when's the turn gonna be mine

Jake swore under his breath, jaw tightening as he radioed it in, voice steady despite the sudden spike of adrenaline. Training exercise. Controlled airspace. He’d handled worse. He always did. He tried to coax the jet, working angles and altitude, calculating options in real time—but the aircraft wasn’t listening anymore. The controls went heavy, then frighteningly loose, the nose dipping harder than he liked.

“Eject, eject,” crackled through his headset.

Jake hesitated for half a second too long — pure instinct, stubborn as hell — before reality slammed in. This wasn’t a fix-it-in-the-air situation. He took a sharp breath, braced, and pulled the handle.

The canopy blew. The force ripped through him like a punch to the chest, violent and unforgiving, snapping his body back as the seat launched free. Wind roared past him, stealing the air from his lungs, and then— weightlessness.

For one brief, terrifying second, there was nothing.

Then the parachute deployed.

Hard.

The jerk yanked his shoulder violently, pain exploding through his arm as something popped— white-hot and immediate. He cried out despite himself, teeth gritted as the chute twisted, lines tangling mid-deployment. The canopy didn’t fully catch the air; instead, it spun, dragging him sideways, disorienting him as the ground rushed up far too fast.

“Shit—shit—” His voice was ripped away by the wind.

He tried to correct, to stabilize, but the parachute fought him, pulling him off-center. The horizon tilted, sky bleeding into earth, and Jake had just enough time to think this is going to hurt—

Before he hit.

The impact knocked the breath clean out of him. His body slammed into the ground at the wrong angle, ribs compressing violently as his shoulder took the brunt of it, followed by his head snapping back against the earth. Pain detonated everywhere at once— sharp, crushing, overwhelming— and then the world went dark.

When he came to, it was only for a moment.

Sound filtered in first: muffled voices, boots crunching nearby, someone shouting his name. His chest burned every time he tried to breathe, like his ribs were on fire, and his head throbbed with a deep, nauseating ache. He tried to open his eyes, but the effort was too much. Darkness pulled him back under before he could make sense of anything.

He didn’t hear the medics arrive.

Didn’t feel them cutting away his gear, strapping him down, securing his neck.

Didn’t know someone was saying his injuries weren’t immediately life-threatening, that he was lucky— bruised ribs, fractured shoulder, possible concussion.

All Jake knew was the faint, instinctive pull in his chest as consciousness slipped away again, a restless, aching need to go home.

To you.

To Ivy.

But his body betrayed him, sinking back into unconsciousness as the helicopter blades thundered overhead, carrying him farther away from the life he didn’t yet know he was about to scare half to death.

—

The call came in the quietest moment.

You were on the floor of Ivy’s bedroom, legs folded beneath you, a coloring book spread open between the two of you. She was humming softly to herself, tongue poking out in concentration as she carefully filled in the wings of a butterfly—pink, then purple, then pink again, very precise about it. You were working on a house beside her, letting her choose the colors even though the roof had already been declared “definitely green, Mommy, houses can have green roofs.”

Your phone buzzed somewhere behind you.

You almost ignored it.

Almost.

Something about the sound—too sharp, too insistent—made your chest tighten before you even reached for it. When you glanced at the screen and saw an unfamiliar number, your stomach dropped. Still, you answered, pressing the phone to your ear as Ivy looked up at you, eyebrows already knitting together.

“Hello?”

The voice on the other end was calm. Professional. Too careful.

They asked if you were Jake Seresin’s emergency contact.

You said yes, your voice already unsteady.

Then they said the word crash.

It didn’t feel real. Not at first. Your brain snagged on it, like it didn’t know where to file it, like it belonged to someone else’s life. Training exercise. Ejection. He was alive. Stable. Being transported.

Your heart was pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

“I—I’ll be there,” you said quickly, cutting in before they could give you any more details you weren’t sure you could handle. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

You hung up before your hands could start shaking badly enough to drop the phone.

The room was suddenly very quiet.

Ivy was watching you, crayon paused mid-air, her little face scrunched in that way it always got when she sensed something was off. She didn’t speak right away. She just studied you, eyes flicking from your face to the phone still clenched in your hand.

“Mommy?” she asked softly. “What happened?”

You swallowed hard and forced yourself to look at her, to smooth your expression even though it felt like your chest had caved in. You set the phone down and scooted closer, resting a hand on her knee.

“Sweetheart,” you said gently, choosing each word like it might break if you didn’t handle it right, “Jake had an accident at work.”

Her eyes widened immediately.

“Like—like a fall?” she asked, panic already creeping into her voice.

“Something like that,” you said, nodding. “He’s hurt, but… he’s alive. They took him to the hospital, and I need to go see him.”

She was quiet for exactly half a second.

Then she stood up.

“I’m coming.”

You blinked. “Ivy—”

“I’m coming with you,” she said again, firmer this time, tiny hands curling into the hem of her shirt. “Jake’s my Jake.”

Your heart cracked clean open.

“Ivy, honey, hospitals can be a little scary,” you tried softly. “There might be lots of machines, and—”

“I don’t care,” she interrupted, eyes shining. “He’s not mad at me, right?”

The question hit you like a punch.

“No,” you said immediately, kneeling in front of her and taking her face gently between your hands. “No, baby. Of course not. This has nothing to do with you.”

She nodded, but her lip wobbled anyway. “I wanna see him. Please.”

You didn’t have the heart to say no.

You pulled her into a tight hug, breathing in the familiar scent of crayons and shampoo and home, and nodded against her hair. “Okay. We’ll go together.”

Everything after that felt rushed and unreal—slipping on your shoes with clumsy fingers, helping Ivy with hers as she fumbled, grabbing your keys and bag without really knowing what you’d put inside. Ivy held your hand the entire way to the car, her grip tight, knuckles white.

The drive to the hospital was a blur of red lights and pounding thoughts.

You replayed every goodbye, every kiss on the forehead, every see you later like it might have been the wrong one. Ivy sat quietly in the backseat, unusually still, hugging her stuffed bunny to her chest and staring out the window.

Neither of you spoke.

All you could think was that this was the call you’d been dreading since the day Jake put you down as his emergency contact—since the day you realized how much space he took up in your life.

And now all you wanted was to see him.

To know he was really there.

Alive.

The first thing you notice once you arrive is how the hospital smells like antiseptic and something metallic, sharp enough to sting the back of your throat.

Everything is too bright. Too loud. Too fast.

You give Jake’s name at the desk with a voice that barely sounds like yours, your fingers curled tight around Ivy’s hand like if you let go she might float away. The woman behind the counter types, nods, looks up again—professional, neutral, practiced.

“Yes, he was brought in a little while ago,” she says. “He’s stable. But I’m afraid only immediate family is allowed back right now.”

The words don’t land all at once. They scatter.

“I’m sorry?” you ask, blinking. “I’m his emergency contact. I just—he asked for me. And her.” You gesture to Ivy without looking down, because if you do, you might lose it.

The woman’s smile tightens, sympathetic but immovable. “Spouses. Parents. Legal guardians only.”

You feel your chest hollow out.

“I understand policy,” you say carefully, because Ivy is right there, because you refuse to raise your voice. “But he put me down as his emergency contact. He would want us there.”

“I’m really sorry,” she repeats. “I can let you know if there’s a change.”

You stand there for a second too long, like your body forgot how to move.

Then you feel it—small fingers tightening around yours.

You look down.

Ivy is pressed into your side now, her little shoulders drawn in, her face tilted up toward you. Her eyes are glossy, already spilling over, tears tracking silently down her cheeks. She isn’t loud. She isn’t dramatic.

She’s just… breaking.

“Mommy,” she whispers, like the word itself might crack if she says it too loudly. “Did I do somethin’ bad?”

Your heart shatters.

“No,” you say instantly, dropping down in front of her, hands coming up to cup her face. “No, baby. No. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

She sniffles, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her shirt. “Is Jakey mad at me?”

God.

“No,” you say again, firmer, even as your own eyes burn. “He’s not mad. He loves you so much.”

“Then why can’t we see him?” she asks, voice trembling. “He doesn’t wanna see us?”

The question is so small. So earnest.

And there is no answer that makes sense to a five-and-a-half-year-old.

You pull her into your chest, holding her tight as she presses her face into your shoulder, her quiet tears soaking into your shirt. You rock her gently, right there in the middle of the waiting area, trying to keep your own sobs silent so you don’t scare her more.

“He’s hurt,” you murmur into her hair. “They’re just… helping him right now.”

She nods against you, but she doesn’t really understand. How could she? All she knows is that the person who always comes when she calls isn’t coming now.

You sit with her in one of the hard plastic chairs, Ivy curled into your side like she’s trying to make herself smaller, her bunny clutched tight to her chest. She watches every nurse that walks past with wide, hopeful eyes, like maybe one of them will say his name.

Minutes stretch. Then more.

Time feels cruel here—thick and slow and merciless.

Every so often, Ivy sniffles and asks another quiet question.

“Is he still sleepin’?”

“Does his head hurt?”

“He always comes when I get hurt, can we tell him I’m sorry?”

Each one cuts deeper than the last.

You answer every time. Soft. Steady. Even when your own heart feels like it’s caving in.

You wonder if Jake knows you’re here. If he’s alone. If he’s okay.

And the worst part — the part you don’t let yourself say out loud — is the thought that keeps looping in your head: What if something happens and he never knows we came?

You press a kiss into Ivy’s hair and hold her a little tighter.

All you can do now is wait.

—

He comes back to himself in pieces.

First it’s pain—sharp, deep, everywhere. A burning ache in his ribs every time he tries to breathe too fully. A pounding behind his eyes that makes the light feel like a personal insult. His shoulder screams when he shifts, and the groan that leaves his mouth sounds rough, unfamiliar.

Then comes the fog.

Voices drift in and out. Beeping. The faint rustle of fabric. Someone says his name, slow and careful, like they’re testing how much of him is actually there.

“Lieutenant Seresin? Jake? Can you hear me?”

His eyelids feel like concrete, but he forces them open anyway. The ceiling swims above him. White. Too white. Hospital.

Something cold settles in his stomach.

The last thing he remembers is the chute fighting him—twisting, pulling wrong—and then the ground rushing up way too fast.

He swallows, throat dry. “—where is she?”

The nurse leans closer. “Easy. You’ve been in an accident. You’re safe. You had a hard landing, but you’re stable.”

Jake barely hears her.

“Where are they?” he rasped again.

The nurse blinked. “Who?”

“My girls,” he said, voice stronger now despite the ache. “My family.”

She hesitated. “Your partner and her child are in the waiting area. Visiting is limited to immediate family—”

“They are my family,” Jake snapped, trying to push himself upright and immediately regretting it as pain tore through his side. He clenched his teeth, breathing hard. “Go get them.”

The nurse put a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Sir—”

“I don’t care about policy,” he said, eyes fierce despite the weakness in his body. “I want them here. Now.”

