

You look at Ellis. “Fentanyl and midaz?”

She nods, already turning away to find a workstation.

“We’ll be back in about five minutes,” you tell Chase. “Just as soon as a nurse administers the medication and it has enough time to kick in.”

“Five minutes, huh? That’s just enough time for me to figure out how to ask for your number.”

You snort. “Let’s just get your shoulder back in first, then see how you feel.”

“Ouch,” he chuckles. “Is that your subtle way of saying you have a boyfriend?”

You hesitate, taking half a step back from the bed.

“Uh—no,” you mutter. “No boyfriend.”

He smirks. “So I have a shot?”

You shake your head as you turn away, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “Like I said—let’s see how you feel after I manhandle your humerus back into its socket.”

He doesn’t say anything else—just lets out a quiet breath of laughter as you turn and step out of the room.

Your gaze flicks up as you reach for the curtain, and only then do you notice Jack standing there—arms folded, shoulders set, his hazel eyes fixed on you like he’s waiting for something.

“Oh—hey,” you say. “Need me?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Just doing the rounds. Want a hand with the reduction?”

“Nah, I’ve got Ellis,” you reply, starting back toward Central. “But you’re more than welcome to supervise.”

He scoffs, falling into step beside you. “You don’t need supervising.”

“I know.” You glance at him from the corner of your eye, a smirk tugging at your lips. “But I know how you like to watch.”

His mouth quirks, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Or what?” you tease, stopping just before the nurses’ station.

His eyes are a little darker now, the tops of his cheeks dusted pink.

“You don’t want to find out,” he says, his voice low enough that only you can hear.

Something twists low in your belly—and you get the sudden, distinct feeling that you do, in fact, want to find out.

“Abbot,” Lena calls before you can say anything else. “Trauma inbound—cyclist versus vehicle, ETA three minutes.”

Jack pauses for a half a second—then nods. “Alright, let’s prep Trauma Two.” He looks at you. “You in?”

You pull a face, all mock disappointment. “Oh, I wish I could, but I’ve got that reduction…”

He gives you a flat look, the corner of his mouth pulling just slightly. “Mm. Tragic.”

“Good luck, though,” you add, flashing him a grin.

You turn away before he does, moving around the hub to grab a tablet and find your next patient. It isn’t long before the paramedics come crashing through the ambulance bay doors with a groaning patient on the gurney—and you take that as your cue to get back to the shoulder dislocation.

“Alright, Chase,” you say, pulling back the curtain. “Let’s do this.”

He gives you a lopsided smile. “I was hoping I’d see you again.”

Ellis snorts. “Midaz is working.”

You laugh softly as you step up beside his affected arm, adjusting the bed slightly before pulling on a pair of gloves. Ellis does the same, moving into position on the other side and bracing one hand against his good shoulder.

You look at her. “Ready?”

She nods once.

“Okay, Chase,” you say, one hand wrapping gently around his wrist. “Stay loose for me.”

You place your other hand at his elbow and bring his arm out from his body, easing it into position.

“Hey—relax,” Ellis says. “Don’t fight it.”

He lets out a breath, the tension in his body easing.

“That’s it,” you murmur, starting to pull his arm outward.

You feel the resistance from the dislocation, holding his arm steady until—his shoulder drops.

Ellis nods. “Good. Now rotate.”

You carefully rotate his arm out, slow and controlled, until you feel a small shift—the soft clunk of the bone slipping back into place. Chase flinches, inhaling sharply, then—

“Oh—” He blinks. “Oh, that’s—that’s way better.”

You give him a small smile as you guide his arm back in, keeping it supported while Ellis grabs the sling.

“Move your fingers,” you tell him.

He does.

“Any numbness?”

He shakes his head.

“Good.”

You move aside as Ellis steps in with the sling, fastening it over his shoulder before adjusting the bed again.

“Comfortable?” she asks.

Chase nods slowly. “‘M tired.”

“Then have a nap.”

You peel your gloves off and drop them in the waste bin, squirting a pump of sanitiser into your palm as you turn back toward Chase.

“We’re going to keep you here for a bit, okay? Just to monitor you and get an X-ray to make sure everything’s back in place.”

“You’re leaving me?” he mumbles, eyes half-lidded.

You shake your head, letting out a quiet laugh. “I’ll be back in a bit to see how you’re feeling, alright?”

He mutters something else as his eyes slip shut, but it’s too soft for you to hear.

Then, after a beat, Ellis looks at you. “Gonna give him your number?”

You roll your eyes. “Um, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm not—”

“Roster’s looking a little thin,” she says as she turns and steps out of the room.

You follow her, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She shrugs. “Not that I’m keeping track, but… by my count, you’re down to one.”

You let out a short, disbelieving scoff. “Okay—well, not that it’s any of your business, but Andrew moved to Canada, and Craig got back with his ex.”

She glances at you from the corner of her eye. “And you dropped Deran, so—”

“Like I said,” you cut in, lifting your chin just slightly. “I’m restructuring.”

“Restructuring,” she repeats mildly, “or retiring?”

Before the words have even landed, she’s gone—slipping into North Five with her tablet in hand and that stupid little smirk still curled at the corner of her mouth. You can faintly hear her greet the patient as the door eases shut, leaving you confused and alone in the middle of the North corridor.

Retiring?

You blink, your brows drawing tighter.

Retiring?

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Retiring from what?

From having fun? Having casual sex? Blowing off a little steam in the most enjoyable way you know how?

It’s not like you’re some irresponsible party animal—you barely go out, you only drink on occasion, and the hardest drug you’ve done since starting med school is ibuprofen. In fact, you’d argue that you’re the opposite of irresponsible. You take your casual sex roster very seriously. You don’t take risks, you make sure every single one of your partners has regular sexual-health check-ups, and you make sure to actually get to know them before you even sign them up.

Which is exactly why you’re not going around giving out your number to random patients.

You need to know someone before you start something casual. You need to know that they’re not going to ask for more, that they’re going to be mature and understand exactly where you both stand.

You need to know that you can trust them not to be irresponsible.

Because the last thing you need is some trigger-happy idiot who isn’t wearing a condom getting caught up in the moment and finishing inside you. Not that you ever go without a condom.

Except for...

Well—except for Jack.

But that’s different. He knows what he’s doing. You trust him—and you’re on birth control.

So it doesn’t really matter if, occasionally, he finishes—

“You good, or are you just going to keep staring into space?”

Your head snaps up, heat flooding your cheeks as you meet Henderson’s gaze.

“Uh—yeah, sorry, I was just—”

He chuckles. “No need to apologise—but if you’re bored, I could use an extra set of hands in Eight.”

You tilt your head. “Worth it?”

“Forearm lac. Exposed tendon.”

You nod. “I’m in.”

The next few hours blur together in a steady stream of night shift weirdness—a woman with a mystery rash whose story evolves from laundry detergent to poison ivy, someone who decided Gorilla Glue was a reasonable substitute for hair gel, a fish hook through a hand with the fish still attached, and a DIY dentistry job with half the tooth left and a lot of blood.

You barely catch a break until your patient in Central Twelve—when you and Ellis absolutely have to leave the room before you both burst out laughing at the mortified man who insists he slipped and fell on a Buzz Lightyear action figure. Because how else would it get stuck up there?

In your defence, you had managed to maintain some semblance of professionalism right up until Ellis muttered under her breath, “To infinity and beyond, I guess.”

That’s when you lost it—muttering the first excuse you could think of before slipping out the door and doubling over with laughter.

“Oh my God,” Ellis says, wiping the corner of her eye. “I love the night shift.”

You press a hand to your stomach, still aching from the laughter.

“Stop—” you gasp, shaking your head. “I can’t go back in there.”

“In where?” Shen asks, appearing in front of you.

You and Ellis both go still for a second, the laughter dying down as you exchange a look.

“Actually,” Ellis says, turning back to Shen with a smirk. “I think this case might be perfect for you, Dr. Shen.”

You nod. “Oh, absolutely. We could really use your expertise on this one.”

Shen frowns. “What’s the case?”

“It’s hard to explain,” Ellis says quickly. “You’re better off seeing it for yourself.”

Shen isn’t stupid, obviously, but he is incredibly curious—as most doctors are. So despite the fact that both you and Ellis are doing a terrible job of hiding your amusement, he takes the tablet from your outstretched hand and opens the door to Central Twelve.

Ellis’ eyes go wide, but before either of you can say anything else, someone calls your name across the department.

“Trauma One—get in here,” Jack says, waving a hand.

You let out a sigh, tipping your head back for a split second before jogging across Central to meet the paramedics.

“Twenty-four-year-old male—fell onto a plastic prop sword,” the first paramedic says, guiding the gurney into Trauma One. “Penetrating injury to the left thigh, object still in situ. Bleeding controlled, pulses intact, GCS fifteen. Fentanyl given en route, vitals stable.”

You almost snort when you realise the man is dressed in a pirate costume, his plastic cutlass wedged about four inches into his anterolateral thigh.

“Alright, we’ll take it from here,” Jack says. “Can you tell us your name, sir?”

“Josh,” the patient replies, his voice strained.

“Stabilise the leg,” you tell Mateo, moving into position opposite him. “On my count—one, two, three.”

You shift the patient from gurney to bed, and the paramedics clear out.

“Josh!”

A young woman rushes into the room, clearly from the same party—wearing what can only be described as a very short, very inaccurate interpretation of a nurse’s uniform.

“Oh my God. Is he bleeding out?”

Jack glances up, his lips twitching when he spots the woman. “I don’t remember approving that uniform.”

You shoot him a look. “Very funny, Dr. Abbot.”

His eyes linger on you for a beat too long.

“Not that I’d object,” he murmurs.

You arch a brow. “The nurses might.”

“I’m not a nurse,” the woman says, indignant. “I’m a sexy doctor.”

You look her up and down again, your gaze catching on the small, laminated name badge pinned to her chest with ‘Dr. Feelgood’ printed in bold pink letters.

You hum. “Right.”

“Still not the sexiest doctor in the room,” Jack mutters as he moves around the bed.

Your eyes flick up, meeting his for half a second, the corner of your mouth lifting just slightly before you catch yourself and turn back to Josh.

“Have you had anything to drink tonight, Josh?” you ask.

Somewhere behind you, Dr. Feelgood starts to answer for him, but Bridget quickly steps in and guides her out of the trauma bay.

“I’ve got a dorsalis pedis pulse,” Jack notes.

Josh groans, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath.

“We’re going to get you something for the pain, alright?” you say, watching Olive insert the IV. “But first, I need to know what happened and how much you’ve had to drink.”

Mateo carefully cuts up the leg of Josh’s pants, fully exposing the entry site.

“I—ngh—I fell on it—” Josh manages. “It’s not even—not even real—fuck—”

Mateo turns away quickly, hiding his amusement.

“What about alcohol?” you ask again.

“Like—two beers,” he replies.

“Any drugs?”

“No—ah—no drugs.”

You nod. “Okay. Let’s give another twenty-five of fent.”

“Can we get surgery down here?” Jack asks as he steps back from the bed.

Mateo moves to grab the phone. “Calling now.”

Jack nods, folding his arms and lifting his head to look at you. “Alright. What’s next?”

“Repeat neurovascular exam, stabilise the object, don’t remove it, and get imaging before anyone touches it.”

He nods again. “Good.”

You try to ignore the way he’s watching you as you move to the foot of the bed, going through the motions of the neurovascular checks a little slower than he had just a minute ago.

“Pulses still intact. Cap refill under two. No numbness,” you report.

“Good,” he says again. “Keep checking. If that changes, we move faster.”

You nod once before turning back to Josh.

“Do you know when your last tetanus shot was, Josh?”

He shakes his head faintly. “No.”

“Okay, tetanus booster—” you glance up at Jack, “and antibiotics.”

“Which antibiotic?”

“Cefazolin?”

He watches you for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly—then he turns to Olive. “You heard the doctor. Get him some cefazolin.”

You drop your head, biting back a smile as you watch Mateo start to clean the entry site.

“Let’s flag contamination risk for surgery,” Jack says, pulling off his gloves. “And X-ray for—”

“Position and fragments,” you cut in, finishing for him. “And CTA left leg to clear the vessels before removal.”

He tosses his gloves in the bin and turns back toward you, brows raised.

“Alright,” he says, mildly amused. “I can see I’m no longer needed in here.”

You flash him a small, smug smile before turning back to the wound.

“Entry looks clean, bleeding’s controlled—let’s pack around it and get him to imaging.”

Mateo nods and moves to grab more gauze, helping you pack carefully around the plastic blade so it doesn’t shift during transport. Jack lingers just long enough to make sure you’ve got everything under control before he steps out of the room, slipping back into the quiet chaos of the night shift.

You and Mateo quickly finish stabilising the leg before the nurses prep him for imaging. They’re just about to wheel the bed out when Walsh arrives from the OR, fighting a smile when she sees the pirate impaled by his own sword. You give her a brief rundown as you pull your gloves off and squirt a pump of sanitiser into your hands. She nods along, asks a few questions, then mutters something about prepping an operating room while they wait for imaging.

When you finally step out of the trauma bay, you spot Jack standing with Lena at the nurses’ station. You don’t quite catch all of their conversation as you walk past to grab a tablet, but you do hear something about ETA three minutes and decide to make yourself scarce before you’re dragged into another trauma.

You scan the board briefly, pick your next patient, then head toward the South corridor, already pulling up the chart for South Twenty on your tablet. You’re halfway through the patient’s intake when—

You stop—then take two steps back, turning your head toward South Seventeen.

“Deran?”

The man in the bed glances up, blowing a lock of dark blond hair out of his eyes.

He smiles. “Hey, doc.”

“What’re you doing here?” you ask, despite the obvious.