Something in his tone must’ve convinced her, because after a moment, she nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Jake exhales shakily, eyes burning. He stares at the door like he can will it open, like if he concentrates hard enough you’ll walk through it with Ivy clutched to your side, brows pinched with worry, relief crashing into your face when you see him awake.

He’s never felt this helpless before.

Minutes later—maybe five, maybe ten, time is useless right now—the door opens again.

And there you are.

Your eyes meet his from across the room and everything inside him breaks loose.

You look wrecked. Pale. Eyes red-rimmed. Holding Ivy close like you’re afraid she’ll disappear if you loosen your grip even a little. And Ivy—God—she’s tucked into your side, clutching her bunny, eyes wide and shiny and fixed on him like she’s afraid he’ll vanish again.

Jake doesn’t care about the cracked ribs when he lifts his head a little. Doesn’t care about the pounding in his skull when his throat tightens.

“Hey,” he manages, voice rough.

Ivy gasps.

She slips out of your arms and crosses the room as fast as her little legs will carry her, stopping short only because the bed and wires and machines confuse her. Tears spill over immediately.

“Jakey,” she sobs. “I thought you didn’t wanna see me.”

Something inside Jake caves in completely.

“No,” he says instantly, shaking his head. “Hey—no, Ivybug. Never. C’mere.” He lifts his uninjured arm, wincing, beckoning her closer. “I was just… sleepin’ too hard.”

She climbs up carefully, curling into his side like she’s done a thousand times before, her small hands clutching his shirt like an anchor. He presses his lips into her hair, breathing her in like oxygen.

“I’m right here,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

Your hand comes to rest on his chest then, warm and grounding, and when he looks at you, his eyes soften completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “They shouldn’t have kept you out there.”

You shake your head, swallowing hard, but your eyes say everything your mouth doesn’t.

Later, the room is quiet in the way only hospitals ever are—machines humming softly, lights dimmed low, the world narrowed down to what fits inside four white walls.

Ivy is asleep on Jake’s chest.

She’s curled into him carefully, instinctively avoiding his injured side, her small body rising and falling with his shallow breaths. One arm is thrown across his sternum, her cheek tucked just beneath his collarbone, bunny trapped between them. She’d fought sleep at first, eyes heavy but stubborn, until exhaustion won. Now she’s out cold, lashes fanned against her cheeks, mouth parted slightly.

Jake hasn’t moved in almost an hour.

He shifted once—just enough to make room for you to sit beside the bed—but beyond that, he’s stayed perfectly still, like any movement might break the spell and send her drifting away again. His uninjured hand rests protectively at her back, fingers splayed, anchoring her there.

You tell him, softly, that he should rest.

He barely hears you.

His eyes are fixed on Ivy, memorizing her the way he always does when something scares him. Like if he looks long enough, hard enough, he can lock this moment into place forever. Every so often, his gaze flickers to you—just to make sure you’re still there too.

You sniffle before you can stop yourself.

It’s quiet, but he hears it immediately.

His eyes lift, sharp despite the pain, concern wiping away the softness. “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low and gentle. “Hey… baby.”

You shake your head quickly, scrubbing at your cheeks. “I’m fine,” you whisper, even as another tear slips free. “I don’t want you worrying about me. You’re the one in the hospital.”

Too late.

Jake’s attention is already fully on you, his brows knitting together, heart aching in a way no cracked rib ever could. “C’mere,” he says softly, like he can pull the hurt out of you just by saying the word.

You swallow, breath hitching. “I was so scared,” you admit finally. “When they called… and then when they wouldn’t let us see you. Being told we weren’t family—” Your voice breaks. “It felt like being erased. Like none of this mattered.”

Jake exhales slowly, jaw tightening.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”

His eyes drop back to Ivy for a moment, thumb brushing gently over her shoulder, grounding himself before he looks at you again. “That part?” he continues, voice rougher now. “That scared the hell outta me too.”

You look at him, waiting.

“I love you,” he says simply. “Both of you. More than anything I’ve ever had. And today just—” He swallows hard. “Today proved how fast it could all be taken away. No questions. No say. Just… rules. Paperwork. Titles.”

He lets out a shaky breath. “Everything I love is technically borrowed. And I don’t know how to live with that.”

Your heart twists.

You reach for his hand, careful of the IV, threading your fingers through his. “You’re not borrowed to us,” you tell him firmly. “You never have been.”

He looks at you then—really looks—and something in his chest cracks wide open.

“I don’t want to ever hear someone tell you you don’t belong again,” he says. “I don’t want Ivy growing up thinking she has to ask permission to love me. I don’t want to be the guy standing on the outside hoping I still get to stay.”

You squeeze his hand, tears slipping free again. “You already show up,” you whisper. “Every day. That’s what matters.”

He nods slowly, but there’s a new resolve in his eyes now. Solid. Unshakable.

“I’m gonna fix this,” he says. “I don’t know how yet—but I will. I’ll make sure we’re okay. All three of us.”

You lean in, pressing a careful kiss to his temple, your forehead resting against his. For a moment, everything feels still. Safe.

And as Jake closes his eyes, Ivy warm and real against his chest, you breathing softly beside him, his thoughts drift—unbidden—to the small velvet box buried deep in the back of his sock drawer at home.

The one he’s been saving.

The one he’s finally ready to use.

Companion piece:

The Problem - After a fire decimates Firehouse 83, Brett runs into issues when he’s brought in to cauterise the supposed problem.

Abbey Road - Brett helps you navigate the worse day of your life.

One For The Road - Brett refuses to let you drink alone in the aftermath of your husband’s infidelity.

Morning Wood - Your morning with Brett is rudely interrupted when your soon to be ex-husband makes an appearance.

Judas Herbs - Brett decides to do something about the herb garden your ex donated.

The Cliché - Firefighters aren’t supposed to get stuck in trees.

Secret Santa (NSFW) - Brett regrets one of his Christmas gifts.

Tinderbox - The fire at your old home sheds light on a bigger problem.

Santa Baby - Brett takes it upon himself to retrieve your ex-husband.

The Three of Us - Brett steps in when your ex-husband tries to force you into a tricky position.

Peaches - At the end of a horrible day, Brett takes it upon himself to look after you.

Making Biscuits - Brett puts his cards on the table after you spend the night at his place.

Harsh Truths - Brett is forced to tell you some harsh truths as your divorce starts to drag out.

The Lake (NSFWish) - Brett doesn’t mean to catch you skinny dipping.

The Plot Twist - Your divorce party is supposed to be about new beginnings, not saying goodbye.

One Month - One month after Brett leaves town, your ex husband Jonathon decides to throw a spanner in the works.

Baggage - You and Casey discuss your options when it comes to Baby Johnny.

Nevada - You find out the real reason behind Jonathon leaving the baby in your care.

A Match Made In Heaven - The solution to your Baby Johnny conundrum comes from an unexpected place.

Another Day In Paradise (NSFW) - Brett's dreams are always of you, especially in L.A.

Woodsmoke & Wildness - Your reunion with Brett during the campaign fire doesn't go as planned.

The Writing On The Wall - Brett makes a decision regarding your future.

The Happy Ending (NSFW) - You and Brett finally get the happy ending you deserve.

Wild Bloom - A near death experiance during a campaign fire puts things in perspective for Brett Richards.

Fire Camp (NSFW) - The worst thing about campaign fires are the sleeping arrangements.

Honey (NSFW) - Your morning takes an erotic turn when Brett brings a jar of honey into the bedroom.

Mr July - You recognise a familiar face when you accidently come across a vintage version of The Men of CalFire Calendar.

Ms September (NSFW) - Brett comes home to find you touching yourself to his Mr July calendar.

About You (NSFW) - You always know exactly what Brett needs.

Shibari (NSFW) - You and Brett discover you have the same fantasy after the two of you compare notes.

The Lighthouse - Brett informs you of an important life decision during a lighthouse rescue.

FLAME - Brett falls back on protocol after a nightmare shift.

A Monthly Thing (NSFW) - Brett finds an alternative to period sex.

Pussy slapping.

It’s something you read about in one of your romance books when you’re sitting on the porch swing one evening, sipping a beer as the sun starts to set. You’re flying solo tonight with Brett still on shift. Sometimes your shifts don’t align quite the way you want them to, meaning there can be a few days where you don’t see each other.

It can’t be that good… you text Brett after taking a picture of the pages for him to read at his leisure. Could it?

Guess we’ll have to try it, he texts back a couple of hours later when you’re curled up in bed wearing your favourite moisturising facemask. Firefighting can be hell on your skin, especially if you’ve spent the day in full apparatus, running drills with your rookies. Unless you already have?

Guilty. You respond, your eyes straying to the toy you’ve left on his side of the bed. It didn’t really do anything for me…

Maybe you need a firmer hand, Brett returns and you bite your lip because this man, he gets you all sorts of riled up despite the fact you’ve already come tonight.

I’ve been a bad girl Brett, you text back setting down into the sheets. I fucked myself in your t-shirt so that you’d be able to smell me on it when I’m on shift tomorrow.

Oh, Poppy you are a bad girl… He texts back. I’ll have to give that pussy a real spanking when I catch up with you.

It takes a couple of days for you to get into the same space but tonight it’s just you and him, making out on the couch, your hands raking through his unruly silver curls as his hand delves between your legs delivering a love tap right on your panty covered clit.

“Oh fuck…” You mutter as a burst of pleasure erupts through you at the impact. It’s abrupt, fleeting but it feels hot as hell.

“Oh honey, you like it.” He smirks against your mouth, spanking you again, harder this time. Your breath catches, punching out of your lungs at the sudden burst of ecstasy. “I told you, all you needed is a firmer hand.”

You realise now that pussy slapping, it’s intense foreplay. It makes that area more sensitive, heightening the sensation of Brett’s fingers stroking circles over your clit.

It feels like electric surging your veins. Wild, rampant, untamed.

“Fuck you’re close already baby.” He whispers against your lips, his own soft, like a soothing balm as he kisses you. The next slap hits hard enough that you bite his lip, and he growls into your mouth, his fingertips working that sensitive little nub.

That light touch…

It’s all it takes to send you hurtling through the stratosphere, bursting to life amongst the stars. Brett’s mouth covers yours, claiming your pleasure as you climax hard against his fingertips. He wrings every single drop of rapture out of you, leaving you flushed and fucked out in the sheets as he cradles your face, kissing your nose, your cheeks, your mouth.

“So, I think that’s a yes for pussy slapping.” He muses, his thumb chasing along the line of your jaw.

“Fuck yes…” You murmur, your lips brushing over the palm of his hand. “We’ll definitely be doing that again.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece:

The Problem - After a fire decimates Firehouse 83, Brett runs into issues when he’s brought in to cauterise the supposed problem.

Abbey Road - Brett helps you navigate the worse day of your life.

One For The Road - Brett refuses to let you drink alone in the aftermath of your husband’s infidelity.