He’s got his left hand cradled in his lap, wrapped loosely in an oil-stained rag that’s already soaked through in places, blood seeping into the fabric and drying in dark blotches. His knuckles underneath are split and swollen, his pinky finger sticking out at an odd angle, the rest of his hand already blown out around it.

“I was helping a friend with his truck,” he says, glancing back down at his mangled hand. “The prop rod slipped, and the hood came straight down.”

“Ouch,” you murmur, stepping forward.

He huffs out a short laugh. “Yeah. Ouch.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Go for it.”

You set your tablet at the foot of the bed and step up beside him, leaning in as you gently lift the rag to get a better look at what’s underneath. It’s not that deformed—just swollen, and his pinky finger is obviously broken, but otherwise it’s mostly just bruising and superficial cuts. At least he won’t need stitches—maybe some steri-strips and a splint—but you’re more concerned about the dirty rag he’s got wrapped around it.

“What d’you think?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Am I going to make it?”

You tilt your head. “Maybe. If we act fast.”

He laughs softly, the sound ringing almost too familiar in your ears.

You straighten quickly, clearing your throat. “Do you—uh—have you seen a doctor yet?”

He shakes his head. “No. Just you.”

You nod once and pick up your tablet, flicking out of South Twenty’s chart.

“Cool. I’ll be your doctor—” You pause, glancing back at him. “Unless you think that’s a conflict of interest?”

His smile widens. “You mean the prettiest doctor in Pittsburgh’s gonna fix me up?”

You roll your eyes. “Just Pittsburgh, huh?”

“Well, I couldn’t say the world—that’d be way too cheesy.”

You snort. “All your lines are cheesy.”

He gasps. “All of them?”

“All of them,” you echo, keeping your eyes fixed firmly on your tablet.

“Wow,” he mutters. “Tough crowd.”

You shake your head, trying not to smile as you pull up his chart and make a quick note, effectively assigning yourself as his physician. Then you set the tablet back on the bed and turn to grab a pair of gloves.

“Alright, I just need to have a closer look before I can get you some pain relief.”

You nudge the stool closer to the bed and sit down, leaning in as Deran gingerly shifts his hand. You peel the rag back properly this time, murmuring an apology when he winces, and set the dirty thing aside before reaching for gauze and saline.

“This might sting a bit,” you say, already starting to clean the dried blood from his knuckles. “Let me know if you want me to stop.”

“Do I need a safe word?” he asks smugly.

Your gaze flicks up, unamused—then back down to his hand without a word.

“I’m gonna go with meatball,” he decides. “Because—”

“—your favourite thing in the world is a meatball sub from that deli on Carson,” you cut in. “I know.”

His brows lift. “Wow.”

Your eyes flick up again. “Wow what?”

He shrugs, wincing slightly as you turn his hand. “Nothing. I just… didn’t think you paid that much attention.”

You don’t look up this time, unsure what you could possibly say that wouldn’t turn this into a deeper conversation than you’re willing to have right now.

After a beat, Deran hums. “Still doing the whole unavailable thing, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s not a thing, Deran. I work fifteen hours a day with hardly any phone reception, and my days off are spent catching up on paperwork and sleep. I am unavailable.”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, glancing back down at his hand. “I guess I just figured since I hadn’t heard from you in a while, maybe some lucky guy finally managed to sweep you off your feet.”

You scoff, focusing a little too hard on wrapping fresh gauze around his hand. “Yeah, well—you’d be wrong.”

He grimaces when you turn his hand again, being careful not to bump his pinky finger as you finish dressing the cuts. Then you gently set it back in his lap and start cleaning up, swivelling on your stool to toss the oily rag and all the bloodied gauze into the waste bin.

“Alright,” you say, turning back. “Lift your hand for me.”

He lifts it slowly.

“Can you move your fingers?”

His eyes go wide.

You give him a flat look. “Just try.”

His expression twists as he slowly flexes his fingers, letting out a low, pained groan.

“Okay, that’s enough,” you say, scooting forward again. “Any numbness or tingling?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

You reach out and press gently against the tip of his pinky—until it turns white—then watch the colour return beneath his nail.

“Cap refill’s good,” you mutter, more to yourself.

He winces again as he lowers his hand back into his lap.

“So, what’s the verdict—is my weekend ruined?”

You snort. “Not entirely. I’ll get you some pain relief and order an X-ray. We might have to reduce the pinky, but I want imaging before I touch it—I need to see exactly where the fracture is first.”

“Well then,” he says, smirking as he lifts his right hand and holds up just the index and middle finger. “Good thing I’m right-handed.”

It takes a moment for the joke to land. You tilt your head, frowning faintly as you stare at his fingers.

Then it clicks.

“Oh my God,” you laugh, grabbing his hand and forcing it back down. “What is wrong with you?”

He grins. “What? You said it yourself—my weekend isn’t entirely ruined.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t think you meant that.”

“Well,” he says slowly, leaning in, “I don’t have plans yet, but if you’ve got time between paperwork and sleeping, maybe we could—”

“Everything alright in here?”

You turn to see Jack stepping past the curtain. He stops at the foot of the bed and clasps his hands behind his back, eyes flicking curiously between you and Deran.

You straighten a little and nod. “Yep. All good.”

“Except my hand,” Deran adds, lifting his injured hand.

“Right.” You shake your head once. “Deran, this is Dr. Abbot—he’s the senior attending on shift tonight.”

Then you glance back at Jack.

“Crush injury to the left hand after a truck hood came down on it. Significant swelling through the fifth digit with an obvious deformity at the pinky, plus some superficial lacerations across the knuckles. Neurovascularly intact—cap refill’s good, no numbness or tingling. I’ve cleaned and dressed the cuts, and I was just about to send him for imaging before we decide if the finger needs reducing.”

Jack nods once. “Good. Any pain management?”

You stand and nudge the stool back, picking up your tablet from the end of the bed.

“I was just about to order some ibuprofen and Tylenol.”

He nods again. “Sounds like you’ve got everything under control.”

You give him a small smile before turning back to Deran. “Hang tight—I’ll come find you once I get your X-ray results.”

He pouts. “You’re just going to leave me here?”

You roll your eyes, already turning away. “Unavailable, remember.”

Jack slides the curtain shut before following you out, falling into step beside you as you head back toward Central.

“You know him?”

You glance up from your tablet. “Uh—yeah. Old friend.”

He lifts a brow. “Friend?”

You give him a look. “What do you want me to say?”

He shrugs, letting out a quiet laugh. “Friend works.”

“Good,” you mutter, stopping at one of the workstations and setting your tablet down.

Jack pauses beside you. “Meet me in Central Twelve once you’ve put the orders in.”

You frown. “Why?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“Because I’m your boss, that’s why.”

Then he’s gone, moving through the department with that faint hitch in his stride and an ass that absolutely should not look that good in scrubs.

You shake your head and turn your attention back to the computer in front of you, swiping your badge to log in. You quickly pull up Deran’s chart, make a few notes, and order the ibuprofen and Tylenol. Then, just because you can, you try to pull up Central Twelve’s chart—if only to annoy Jack by getting a head start—but there’s nothing in the system.

Great. Must be a brand-new patient.

You let out an irritated little sigh before logging off and grabbing your tablet again.

The door to Central Twelve is shut when you get there, which isn’t unusual, but immediately makes you fear the worst for whatever case Jack has waiting for you inside.

You take a breath, turn the handle—and freeze when you spot the empty bed.

“Shut the door,” Jack says, without looking up from the supply drawer he’s rummaging through.

You hesitate. “Am I in trouble?”

He sighs. “Do you ever just do what you’re told?”

You finally step into the room, shutting the door behind you before setting your tablet on the room cart.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Depends what’s in it for me.”

Jack straightens, turning toward you. “That’s a remarkably transactional approach to life.”

You shrug. “I believe in reciprocation.”

He takes a step closer. “That’s not what reciprocation means.”

“Really?” you ask. “Because last time I checked—in the shower, by the way—you were getting a pretty good deal.”

His mouth quirks. “Are you saying I owe you?”

You step forward. “Who’s keeping count?”

“Maybe I am,” he murmurs.

Before you can say anything else, his fingers catch the hem of your shirt and he tugs—just enough to pull you off balance. Then his mouth is on yours. Slow, deep, unhurried. As if there isn’t an entire emergency department waiting on the other side of that door.

He presses closer, his hand moving beneath your shirt, rough fingers digging into your hip as his mouth parts lazily against yours. His tongue slides along your bottom lip, pulling a breathy little sigh from the back of your throat as your fingers curl into the front of his scrub top. You tilt your head, leaning in, chasing more—and for a second it almost feels like he’s going to give it to you.

Then he pulls away.

Your lips follow instinctively, and he chuckles, taking a deliberate step back.

You blink. “What was that?”

He lifts a shoulder. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

He steps toward the door.

“Dr. Toomarian’s got a patient to present.”

You stare at him. “Seriously?”

He reaches for the handle.

“South Sixteen.”

Then he’s gone, and you’re left watching the door swing shut with something strange and unfamiliar stirring beneath your ribs.

That was weird.

Not unpleasant. Not by any means. Just... unusual.

It takes you a little longer than it should to remember how to move. How to suck in a full breath, pick up your tablet, and head back out into the chaos of the night shift past midnight.

The department is exactly as you’d left it. Patients complaining about pain that could have been prevented with a little common sense. Doctors running on nothing but caffeine and questionable protein snacks. And Lena in the middle of it all, her glasses perched low on her nose as she scans the tablet in her hand.

“Hey,” you say, stepping up to the nurses’ station. “Got anything easy for me?”

Lena glances over the top of her glasses. “Easy left three hours ago.”

You sigh. “Come on. There’s got to be something.”

Her eyes flick back down. “I’ve got a Ms. Callahan in Central Nine. Migraine, vitals are fine.”

“Perfect. I’ll—”

“I’ve got this one,” Jack says, appearing beside you. “Dr. Toomarian needs a resident in South Sixteen.”

You frown. “But I—”

“Now.”

You stare at him for a second, wondering how the hell a man can kiss you breathless one minute then start barking orders at you the next.

“Fine,” you mutter, gripping your tablet a little tighter. “But when I’m admitted for emotional whiplash, I want it documented that you’re the reason why.”

Then you turn and head for the South hall before you’re tempted to say something even less professional.

You don’t normally snap like that—especially not at an attending—but something about the last fifteen minutes has crawled beneath your skin and stayed there, impossible to ignore. Your pulse still hasn’t settled properly. Your cheeks are still warm. And every time you think about Jack’s stupid little half-smirk after he’d kissed you, you’re annoyed.

You just can’t figure out why.

He doesn’t normally kiss you in the middle of a shift.

He doesn’t normally order you around like you’re a lost med student.

And he definitely doesn’t volunteer to see migraine patients.

But you don’t normally get this irritated. Especially not at Jack. The two of you are always messing around. Playing games. Flirting. It’s what you do. So what’s so different about tonight?

“Hey.” Ellis grabs your arm, stopping you just outside of South Sixteen. “You good?”

You blink. “Yeah. Why?”

“You look like you’re contemplating homicide.”

“And if I am?”

“I’d be obliged to remind you that we’re here to save lives, not end them.”

“Damn. Guess I’ll just have to wait until after my shift.”

Her eyes narrow, the corner of her mouth lifting just slightly. “Is this about who I thought I saw being taken up to imaging?”

You frown. “Who did you think you saw?”

“Deran.”

“Oh.”

You glance over her shoulder at the empty bed in South Seventeen.

“That was fast,” you mutter.

Her brows lift. “Wait. You’re his physician?”

You shrug. “Yeah.”

“Isn’t that a conflict of interest?”

“Isn’t my life a conflict of interest?”

She stares at you for a moment, amusement tugging at her mouth. “It’s one of those nights, huh?”

You sigh. “Yep.”

She puts a hand on your shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Then she gives you a brief nod and continues down the hall, humming a tune you don’t recognise as if to rub it in that she’s having a far more pleasant shift than you are.

You spend the next half hour alongside Nazely, talking her through a chest pain workup and reassuring the patient who’s convinced every twinge in his left arm is the beginning of the end. By the time you’ve reviewed the ECG for the third time and convinced him that googling symptoms at two in the morning isn’t a substitute for medical advice, you’re finally able to move on.

The shift settles back into its usual rhythm after that. Patients. Notes. Consults. A never-ending stream of questions from the new med student stuck on nights and equally never-ending complaints from people who should have gone to bed instead of doing dumb things that landed them in the ED.

It isn’t until two a.m. that you finally find yourself back at the nurses’ station with Ellis, sipping a vending machine energy drink she’d forced into your hand while the department enjoys a rare moment of relative calm.

“Shen said the Butt Lightyear guy went up for surgery.”

Lena tilts her head. “Butt Lightyear?”

“You don’t want to know,” you murmur into your drink.

“They tried removing it manually but were worried about the wings,” Ellis explains.

“The wings?”

She smirks. “Yeah. You press a button and the wings pop out.”

You shut your eyes. “Ouch.”

“Let me guess,” Lena says, peering over the rim of her glasses. “He slipped?”

Ellis nods. “Yep. Total accident.”

“Yeah, and the toy just happened to be completely covered in lube too,” you add.

Lena sighs. “Every day I learn something new against my will.”

You and Ellis both laugh as Lena turns away, seemingly done with this conversation—and the people of Pittsburgh judging by the defeated look on her face. You’re about to reach for your tablet to pull up the X-ray images off poor Butt Lightyear when a bright laugh cuts through the quiet hum of the department, drawing your attention toward Central Nine.

You narrow your eyes. “Why is he still in there?”

Ellis shrugs. “Not sure. I thought it was just a migraine.”

“Laughing pretty hard for someone with a headache,” you mutter.