Morning Wood - Your morning with Brett is rudely interrupted when your soon to be ex-husband makes an appearance.

Judas Herbs - Brett decides to do something about the herb garden your ex donated.

The Cliché - Firefighters aren’t supposed to get stuck in trees.

Secret Santa (NSFW) - Brett regrets one of his Christmas gifts.

Tinderbox - The fire at your old home sheds light on a bigger problem.

Santa Baby - Brett takes it upon himself to retrieve your ex-husband.

The Three of Us - Brett steps in when your ex-husband tries to force you into a tricky position.

Peaches - At the end of a horrible day, Brett takes it upon himself to look after you.

Making Biscuits - Brett puts his cards on the table after you spend the night at his place.

Harsh Truths - Brett is forced to tell you some harsh truths as your divorce starts to drag out.

The Lake (NSFWish) - Brett doesn’t mean to catch you skinny dipping.

The Plot Twist - Your divorce party is supposed to be about new beginnings, not saying goodbye.

One Month - One month after Brett leaves town, your ex husband Jonathon decides to throw a spanner in the works.

Baggage - You and Casey discuss your options when it comes to Baby Johnny.

Nevada - You find out the real reason behind Jonathon leaving the baby in your care.

A Match Made In Heaven - The solution to your Baby Johnny conundrum comes from an unexpected place.

Another Day In Paradise (NSFW) - Brett's dreams are always of you, especially in L.A.

Woodsmoke & Wildness - Your reunion with Brett during the campaign fire doesn't go as planned.

The Writing On The Wall - Brett makes a decision regarding your future.

Prequel to:

Wild Bloom - A near death experiance during a campaign fire puts things in perspective for Brett Richards.

Fire Camp (NSFW) - The worst thing about campaign fires are the sleeping arrangements.

Honey (NSFW) - Your morning takes an erotic turn when Brett brings a jar of honey into the bedroom.

Mr July - You recognise a familiar face when you accidently come across a vintage version of The Men of CalFire Calendar.

Ms September (NSFW) - Brett comes home to find you touching yourself to his Mr July calendar.

About You (NSFW) - You always know exactly what Brett needs.

Shibari (NSFW) - You and Brett discover you have the same fantasy after the two of you compare notes.

The Lighthouse - Brett informs you of an important life decision during a lighthouse rescue.

FLAME - Brett falls back on protocol after a nightmare shift.

The worst part about campaign fires is the shower situation, or rather the lack of. By the time you get home it’s been four days of dry shampoo and wet wipes. Your hair is thick with ash, and there’s a fine layer of grime staining your skin. To make it worse you haven’t been able to stop thinking about Brett the entire way down the mountain. That kiss or the fact you told him you were in love with him.

It was too much, you know it was.

Saying something like that, it makes everything too serious, too real.

That’s the reason you haven’t turned your phone back on since you left fire camp. You aren’t ready for the inevitable message from him, telling you that he doesn’t feel the same way, that he’s not in that place just yet.

When you pull up outside the cabin, you feel like you can catch your breath again. It’s always been your sanctuary and right now you plan to shower, then spend the next twelve hours sleeping in the fresh sheets you put on the bed before you headed out for the campaign fire.

You strip off your clothes in the hall, shoving them into a black trash bag to take back to the station for washing and decontamination tomorrow. You pad along the hardwood floor towards the bathroom, turning on the shower before you climb inside. It’s indescribable how good the hot water feels on your skin. It rains down on you from the heavens, rinsing away the harshness of the past few days as you scrub yourself pink with the citrus scented FLAME bodywash.

You feel like a new woman by the time you pull on the grey, pilled Billy Joel t-shirt and black cycling shorts. You towel dry your hair, brushing the tangles out, letting it fall over your shoulder.

The doorbell rings, stealing your attention. Amazon, you assume with your latest romance book. A treat to yourself after four days in the wildlands.

When you open your door, you don’t expect to see Brett standing on the porch. The fading sun catches the silver in his hair as he stands there with your Amazon parcel tucked under his arm.

“I…” You begin but then his mouth is on yours, stealing your breath right out of your lungs.

That kiss, it’s even better than the first because it’s filled with a yearning you feel in the very depths of your soul as his arm wraps around your waist drawing you to him. “It wasn’t just the adrenaline.” He whispers against your lips. “I love you Poppy, I’m sorry I didn’t say it, I’m sorry I…”

You cut him off with a kiss of your own, your hands tangling in his jacket, bunching the fabric in your fists as you pull him over the threshold with you. The package falls from his underneath his arm, bouncing on the rug as you flail for the door, slamming it shut. His mouth chases along the line of your jaw, the greying bristles on his cheeks scratching the skin with each heated kiss. His breath ghosts in your ear, sending a bolt of heat right to your core as he whispers. “Where do you want me?”

“Bedroom.” You murmur, smiling against his mouth. “Underneath me so you can get off that bad knee.”

He huffs a warm laugh against your throat as you push the jacket down his shoulders allowing it to fall into a heap at his feet. “I’m not fooling you, am I?”

“Oh, certainly not.” You chide, your fingers hooking the bottom of his t-shirt dragging it up his broad chest and pitching it onto the floor. 

Thirty years in the fire department has left him muscular and toned. Your fingers play over the scars on his chest. The burns along the left side of his ribcage, the indentations on his shoulder. You know every single one of their stories and he knows every single one of yours.

A dusting of greying hair speckles his broad upper body leading to an auburn treasure trail that disappears inside his jeans. He watches, holding his breath as your fingertip follows the pathway until it reaches the waistband. “I want these off and you on the bed.”

“Yes ma’am.” He smirks, bending over to unfasten the laces of his boots.

Your hand grasps his shoulder, squeezing and he finds himself at head height with your cycle short clad pussy. The fabric clings to your wetness, leaving a clear outline for him to see. He lets out an intentional breath, and it sends a shockwave of pleasure racing through your nerve endings as you run your hand through his steely curls.

“You ever rode anyone’s face before?” His voice is a low growl as his calloused palms caress your thighs. The roughness of his skin creates a delicious amount of friction as he raises to his feet, toeing out of his boots.

You shake your head in response to the question. His fingertips explore the hem of the shorts as he looks into your eyes. There’s a fire in him right now, one that burns so fucking bright when he looks at you.

“Hm.” He drawls out the sound, his hands sliding up to your hips, gripping them. “But you’ve always wanted to?”

“It may be a fantasy of mine.” You admit as he walks you backwards into the bedroom, stealing greedy kisses from your mouth. Your hands are already on his jeans, unfastening that top button, drawing down the fly until the waistband starts to slip.

“Then let’s make it come true.” He murmurs, stepping out of his denim before sitting down on the edge of the bed as requested. The black boxer briefs cling to his powerful thighs as he parts them, encouraging you to stand between them. His cock is hard, straining at the material, leaving a damp spot on the underwear as you position yourself before him. Those wild hazel eyes of his stare up at you with a devotion that borders on pathological as he wets his lips. “Let me worship this pussy the way it deserves.”

“You have such a dirty mouth.” You respond as his hands stray up along your waist, taking the shirt with them, revealing more of your skin. His thumbs skate over the underside of your breasts, stroking delicately as you take the t-shirt the rest of the way, pulling it up over your head and tossing it onto the floor.

He drinks in the sight of you. Perfect breasts with rose bud nipples that stand to attention as he kneads them in his palms, they draw out a hitched breath from somewhere deep within his chest.

“Oh baby.” He says with that wicked smile of his as his tongue laps along the length of that tattoo on your hip, the one of that minimalist poppy. “You ain’t nothing yet.”

His hands slide back down to your waist, guiding the cycling shorts over the curve of your ass and down your thighs. He helps you out of them before he sighs contently at the sight of your pussy, pink, wet and desperate for his mouth. “The prettiest damn thing I’ve ever seen. I’ve wanted to get my mouth on it ever since that day at that lake.”

He presses a light kiss to your clit, nothing more than a brief skim of the lips and you pant out an impatient breath. “You think you’re the only one that’s wanted that? That I don’t touch myself thinking about it?”

“Now who’s got a dirty mouth.” He teases, his fingertips trailing up along the backs of your thighs, until he cups your ass in his hands, pulling you closer. His tongue flicks over you, a gentle pressure as he doodles a letter over your clit.

“You territorial fuck.” Your fingers sink into his hair as you let out a ragged laugh. “Was that a B?”

He smirks, his lips shiny with your slick. “Are you gonna let me do the rest of my name? Or do you just want the B?”

“Make it yours.” You urge him and something feral crosses his features before he dives back between your thighs, a man on a mission. The ecstasy courses through you in ebbs and flows. Each gentle sweep of his tongue the sweetest torture.

You’re soaked by the time he finishes the ‘s’ on Richards, your skin vibrating with the need for more of his touch.

“Now I’ve had the taste of you I’ll never stop.” His lips chase over your clit as he speaks, his heated breath making your fingers curl into his shoulder. “Will you ride my face for me honey? Drown me in your come?”

Excitement lances through you as he repositions himself on the mattress wedging the pillow under his head. He pats his chest, beckoning you to him. “Don’t be shy Poppy, this is one of my fantasies too.”

“You fantasise about me?” You ask as you straddle his face, your knees coming to rest on either side of the pillow. His stubble grazes your inner thighs, a delightful burn as his breath ghosts over your wetness.

“All the damn time. I fuck my hand imagining shit like this.” He admits, his mouth sprinkling fiery kisses along your slit. “Now be a good girl for me and hold onto the headboard.”

“The headboard?” You repeat as he grabs your thighs, pulling you down onto him fully. “Why…oh fuck…”

That’s why.

Because he can do magnificent fucking things with that tongue when he has you right where he wants you. His hands grasps your ass encouraging you to move, you grip the headboard and begin to ride his tongue.  

Fuck… this is sexy, you’ve never so uninhabited before. Your head tips back, your hair cascading over your shoulders as you give yourself over to the pleasure that resonates through your body. Your hips cant as he hits just the right spot and you grind down even harder against his mouth.

“Oh…” You whimpers hit a new pitch as the ecstasy begins to peak. “Oh, oh, oh, oh….”

You climax with an intensity you’ve never experienced before him. Your entire body trembling as the orgasm steals the oxygen right out of your lungs. Brett’s hands encompass your thighs once more, directing you to sit back on his chest as you descend from the high. His lips and chin are glossy with your come, an apricot flush warms his freckles as he peppers your thighs with wanton kisses.

“I’ve never come like that before you.” You reveal, running a hand through your hair and shaking it out over your shoulders. “Oral sex, it was never like that for me.”

Brett tuts, rubbing his stubbled cheek over your inner thigh. “That’s because you weren’t with the right person.”

If there’s anything you’re certain of right now, it’s the fact that Brett Richards is certainly your person.

Well not quite yours, not yet.

You shift down his chest and his mouth follows, kissing a sensuous route up along your stomach, breasts, collarbone and throat until he finally captures your mouth. His hand tangles in your hair as your mouth claims his, your wet pussy rubbing over his dick through the fabric of his underwear, soaking it. He moans into your mouth, hips arching, thrusting his cock against your clit until you’re gasping all over again.

“I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.” You confess, tasting yourself on his lips, your palm smoothing his unruly curls away from his forehead. “Can I make you mine Brett? Can I fuck you?”

“Please.” A grunt tears from his throat as your hand delves under the waistband of his underwear, fingers wrapping around his eager cock. “I got tested a few months ago, but I brought condoms just in case-”

Your thumb traces over the slit, smearing pre-cum all over his crown as you tease.

“I’m on birth control.” You tell him, your teeth grazing his lower lip as he lets out a needy whine. “I don’t want anything between us…”

“Me neither, I want you bare Poppy, I want....” You shove his underwear down his thighs, his cock springing out, slapping against your pussy.  His entire body bucks at the direct contact as you coating his entire length with your come.

“Poppy…” He whispers but your name is drowned out by his hoarse cry when you sink down slowly onto his cock. The first inch is euphoric, an inferno bursting to life inside your veins. The rest of him follows, filling you all the way to the hilt. The ecstasy racing through your nerve endings as his dick kisses that sweet spot.

If there was ever any doubt that Brett Richards was made for you, it vanishes in that moment.

“Christ you’re perfect.” He mumbles, his arm looping around your waist, keeping you close as he hauls you both up into a sitting position. He sinks deeper, your breath catching as you feel the hammer of his heart against yours. “It beats for you Poppy.” He tells you, taking your hand and placing it over the space where it resides. “You and only you.”

He starts to move. Short, devastating strokes that have your fingertips digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave bruises. The rapture builds, a wildfire stoked by the flames of his passion, licking higher and higher until it reaches it’s peak, until your combusting into thousands stars in the midst of his universe. You come together, his arms wrapped around you, holding you close as he drinks down your pleasure like its the finest whiskey he’s ever tasted.

He tumbles you back onto the mattress, the final rays of the sun filtering through the blinds as you curl up together, his fingers combing through your hair, his lips brushing over your forehead.

“When was the last time you slept?” He asks as the light disappears, the two of you shrouded in darkness.

“Four days ago. You know what fire camp is like, crews are always going back and forth, all day and night.” You mumble, burrowing into the shelter of his arms. Exhaustion overcomes you as he uses his foot to secure the comforter before drawing it up over you both. “Please tell me that you’re staying, that I’m not going to wake up alone tomorrow because you have to run back off to L.A.”

You feel his smile against your skin as your eyes flutter closed, soothed by the sound of his breathes in the darkness.

“I’ll be here.” He promises you, kissing your hair. “For tonight and however many nights you want me.”

“All of them.” You respond drowsily, your lips caressing the scar embedded in his left shoulder. “I want all of your nights Brett, and every single one of your days too.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece to:

Tummy Tingles - Jack feels his first flush of desire since Maria's death.

Go Your Own Way - Jack struggles with his feelings for you.

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Courting - You don’t realise that Jack’s courting you.

A Compatibility Issue - Things get tense between you and Jack when he struggles to get a handle on his feelings for you.

Closed Door - You and Jack address the issues between the two of you when you run into each other at an unexpected place.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.

Ugly - Jack sees your scar for the first time.

Three Days (NSFW) - Jack spends three days making you his.

Messy - John doesn't mind getting a little messy when it's with you.

Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.

This Old Cowboy (NSFW) - Jack’s jealousy gets the best of him when a member of the transplant team flirts with you at a hospital benefit.

The Go Bag - Your relationship with Jack takes a turn when you discover another go bag in his car.

Nadine - Jack's sister in law is a real piece of work.

Hawaii - Jack discovers who he really is when you book a trip to Hawaii.

Silk (NSFW) - Jack loves the sight of you in silk.

Sucker - Jack pulls out all the stops in order to win an important race.

Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.

This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.

Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.

Fishtail - Jack helps you decompress in the aftermath of your ex-husband.

Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.

What Puts You On That Ledge - Jack finds away to pull you off that ledge.

Champagne Gold (NSFW) - Jack never thought he'd marry again.

Masochist - You and Jack have an indepth understanding of one another.

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW) - You know exactly how to get Jack off.

Part of the Job - Violence has always been part of the job, but this time it hits a little too close to home for Jack.

Pittfest - Jack's day turns into a nightmare when he recieves a notification from the hospital regarding a mass casuality event.

Snapband - Jack's worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.

Blood (NSFW) - Jack takes care of you in the aftermath of Pittfest in his own special way.

Life Raft - Jack reaches out when he sees that you're struggling.

Bread - Jack finds his own way to cope with almost losing you at Pittfest.

Overcompensating - A problem with Jack's prosthetic leads him to overcompensate during his shift.

Good Boy (NSFW) - You use alternative methods to get Jack to agree to take care of himself.

A Goddamn Miracle Worker - You always know the perfect way to take care of Jack.

Mood - Jack reacts badly when you surprise him with a trip to Germany.

A Force of Nature - Jack makes a suggestion regarding Germany.

Germany - Jack’s put through his paces when it comes to his new prosthetic.

Accessory - You tell Jack the real reason you won’t attend Jana’s party.

A Bad Night - Jack doesn’t mean to ream out a dying woman.

The Christmas Dragon - The only thing Jack wants for Christmas this year is to make his wife smile.

There’s blood on Jack’s shoes. He stares down at the droplets as he sits on the edge of the bed in the on-call room, wondering if he should even bother cleaning it off.

It’s been a nightmare of a shift so far, the holidays always are. After Thanksgiving and Christmas are done, New Year is just around the corner and that comes with it’s own fresh set of horrors.

Like the guy with a firework shoved up his ass, and third degree burns on his sphincter.

Or the drunk driver that mowed down a group of teenagers crossing the street trying to get to a party on the other side of town. One was DOA, the other two had catastrophic injuries. It’s unclear whether they’re going to make it through the night.

Through the wall of the on-call room he can feel the concussive blast of the fireworks they’re letting off in the park, vibrating through his skin. He grits his teeth, his head sinking into his hands as the lights flash across the tiny rectangular window beside the bunkbed, casting rainbows on the plaster.

He fucking hates this holiday, it’s like nightmare fuel for his soul. It’s why he always works it, keeping himself busy, but tonight it’s a losing battle. He’s been having heart palpitations since the clock chimed eleven thirty. Everytime, he closes his eyes he’s back abroad. Everytime, he takes a breath, there’s hot air and cordite searing into his lungs.

The door opens, a dull click over the explosions that feel like they’re rocking the building. He raises his head as it closes softly, his gaze meeting yours as you lean against the door.

“I’m fine.” He tells you, his palm scrubbing over the greying stubble that lines his jaw. “It’ll fuck off in a few minutes.”

“OK.” You say sinking to your knees in front of him. “You wanna hold onto me until it does?”

When he doesn’t answer you take his hands and guide them around your body until your nestled in his arms. Your fingers thread through his unruly curls, guiding his face into the hollow of your throat. He inhales deeply, the scent of daffodils and wildflowers flooding his lungs drawing out the acrid manifestation inside him. You hum into his ear, the opening chords to his favourite Bob Dylan song as he holds you tighter, breathing you in. The roaring in his head starts to subside, his heart rate returning to normal.

“You’re the sexiest damn stress ball, you know that?” He whispers, rubbing his face against the curve of your throat. You laugh as his whiskers tickle your sensitive skin and that sound, it’s enough to chase away the rest of the demons that plague his spirit.

Suddenly the fireworks outside don’t matter anymore, nor the shitty night he’s having. There’s just this moment wrapped up in his wife, the only person in this world he deems his safe space.

All to soon it’s over. There’s a tentative knocking on the door, Whitaker he guesses correctly as the younger man calls through the wood. “Dr Abbot. We have another trauma coming in. ETA two minutes.”

“Fuck…” He drawls, burying his face into your hair before clearing his throat. “I’ll be right out.”

Footsteps recede and he sighs as his forehead comes to rest upon yours, his thumb chasing over the blush of your cheek as he looks into your eyes. “Thank you, for helping me get my head on straight.”

“Oh, how far we’ve come from the roof.” You remark as you take his hand and tug him to his feet.

“Yes.” He says, thinking of every single night he almost took that final step. “How far we’ve come indeed.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

Companion piece to:

Tummy Tingles - Jack feels his first flush of desire since Maria's death.

Go Your Own Way - Jack struggles with his feelings for you.

The Asshole King - Jack discovers you have an unusual technique for dealing with patients.

Courting - You don’t realise that Jack’s courting you.

A Compatibility Issue - Things get tense between you and Jack when he struggles to get a handle on his feelings for you.

Closed Door - You and Jack address the issues between the two of you when you run into each other at an unexpected place.

Bob Dylan - You help Jack to relax after an incident at the hospital leaves him temporarily blind.

Because Of You - Jack realises he's starting to heal in more ways than one after you spend the day taking care of him.

Balance - Jack reveals his feelings for you but they come with complications.

Ugly - Jack sees your scar for the first time.

Three Days (NSFW) - Jack spends three days making you his.

Messy - John doesn't mind getting a little messy when it's with you.

Off Limits - An awkward start to the day leads Jack to make a claim on your affections.

This Old Cowboy (NSFW) - Jack’s jealousy gets the best of him when a member of the transplant team flirts with you at a hospital benefit.

The Go Bag - Your relationship with Jack takes a turn when you discover another go bag in his car.

Nadine - Jack's sister in law is a real piece of work.

Hawaii - Jack discovers who he really is when you book a trip to Hawaii.

Silk (NSFW) - Jack loves the sight of you in silk.

Sucker - Jack pulls out all the stops in order to win an important race.

Boston - You reflect on the past after your ex-husband makes an appearance on a trying day.

This God Damn Fucking Day - Jack steps into the fray with things get messy between you and you ex-husband.

Misdemeanour - Jack's forced to step in when you get arrested because of your ex-husband.

Fishtail - Jack helps you decompress in the aftermath of your ex-husband.

Love Language (NSFW) - Jack has his own unique love language.

What Puts You On That Ledge - Jack finds away to pull you off that ledge.

Champagne Gold (NSFW) - Jack never thought he'd marry again.

Masochist - You and Jack have an indepth understanding of one another.

Seven Shades of Fucked Up (NSFW) - You know exactly how to get Jack off.

Part of the Job - Violence has always been part of the job, but this time it hits a little too close to home for Jack.

Pittfest - Jack's day turns into a nightmare when he recieves a notification from the hospital regarding a mass casuality event.

Snapband - Jack's worst fear comes true during a mass casuality event.

Blood (NSFW) - Jack takes care of you in the aftermath of Pittfest in his own special way.

Life Raft - Jack reaches out when he sees that you're struggling.

Bread - Jack finds his own way to cope with almost losing you at Pittfest.