Ellis glances at you. “Do you know who she is?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.”

You look at her. “What?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing.”

“I have no idea who she is,” you say, grabbing your tablet. “And frankly? I don’t care.”

Ellis nods. “Okay.”

“Good.”

Then you turn away before she can say anything else, heading toward the North corridor even though you have no idea which patient you’re actually on your way to see.

It isn’t long before you find yourself passing through Central again, peering into Ms. Callahan’s room to see if she’s been discharged yet. Which she hasn’t—but at least Jack’s not in there anymore. Not that it really matters to you, but you can’t imagine the rest of the department is thrilled about an attending wasting half the night on a migraine patient.

Ten minutes later, you walk past Central Nine again. Not because you’re looking this time—you’re genuinely just passing on your way to find a free workstation—but she’s still in there. And she certainly doesn’t look like she’s in pain anymore.

If you were her, you’d be demanding discharge papers by now.

The third time you glance at Ms. Callahan, she catches your eye, and you offer her a small, awkward smile before quickly glancing back down at your chart. The same chart you’ve been pretending to work on for the better part of fifteen minutes without writing a single coherent sentence.

“You know that’s Abbot’s ex, right?”

You blink. “What?”

Shen nods toward Central Nine. “Ms. Callahan. She’s Abbot’s ex.”

You glance back at the gorgeous blonde woman scrolling through her phone, not at all looking like someone suffering from a migraine.

“Oh.”

Shen nods slowly. “Anyway. He’s looking for you.”

You frown. “Who?”

“Dr. Abbot.”

“Why?”

Shen shrugs. “Didn’t say.”

You sigh. “Great.”

He watches you curiously as you log out of the computer and push your chair back.

“Did he say where?” you ask.

“South.”

You nod once. “Thanks.”

Then you turn and head toward the South corridor, but not without one last glance at the woman in Central Nine. The woman who apparently used to date Jack. The woman who, for reasons you still don’t entirely understand, is suddenly very difficult to stop thinking about.

You spot Jack standing beside the workstations in the middle of the South hall, frowning at something on his tablet. He looks tired now, his curls standing at odd angles thanks to the way he drags his hand through them after every stressful trauma patient—and he’s leaning his left hip against the side of the desk, shifting the weight off his right leg because three a.m. is always when it starts aching. Not that he’ll admit it.

“Shen said you wanted to see me.”

He glances up. “Your friend’s imaging came back.”

“And?”

“Hand surgery wants him,” he says, offering you his tablet.

You take it, glancing down at the X-ray images. “Fracture and tendon damage. Fantastic.”

You flip through the images and skim over the surgeon’s review.

“Okay. I’ll send him up.”

Jack takes the tablet back, his brows pulling together slightly.

“Have you eaten?”

You frown. “What?”

“Have you eaten anything tonight?”

“I had an energy drink.”

He stares at you. “That’s not food.”

You shrug. “I haven’t had time.”

“Make time.”

You roll your eyes. “Fine. I didn’t bring anything.”

He lets out a quiet sigh, glancing down at the tablet as he flicks out of Deran’s X-rays and brings up another patient’s chart.

“There’s a container in the fridge.”

You blink. “What?”

“Top shelf. Left side. Blue lid.”

Your brows lift. “You brought me food?”

He glances up again. “I brought extra food. It’s that pasta you like.”

As if on cue, your stomach grumbles. Loudly.

“Go eat,” he says. “I doubt surgery’s coming to collect your friend in the next twenty minutes.”

You want to argue. You really do. Because you don’t need to be looked after. You don’t need him to bring you food and make sure you eat and be all quietly caring like this. But God is this man a good cook, and you’d have to be an idiot to turn down free pasta at three o’clock in the morning.

“Fine,” you mutter, already turning away. “I’ll eat.”

“You’re welcome.”

You don’t look back. Because if you do, you might see the stupidly smug look on his face and it might make you smile. Then he’ll know he was right, and you absolutely cannot give him that satisfaction. So instead, you drop your gaze and watch your shoes move against the speckled linoleum until you reach the break room door.

You don’t even notice that someone else is in there until you reach the fridge and finally glance up.

“Oh. Hey.”

Ellis waves her fork. “Hey.”

You pull the fridge door open and immediately spot Jack’s blue-lidded tupperware.

“You brought food?” Ellis asks, clearly surprised.

You don’t answer. Not explicitly, at least. You just glance over your shoulder with what could be considered a very brief nod, then turn back toward the microwave and set the container inside.

“She’s his ex, by the way,” you say without thinking.

“Huh?”

You press the start button on the microwave before turning to face Ellis properly, leaning back against the kitchenette counter.

“The woman in Central Nine. Shen just told me she’s Jack’s ex.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Ellis stabs a piece of broccoli with her fork. “I know.”

You tilt your head. “How do you know?”

“I asked Dr. Abbot how he knew the patient,” she says, as if it were obvious.

“Oh.”

You glance back at the microwave, still humming, Jack’s container rotating slowly inside.

“What’d he say?”

Ellis sighs, stabbing a piece of carrot this time. “Just that they dated about a year after his wife passed, but he realised he wasn’t ready to move on yet, so he ended it. It was amicable. Now they’re friends.”

You frown. “Friends? He’s never mentioned her to me.”

Ellis finally looks up, something sharpening in her expression. “Why would he?”

You hesitate. “Because we’re—well, you know…”

Her mouth twitches. “I thought it was casual.”

“It is,” you say quickly. “I just thought he would’ve mentioned—”

“Does Abbot know who Deran is?”

You blink. “What?”

Ellis smirks. “You know, the guy currently sitting in South Seventeen? Mr. Thursday mornings, or—” she tilts her head, “I guess it’s former Mr. Thursday mornings now.”

“Well—not exactly, but that’s—”

The sharp beeping of the microwave cuts you off, and you turn quickly to silence it.

“That’s different?” Ellis offers.

You grab the container out of the microwave, shut the door, then yank open the cutlery drawer to grab a fork before turning back to face her.

“Yes,” you say firmly. “It’s different. Jack knows we’re not exclusive, but he doesn’t need to know who the other guys are.”

Ellis snorts. “Or were.”

You glare at her.

“Alright,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “Then why do you need to know who she is?”

You stab a piece of pasta. “I don’t. I’m just... curious.”

“You mean jealous.”

Your head snaps up. “I’m not jealous. I don’t care what he does when he’s not with me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. He can sleep with every bottle-blonde in Pittsburgh for all I care.”

Ellis’ brows shoot up. “Wow. You’re really jealous.”

“I am not,” you protest. “It’s casual. We both know that. If he wants out, he can just say so. I don’t need him. I don’t need anyone. I mean, sure, it’s fun when they’re good, but I am perfectly fine on my own. I don’t need someone interfering with my life. With my routine. I’m happy exactly the way things are.”

Ellis nods slowly. “Okay, Miss Independent. I get it.”

“Thank you.”

“Just to be clear,” she says, pushing her chair back, “you’re standing here eating his food because he told you to. Right?”

You open your mouth to argue, but she keeps going.

“Your hair smells like his shampoo. You walked into our apartment this morning wearing his shirt, and I’m pretty sure those are his socks.” Her gaze drops briefly to your feet before returning to your face. “You haven’t slept in your own bed once this week and, unless I’m forgetting somebody, you haven’t seen another guy in...” She pauses, pretending to think. “Wow. Almost four months now.”

You stare at her.

“And when you got that stomach bug last month,” she says, grabbing her container as she stands, “he called out of work just to sit on the bathroom floor with you for eight hours.”

She steps up right beside you, dropping her container in the sink.

“That’s not casual.”

The water runs for a few seconds as she rinses the container beneath the tap, then she sets it beside the sink and turns toward the door.

“Anyway,” she says lightly, reaching for the handle. “Let me know when you’re ready to admit you’re in love with him.”

Then she’s gone, leaving you alone with your pasta and your rapidly fraying nervous system.

You don’t move. You just stare at the door, trying to remember how to breathe. Trying to think about anything that isn’t that strange and unfamiliar feeling lodged beneath your ribs, insistent on being felt.

No.

It’s not—

It can’t be—

You would know if you were in—

Fuck.

You turn quickly and drop your container of food beside the sink before it ends up on the floor. Then you press both palms into the edge of the counter, as if that might somehow ground you.

This is ridiculous.

Ellis is just messing with you. She has to be.

You’re not in—

God. You can’t even think about that word.

You drag in a deep breath and grab the fork again, lifting it to your mouth.

It’s almost annoying how good it is. Infuriating, really. Because apparently being an emergency doctor, a SWAT physician, offensively attractive and unfairly charming isn’t enough. No. Jack Abbot just has to be an excellent cook too.

Jerk.

You finish the rest of the pasta as quickly as you can, trying not to be disappointed when the container is empty. Then you rinse it beneath the tap and set it beside Ellis’ tupperware.

Your heart is still beating a little too fast when you step out of the break room, and you have to shove your hands into your scrub pockets to keep them from shaking. You keep your head down as you make your way back toward South Seventeen, trying to focus on what you’re going to say to Deran and not how you may or may not feel about your attending.

“Hey,” you say, pulling the curtain back. “How are you feeling?”

Deran glances up. “Hey, doc. Long time no see.”

You squirt a pump of sanitiser into your palm and rub your hands together as you step up beside the bed.

“Been busy,” you say. “Are the painkillers working?”

He lifts his hand, wincing. “A little.”

You glance at the clock on the wall. “You could probably get some more soon.”

His brows pull together slightly. “Is that your way of saying I’m not heading home any time soon?”

You sigh quietly, dragging the stool closer to the bed and dropping down onto it.

“Not tonight, no. I’m sorry.”

He groans, tipping his head back against the pillow.

“I know,” you murmur, leaning in. “But one of our hand surgeons reviewed the images, and you’ve got a fracture right here.” You gently tap the base of his little finger near the knuckle. “I was expecting a break, but it’s lower than we’d like and close enough to the joint that this isn’t something we can safely reduce and splint in the ED.”

He lifts his head.

“There’s also some concern about the tendon around it,” you continue. “The finger was pulled pretty hard out of position, and the surgeon’s worried it may have damaged one of the tendons that helps it move properly.”

“What does that mean?”

“They’ll take you upstairs, get better imaging if they need it, and most likely repair everything at the same time rather than risk you losing function later.”

His brows draw tighter. “Repair?”

“The fracture. The tendon. Anything else they find once they’re in there.”

He lets his head fall back again. “Great.”

“You’ll be okay.”

“I know,” he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Just not exactly how I pictured getting to spend more time with you.”

You roll your eyes. “Really?”

“Will you be here when I wake up?”

You snort. “Hopefully not. If all goes well, I’ll be at home asleep.”

He sighs. “Damn.”

You push the stool back and stand. “Any other questions before I sign you off to surgery?”

He lifts his head, frowning slightly. “Yeah, actually. I wanted to ask you about that guy.”

You tilt your head. “What guy?”

“The one that came in here before. The attending.”

Your stomach drops.

“What about him?”

“I thought he was your boss.”

You fold your arms. “He is.”

“Huh.”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s just—” He hesitates. “I don’t know. You just don’t usually look at your boss like that.”

You stare at him for a moment, trying to ignore the rush of your pulse in your ears.

“You sure you didn’t hit your head?”

His brows lift. “Wait. Did I hit a nerve?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

Your eyes narrow. “Why don’t you just focus on the fact that you need surgery? Do you need me to call anyone?”

He shakes his head. “I already called my mom.”

“Good,” you mutter, already turning away. “Good luck in surgery.”

“Tell your boss I said hi.”

“Bye, Deran.”

His laughter follows you out into the hallway, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking back as you yank the curtain shut.

You shake your head as you start down the corridor toward Central, as if that might somehow knock your errant thoughts back into place. You can still hear your pulse, still feel the heat crawling beneath your skin, your scrub top suddenly too warm and too tight.

The lights overhead are almost painfully bright now, the way they always get in the late hours of the night shift—but tonight their glare feels personal. Offensive, even. As if those buzzing fluorescent bars are shining brightly on everything you’ve worked so hard not to acknowledge. Not to feel.

Not that you’re feeling anything.

At least, not whatever it is Ellis thinks you’re feeling.

You just need a minute. One minute of quiet to come up with perfectly reasonable explanations for every stupid little thing she pointed out. Then your mind can stop running circles and you can finish your shift, go home, and get some much-needed sleep.

By tomorrow, all of this is just going to feel ridiculous.

Because that’s exactly what it is.

Ridiculous.

“Dr. Abbot,” Bridget calls from behind the desk. “Can you take a look at this for me?”

You stop short halfway between South and Central, watching as Jack moves from one end of the nurses’ station to the other. Bridget is already holding up her tablet, pointing at something on the screen while Jack leans in, brow furrowing just slightly as he squints at it.

He needs to wear his glasses. You’ve told him this countless times. Yet for some reason, he insists on reserving them exclusively for news articles, novels, and recipes.

Apparently, the PTMC emergency department isn’t worthy of his clear vision.

Your stomach lurches as your traitorous thoughts remind you of the time he’d worn them during sex. The time he’d insisted on keeping them on as he settled between your legs because he wanted to see you properly. He wanted to see everything.

You shake your head again, trying to push the memory away.

Jack leans a little closer as Bridget starts explaining something you can’t quite make out. Not that you really care to hear what she’s saying. You’re too busy watching the way Jack’s left hand grips the edge of the desk, his weight shifting toward it, lessening the load on his right leg.

It must be really sore tonight.

He nods along, murmuring something low as he taps on the screen. You know what comes next before he even does it. He lifts that same hand and it drags across his jaw, tilting his head just slightly as he tries to concentrate on whatever it is Bridget’s asking—but he’s tired. You know he’s tired. From the set of his shoulders to the way he’s shifting almost all his weight off his right leg, you just know that he’s counting down the hours to the end of shift.

Maybe you should feel guilty for not letting him get enough sleep yesterday.

His left hand adjusts its grip, the tendon in his forearm flexing as it does and for some stupid reason, you forget how to breathe. Just for a second.

“You alright?”

You blink. “What?”

Henderson frowns slightly, suddenly standing beside you with his tablet in hand. “That’s the second time I've caught you completely zoned out tonight. What’s going on?”

“Uh—”

You glance back at Jack just as he looks up, his gaze meeting yours briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips—and your treacherous heart leaps. It actually leaps.

What the fuck?

You clear your throat. “Yeah. No. I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

Henderson—the perceptive bastard—glances toward the nurses’ station, and his eyes widen.

“Oh, shit. Did something happen between you two?”

Your stomach flips. “What?”

He gestures vaguely toward Jack. “You and Abbot. Did you break up or something?”

“What?” you say again, louder this time. “Why would you even—I mean, we’re not—we’ve never dated. Why would you think that?”

He tilts his head. “Really? I thought Ellis said—”

“Ellis?”

“Not just Ellis.”

Your eyes go wide. “Who else?”

He shrugs. “Everyone assumes you guys are together.”

“Together?”

He frowns. “You’re not?”

“No,” you say, almost too fast. “No. We’re not together, we’re just—it’s… casual.”

His brows lift, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Casual?”

“Yes,” you mutter, dropping your head into your hands. “Are you telling me the entire ED thinks Jack and I are dating?”

Henderson laughs. “Actually, now that I think about it, I don’t think I’ve ever heard Shen mention it.”

Your head snaps up. “People talk about it?”

Henderson shrugs. “It’s gossip.”

You open your mouth, ready to deny everything, when—

“Trauma inbound,” Lena calls. “Male, twenties. Motorcycle crash. Hypotensive in the field. ETA two minutes.”

“Shit,” Henderson mutters. “That’s not gonna be fun.”

Jack glances over at you again, calling your name across the floor. “Trauma Two. Let’s go.”

You hesitate, taking a step back. “I—I can’t. Sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Henderson says quickly. “I can jump in.”

He’s already moving before he’s even finished speaking, weaving through the growing rush of staff converging on Trauma Two. You watch him for a second, taking another slow step back, then another—and just before you turn away, you glance at Jack.

He hasn’t moved. He’s still standing by the nurses’ station. Watching you.

Your stomach twists.

Then you turn away and keep walking down the corridor.

And fortunately for your rapidly deteriorating grip on reality, it isn’t long before Dr. Toomarian pulls you into a room to present a patient and you’re forced back into work mode.

The distraction helps, at first. You focus on the patient, answer questions, review scans, place orders, and for a few blessed minutes your brain remembers how to function. Then someone says Jack’s name and your pulse jumps for no reason. You hear a voice that sounds vaguely like Jack’s and your head snaps up. Someone calls for an attending and you catch yourself looking.

By the time you’re halfway through reviewing another chart, your pulse still hasn’t settled and you’re no closer to understanding what the hell is wrong with you, only increasingly certain that whatever it is, it’s getting worse.

Eventually you find yourself moving back through Central, your nose buried in your tablet as you scan the next patient’s intake form, determined to stay distracted. You’re just about to turn down the North corridor when you finally glance up—and there he is.

His brows lift, just slightly. “A word?”

Shit.

“Um. Sure.”

You tuck your tablet under one arm as you follow him around the corner toward the ambulance bay. Not quite all the way outside, but far enough from the nurses’ station that no one nosy can overhear.

When he finally stops and turns to face you, you’re reminded—quite aggressively—just how unfairly attractive Jack Abbot really is.

“What was that?”

You take a small step back. “What was what?”

He nods vaguely toward Central. “You completely dodged that trauma back there.”

“Yeah. Sorry.” You look away. “I just—I had a patient I needed to get back to.”

“We’ve all got patients,” he says, folding his arms. “But this is the ED. We treat the most critical patients first. That means traumas—you know that.”

You glance back at him, then down at your shoes. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m just... a little distracted tonight.”

“Distracted?” he echoes. “Is this about your friend?”

Your head snaps up. “My friend?”

“The one you just sent up to surgery.” His jaw tightens, just briefly. “If I’m being honest, I’m not even sure you should’ve been his physician.”

You frown. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It’s a conflict of interest.”

You scoff. “A conflict of interest? Seriously?”

He folds his arms a little tighter, making the sleeves of his scrub top strain around his stupidly thick biceps in the most distracting way.

“Yes.”

You lift your chin. “Alright. How’s Ms. Callahan, then?”

He blinks. “Who?”

“Central Nine. Your ex.”

He stares at you for a second.

“Who told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “What matters is if you can treat your ex without it being a conflict of interest, then I can treat some guy I used to sleep with.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“So he’s not just an old friend.”

You tilt your head. “You knew that, Jack.”

For a brief moment, neither of you says anything. You can feel your pulse in your throat now, fast and uneven, and judging by the way Jack’s looking at you, you’re not doing nearly as good a job of hiding it as you’d hoped.

“Look,” you say, desperate to end this interaction. “I’m sorry I ducked the trauma. Really, I am. But Henderson was right there—it’s not like I left you hanging. I knew he’d jump in.”

Jack rubs a hand across his jaw, looking away for a second before glancing back at you. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. Henderson was there, I could have called either of you.”

You nod once, the knot in your stomach finally easing slightly.

“Guess I should stop playing favourites, huh?”

You frown again. “Favourites?”

He lifts a shoulder. “You’re always the first person I look for when I need a second set of hands.”

Heat rushes up the back of your neck, but you refuse to let him see it.

“What about Dr. Robby?” you ask, shifting your tablet against your chest.

He leans in slightly. “I’d still choose you.”

The words hit you square in the chest, settling somewhere deep behind your ribs. For a second, your lungs forget how to work entirely, and by the time you finally figure out how to breathe again, Jack is already gone.

You stand there for a moment, staring after him, waiting for your brain to catch up with whatever the hell just happened. Waiting for those words to make sense. But they don’t. Not entirely. They stay lodged in your chest even as you clear your throat and press a hand against your sternum, turning slowly back toward the chaos of the ED.

Whatever.

Maybe they don’t mean anything.

You shake your head as you glance down at your tablet, pulling up the chart you’d been focused on before all this. Before Jack told you he’d still choose you over his own best friend, who also happens to have more experience, more qualifications, and significantly better judgement than you.

Ridiculous.

You spend the next half hour cleaning gravel out of a drunk college student’s knee after he fell down the porch steps at a house party. Then you help Henderson with a nine-year-old girl who split her forehead falling from the top bunk of her bed, distracting her while he does the sutures. After that, you work through a mild pneumonia case with Nazely before treating a middle-aged man with a kidney stone. The orders, pain meds, scans, and paperwork all blur together, and by the time you finally check the clock again it’s almost seven.

“Shit,” you murmur, dropping down at desk near the nurses’ station.

You need to catch up on your charting if you plan on getting out of here any time soon.

“Hey.” Henderson sits at the computer across from you. “Little girl with the forehead lac just got discharged.”

You glance over at him. “Oh. Nice.”

“Her mom wanted me to thank you for helping her.”

You snort. “Between the drunk college kid and the old guy coughing up half a lung, it was my pleasure.”

Henderson huffs a laugh. “Apparently she’s been saying she wants to be a doctor since she was six.”

Your brows lift. “Really?”

Henderson grins. “And now she wants to be a doctor just like you."

“Yeah? Did you tell her not to go into emergency medicine if she values her soul?”

“Assuming you had one to begin with,” Robby cuts in.

You glance up just as he walks past, wearing that familiar half-smile of weary amusement with a coffee in one hand and his bag slung over his shoulder.

“And here I was worried you’d be in a good mood this morning,” you say, smiling sweetly despite your words.

His eyes narrow, but the corner of his mouth lifts a little higher. “Careful.”

You roll your eyes playfully, turning back to the screen in front of you as he continues through Central.

It takes exactly eight minutes before you’re interrupted again. Bridget taps you on the shoulder asking for your signature on a prescription, and just as you hand it back to her, the red phone rings. You watch Lena answer it with a tired sigh, both Jack and Robby looking up to hear what kind of chaos is inbound.

“Alright,” Lena says as she hangs up the phone. “Male, forties. Single-vehicle MVC. Hypotensive in the field, positive seatbelt sign. ETA four minutes.”

“I’ll take it,” Robby says, setting his coffee down. “Let’s prep Trauma One.”

He glances around the unusually empty floor.

“I’ll jump in,” you offer, pushing your chair back.

Henderson shoots you a look as you stand and turn toward the nurses’ station, pulling a pair of gloves from a box. It’s not that you really want to jump in on another case ten minutes before the end of your shift, but you haven’t had a trauma since Captain Stabby and his sexy doctor friend, and you’re starting to feel a little guilty about it.

“See,” Robby says, pulling on his own gloves. “There’s hope for you yet.”

You roll your eyes again as you follow him out to the ambulance bay, and it isn’t long before you hear sirens.

The ambulance careens in and pulls up right in front of you, the back doors flying open as the first paramedic climbs out, holding a tearful young girl in his arms. She couldn’t be older than four.

“Thirty-eight-year-old male, restrained driver in a single-vehicle MVC versus a tree,” the paramedic says. “Positive seatbelt sign, abdominal pain, hypotensive on scene, improved with fluids. GCS fifteen. Two IVs in place. Daughter was restrained in the back seat and appears uninjured.”

The second paramedic circles the van from the driver’s side and starts helping Robby lower the gurney.

Robby nods toward the daughter. “You check her out?”

“We did a quick assessment on scene, but we’ve been focused on Dad,” the paramedic says, still holding her.

“Alright. We’ll get somebody to take a look at her.”

The young girl starts crying harder as Robby and the other paramedic begin wheeling the gurney inside. You stay beside them, one hand on the man’s forearm as you watch his eyelids droop.

“Stay with me, sir,” you say, squeezing his arm. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Barry,” he murmurs.

“Where does it hurt, Barry?”

He winces. “My—my stomach.”

The gurney rolls through the second set of doors, and suddenly you’re back under the bright fluorescent lights.

“Abbot,” Robby calls. “Can you take a look at the kid?”

Jack appears before you can even glance over your shoulder.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, his voice soft as he gently takes the daughter from the paramedic’s arms. “Your dad’s in good hands. Come on, let’s get you checked out too.”

You continue moving with the gurney into Trauma One, where Jesse and Olive are already prepping monitors and equipment.

“On three,” Robby says, positioning himself opposite you. “One, two, three.”

The paramedics help shift the patient onto the trauma bed before clearing out, making room for Jesse to start attaching monitors.

“Pressure one-oh-four over sixty-eight,” he reports.

Olive quickly cuts Barry’s shirt open.

“Seatbelt sign across the lower abdomen,” you say, pressing gently along his stomach.

He grimaces when you reach his left side.

“Left’s worse.”

Robby holds out a hand. “Ultrasound.”

Jesse hands him the probe as you squirt gel onto Barry’s abdomen.

“RUQ,” Robby says.

You glance up at the ultrasound screen. “Clear.”

“LUQ.”

“Clear.”

“Pelvis.”

“Nothing obvious.”

“Good,” Robby says. “FAST negative. He’s stable enough for CT.”

You turn to Olive. “CT chest, abdo, pelvis with contrast.”

She nods, moving toward the phone as the whole room finally takes a breath. The negative FAST isn’t a guarantee, but it’s a promising start.

Barry groans, trying to lift his head. “Where’s my daughter? Where’s Ellie?”

You press a hand against his shoulder.

“Hey, don’t try to sit up. Your daughter’s okay—she’s just outside with another doctor.”

“She’s okay?”

You nod. “She’s okay.”

He lets out a strained breath, settling back against the mattress and tipping his head back.

“Hold on.”

You move closer, gently pushing his hair back.

“Forehead lac,” you tell Robby. “About three centimetres.”

He glances over. “Alright. We’ll close it up before he goes to imaging.”

He strips off his gloves and reaches for a new pair while Jesse preps the suture tray. Olive is already cleaning up around Barry as you reach for some gauze to start cleaning the cut, gently pushing his bloodied locks of hair out of the way.

“Lidocaine,” Robby says.

You grab the syringe from the tray and hand it to him, more than happy to let your attending do the work while your adrenaline wanes and that familiar end-of-shift exhaustion sets in.

“Stay still for us, Barry,” you murmur, cupping the crown of his head. “This might sting a little.”

He winces as Robby injects the anaesthetic.

“Saline,” Robby says.

You hand it over before carefully plucking the last few stuck strands of hair away from the wound.

“How’s the pain?” you ask.

“‘S okay,” Barry mumbles.

“Forceps.”

You hand Robby the forceps, then the needle driver before he can even ask.

“Light,” he murmurs.

You reach up and adjust the luminaire until he raises his hand, signalling that it’s in the right spot. Then he pinches the edge of the laceration with the forceps and slides the needle through the skin. Easy. Effortless. Boring.

You glance up at the monitor, noting that Barry’s heart rate has finally dropped below a hundred.

“Scissors,” Robby says.

You grab the scissors from the tray and hand them to him, then go back to reading Barry’s vitals.

“You with us, Barry?” Robby asks.

“Yeah,” Barry murmurs.

“Can’t feel the needle, can you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

You let your eyes move slowly around the room, already holding gauze for Robby before he can ask for it. You feel him take it from your hand just as you turn your head toward the glass doors, gazing out at the beginning chaos of morning handover.

But it isn’t Ellis and Langdon arguing about God knows what that gets your attention.