Overcompensating - A problem with Jack's prosthetic leads him to overcompensate during his shift.

Good Boy (NSFW) - You use alternative methods to get Jack to agree to take care of himself.

A Goddamn Miracle Worker - You always know the perfect way to take care of Jack.

Mood - Jack reacts badly when you surprise him with a trip to Germany.

A Force of Nature - Jack makes a suggestion regarding Germany.

Germany - Jack’s put through his paces when it comes to his new prosthetic.

Accessory - You tell Jack the real reason you won’t attend Jana’s party.

A Bad Night - Jack doesn’t mean to ream out a dying woman.

Jack doesn’t remember the last time he saw you smile. He expected it to come back during the first blush of the holiday season but there hasn’t been any sign of it, not even a twitch in the left-hand corner of your mouth when he cracks a joke.

That’s what happens when your best friend is dying, when you’re caring for her around your own shifts to give her life partner a break.

When he picks you up from Jesse’s and Jana’s tonight, you’re despondent, exhausted. Jesse had called earlier in the evening, letting him know Jana taken a turn. The nurse is hoping that she’ll be able to hold on until the spring so that she can see her roses bloom in the garden for the last time but Jack, he’s honestly not sure she’ll make it.

“I’m sorry.” Jack finds himself saying as you sit in the passenger seat, your forehead resting against the window. “I can’t imagine how tough this must be.”

“She told me to stop moping tonight.” You murmur, watching the world pass by through the glass. “That I should get out and enjoy myself, I don’t even know what looks like anymore. I don’t feel anything, just this numbness…”

And that’s the dangerous part, Jack knows that from experience. It’s what’s landed him on the edge of that roof time after time.

Your head perks up as he turns onto your street. Your eyes turning into saucers as you focus on the huge, vibrant green inflatable thing that’s standing eight feet tall in your front yard. It towers over the white picket fence with a jaunty Christmas hat perched on it’s head.

“Is that the fucking Christmas dragon?” You ask him as he slows the car to pull into the driveway.  “Did you put the Christmas Dragon outside of our house?”

The Christmas Dragon has been a long standing tradition between the two of you since your first holiday together. The hardware store near his old place used to put one up every year and you’d lost your damn mind when you laid eyes on it, making him detour that way when the season came around. It had closed for good in this summer but Jack, he’s still good friends with Jed. The other man had sold it to him at a steal earlier this morning.

“Must have been Santa.” He says drily as he switches off the engine.

“Does Santa come with a stethoscope and a portal ultrasound for all those ‘just in case’ emergencies?” You bat back and he can already hear the lightness in your voice.

“Must do.” He responds unfastening his seat belt.

“Jack…” You say and there it is, that smile of yours, illuminating the car, chasing away the darkness. “Thank you… I don’t know why but the dragon, it makes me so fucking happy.”

“Well, you’ve been a good girl this year.” He says as he leans across the console and steals a kiss. “And you deserve something that makes you smile.”

Love Jack? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Before you join the taglist make sure to read the rules here as you otherwise you won’t be added.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

You get the e-vite in the middle of the day, in the middle of the pitt, in the middle of what had been a pretty good shift. 

A cute little flyer that you’re willing to bet your cousin made on Canva, perfect color scheme and pretty cursive—Let’s do it! followed by the details of her engagement party. 

“Shit.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and slide your phone back into the side pocket of your scrubs, cursing to whatever god there might be. 

Abi, little 22-year-old Abi, getting engaged. You already know exactly how this party is going to play out. 

It’ll be all about her for most of it, as it should be, but eventually your aunts and other cousins will turn to you, start asking the questions they always ask. Have you found a man yet? When can we expect to get an invitation for your engagement? Blah fucking blah. It’s enough to make your stomach cramp. 

“You look like you’re about to vom.”

Trinity is suddenly beside you, slinging an arm around your shoulders and roughly guiding you out of the way as Cassie walks with a patient to one of the exam rooms behind you. 

“Honestly? I just might.”

You shrug her off in favor of leaning up against central, elbows on the counter behind you as you let your head hang back. Maybe if you stare up at the fluorescent lights for long enough, they’ll blind you. That might get you out of the party. 

“My cousin is getting married,” you grumble. 

Trinity snorts, “oh, I know this one. You don’t want to go see the fam-bam and get interrogated about why you don’t have a boy-toy yet.”

“You do know this one.”

“Been there, done that,” she waves, posting up next to you. “You know what’d make it even worse?” You offer a nod. “—if you came out to everyone there.”

Lifting an eyebrow, you ask (a little impressed), “you came out at a family gathering?”

“Figured I’d knock everyone out at once.”

“And, how’d that work out?”

Trinity blows a stream of air through her lips, squints and rocks her head back and forth, “not great, actually. Zero out of ten, do not fucking recommend.” She laughs to herself, then, “this isn’t about me, though. This is about finding you a date.”

“The fuck it is,” you snap, standing up straight. 

She crosses her arms over her chest, sucking her top teeth while scanning the room. Hunting. 

“Trin, stop.”

“I would offer up Dennis, but he’s not gonna impress anyone,” she mutters, cruel and hilarious at the same time, “and I’d rather die than let you fake-date Langdon.”

“I’m not fake dating anyone,” you hiss as you slide in front of her in an attempt to block her view, “and even if I was, it would not be Langdon.”

“Why, scared of little ol’ Mel? I bet she’d be cool with it.”

“Wha—no, I’m not sca—no, it’s ’cause no one would fucking believe it if I brought someone like Frank.”

Trinity’s face sours. “Okay, I’m gonna pretend that you didn’t just imply that Franklin ‘just got out of rehab’ Langdon is too hot for you.”

“So, one, his first name is Francis, not Franklin. Two, he’s not ‘too hot’,” you finger quote, and Trinity actually looks relieved when you say it, relaxing for half a second before you mumble the real reason you can’t bring him: “he’s too young.”

Trinity coughs, probably for dramatic effect more than anything else, “I’m sorry, what?”

“You heard me,” you sigh, glancing around to make sure no one is close enough to hear this confession (specifically Princess and Perlah). “I’ve always had a thing for older guys, okay? Fucking sue me.”

Her eyes narrow, though not in suspicion. No, it’s as if something is clicking into place for her—like Trinity has just solved a riddle. 

“And, your family is aware of this,” she states more than asks. “Interesting.”

“It’s really not,” you pretend to assess your nails, can practically feel the way Trinity is glowing, so fucking smug. 

Like, unnecessarily smug. 

“What?” you grunt. 

She takes on a casual expression, lip between her teeth, shoulders shrugging, telling you, “nothin’,” which is a fucking lie considering the next thing out of her mouth is, “hey, bossman!”

Like a bucket of ice water has been dumped over your head, you gasp, “Trinity, no! Please—”

You hear the familiar stride, feel a growing presence making its way toward you, and the fluttery feeling you’re already used to experiencing whenever he’s around is multiplied by a thousand because no, there is no way Trinity is actually going to do this. She wouldn’t, right? 

“You summoned?” Robby greets flatly, “for the entire EC to hear, by the way.”

You have to fight every instinct not to flee while also fighting the urge to let yourself lean back into him with the way he’s standing just a little too close. As always.

“Yeah, I’ve been told my voice carries,” Trinity dismisses before, much to your horror, diving right in, “anyway, I’ve got a proposition for ya’.”

Annoyed and increasingly uncomfortable, you challenge her, “oh, it’s your proposition?” 

“Well, it’s not like you’re gonna do it.”

Robby huffs, something between a laugh and a scoff. His hand, though gentle where it lands on your back, feels so heavy. It’s nothing, a simple gesture, ‘right behind you’, but you can’t suppress the shiver that races down your spine. 

He has no fucking idea. 

“Do what? Come on, I’ve got shit to do,” Robby says, almost sounding irritated but not quite. 

You turn to him, quick to take a step back so that his hand falls, and you force a smile, “it’s nothing. Trinity is just being an asshole—as per usual.” You glare over your shoulder at her, tack on a threatening, “right?” 

Your friend, if you can even call her one at this point, sighs dramatically, “yeah, yeah, you know me.”

She clacks her teeth together, waves a hand as if to dismiss everyone, though she walks away herself, leaving you to come down from your near panic attack while Robby stays where he is, confused and adorable in a way no man his age should be. 

Big browns on you again, he raises his eyebrows, “sure everything’s good?”

“Positive.”

You give him a thumbs up, force yourself to walk away as you breathe in relief. Crisis averted. 

It would’ve been, anyway, if you’d just told Trinity ‘no’ when she insisted on grabbing a drink at the usual bar after your shift. 

But, of course, you just had to bend and follow her lead, and look where it’s gotten you: at the bartop, spine rigid, increasingly uncomfortable the longer this guy talks to you. 

He’s not a stranger—not technically, at least. Nate had been in the EC earlier that day. You’d helped debride the nasty road rash on his arm before patching him up and sending him on his way with sterile bandages, antibiotic ointment, and what you had thought to be very clear instructions to take it easy the next few days in order to give his immune system a fucking chance to aid in the healing process. 

At the time, he’d cracked a few flirty jokes, but nothing to make you nervous. 

Now, though, he’s too close, leaning in toward you as he waves around the beer in his hand, regaling you with how he sustained his injury, either having forgotten that he’d already told you hours ago or that maybe this time he’ll have better luck impressing you. 

Obviously not the case as you cringe at the smell of beer on his breath, leaning away from it only for him to take it as an invitation to move forward a few more inches. 

“I used to ride pro, actually,” Nate tells you, “got a lot of medals—got a lot of scars, too. You should let me show you some time.”

“The medals or the scars?” you ask (stupidly) with a frown. 

Nate chuckles, a smarmy smirk spreading across his face as he moves even closer, his free hand now cupping your elbow. 

“Whatever you want. Just as long as you show me yours too.”

God, it’s not even good, not even a little charming, but man, does he seem pleased with himself, probably thinks you’re actually interested since you haven’t walked away. 

You’ve just never been good at blowing people off, especially men. On your best day, you run off of a healthy cocktail of caffeine and anxiety, so that on top of having heard one too many horror stories about guys going insane in the face of rejection…

Things aren’t lookin’ too good—

“Jesus, there you are,” an all too familiar voice rings out just behind you, and oh, the relief. “Was about to send out a fucking search party.”

You don’t know what look Robby is giving Nate, but whatever it is, it can’t be good because the man immediately drops his hand from your arm, expression morphing into something sheepish, maybe even fearful. 

For a few seconds, anyway. Then, in true entitled-white-male fashion, Nate plasters that insufferable smirk back in place. 

“Nah, she’s fine,” he claims. “Seemed like she wasn’t having a good time tonight, so I figured I’d keep her company.”

The fucking audacity. 

An arm snakes around your waist, Robby’s hand heavy, hot, and huge where it lands just below your ribs, and despite how irritated you are with Nate and his blatant fucking lies, it’s impossible to focus on it when it feels like your entire chest cavity is full of butterflies. 