Just outside the trauma bay, perched on the edge of a bed parked beside the nurses’ station is Barry’s daughter. Ellie, apparently. Her eyes are still red and puffy, but she’s not crying anymore. She’s got a pink hospital gift shop teddy tucked under one arm and her other hand wrapped around the tubing of a black stethoscope.

Jack is sitting on a stool in front of her, gently helping put the earpieces in her tiny ears with a soft smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. Her little hands grip either side of the headset, adjusting it with a very focused look on her face.

Jack hands her the chest piece as he scoots a little closer to the bed, then points to his chest. You can’t hear what he’s saying, but you can make an educated guess.

Ellie’s tiny hand grips the bell as she presses the diaphragm against Jack’s chest, a small crease forming between her brows. Jack is watching her with that amused little half-smile, his gaze soft, one hand braced lightly on the mattress beside her so she doesn’t topple backwards.

Ellie says something, and Jack nods, schooling his expression.

She’s taking her job very seriously right now, and Jack is taking her very seriously.

“Doctor.”

You blink, glancing back at Robby.

“Yeah?”

He gives you a look. “Scissors. For the third time.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

You hand him the scissors and watch him snip the tail on the second-last suture, then you turn your attention back toward Jack and Ellie. She’s giggling now, with the diaphragm pressed to Jack’s cheek as he gently shakes his head, laughing too.

“Forceps.”

You grab the forceps and hand them to Robby.

His eyes flick up. “You alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“You’re smiling.”

“No, I’m—”

Oh my God.

You are smiling.

You turn back toward Jack, and your stomach drops.

Oh my God.

You’re in love with Jack Abbot.

“Alright, Barry,” Robby says, peeling his gloves off. “We’re gonna send you upstairs for some imaging now, make sure we didn’t miss anything.”

You take one unsteady step back from the bed.

“Can someone call my wife?” Barry asks, his voice strained.

Robby nods. “I'm sure somebody already has, but I’ll check.”

Your hands shake as you pull your gloves off.

“What about Ellie? Can I see her?”

“Of course,” Robby says. “She’s right outside.”

Barry lifts his head slightly. “Am I okay?”

“Well, you’re talking to me, your pressure’s holding, and your FAST was negative. Those are all good signs.” Robby looks at you. “Isn’t that right, doctor?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?”

He frowns. “You sure you’re alright? You seem—”

“I’m fine,” you snap, tossing your gloves in the waste bin. “I just—I have charting to do.”

Then you turn and march right out of the trauma bay, keeping your head down as you take an immediate sharp left. Ignoring the familiar voice that calls your name and makes your pulse scatter.

You don’t stop until you reach the picture wall. Only then do you drop down onto the bench, squeeze your eyes shut, and bury your face in your hands. You can’t scream. Can’t shout. Can’t drop to the floor and have a panic attack right here in the middle of the ED. So you just… breathe.

Okay. Maybe you’re being a little dramatic—but can anyone blame you?

You don’t want this. You can’t want this. You don’t have time for this.

Casual sex is easy. No strings, no stress, no reason to worry about anything other than saving lives and finishing your residency. That’s all you want.

Or… all you wanted.

Now?

Now you’re not sure what you want.

Of course you still want to save lives and survive your residency, but now you can’t imagine doing either of those things without Jack.

You can’t imagine another shift without knowing Jack is somewhere in the department. Or getting a difficult case and not being able to talk through it with him. You can’t imagine going home and not immediately texting him. Or having a bad day and not being able to talk to him about it.

You can’t imagine anything without Jack.

Which is terrifying.

Because it isn’t just sex anymore. It isn’t flirting or late-night texts or teasing glances across the floor. It’s the way he’s somehow worked his way into every part of your life without you even noticing. Every shift. Every conversation. Every stupid little story you save up to tell him later. He’s just there. Everywhere.

And now... he matters.

You sit up and drag in a deep breath.

You need to pull it together. This isn’t the end of the world. It’s not even a thing. It’s only a thing if you let it be a thing, which… you’re not going to do.

With another deep breath, you push off the bench and start heading back toward Central. All you have to do is finish your charting, then you can leave. You can go home, turn your phone off, and talk yourself off the ledge.

You just need a little space. A little time away from the hospital, away from Jack, and all these ridiculous feelings will—

“Hey. You okay?”

Your heart lurches, but you don’t stop.

“I was going to come over there,” he says, keeping his voice low, “but I didn’t want to—”

“I’m fine,” you murmur, without even looking at him.

His hand closes gently around your wrist, and your stomach flips so hard it’s almost nauseating. 

“You sure?”

You finally stop, glancing up at him. At the concerned crease between his brows and the little downward quirk at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m fine,” you say again, pulling your arm out of his grip. “Seriously.”

He gives you a look. Not one that says he’s offended or at all upset by your attitude, but one that says he doesn’t believe you. A look that makes you feel far too seen. Far too known.

“I need to finish my notes,” you mutter, turning away before he can say anything else.

You turn down the North corridor and don’t stop until you reach the desks just outside the break room. Then you drop into a chair, swipe your badge to log in, and force your trembling hands to steady themselves over the keyboard.

It takes a significant amount of effort to focus on your charting. You stare at the blinking cursor for minutes at a time before finally managing to squeeze out a few—mostly coherent—sentences. You type Jack’s name at least five times without meaning to, and every time you do, your heart thuds obnoxiously hard beneath your ribs.

Fortunately, no one tries to interrupt you this time, and after forty painstaking minutes of glaring at that computer screen and forcing your wayward thoughts to stay on track, you finally finish.

Now you just need to handover your patients.

You find Langdon by the nurses’ station, standing just below the workboard with his hands in his pockets as he reads through the list of patients and their ailments.

“Hey.” You step up beside him. “You got a minute for handover?”

He glances at you. “Oh. Hey. Didn’t know there were still any night crawlers left.”

You frown. “Everyone’s gone?”

“Everyone but Dr. Abbot,” he says. “And you.”

Your eyes go wide. “Ellis is gone?”

He nods. “Saw her head out about fifteen minutes ago.”

You scramble to grab your phone out of your pocket, unlocking it to find two new notifications from Ellis. Seventeen minutes ago.

Ellis: Abbot said he’s giving you a lift, so I’m headed out. Ellis: Need anything from the store?

Your stomach drops.

“Everything alright?” Langdon asks.

“Uh—yeah. Fine.”

You tuck your phone back into your pocket.

“I’ve only got two patients. Can you take them?”

He nods. “Of course.”

“Alright. Central Twelve came in with chest pain. Trops negative, ECG’s clean, waiting on the repeat. If that’s negative too, he can go home.”

“Mhm.”

“And South Nineteen’s the pyelo. Got fluids, ceftriaxone, feeling better. Medicine said they’d come see her, but I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

Langdon snorts. “Got it.”

You nod. “Great. Thanks.”

“Anything else?”

“Nope.”

He smiles. “Great sign-out.”

“I try,” you mutter, already turning away.

You hurry across the floor toward the lockers, pulling your phone back out of your pocket to type a reply to Ellis as you walk.

You: You’re dead to me. You: And toothpaste.

When you finally reach your locker, you quickly key in the code and pull the door open. You don’t bother removing your stethoscope or badge, or taking time to actually put your jacket on—you just gather everything into your arms and slam the door shut again. Then you turn and make a beeline for the ambulance bay.

Maybe you can catch a bus home. Or—hell—you’ll pay for an Uber if you have to.

“Hey, slow down,” Dana says as you rush past the nurses’ station. “What’s the hurry?”

“Sorry,” you call over your shoulder. “Just—really need to get home.”

You’re moving too quickly for her to press you any further. Thank God. Because the last thing you need right now is Dana and her infuriating habit of knowing things she has absolutely no business knowing.

You keep your head down until you make it all the way outside, and only then do you finally feel like you can breathe. You nod to a patient having a cigarette by the garden bed before turning the other way, pulling your phone out to order an Uber.

Only, you can’t remember the last time you ordered an Uber. Do you even have the app?

“You ready?”

You flinch. “Jesus Christ.”

Jack huffs a laugh. “Not quite.”

You glance back down at your phone, clutching it a little tighter.

“I’m this way,” he says, nodding toward the other side of the parking lot.

You hesitate. “I—uh—I was just going to grab an Uber.”

His brows lift, but he doesn’t look all that surprised. “You were?”

You nod. “Yeah. I’m good. Thanks.”

“You sure?”

“Yep.”

You turn away, but he doesn’t leave. He just stands there, waiting, one hand holding the strap of his backpack that’s slung over his shoulder, the other buried in his pocket.

“Is there something going on that I should know about?” he asks finally.

“Nope,” you reply, too fast.

Then, for some ridiculous reason, you start walking.

“Where are you going?”

“The bus stop,” you say, without looking back.

He follows you. Because of course he does.

“You’re going to catch a bus?”

“Yep.”

He laughs again, but this time it’s more disbelief than dry amusement.

“I’m offering you a perfectly good, no strings attached ride home, and you’d rather catch a bus?”

That makes you stop.

You turn around. “No strings attached?”

He lifts a shoulder. “If that’s what you want.”

“What I want?”

“If you want me to just drop you off, I’ll just drop you off.”

You stare at him for a second, your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Just drop me off?”

He nods slowly, his brow creasing slightly.

“And then what?” you ask.

He tilts his head. “What do you mean?”

“Then you just leave?”

“If that’s what you want.”

Your throat tightens. “Stop saying that.”

He frowns. “Saying what?”

“If that’s what I want.” You drag a hand through your hair. “You keep saying it like this is entirely up to me. Like none of this has anything to do with you. Like it’s my choice and you don’t get to say anything or—or feel anything, and that’s not fair.”

He studies you for a moment, folding his arms across his chest in the most irritatingly distracting way.

“What are we talking about here?”

“I don’t know!” You throw your hands up. “This. Us. Whatever this is. I don’t know what we’re doing anymore, Jack. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with any of this, and you just keep showing up being completely reasonable all the time, which is really fucking annoying.”

His eyes narrow. “I’m... too reasonable?”

“Yes! God—” You laugh once, sharp and humourless. “Why are you always like this? Why are you always so calm about everything? We never talk about what you want. We never talk about how you feel. We just keep pretending everything’s fine and maybe that’s worked up until now, but I don't think it’s working anymore.”

“Okay,” he says evenly. “Tell me what’s not working, and we can talk about it.”

“Talk about it?” You stare at him. “Talk about what? There’s nothing to talk about, because this—this isn’t anything. This is casual, Jack. It’s supposed to be casual. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe we’ve spent too much time together. Maybe we just need some space or—or something.”

His brows lift. “Is that what you want?”

You fold your arms, trying to reclaim some semblance of control. “Yes.”

Something that almost resembles amusement flickers across his face, but he schools it quickly.

“Okay,” he says again. “If you want space, I can give you space.”

“Seriously?” You let out another sharp laugh. “Of course that’s your answer. Do you see what I mean? This is exactly what I mean. I stand here and tell you maybe we need some space, and you’re just... okay with it? Just like that? No questions, no argument, no nothing.”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Do you want me to argue?”

“Maybe!” You throw your hands up again. “I don’t know, Jack! Maybe I want something. Anything. Just some indication that this means something to you. Because every time I say something, you just... accept it. You just nod and go along with it like none of this affects you at all. Like if I said I wanted space, you’d give me space. If I said I wanted to end this, you’d end it. If I said I never wanted to see you again, you’d just stand there being completely calm and reasonable and tell me that’s okay too.”

You let out a shaky laugh, shaking your head as you look away.

“And don’t tell me that’s not true, because you spent half the night in Central Nine with your ex and I spent the rest of the shift pretending I wasn’t paying attention to that, which is insane, by the way. Completely insane. She was a patient. You’re a doctor. I know that. I know I’m being irrational.”

You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut for just a second before looking back at him.

“And that’s the worst part, because I know none of this is actually about her. That’s the problem. It’s not about her at all. It’s about the fact that you’re always fine. You’re always so calm and so reasonable and so completely unbothered, and I don’t know how you do that.” You let out an unsteady breath. “It's like—like none of this matters to you. Like you don’t care. Like you could just walk away from everything, from me, and be completely fine.”

Your chest is rising and falling too fast now, your heart is beating so hard you’re almost sure he can hear it.

He doesn’t say anything right away. He just watches you, the corners of his mouth softened by something that looks suspiciously like fondness. And suddenly you’re struck by the horrible suspicion that he understands exactly what you’ve been trying so hard not to say.

“You think I could just walk away from this and be completely fine?” he asks, his voice soft. “You think I could walk away from you?”

He steps closer, the toes of his boots barely inches from yours now.

“When this started, it was casual. I knew that. I knew you were seeing other people. I knew you didn’t want a relationship—and if that’s still not what you want, then okay. I’m not going to pressure you into something you’re not ready for. I’m not trying to be overly reasonable, and I’m certainly not trying to make you feel like you’re losing your mind.”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“When I ask you what you want, it’s not because I don’t care what happens. It’s because I do. It’s because I’d rather be patient than push you into something before you’re ready for it. And if space is what you need right now, then I’ll give you space.”

His gaze holds yours.

“But don’t mistake that for indifference. Because there’s no version of this where walking away from you is easy. There’s no version of this where I don’t care. And if one day you tell me that’s what you really want, then I’ll respect it. Not because it’s what I want. Not because what I feel doesn’t matter. But because I respect you.”

His expression softens again.

“Do you understand?”

You nod slowly, your throat suddenly too tight for words.

“Now listen to me.”

He lifts a hand and pinches your chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

“I know you’ve had a long shift. I know you’re exhausted. I know you’re standing here trying to convince yourself you haven't completely lost your mind, and I’m not trying to make your day any harder than it already is—but I need you to hear this.”

His eyes search yours, earnest and unguarded.

“I love you too.”

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. With your breath caught somewhere in your chest, your mouth slightly open, and your heart trying to punch its way through your ribcage.

His lips quirk. “You alright?”

“No,” you breathe.

And then you grab the front of his shirt and kiss him.

His hand drops from your chin to your neck, fingers pressing in just slightly as he kisses you back. Firm, unhurried, like he has all the time in the world and has decided, without hesitation, that he only wants to spend it on you.

He steps closer, tilting your head back as his mouth parts against yours. A soft, helpless little noise breaks at the back of your throat, and you can feel his lips curl in satisfaction. Then he kisses you harder, deeper, his other hand finding your waist as his tongue presses past your lips.

You step in until there’s nothing left between you. Nothing but hospital scrubs and the fact that you’re standing in the middle of a public parking lot right now.

And for a second, neither of you seems to care.

The hand at your waist slides higher, pulling you closer as his mouth moves slower. Not because he wants less, but because he knows he’s got you. Because after months of patience and uncertainty, he knows he can finally take his time.

Your fingers bunch tighter in the front of his shirt, and he smiles again.

“Don’t,” you murmur against his mouth.

He doesn’t say anything. He just kisses you again, gentler this time. A lingering press of his mouth against yours. Then another. His thumb brushes against your neck as he tilts his head, stealing one more kiss that feels almost unfairly tender after the way he’d just been holding you.

Then he pulls back completely.

You stare at him.

He stares back.

Your lips are still tingling, your hands are still fisted in the front of his shirt, and your heart is still beating hard enough to crack a rib.

The corner of his mouth lifts a little higher.

“Still catching the bus?”

You immediately let go of his shirt. “Shut up.”

He laughs properly then, letting you turn away and start marching toward one end of the parking lot.

“My car’s the other way,” he calls.

You stop, close your eyes, then slowly turn around.

Jack is still standing exactly where you left him, with his hands in his pockets and looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Shut up,” you say again.

His smile only widens.

You roll your eyes and start walking again, brushing past him with as much dignity as someone can reasonably muster after having a complete emotional breakdown and then immediately making out with their boss.

You don’t need to look back to know he’s following you.

You just know.

And by the time you finally reach his car, you realise you’re smiling.

Which is annoying for several reasons.

Muscle memory takes over. Coffee beans. Machine. Grinding. Hot cup of coffee. He pours himself a cup before he finds himself wandering back to his bedroom, towards his drawers. He only freezes when he's staring at black scrubs and remembering he's technically on sabbatical. The pit in his chest yawns wider.

It takes another heavy step to make his way back to his living room, with the intent to deposit his body onto the couch in hopes to attempt a stab at normalcy, but the beeping of a van bleeds through his walls from next door. He grunts and pushes the front door open to lean against the porch columns to see a large moving van in the driveway besides his, teeming with men that's already sweating out of their shirts despite the early hour.

They've all got their hands full, drawers and tables and chairs filing out of the van and into the home next door.

"Where d'ya want this, ma'am?" One man with a handlebar mustache grunts, holding a large painting with a gilded frame that looks so laughably ornate in the midst of mismatched chairs.

You appear at your front door, probably from somewhere inside your home, with a frazzled smile. It's barely seven and you look as though you've lived through half the day already.

"Center of the east wall, please!" You chirp, hovering behind the burly man and you disappear inside. Robby finds himself smiling against the rim of his mug before he forces his attention elsewhere. The copious amounts of paintings and decor makes his walls look so empty.

Time slips away from him and lunch time is fast approaching. Cooking something feels a little bit like getting his life together so he throws a quick stir-fry dish together. He's just about to plate when he hears a quiet knock on his door.

"Can I help you?"

When he opens the door, he didn't expect you to stand on his porch with a bowl of peaches in your hands. The oddness of it all takes him aback.

"Um— maybe. I'm your new neighbor, I live right next door. Sorry again for the ruckus, I didn't think moving in would be so loud!" You offer a smile and Robby finds him smiling despite himself. "Peaches as an apology and a request for a favor all in one?"

He chuckles and leans against his doorframe, taking the bowl out of your hands. When he gives his name, you give yours. "So what's this favor?"

"Ah. One of the movers must've gotten lazy and left one of my cabinets crooked? I tried moving it myself but it's a vintage and those things are heavy," you explain with a little laugh.

Robby nods and sets the bowl aside. "Yeah, I'll see what I can do."

Entering your space feels a bit surreal. The layout should be similar to his, considering the whole block of homes here were developed in one season, and yet how you've decorated makes your home look far more different than his.

"Which cabinet—?"

You lead him towards the small room tucked beside the kitchen, something he uses for storage but what you've turned it into resembles a small studio space. An easel is folded in the corner, unused canvases leaning onto the wall beside it. On the opposite end of the room is a large, vintage brown cabinet that's placed diagonally off the wall.

"I know it's silly but the thing nearly tipped over when I tried pushing and the last thing I need is a hole in my wall," you say with a soft sigh, watching Robby push the cabinet with ease until it's flush against the wall. "Thanks, that would've bothered me all day."

"You're welcome. Anything else?" He asks and he finds himself wanting to stick around longer.

You turn slowly where you stand before giving him a smile he doesn't know how to interpret. "I think I might've smelled something cooking in your kitchen. Any chance you got an extra plate to share?"

The next day, he stares at his Bonneville in his garage and digs deep to see if he still has that urge to ride and… ride 'til he stops. He lets out a heavy sigh and steps out. Like clockwork, his head swivels to your porch and something in his chest twists at the sight of you curled up on a chair with a book in hand. Cozy.

"Good morning, Michael."

A short laugh escapes him. "Morning, Peaches."

Your eyes roll halfheartedly before you wave him over with a delicate hand. "You never told me what you do."

"Neither have you." He leans against the porch railing, trying to steal a glimpse of your book.

"I'm an art history professor," you offer first. "Now you."

"I'm… a senior attending at PTMC." He doesn't know why it feels like pulling teeth admitting it out loud, like his life prior to the sabbatical feels like sacrilege mixing it with meeting you.

"Impressive." You whistle lowly before you give him a little grin. "I'm a doctor, too. Not in the way my mom wanted for me but hey, at least she can call me Doctor Peaches. Any reason why you aren't in a hospital, Doctor Robinavitch? I thought you attendings are utter workaholics."

He crosses his arms as he leans against the porch column, a half grin that you're slowly becoming obsessed with. "We are. It's why nearly my entire workstaff had me on this sabbatical…"

"Sweet workstaff." You offer him a cookie which he takes. "Any big plans for your sabbatical?"

"A road trip, but—" he shrugs and looks around. He can't seem to maintain eye contact. "I thought it'd be better to stay home for a bit. And a good thing, too. How else would you have moved that cabinet of yours?"

"You're right. I'd be stuck working with a meathead mover rather than a handsome doctor."

"Oh, you think I'm handsome?"

"Well, I'm not blind, Michael."

"So you can also see I'm a bit too old for you."

"I'm thirty-one, I'm hardly too young for you."

He's got nothing to say to that, just fixes you with an incredulous look before his face lines with a bright laugh.

"You're trouble, Peaches."

The next month, he's become a regular guest in your home, fixing things that should be easily covered by any other professional but you've been deadset on knocking on his door. Leaky faucets, creaking door hinges, and even screwing a lightbulb in the spare bedroom where the roof is just a bit too high to reach even with a stepladder.

The conversations get longer and he stays a little later. Soon, coffee breaks turn into lunches and dinners.

"Michael," you hum as you approach from the kitchen, both hands holding a mug of tea before you join him on your couch. The evening's taken on a softer hue, something gentler that he's scared to disrupt. He cooked for you, you poured wine, and he played footsy with you beneath the table.

And now he's lifting an arm for you to tuck yourself into, your head tucked beneath his chin so he can turn his head to kiss the top of your hair. "Thanks, sweetheart. What're we watching?"

You chuckle and take a sip of your tea. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. It's about a couple who broke up and decided to wipe their memories of each other only to fall in love over again."

"Hm."

You lightly swat his chest. "Don't be such a cynic, Michael. It's romantic."

"I didn't say anything," he laughs but he runs a hand up and down your sides, holding you closer. "Just thought it's an interesting plot."

"You hate it."

"I don't hate it, sweetheart. I'll watch the whole thing for you."

And true enough, he does. Michael Robinavitch sits through the entire film without falling asleep, his tea finished and his arms around you. His hand skims your skin beneath your sleep shirt and when you don't shy away, he lets himself get bolder. A shiver runs down your spine as you feel his fingertips coast along the underside of your breast.

"Mikey," you whisper and that stupid little nickname elicits a fond chuckle anyways, his grip tightening as he uses his free hand to guide your chin up for a kiss. "The movie—"

"The credits are rolling…" he murmurs, lips ghosting above yours in silent request. You grant permission by surging upwards, closing the distance before clambering onto his lap. He chuckles at your enthusiasm and feeling his hardness beneath you elicits a moan so loud you'd be embarrassed if it isn't for your insatiable need for his touch. "Fuck, sweetheart—"

A whimper spills from your lips, your knees bracketing his hips. Your greedy hands run down his chest, along that soft tummy that you've steadily grown obsessed with for weeks now. "Michael, I need you."

Something darkens within him, that selfish ache that's spread like a disease, parasitical in nature. You're young, not so young that he'd truly be disgusted of himself, but enough that you two have been drawing looks whenever his hands wound wander a little too low on your hips in public.

"Tell me what you want," he coaxes, a gutteral noise building in his chest when your lips find his, your nails scratching along his scruffy beard. Your resounding reply is another needy moan, your hips grinding along his until his large hands are tugging your shirt up and off before he could kiss down your neck. He revels in your sweet gasps, sugar-spun and delicate while his teeth and tongue graze along your flesh before he's burrowing his face in the valley of your tits.

"Michael—!" You squeal, fingernails scratching the nape of his neck. His low moans send shivers down your spine, teeth grazing along sensitive flesh before his lips latch onto your nipple. A string of expletives spill past your kiss-swollen lips when he bites, rolling the pert nub around before switching to the other.

He paints a myriad of lovebites along your chest, possessive and obsessive in the way he meticulously places it just above the usual cut of your tops; not enough to be lewd but a hint to show that you've got him to take care of you.

"Stop teasing…" Your voice hitches higher when he sucks a harsh bite onto your jugular before he rucks up your skirt to slide his middle and ring finger across your soaked panties. His chuckles are low and mean as he rubs your clit through the fabric. "Mm, fuck…!"

"You sound so sweet for me, baby," he murmurs against your heated skin before he impatiently tugs the fabric aside to plunge his knobby fingers into your dripping cunt. He hisses at the warmth, pulling just far back enough to see the way your pretty features tighten in arousal as he fucks you nice and deep with his index and middle finger. "Your little pussy's just sucking me in, how's my cock gonna fit inside you, hm?"

He's so mean like this, so condescending that you nearly cry out in frustration if it weren't for the fact that you could feel his own thickening erection against your inner thighs; he's just as affected as you are, if not more. If you aren't so preoccupied with his large fingers inside you, you would've noticed the way there's a streak of need underlying every syllable, the way his eyes track your every movement to heighten your arousal. It only adds onto what you know about him, attentive and determined with a dry sense of humor that carries into mocking condescension into bed.

"Mikey, please— need your cock in me," you mewl pathetically, nearly riding his hand before he pulls out right before you could tip over to the edge. An indignant whine escapes you before he sucks his fingers clean, the pink muscle laving along his knuckles to clean up your slick. His eyes are shut, looking utterly blissed out at the taste of you.

"I got you, sweetheart," he shushes you gently with another mocking coo, reaching between you to tug out his cock from his sweatpants. He brings up his hand to your mouth and without hesitating, you spit into his waiting palm before he uses that hand to stroke his thick length. You brace yourself with both hands on his shoulders, lifting your hips up to grind your folds along his swollen tip. "Think you can make it fit, hm?"

You nod eagerly—desperately—and slowly lower yourself onto his cock while your walls adjust to his size. When a quiet whimper threatens to spill, he closes the distance to swallow your breathy moans. It's messy, open-mouthed, and sloppy but it's enough that once you're seated completely, his first thrust within you elicits more pleasure than pain.

"Feels so fuckin' good for me, sweetheart," he praises and there isn't a trace of that condescension left as he picks up the pace, holding your hips steady so he can do all the work for you. Each thrust punches out a string of staccato moans, mingling with his own breathy grunts. It's heady and destructive, flaying away layers from both of you as his eyes meet yours. Your hands find his jawline, cradling his face in reverence as he brings you closer and closer to your climax.

"Nngh… 'm close—" you gasp against his mouth, eyes shut as your lips drag along his cheek as you ride him in tandem to his thrusts.

His grip tightens around your hips as he plants his feet into the bed for leverage, fucking you with a brutal pace that has you hurtling over the edge with a scream of his name. He's quick to follow but he's got enough wherewithal to pull out just in time to paint your lower abdomen in his release.

Your chest is heaving as he sits you back on his thighs, his hand slowly stroking his cock 'til he shudders and lets the afterglow of his orgasm settle in.

"Whoa." His gaze resettles on you as he falls back against the back of the couch, carefully pulling you down to settle beside him with an arm around your shoulders. His free hand reaches to the side table by the couch to grab some tissues, gently wiping you down before offering a wordless apology by kiss to your temple. You toss your legs across his lap, curling into him as close as possible.

"You alright, Peaches?"

Your sigh is quiet but content, nuzzling into his chest with an arm thrown atop his abdomen. "Peachy keen, Michael."

His resounding laugh rumbles beneath you as he tips your chin up with a finger to plant a kiss onto your lips. "That's comforting."

"Take me to bed?"