“Oh, is that true, babe?” Robby asks, not helping with the fluttery feeling because while he’s called you ‘sweetheart’ a couple times before, he’s never called you ‘babe’. 

Damn, he’s good at this—‘this’ being pretending to be your boyfriend, and despite how adamant you’d been with Trinity earlier, it turns out that this isn’t very hard to lean into afterall. 

Literally. 

Relaxing into his side, you peer up at Robby with what can only be considered Bambi eyes, wide and falsely apologetic as you tell him, “of course not. Just got—”

“Taken verbally hostage?” he suggests, lips curling at the corners as he stares back at you. 

“Hostage?” Nate scoffs. “You seemed pretty interested when I asked if you wanted to see my—”

“Your what?” This time when Robby interrupts, his tone is clipped, one eyebrow raised. A warning. “What were you planning on showing her?”

You snort, “apparently, Nate here has a lot of super cool scars from his time as a professional motocross rider. In fact, I debrided a brand new one just a few hours ago.”

Robby hums, “hm, cocky and stupid.” 

You can’t hide your amusement, don’t even really try to.

Nate opens his mouth, no doubt to argue, but he only gets a single syllable out before Robby is cutting him off again, “in that case, I’m sure we’ll see you in the ER again soon.” Then, with a gentle squeeze, eyes on you again—“should get you in bed, anyway. You’re gonna be so goddamn cranky in the morning.” 

Oh, good god. Get you in bed. The mere idea…

Robby doesn’t give Nate a chance to protest as he leads you away, hand drifting to the small of your back and staying there until you make it to the exit and out of the man’s line of sight. 

You try not to mourn the loss, instead focusing on the, “holy shit, thank you.”

Robby chuckles, a deep blush blossoming on his face as if he’s just now getting self-conscious about that entire interaction. 

“You looked like you needed saving,” he hangs his head, possibly trying to hide his red cheeks as he shoves his fists into the pockets of his hoodie. “Hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable.”

“No, no, I mean—” you wave your hands erratically, unable to come up with the right words, brain still a little foggy from having felt his arm wrapped around you. 

He’s done it before, but not like that. Not with the purpose of holding you, staking a (false) claim. It’s always been to pull you out of the path of a rogue gurney or an agitated patient, or, in one case, off of a badly twisted ankle. Things that are work appropriate. 

The way he tucked you against him tonight was not work appropriate, and fuck, you hope Trinity didn’t see. You can only imagine the ribbing you’re in store for if she did. 

“It was, um—it was super helpful, and, like… you’re really good at that,” you finish, lame but truthful, “the whole fake boyfriend thing.”

“Yeah, well, I guess it makes up for me being a shitty real one.” Self-deprecating as always. 

Mouth twisting to the side in contemplation, you give a tiny shake of your head, “I refuse to believe that,” mostly because in the year that you’ve known him, Robby has been nothing but caring. Sure, he has his bad days, lets everyone in the EC know when he’s at his wit’s end, but even at his worst, he’s still genuinely compassionate, would bend over backwards for every patient, every person, especially his own staff. 

You’ve been fucking infatuated with him since day one, and for good reason. It’s ridiculous, but can anyone really blame you? Kind, smart, and hot—you were doomed from the minute you stepped into the pitt for the very first time. 

And, it’s because of that stupid infatuation that you figure, what the hell? 

“If you want more practice with the whole boyfriend thing, I may have a, uh…” you bite your lip, gaze flicking to his in order to gauge his reaction, “—an opportunity for you.”

Something like curiosity dances in Robby’s eyes, though it’s tinted with something else you can’t place. 

He cocks his head. “Oh?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, and with a deep breath, you start, “so, my cousin is getting married…”

‘Cause what’s the worst that could happen? 

•

You sort of can’t believe he says yes. 

Robby’s never been anything less than helpful since you started in his department. Ready to hear you out, probe your brain, grow you into a better doctor. He has made you cry once, yeah, but it was just the one time, which is sort of a record (so says Trinity). Plus, he apologized shortly thereafter. 

He’s always been ready to step in when he sees you flounders, as proven the other night at the bar. 

Still, pretending to date you is a big ask and kinda, sorta, really inappropriate. 

“This is weird,” you laugh quietly where you sit across from him at a little café. “It’s weird, right?”

Robby shrugs casually, “it’s weird if you make it weird,” like this is something the two of you do every day. Get brunch together, sit at a tiny table where, if you wanted to, you’d be able to nudge his knee with your own. “Come on, just tell me what we need to figure out,” he urges. 

His brown eyes are wide and encouraging, as is the amused tilt of his lips. 

You take a sip of your tea, trying to pin down where exactly to start. There is a very wide range of questions your family may ask, but you might as well start with the basics. 

“How’d we meet?”

Robby’s answer is instantaneous: “You walked into my EC as a third year resident.”

You groan, “Robby—” 

“No, I’m serious,” he stops you. “That, at least, we shouldn’t fuck with. I’m easy to look up online, so anyone with half a brain will be able to put it together.”

Damn. You hadn’t thought of that. 

“Fuck, you’re right.” And, if you know your cousins the way you do, you know they’ll be googling his name the second they hear it. 

Robby chuckles, “it’s been known to happen from time to time.”

“Oh, shut up.”

He grins, and even with the charming crows feet that gather at the corners of his eyes, Robby still manages to look almost boyish. 

This is so not a good idea. 

“Keep telling me to shut the fuck up, and people will definitely buy it,” he jokes. “All the couples I know hate each other, so it’s right on target.”

“The resentment usually doesn’t set in until marriage,” you comment with a roll of your eyes. 

You are not prepared for his response—“So, you’re saying there needs to be a ring on your finger for it to be believable.”

The way you sputter is fucking embarrassing— “that is not what I’m saying,” incredibly flustered at the idea, “I’m—I mean—Jesus!” Even if the two of you are just pretending, that is much more than your heart can withstand. “Let’s just go with the honeymoon phase, okay? This is a new thing. Absolutely no talk about engagement.”

Both of your hands are on your cheeks now, feel like ice against your heated skin. 

“Fine,” Robby waves, “but you’re on board with being honest about how we met?”

You huff, still mildly irritated at him for getting you worked up, but nod in agreement. 

“Alright, then. How long have we been together?” Robby moves on as if he didn’t just cause you to go into A-fib. He sits back in his chair, strokes his beard while musing, “you said it’s new, so are you thinking a month or two, or…”

“That sounds about right,” you sigh, finally able to catch your breath again. “Not super serious, but long enough to know each other. Still way too early to do anything drastic,” like propose, you think, a slightly threatening glare leveled right at him. 

“Honey, I’m in my fifties,” Robby reminds you, apparently unfazed. “I wouldn’t be in a relationship with anyone I wasn’t serious about.”

You tug your lip between your teeth. The pet names are gonna kill you. 

Before you can get too lightheaded, though, Robby breaches the subject you really didn’t want him to: “is that gonna be a problem? The age difference, I mean.”

Now, it’s your turn to smile, a nervous twitch of your mouth as your gaze meets his only to fall back on the table. 

“No, it, uh—it’s sort of, um…” 

Raising his eyebrows, Robby leans forward on his elbows, “sort of what?”

You laugh, shake your head, “let’s just say it’s very on brand for me.”

Blinking at you, it doesn’t quite seem to sink in, so you elaborate with a mumbled, “it’s sort of my thing.” 

You can see exactly when it clicks because Robby’s cheeks get very red, very fast. 

“Older guys, huh?” There’s an odd pitchiness to his voice, incredulity and entertainment, you assume. 

You glare at him. “Mouth. Shut it.” But, there’s no heat behind it. 

God, you never could have imagined having this conversation, or really any variation of it, with him. The chances of Robby putting it all together—the way you’ve always stared at him, your silent but incessant need for his validation, how you’re always just a little too eager to help him with anything and everything… 

He’s about five seconds away from uncovering your secret, and he doesn’t even know it. 

Or, maybe he does and he’s just too polite to let it show. 

“So, me walking through the door,” he starts, snapping you out of your head, “it’s not gonna surprise anyone,” more of a statement than a question. 

“Not even a little,” you snort in bitter amusement because this is something you’ve always been teased about. “They might laugh just because of how typical it is of me, but no. No one will be surprised.”

Robby sits back in his chair, lacing his fingers together to cradle the back of his head. 

“Well, okay, then. Guess that takes care of that.”

Throughout a rather drawn out lunch, you and Robby trade little facts about yourselves, the type of shit people would expect you to know about one another. 

You tell him about your mom, a teacher, and your workaholic dad. Your sister who’s closer to Robby’s age than yours, how you've never been all that close with her. You grew up in the south but in an extremely large city, then moved up north to be closer to your mother’s side of the family only to get accepted into UCLA’s pre-med program followed by Duke for four years of hell med school. 

You can play the saxophone (not well), and it turns out that Robby can play guitar (also not well). He tells you a little about his grandmother (bubbe, he later refers to her as), his upbringing, that while he isn’t very good at practicing or even believing, he was raised in a Jewish household and still falls back on his faith in particularly trying times.

And, after all is said and done, Robby pays for the meal, much to your protest, swatting your hand away and grinning, “it’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it?” 

As you cover your scorching face with your hands again, you begin to accept the fact that this is the worst idea you’ve had in a very long time. 

Fucking Trinity. Enlisting Robby for this wouldn’t have even crossed your mind had she not planted the seed. 

“When is this party again?” Robby asks as he walks you to your car. 

“Two weeks from no—ah!” 

The curb of the sidewalk comes too soon, and you stumble down the step to fall flat on your face, only you don’t get that far, caught around the middle and hauled back upright. 

It takes you right back to the other night when Robby had come to your rescue, slid an arm around you and pulled you against him. 

And, now you’re here again. Too fucking close, able to smell his fresh cologne, feel the heat of his body, the weight of it around you. 

Oh, you are so, so fucked. 

Clearing your throat, you step away (checking before doing so), then plaster on an awkward smile. 

“Thanks, I’m—I’m kinda… clumsy,” you mutter, trying to steady yourself both physically and mentally. 

Hands in the pockets of his jeans, Robby dips his head to look you dead in the eyes when he agrees, “I know.”

And you know he knows because he’s brought it up before, confused and complaining just like he is now, “it’s weird because I put you in a trauma setting and you’re like a fucking contortionist. I have seen you bend in ways no human should be able to.”

“Just because I’m bendy doesn’t mean I’m graceful.”

“You’re telling me,” he chuckles. 

If you’re being honest then he actually doesn’t know just how bendy you are, but that’s a thought not worth dwelling on, not when you’re already tingling with the idea that Robby has ever paid any attention to the way you move. 

Anyway. 

Back to the whole reason you’re standing outside of a café as he dons a pair of aviators. 

“You sure we’ll both be able to get off for this?” Terrible wording, you cringe to yourself. Get off. What is wrong with you? “The party, I mean.”