"Sure, sweetheart—"

"Then stay with me?"

"… Of course."

He brings the covers up where you tuck them beneath your armpit to fight the chill of your bedroom before he hauls you closer to hold his arm around your shoulders. Your skin is warm, your chest still steadily rising and falling as you catch your breath with your head upon his pec.

He presses a lazy kiss to the top of your head as he lays out, humming while you play with the curls of hair that smatters along his chest. He responds with tracing shapes along your shoulders.

"So… a three month sabbatical," you begin curiously, eyes still shut as you bask in the afterglow. "Is that a build up of PTO or the perk of being the chief of attending?"

He stiffens beneath you and you look up, surprised to see the warm expressions you've been used to seeing completely fade. He's looking at the ceiling but his jaw is tense.

"Hey." Your hand gently takes his scruffy jaw. "You don't owe me answers, Michael. You don't have to tell me your darkest backstories… but you do owe yourself to tell someone if it has you feeling like that."

Something dislodges in his chest when you pull yourself up to kiss the edge of his beard, his nose, then his lips. He melts beneath your touch and his strong hands grip your hip, as though he's afraid you'll disappear.

"It's a lot. Not your problem," he mutters against your lips.

You smile as you kiss back. "I know, but I wanna help. That's what happens when you get attached to scruffy old doctors."

Dr. Grumpy: Alive. Stop calling.

Adrenaline Junkie: Had to make sure. It's been a month, can't blame your best friend from worrying.

Dr. Grumpy: Who said you're my best friend?

Adrenaline Junkie: Well it sure as hell isn't Dana.

Dr. Grumpy: Could be. Now leave me alone, I still got two months left.

"Michael, you can't wear a hoodie."

He laughs, mid-zip, as he leans against the doorway of your bedroom where you're sat by your vanity. "And why not? I thought museums didn't have a dress code."

You meet his gaze through the reflection of your mirror, your grin playful. "They don't but I do if you're gonna be my date, Robinavich. So lose the hoodie."

He steps further into your bedroom to stand behind where you're seated, a hand on your shoulder before he leans down. His lips catch your hairline; he knows better than to kiss you before your setting spray.

"Yes, ma'am."

He's grown used to the feeling of your hand around the crook of his elbow. From little walks after dinner around the neighborhood to perusing the grocery aisles for a recipe you've found on Tiktok. Whenever he's with you, you've got your hand on his arm like he'd disappear if you let go.

He likes it.

"You're not even looking at the paintings, Michael."

He barks out a laugh and tugs you in to kiss your hair again. You're right, of course. He's been stealing glances at you the entire time at the museum rather than the paintings you've been so excited to show him. "I've got my eye on something prettier."

"Not the smartest thing to say to an art history professor, Doctor Robinavitch," you say dryly before tugging him to stop in front of one of your favorites. When he gives the confirmation that he's listening, you happily begin to discuss the history and techniques applied.

He listens, dear god does he fucking try to listen, but you look so pretty that he can't help but let his mind wander. You look younger than you actually are but even so, the age gap between you two is enough to make even himself secondguess his choices.

But you're clever and charming, burrowing your way beneath the walls he's been building for decades now. Even now, sharing your expertise displays your intellect and maturity as well as the passion you hold a doctorate in.

"Alright, I'm calling it. Is it time for dinner?" You cut through his thoughts with a light tug to his sleeve. He glances down and nods.

"Sure, but I thought there was another exhibit you wanted to see?" His free hand comes up to cover yours, the one holding onto the crook of his elbow, to pat gently.

Your smile is sardonic but the light in your eyes cuts through any kind of genuine annoyance. "It can wait. My old man's attention is wandering."

His bright laugh would've shocked him if it hadn't been for the fact that you've been eliciting more of it lately. "Old man, huh? Alright, sweetheart, dinner it is."

There's something convenient in being neighbors with the woman that's been making a home in a heart that he didn't realize still beat. It makes the short walk in the mornings after spending the night a lot less shameful.

Could one be too old for the walk of shame?

Regardless, there's nothing shameful about being able to share a bed with you, to wake up to your feather-light kisses before you reluctantly get ready to head to campus for your early morning classes.

("Stay a few minutes longer…"

"Mikey, I have a 9:00 AM—!"

"It's the summer, sweetheart, let the kids have a break."

"Summer sessions for universities are a thing, Michael.")

It's become a routine now, either he wakes in your bed and he watches you get ready or you wake in his and you scrounge around something in his closet you could steal and style into an outfit that's passable for your usual style.

Today, he gets to wake up in his own bed to you stealing one of his old, faded band tees that you tuck into a spare pair of jeans you've left behind in one of his drawers. You spritz on a bit of perfume you've left in the nightstand on your side of the bed (he tries not to let himself dwell on it too much, you having a space in his drawers and having your own side of the bed) before you lower yourself to kiss his forehead.

"Running late, I'll be staying on campus for longer office hours to make it up to my students," you murmur against his temple. Before you can get too far, his arm reaches out to tug you in by your waist for a proper morning kiss.

"What if I bring you lunch?"

"Yeah?" The smile you give him is near blinding, something that steals his breath away.

He chuckles and nods, his thumb grazing along your jaw. "Yeah. How about sandwiches from Primanti's?"

"Mm, my favorite. That's perfect, Mikey," you sigh and steal one more kiss. "Alright, I'll see you later."

He watches your retreating figure with a dopey little smile and nearly groans when his phone buzzes on the nightstand, cutting through his blissful start of the day.

Adrenaline Junkie: How's Buffalo?

Dr. Grumpy: Wouldn't know.

Adrenaline Junkie: You didn't go?

Dr. Grumpy: Something else came up.

Adrenaline Junkie: ??? Read at 8:54 AM.

He exits out of the messaging app as his eyes snag on the date.

It's been nine weeks since he's met you, eight since he's realized he likes you more than being a friendly neighbor.

He sets the phone down and lays onto his back, zoning out. The gossip in the pitt is as virulent as any other disease — he isn't unaware of the rumors circulating him, his so-called seven week itch. How Dr. Robby can't seem to find a woman interesting any longer than seven weeks. It didn't really matter much to him, he's too old to pursue the nuclear family route, what's wrong with a little fun despite his age?

But time goes by quickly when he's with you and the idea of being bored with you is absurd. How can he be when he's constantly seeking you out, eager to see you?

University of Pittsburgh is a sprawling campus of old and new buildings, interlacing pathways that seek to lead to nowhere, but Robby is a man on a mission and he'd rather throw himself off the hospital roof if the sandwiches he bought for both of you get limp and soggy by the time he arrives at your office.

He finds the building soon enough, sunglasses low on his nose when he enters. He garners a few looks but they must've found nothing of importance because the students go back to what they're doing. The elevator brings him up to the third floor and a long hallway greets him.

Your office is situated near the far end on the left side and he knocks on the door before entering. "Hey, Peaches," he greets before he falters. While you're seated behind your desk, you have four students across from you with notebooks and questions scrawled all over it.

Unlike the students he initially passed by on the first floor, these students look up with shit-eating grins before they turn their attention back to you. One of them, a young woman with electric blue hair and copious facial piercings, speaks up first.

"Doctor Peaches?"

The other one, a stout young man with a patchy beard that didn't quite match his face that's yet to drop his baby fat, interjects, "I think it's a cute nickname."

"Look what you've done," you sigh dramatically as you shut your laptop to give your best students a withering glare. They giggle amongst themselves. "Michael, these are my most rambunctious students. Francine," the blue haired girl's grin widens, "Carmen, Richie," the two inconspicious ones in the middle give a wave in perfect unison, "and Neil," the one that defends you gives Robby his best smile. "My sweeties, this is Dr. Robinavitch."

He gives them all an awkward wave before he steps closer to set the takeout bag down. "If I knew you had company, I would've bought more."

"Don't feed them, then they'll never let you go," you snark but you ruffle Neil's head before you circle around your desk to greet him with a kiss. "Thanks for coming, Mikey."

He should've known being with you is too good to be true.

The night had been derailed the moment his traitorous brain had hooked him back to that fateful night, the crushing grief that resettled into his chest when he remembers Adamson's body hooked up to the ECMO machine after days. While he didn't spiral the way he did in Peds in front of Whitaker, his mind shuts down and cruelty becomes an instinctive defensive response.

You didn't see him during the days leading up to his sabbatical, never witnessed how easy it had been for him to tear down his most brightest residents all to put his rage somewhere.

But as he lets you into his home after dinner (at the restaurant you had been raving about), he begs desperately to try and change the subject, to return back to the normalcy you brought to his life. The door slams behind him and something creeps up, like a cold hand slowly wrapping digit by digit around his windpipe.

"Just talk to me, what happened in there?" You beg, your throat raw from the building argument in the drive back.

"Stop- just stop. This isn't something you can fix-"

"I'm not trying to fix you, Michael!"

"Jesus Christ, yes you are!" He laughs humorlessly, large hands rubbing at his lined face. "Do you know how fucking useless I feel when my own goddamned girlfriend thinks I'm something to be fixed?!"

"Listen to yourself, you're too busy thinking I'll bolt the moment you show a modicum of weakness. Do you think that low of me?"

"I don't know what to think of you anymore, sweetheart."

You rear back like you've been slapped. "What does that fucking mean?"

"It's…" He takes another sigh, heavy and exhausted like you're another burden to the load of issues he refuses to show you. "You're young, you don't know—"

"Don't you dare. Don't bring my age into this, Michael," you hiss. "Don't patronize me, I'm not a fucking child. I know when someone doesn't want help but I didn't think it was a crime to want to help you."

"It isn't your job."

"Loving you isn't a job, Michael."

The culmination of the fight didn't really explode in the way he had expected it to. There hadn't been any slammed doors, screaming matches that wakes the neighbors. It had been you, a silent retreat and a short but solemn walk home without a kiss goodbye.

Your anger would've been difficult to swallow but your disappointment feels like a leaden weight on his chest, pinning him to the middle of his living room floor to face the way you've crept into his life. Your scarf is strewn across the back of his couch. He can see a spare set of sneakers by the door, small and clearly yours. If he opens his fridge, your favorite snacks would be nestled beside his.

You've made a home in his heart and he had shut the door in your face.

However, his pride is a prickly thing, demanding that you break this cruel cold war rather than him reaching out first, except he seems to be the only one fighting. A day has passed and you haven't done anything he thinks he deserves. No demands of your items back or any returns of his possessions. No ultimatums or cruel break-up monologues. Just silence.

You still sit outside on your porch reading, never gone out of your way to avoid him. When he lets himself stare a few seconds more, he notices you have two mugs out — as if you're still expecting him to join you. His traitorous heart beats wildly, demands him to close the distance, but he turns back around and lets you read in peace.

A few more days pass and the realization comes in like a tide crashing onto a shoreline. You aren't icing him out, didn't shut him out the way he expects you to. The ball's in his court now, his move, but there isn't an overarching pressure to act quickly. You've always been gentle and patient, coaxing out love from him when he had held it so closely to his chest. You're the type to love in slow motion.

He chews over his probable opening sentences, turns over phrases and greetings in his head until the words no longer sound like english, when he receives a knock on his door. His heart leaps into his throat as he quickly rushes to open it.

—

Worry for Michael Robinavitch sits beneath Jack Abbot's skin like an extra layer. It keeps him warm at night, he thinks, when he's tossing and turning and his mind whips back to his troubled brother in arms and his stupid decisions. Knowing he didn't end up going on his hare-brained plan for a roadtrip (on that deathtrap, no less) did calm his nerves somewhat but the radio silence is still unsettling at best.

So he parks across the road of Robby's place, markedly notices the empty house beside his friend's seems to finally be occupied, and swiftly crosses the street. As he does so, a woman exits her vehicle and nearly drops the armful of groceries she's got blocking her view.

"Hey, careful now—" Jack instinctively steadies the paper bag in her arms before peeking around it to show his face. She's pretty, maybe a little down, but charming as she gives him a half grin. "You got it, stranger?"

"Absolutely. Thanks for the assist." She carefully jostles the groceries before lowering it just enough to angle it slightly towards Jack. "Wanna grab a peach for your chivalry?"

Jack catches the dry tone and plucks a peach from the top before depositing it in the front of his jacket pocket. "Thanks. You need help gettin' anywhere?"

"No, I'm just right here. But thanks!" She points to the house beside Robby's before she disappears behind her front door.

With a fond shake of his head, he turns back to head up Robby's steps to knock on his door. When the man in question opens it with the most hopeful light in his eyes only for it to deflate when he sees him, Jack chortles. "Well, don't look too excited now. Were you waiting for doordash or something?"

Robby scowls and steps away, opens the door wide enough for his friend before he retreats back inside. "What do you want? Is this a welfare check?"

"Do you need a welfare check?" Jack raises a brow, shutting the door behind him. He follows Robby further into the kitchen and pointedly ignores the traces of a woman that's infiltrated his best friend's space.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" He shoots back sardonically, large hands bracing onto the marble countertop of his kitchen island. Jack settles across from him, arms crossed with a weighted look that it even has Robby giving in with a sigh. "I'm fine. Would you believe if I told you it's relationship troubles?"

Now that takes Jack aback; that might've been the last thing he would've expected leave Robby's mouth. "Is this about Noelle?"

"No," Robby shakes his head with a quiet laugh. "Definitely not. It's my neighbor."

"The one next door?"

"That's the one."

When Robby doesn't elaborate, Jack chuckles. Recalls your easy smile and your cute outfit. He still has the peach in his hoodie pocket. "She's pretty."

"She is."

"… she's young."

"She's not that young," Robby blusters, tossing over a beer can. "She's an art history professor."

"Young and educated."

"Get out of my house, Abbot."

An amused laugh follows, shaking his head. "Not until you dish out every dirty detail, brother. Come on, is this all her stuff?"

Robby circles the island to return back to the living room, pops the tab on his beer, with a shake of his head. Jack follows and settles onto the couch beside him, legs propped up onto the coffee table. Beside his feet sits a copy of your favorite novel, tattered and well-worn and wholly loved with the broken spine. Under it is a ring-stain from where you've left your iced coffee a little too long on his overpriced table.

"Yeah," Robby mutters as he leans his head backwards where he gets a whiff of your perfume. His head rolls to the side to see your scarf draped along the back. "Yeah, it's hers."

"Did you two have a fight?"

The question is well-meaning, he knows this. He knows Jack cares, that every question and query comes from a place of concern. And yet—

"We did not have a fight," he blurts out anyways, his walls rebuilding themselves in seconds before he remembers he's with a friend. Jack waits, frustratingly patient. "… okay, we had a fight. It was a pathetic excuse of a fight because she didn't even yell, she just… she took it."

Robby leans forward, sets the beer down beside the stupid ringstain and rests his elbows onto his knees. Jack still doesn't say a word and the silence would've been frustrating if it hadn't been for the fact that he now realizes that it isn't because his feelings are a burden but rather the space to work through his own thoughts.

"Looking back on it, what she was asking wasn't difficult. It shouldn't have been difficult," he mutters as he scrubs a palm across his face. "She just wanted me to talk. Except I clammed up and I did that thing where I yelled—"

"You yelled at her?" Jack interrupts with a slightly scandalized expression. But perhaps he shouldn't be as shocked; Robby's yelled at the kindest souls just for being collateral in his warpath and the sweet professor next door isn't any different. Except—

"I yelled at her and I shut down when she didn't yell back."

Except Robby doesn't feel guilt when he's so far up in his rage and heartache, he feels defensive and those walls are drawn up just as fast as anyone could blink. But this time, he didn't build those walls, just lets himself feel the hurt and the pain that he's caused you, lets Jack see how it's killing him from the inside.

"So what are you gonna do now?"

Robby peeks up at his friend who still lacks any judgment although wholly deserved for being a companion to someone like him. "I don't know."

"I'll tell you what you're going to do, now that you seem to be… receptive to advice that'll actually help you in the long run," Jack grins and the eagerness in his eyes sets something off inside Robby.

"Hold on. How long have you been waiting for this moment?"

"For awhile now. Now listen up, Robinavitch— I need you to take your head out of your ass and go apologize to that woman. Two, make sure you grovel like a motherfucker. She seems like a nice girl and she must've done something right if you're letting her leave her shit around like she owns the place," Jack says, his voice dry and leaves no room for any kind of nonsense.

"Alright, alright," Robby manages to cut in with a quiet laugh. "Thanks for the advice, Dr. Phil."

"Thank me if you'll actually use it, Robby."

Robby might've overdone it with the flowers. Although he couldn't be fully blamed by it, the florist had seemed overeager to put together an 'I'm sorry' bouquet. Maybe cruelly giddy given the sharp smiles that's been sent his way as he hovers by the counter to pay because rather than an assortment of flowers, he's given a dense and large bouquet of 150 deep, red roses that ultimately costed him half a grand.

But there's no time to regret it now as he rings your doorbell, feeling like a complete asshole with his extravagant 'I'm sorry' bouquet.

The door swings open and a startled noise escapes you when the first thing you see is red. "Michael?"

It's only been a few days since the fight but hearing you call his name — especially when he realizes you're the only one that calls him Michael — feels like coming home.

"Hi, Peaches," he greets, a tentative smile on his lips. "These are for you."

You take the bouquet with a smile you don't bother hiding. The sight of it brings a sense of ease for him; at least you like the flowers. "Thank you. Do you want to come in?"

At least you aren't slamming the door in his face.

He follows you inside and shuts the door behind him. Muscle memory has him stepping over the pair of rain boots you leave by the door, recalling the time he had nearly faceplanted because of them. As he looks around, something warm nestles in his chest at the sight of his own items strewn about, very much like yours in his home—

"Is that mine?"

A pretty blush dusts across your cheeks when he points out his navy blue hoodie draped along the armchair of the couch. "Yeah. I wear it when I read," you admit and the intimacy of it nearly floors him. He's grown accustomed to your little habits and routines, knows that after eight pm, you like to settle down with a novel with minimal conversation. The first time around, he had offered to leave but you gave him a pout so deep that he hauled you into his embrace where you could read to him instead.

Knowing that you attempted to continue with his hoodie as a placeholder has him striding towards you with hurried, determined steps.

"Michael—?"

He drops to his knees before you, wrapping his arms around your waist. "I'm sorry," he blurts out, desperation bleeding into his gravelly tone as he clutches at the hem of your shirt. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I don't want you to feel like you can't talk to me, I'm so fucking sorry, sweetheart."

"Michael, please—"

He chokes on the shallowed breaths he fights for, desperate and shameless as he clings to you. Pride be damned, he presses his face against you, nuzzling you as if you're his lifeline.

"Please, baby, I can't— I can't lose you. You're so fucking good and I know you deserve better, you do, but I need you. Christ, I need you, I didn't realize it 'til you left and it all felt so goddamn empty— I think I've known it for awhile now but I didn't see what I needed fixing until you gave me those fucking peaches…" he lets out a shaking sob, squeezing you tighter. "Give me another chance, sweetheart, please, I'll do better, I promise. I can be better. For us—"

Your hands drop down to his shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of his head when he hides his face into your stomach. "Baby, breathe for me," you whisper, taken aback by the raw vulnerability that he's letting you see. It's rare for him to be so open, so exposed. And you know that this is a genuine moment he's giving you, a piece of him he's kept to himself.

The term of endearment nearly sets him off and you can tell the sharp prickling sensation at the back of his eyes are prompting him to hide. Despite your gentle hands trying to guide his gaze upwards, it's there taunting him to retreat and give up and keep himself from the scorn he fears from you. Instead he takes a deep breath and wills his heartrate to slow down. His hand encircles your wrist gently, counting your pulse points to match the beat.

"No, I need to say this," he lifts his head from the warmth of your stomach to meet your eyes. His beard rasps against your skin and his eyelids flutter close when your thumb sweeps across the space beneath his lash line. "Before you, I was a goddamn mess."

You try to interject but he shakes his head. "No, listen. I was a fuckin' wreck and there isn't any changing that. It's— I'm glad you didn't meet me then, sweetheart, you would've never knocked on my door for help. I didn't deserve you then, and I sure as shit don't deserve you now. But I swear to fuckin' God, I'm gonna spend the rest of my fuckin' life trying to earn you back. because you're you and you make me… Look, the bad shit doesn't disappear, it's never gonna disappear, but it doesn't feel as heavy as it was. And that's," he swallows, staring up at you as if you hung the moon. "That's because of you."

Your hand travels up his cheekbone, cradling the side of his head before you're bending over to lay a kiss on his forehead. "It's because you're finally letting me in, Michael, you don't have to carry it all on your own."

For a moment, he stares up at you in bewilderment. He shakes his head and averts his eyes, pressing his forehead against your naval. "You're letting me off too easy, sweetheart." His voice is gruff, broken in his disbelief that you'd forgive him so easily. You aren't sure of what he's looking for, what more he could want. So you break the thick clouds that's hanging over the both of you with a gentle smile.

"Oh no, you're not out of the woods yet, Robinavitch," you chuckle lowly, a gentle hand tipping his chin back up. "I just don't want you to think that you're unforgivable. Because you aren't, not when you feel guilt far more than you could ever admit out loud."

"I do, it's— some days it feels like I'm drowning," he admits and with his face still angled up towards yours, his eyes close not to avoid your reaction but to rest. To set down the walls he's been trying desperately to rebuild the moment he had lost his temper a few days ago because he doesn't need them anymore.

You gently scratch at his beard, centering him into the moment. "I've been throwing you a lifeline, Michael, I'm just happy you're taking it. Just… don't let me go."

"Never," he vows. A newfound sense of determination fortifies his spine as he gazes up at you. He's still on his knees but in supplication rather than desperation.

"I'm yours, sweetheart. For as long as you'll have me."

The roar of a familiar Bonneville steals the attention of Ahmad and a couple of nurses near the ambulance bay. Larry and Antoine let out an impressed whistle before they're being called back in by Lena to finish up handoffs but Dana raises a brow, puts her cigarette out, and watches Robby climb off his motorcycle—

With a helmet on.

"You're about a month and a half late from your sabbatical, Robinavitch. Didja get lost on your way back from Alberta?" Dana quips and the bright smile she receives in greeting nearly floors her. She hasn't seen that smile since Adamson.

"Never went." Robby throws over his shoulder before he shoulders his way into the locker room. When the door swings shut behind him, Dana's left staring in utter befuddlement.

The rest of the shift brings its usual chaos and little by little, the staff that had initially tiptied around Robby are now staring in blatant bewilderment. Robby's levelheaded, efficient and not as likely to snap at a resident that has a misstep. When he pulls Dr. Al-Hashimi into a spare exam room, Princess hovers to try and catch traces of their conversation.

"… behavior was unprofessional. I did not handle it well and I deeply apologize for my conduct."

"Clearly," Baran replies coolly and a quiet, self-deprecating chuckle follows from Robby. But the other attending places a warm hand on his shoulder. "But it looks like the sabbatical did you good."

"It did. I truly am sorry," he adds with a touch of sincerity that shines through.

Dr. Al-Hashimi gives him a soft smile. "You've been less… volatile. I see that. Maybe keep those temper tantrums for the higher-ups, yes?"

A surprised laugh escapes Robby. "You got it."

The door slides open and Princess quickly makes herself busy, giving both doctors a smile before relaying what she heard to Perlah in rapid-fire Tagalog. The two attendings share a knowing look before separating off to continue checking in on their residents.

In North Five, a young woman sits, relaying her pain around her head after a minor collision of her e-bike against her dorm building.

"I just lost control," she explains to Santos who's carefully examining the laceration on her chin. Her bright blue hair is tied back. "The brakes didn't work and I think there was a rock I didn't see— oh! Dr. Robby? This is your hospital?"

Santos looks over her shoulder to see her attending by the door, his large hands rubbing in the sanitizer. He frowns slightly before realization kicks in. "You two know each other?" Santos asks.

He snaps his fingers as he recalls the student that had been the first to tease you about the nickname he'd given you. "Natalie— right?" At her nod, he offers her a little grin of his own. "We met a few weeks ago, she's an art major. Did you tell your professor you're not coming to class, kid?"

"I did, I shot her an email when I was in the waiting room," Natalie confirms. Such dad behavior, she thinks to herself.

Santos' head moves back and forth in absolute confusion but decides it isn't her place to figure out the connection between the two; she'll just ask Princess or Perlah later.

"Good," Robby nods and starts to retreat, gives a nod of acknowledgment towards his resident. "Dr. Santos will take good care of you. I'll be at Central if you need anything."

The cacophany of the emergency room floods in when Robby opens the door to leave. When the door shuts and envelops them in silence, Santos turns to Natalie. "How do you know him?"

"He's dating my professor."

"I'm sorry, what—?"

News travel fast in the pitt and soon, Ahmad's got a new betting pool drawn up before noon:

Doctor

Doctor (at PTMC)

Nurse

Nurse (at PTMC)

Teacher

Lawyer

In between patients, Santos makes her way over to the security station and hands over a twenty while ensuring her poker face is on. "Put me down for art history professor."

Ahmad gives her a suspicious look. "You know something."

"I have a hunch."

The security guard takes the twenty without breaking contact, scrawls her name down on a bright post-it before slapping it onto the board.

By late afternoon, a woman walks through the ambulance bay. Gravity seems to shift, the space of the emergency department rearranging to center her. Heads turn as she walks by, gazes linger.

"How can I help you, hon?" Dana asks, peering above her glasses while balancing a clipboard against her hip. "Do you have family in here?"

You shake your head and when you smile, it's infectious. Jesus, Dana thinks, you're like sunshine incarnate. "No, I'm here for Michael— sorry, Dr. Robinavitch?"

Surprise paints itself onto the charge nurse's features, brows flying up as a wicked grin curls onto her lips. "Oh, yeah? He's with a patient right now, but I'm sure he'll be right out. You wanna wait in the break room?"

You shake your head with a sheepish laugh. "I'm on a lunch break but I have his wallet, could you give it to him when you get the chance—?"

"Sweetheart, what're you doin' here? Is everything alright?"

Robby's imposing figure cuts through the staff of the emergency department, instinct having everyone part like the red sea as he makes his way towards you. The intense weight of concern and worry in his gaze nearly floors you so you're quick to reassure him with a smile, a hand on his chest. "I'm fine, you worrywart. You left your wallet on my dresser," you chuckle as you retrieve his tri-fold from your purse.

In the background, the entire department almost goes still — or rather, as still as the pitt could be — as they watch the entire scene unfold. Even Joy's mouth is agape, staring at the grumpy old attending nearly buckle under your sweet attention.

"Thanks, Peaches," he chuckles and pockets the wallet before his hand finds your waist. It sates the need to be closer to you but he has enough sense to keep himself from kissing you in front of his colleagues and subordinates. "I'll see you at home?"

"Mhm, I'll see you tonight, Michael. Don't forget your helmet, alright?"

"You got it," he promises, then gives in to drop a fleeting kiss to your hair. When you exit, Ahmad snaps to attention and rushes out with the most important question of the day.

"What's your occupation?"

You pause and look over your shoulder, an incredulous chuckle spilling from your lips. "Art history professor. Why?"

He only groans in response, waving away your questions as he trudges back inside. Before you walk off, you hear a woman cheer in utter triumph.

"Oh, fuck yeah—!"

"Language, Santos."