Robby sucks his teeth, and it’s unnerving now that you can’t see his eyes, where he’s looking. 

“Considering I run the department, I think I can make it happen.”

Okay, hotshot. 

You click your tongue, unimpressed. “Fine, better question: are you sure you’re gonna be able to relax at the party while someone else runs your EC?”

Scoffing, Robby starts to argue, but you both know it’s a valid question, especially since he’s been known to show up in the pitt even on his days off. 

“I don’t need my family thinking I have some asshole boyfriend who doesn’t care about anything.”

“I can multitask,” he scoffs, kicking your sneaker with the toe of his. “I am more than capable of playing the doting boyfriend while having a panic attack, thank you very fucking much.”

The giggle that bubbles from your mouth is entirely involuntary, and you smother it with your hand before any more embarrassing noises can escape. 

The damage has already been done, though, because Robby looks at you from over his sunglasses, lips quirked into a smug smile. 

“We still have two weeks, sweetheart. Don’t have to laugh at my dumb jokes just yet.”

Once you’re alone in your car, and Robby is far enough away that he won’t see or hear you, you drop your forehead to your steering wheel and scream. 

•

After two weeks of stomach pain and ribbing from Trinity (“this was your idea! You don’t get to give me shit for your idea!”), it’s time. 

Saturday, early evening, you pace back and forth as you wait for your phone to light up. 

As you wait for Robby to pick you up. 

A kaleidoscope of butterflies flap and flutter inside of you, threatening to burst right out of your mouth. 

The sweater you’re wearing is already starting to feel suffocating, wine red over a pleated skirt that suddenly feels a little too short. You’re wearing tights, though, so that makes it okay, right? Right? 

It’s not like you picked it out thinking of him. If you’d really wanted to draw eyes, you’d be wearing heels, not Docs, and something low cut instead of this turtleneck that feels like a fucking boa constrictor. 

There is a knock at your door, and you nearly faint. 

Surely, he wouldn’t. There is no way that Robby, your boss, is following real date etiquette and picking you up at your door rather than just texting you that he’s here. 

No, no, no—

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

“Should I have brought flowers?” he asks, unperturbed by your lack of greeting (or general manners). 

Your, “god, no,” comes out wheezy as you struggle to breathe because holy shit, he looks too good in dark wash jeans and a button-up, collar open in a manner that looks absolutely obscene to you but in reality is only enough to reveal his jugular notch and a bit of the skin below (not to mention a tiny bit of chest hair, but if you fixate on it, you will get lightheaded). 

Robby holds his arms out, opening himself to your greedy eyes when he asks, “too casual, or…?” 

“No, it’s great, you’re—it’s perfect,” you shake your head, feel your stupid little brain rattling around with the motion. “Fantastic job, A-plus.”

Once you’ve snatched your purse from the table next to the door and have double checked that you have everything you need, you nod toward the hallway behind Robby, a silent ‘let’s go’. 

He’s definitely already in character, opening the car door for you, making sure all your limbs are tucked in nicely before shutting it. 

“You don’t have to do the boyfriend thing until we get there, you know.”

Robby glances at you as he starts the car, a look of pity on his annoyingly handsome face. 

“Opening doors for you isn’t a ‘boyfriend thing’,” he tuts, “it’s just common decency.”

Which is… fair. You’re just so fucking aware of it, like you’re aware of the hand behind your headrest as Robby starts to back out of the parking spot, neck craned to look over his shoulder. 

Does have any idea what he’s doing? 

It’s so simple, and it’s so cliché, and he’s so hot, and you’re so hopeless. 

You take a few breaths, smooth one of the pleats of your skirt, and once he’s out of the complex and on the road, you’re finally able to start some semblance of a normal conversation. 

“A 4Runner, huh?” A very nice 4Runner, as it happens. 

Robby laughs. “Thought I’d have something flashier?” 

“No, not necessarily,” you hum, “never put much thought into it, honestly. Hard to tell with doctors.”

“Well, I walk to work as much as I can, and when I have to drive for whatever reason, I get to use the private parking garage.”

“‘Special parking for the special-est boy,” you mutter, still can’t shake the nerves.

He might roll his eyes, you can’t tell in the rearview mirror, but he continues on, “I see a lot of different makes and models down there. Shitbox Camry parked right next to a fucking Maserati. All that matters is if it can get you from point A to B, right?”

The drive is spent making somewhat stilted small talk—the music that eventually starts filtering through the speakers when his Bluetooth decides to connect, a funny patient you had the day before. 

You feel out of your element. Aside from a few text exchanges about scheduling, you and Robby have only truly spoken at work. He’s gone out drinking with the day shift crew twice in recent memory, and both times he spent his time at the bartop with Jesse and Donnie, away from his rowdy residents (which was probably for the best). 

You shouldn't be having any trouble, though. It’s not like he’s ever made you uncomfortable. Flustered, yes, but never…

“Take a breath,” he says beside you, head barely tilted to look at you while still facing the road. “It’ll be okay. Just pretend I’m—”

“Not my boss?”

Robby chuckles, “yeah, that.”

The party is being held at an upscale (pretentious) restaurant, though you have a feeling that no one will be eating anything other than whatever might be garnishing their drinks. It isn’t a particularly long drive, but the downtown traffic adds ten minutes to the trip, giving you and Robby more time to talk strategy. 

Neither of you bring up the chance—no, the necessity—of touching. Nothing too bold, should be able to get away with holding hands and sitting uncomfortably close, but it’s still a stark contrast to the way you usually interact with each other. Knocking shoulders while walking through the pitt is not the same as hanging off his arm at a rooftop bar. 

Robby parks, turns off the car, and tells you, “wait here,” before getting out and jogging around to open your door for you. 

He offers a hand, warm and huge around yours as he helps you to the ground, and then flashes a close-lipped, friendly smile. “Ready?”

Not even a little. 

Still, with a roll of your neck and a few deep breaths, you nod, “come on, babe.”

Goosebumps break out over the back of your neck when Robby laughs beside you, travel down your arms when he laces his thick fingers with yours. 

You’re really doing this. You’re really dating Robby. 

For the rest of the night, anyway. 

•

Cara, the oldest of the cousins, cackles when you walk through the door that leads to the roof. It’s an ugly sound, accompanied by her clapping hands, yet it is entirely good-natured. You can tell by the fondness that lies just beneath her obnoxious amusement, and you waste no time in flipping her the bird. 

“Oh, I’m gonna be a hit, aren’t I?” Robby asks, stooping to speak close to your ear, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. 

“You have no idea.”

The roof has obviously been reserved for the party, family and friends-of being the only people up here. Neither you nor Robby stick out in terms of clothing, but it still feels like everybody’s eyes are on you. 

The happy couple is standing at a high table with three of your aunts (two biological, one honorary). Wine glasses with lipstick stains sit in front of them, taunting you, and you wonder if it’d be rude to prolong hello’s and introductions for just a bit longer in favor of getting a drink. 

No. May as well get this over with. 

Abi lights up at the sight of you, shimmying out from between her fiancée, Calvin, and her mother, so that she can shuffle over in heels that might be just a little too tall for her. 

She squeezes you tightly, “I’m so glad you could make it. I was scared your schedule would get in the way.”

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” you tell her, and you mean it. 

Several years apart, Abi is the closest thing you’ve ever had to a sister. You both spent many summers at your grandparents’ home, dropped off at the beginning of June then retrieved by your parents just in time for school to start again in late August. 

You pushed her on the swing in the backyard, held her hand when you’d walk to the ice cream shop one block over, carried her on your back when she skinned her knees, then patched her up in the bathroom with Barbi bandaids. 

“I bet you’ll grow up to be a doctor,” she’d told you through her sniffles. 

And, look at you now—in the middle of residency, fake dating the department chief. 

Being that she is standing right in front of you, you figure introductions are in order, so you dive right in. 

“Abi, this is Robby,” god, it feels so weird. “Robby, this is my cousin, Abi.”

He extends a hand with a smile, his other suddenly splayed across your lower back. 

“The bride-to-be, right? Congratulations.”

She beams while shaking his hand, “thank you!” then urges you toward the table of family. 

“Hold on, I need a drink before I can deal with all of them.”

“Fair,” she giggles, sing-songy and bubbly. 

Making your way to the bar is no easy feat with how many people stand between it and you, but with a few polite nods and Robby’s hands on your shoulders, the two of you sidle up to the counter where you order a lemon drop, Robby getting an Old Fashioned for himself. 

“God, what are you—”

“Fifty?” He lifts an eyebrow, lips curving into a grin around the rim of his glass, “yes.”

If only he knew how sexy that is. 

“Suppose the white in the beard sort of gives that away,” you muse. 

In an act of courage (and with the help of the two whole sips of vodka that are currently sliding into your belly), you reach up to gently scratch at said white. 

You see the surprise in his eyes, followed by a certain smugness, and like that, the game has begun. 

•

“Okay, so residency in New Orleans,” Cara traces her fingers up and down the stem of her wine glass, “then followed your mentor to Pittsburgh,” her eyes are a little narrowed, definitely suspicious, “where you then seduced my little cousin—”

“Cara!” 

Robby just laughs next to you, scratchy and genuine, and you hide your face in your hands to escape it as well as your nosy cousin. 

“It’s a fair leap,” he defends, lightly nudging you. When you peek at him through your fingers, the bastard has the audacity to wink at you. 

You’re not gonna survive much more of this. 

Robby takes a drink then focuses back on Cara. “Can’t say it was my intention to seduce her. If anything, I’d say she seduced me.”

You kick him under the table, but it backfires as he moves to stand behind you, saving himself from any further attacks while also opening a space for anyone else who might want to join the group. How very considerate of him.

Caged in on one side, your back a hair’s breadth away from his chest, it feels like you can’t breathe, so surrounded by Robby, his heat, his cologne—something different than what he wears every day. It’s sweet and spicy and much more intoxicating than the drink in front of you. 

You shiver, breaking out in goosebumps when his voice rings low in your ear, “you cold? I can get my jacket from the car,” and despite the fact that you’re burning up, you nod. 

“Would you, please?” 

He hums in agreement, “be right back,” then brushes his lips against the side of your head, leaving you dazed and dizzy. 

What the actual fuck?

Why is he so damn good at this? 

You’re standing here shell-shocked, and Robby is stepping back into the restaurant, completely at ease, acting like this is normal. 

“It is sad how ‘your type’ he is,” Cara brings you back to the present. “Like, that is the most ‘your type’ man I have ever laid eyes on.”

“Would you stop? Please?”

She smirks at you, her mother right beside her looking just as mischievous when she pries, “Ducky, your boss?”

“Yeah, isn’t that against the rules or something?” Abi asks, eyes wide with interest. 

“We—there’s,” you wave erratically, trying to come up with something, “we signed paperwork—god.”

Cara is laughing again, swallows a tiny sip of wine then tells you, as if you don’t already know, “you never stood a chance, did you?”

No. You really didn’t, can still remember your first day in vivid detail, meeting Dr. Robinavitch for the first time, his polite ‘I don’t know you, but I’m supposed to smile’ expression as he shook your hand. 

Being that he’s the chief, you weren’t able to shadow him the way you did the senior residents, but you jumped at any chance you had to work with him. Learn from him. 

He taught like he’d been doing it for decades (he had been), could rattle off every step of a procedure like they were his ABC’s, his tone encouraging even at that low pitch. 

Eventually the polite smiles grew wider, more genuine, and you began hearing his voice outside of exam rooms. Sardonic jokes, muffled complaints spoken into the hands he’s always scrubbing down his face, ‘you good?’ asked during and after particularly rough cases.

You’re not sure that you can call Robby a friend, but saying that he’s just your boss feels wrong too. He’s seen you mid-breakdown when the loss of a patient sits fresh and raw inside of you. What used to be gentle pep talks laced with all variations of ‘it’ll be okay’ have turned into tight hugs and the validation of ‘it’s okay if you’re not okay’. 

He’s supportive of everyone. It’d be silly to believe that he thinks of you as anything more than a halfway decent resident, but it’s nice to pretend. 

Especially now as his warm jacket is placed over your shoulders, Robby’s hands sliding down your arms until he fits them to your waist. 

“Better?” 

He is so fucking close behind you, impossible to escape, and honestly it all feels a little too good, so you don’t try to. 

Leaning against him, you catch Robby’s eye and smile up at him. 

“Much.”

•

All in all, it goes well. At no point in the evening do things get too awkward between you and Robby, and your family shows some restraint (for once) by not asking inappropriately invasive questions. 

Apparently, you were worried for no reason. 

At a quarter past nine, Robby helps you back into the car, chuckling when you slip on the step bar, “I’d ask if you were drunk if I didn’t know you, but…”

“Sir, I have had two lemon drops.”

“And, a natural talent for tripping.”

You climb into the seat and glare while trying to ignore the fact that his hand is still wrapped around yours. 

Then, it’s gone, and you spend the next five seconds mourning the loss until Robby swings into the driver’s side. 

“Well, that was fun,” he comments, looks both ways before pulling into the street. “Your cousins are funny.”

“Hilarious,” half-sarcastic, half not. “They ate you up. Them and the aunts.”

You expect questions, jokes, really anything, and are therefore surprised when Robby doesn’t have a follow-up and just gnaws on his lower lip. 

“What?” you lift an eyebrow. “Did someone say something weird?”

He shakes his head, “no, no, just… couldn’t help but notice neither of your parents were there. I thought they lived in the area.”

Ah. 

“Yeah, I may have, uh—may have left some details out during our little ‘getting to know you’ brunch, and I knew the aunts wouldn’t ask about them, so… yeah.”

Robby hums, contemplative, but doesn’t push for anything more. You’re thankful for it, know that most people would try to dig a little deeper, and the fact that he doesn’t is what gets you to open up some. 

“Pretty much as soon as I started at UCLA, Mom and Dad started having problems, and it got kinda ugly. Hanna—”

“The sister,” he recalls. 

“Yes, the sister, had been out of the house for a long time already, so she didn’t get, like, too caught up in it, but I made a pretty tasty bargaining chip.”

“How so?”

You pick at the laces of your boot where it’s kicked over your thigh, try to figure out what you want to say—how much you want to say. 

“Did you know that when parents get divorced they’re encouraged to take a workshop about how to, like, not damage their kids too bad?”

Robby snorts. “I did not know that, no.”

“Yeah, well, they are, and mine did, and then promptly fucking forgot everything they learned. Or, maybe just flat out ignored it.”

“Weren’t you already of age? It couldn’t have been a custody issue.”

“Yeah, no, it was a ‘choosing sides’ issue,” you explain. “And, I don’t even think it was that either of them wanted to spend more time with me as much as it was, like—like, whoever I picked was the winner of the divorce. I became this weird deciding factor. 

“But neither of them were right. Both of them fucked up, and for a while it was like the whole two Christmases thing. Mom was always trying to get me new clothes, Dad got me a fucking car, et cetera.”

Robby stays listening, head tilting from one side to the other as he seems to consider everything you’re saying. 

“—which sounds great. Definitely lived the spoiled life for a while, but eventually they started getting—I don’t know, bitter?—at me never choosing, and it just got really toxic and gross.”

Frowning now, Robby turns onto one of the side streets that leads to your apartment, reminding you that the night is about to come to an end. 

“Do you still talk to either of them?” 

You shrug, “from time to time. I think I make them uncomfortable now. None of us really know what to say.”

It’s a weird aspect of your life. Not some Lifetime movie drama, just two people who weren’t right for each other and managed to ruin themselves and fuck up their kid along the way. It could’ve been way worse. 

You could have been left with nowhere to return to for the holidays had your mom decided so, could have lost the financial privileges your dad granted you with your little monthly allowance. It could have been worse. 

But, you’d be lying if you said it doesn’t still affect you. You have abandonment issues and commitment issues and probably a whole slew of other issues you haven’t unearthed just yet, but nobody’s drinking themselves to death, so that’s a win. 

“Anyway, everyone up here was sort of aware of what was going on at the time, and they were not happy with the way I got pulled into it. Don’t know if you picked up on it or not, but Cara and her mom—Aunt Jay, especially are not the type to hold back”

“I may have gathered that,” Robby huffs. 

“Both of them went at my parents pretty hard, and ever since there’s been this, like, unspoken agreement that they stay away from each other.”

“Your aunt, though—isn’t that your mom’s sister?”

“Yeah, but…” you swallow, a little mortified by the lump that forms in your throat as you think about all of it. 

Robby pulls into a parking spot and is finally able to look over at you, sees that your eyes are glittery with the tears welling up in them, but whatever.

“I may not have chosen sides during the divorce, but they did.”

“And, they chose you.”

You sniff, let out a little laugh as you wipe just under your lash line. “Sorry, just—uhm—hadn’t seen them in a while.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he shakes his head before turning off the car. “Come on. I’ll walk you up.”

The gravel crunches under your boots as you make your way to your building, first floor on the far corner, and it feels like it takes forever to get to the door with Robby right next to you. 

“I really appreciate you coming with me,” you tell him, eyes trained forward. “I know it probably put you in a weird spot, but—”

“Not weird,” he shoulders into you just hard enough to make you stumble to the side and swear at him. “Interesting. Not often I get to see anyone outside of work who isn’t… Jack.”

You grin, “cute,” fishing your keys from your purse. “Hopefully, I can still be your favorite resident after all the shit you were subjected to tonight.”

Not expecting him to dignify it with a response, your stomach somersaults when Robby actually plays along, “how could you not be?” 

You track his hand, the way it’s reaching up and reaching out to smooth hair out of your face, and holy shit, holy shit, is he actually, no, no there’s no way. 

“Knew you were lying when you said you were a bad boyfriend,” a half-hearted attempt to pop the bubble that’s suddenly encapsulated the two of you because you are about to make a bad decision, and from the looks of it, Robby might let you. 

Would he really? Does he want—

“What are you talking about?”

His fucking voice. It’s always done things to you, but right now, as he stands too close and speaks with that deep tambour, that heavy scratch… fuck. 

“When I—when I first asked you for this—I mean, to do this. When I asked if… you’d said you were a bad partner.” 

You wonder what you look like right now, how wide your eyes are, if he can see your pulse drumming in your neck. 

“I am,” he reiterates, “but apparently I’m a really good fake one.”

Your lip is between your teeth, blood rushing in your ears, “good at fending off family, that’s for sure,” and you must black out because there is no other reason for you to question, “what else do fake boyfriends do?”

Your gazes locked and heated, you could swear the temperature rises a few degrees between you. Can’t move backward with the closed door behind you, can’t move forward with Robby right there, can’t move at all and kind of don’t want to, but...

“Shit, go,” you laugh, a little high-pitched, a lot hysterical, “before I do something dumb, good god.”

Taking a step back, Robby grins, the kind of grin that pulls at his whole face, turns it into one, big dimple. 

He’s red from his chest to his ears, a blush that makes you worry about his blood pressure, but still, he jokes, “just seemed like you were curious about the whole Robinavitch boyfriend experience.”

“What I’m curious about is how you think we’d be able to work together tomorrow if we—” if you what? What are you implying? What was he implying? 

Jesus Christ, he’s got you all kinds of worked up. 

Robby lifts an eyebrow, “if we…?” 

And, you sort of can’t believe him because, “you are my boss,” spluttering and stuttering, “and, like—like twenty years older than me! And, my boss.”

Another step back, and he’s rubbing his face, shaking his head, “fuck, you’re right, you’re right.” 

You hope the disappointment that takes root in your chest isn’t obvious. Stupid. It’s not like you don’t want to. You’re just trying to be logical. 

“Sorry, that was really fucking out of line,” he mumbles, uncharacteristically sheepish. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable; I’m—overwhelmed. And, trying not to let my fucking lizard brain take over since I have to look you in the eye again in, like, seven hours.”

Robby shoves his hands into his pockets, rocking heel to toe, back and forth, as he stares at the ground. You watch the way his face twists, almost like he’s having a conversation with himself. 

This is when you should unlock your door. This is when you should say good night. This is when you should be smart. 

Because it’s Robby, who you’ve been halfway in love with since you met him but have managed to live with it since you’d never have a chance with him. Robby, your chief. Robby your teacher. 

Robby who’s asking, “and, if you didn’t have to look me in the eye in seven hours?”

You’re pretty sure your heart is beating hard enough to make your whole body sway, and you can feel your pupils dilating as your voice of reason quiets to a whisper before fading away entirely. 

Fuck it. 

You surge forward only to be shoved back, shoulders colliding with the door behind you as Robby dips to meet you, one hand at the back of your head while the other holds your jaw, angling you in a way that leads you to your tiptoes. 

He’s hot—fuck, he’s so hot, knows exactly what he’s doing when he swipes his tongue between your lips, knows just how to press his hips against yours, knows what he’s doing to you by the way you whimper into his mouth. 

Hands on his shoulders, you somehow find the strength to break the kiss and stare into those deep brown eyes, sound a little too breathy when you insist, “I am not fucking you tonight.”

His beard grazes your cheekbone as he leans forward, nose at your temple, inhaling deeply and teasing, “tonight?”

“Oh my go—shut up.”

He does, gladly, it seems, as he catches you in another kiss. You scratch at the back of his neck, just under his hairline, and the noise it pulls from him is fucking sinful. 

You’re gonna regret this. You know you will. Even if it never happens again, there’s no coming back from it. 

Because now you know how Robby kisses. You know what he tastes like. You know how it feels to have his cock pressed against your hip as it slowly hardens.

He never lets his hands wander which is both impressive and appreciated. You don’t know how much control you’d be able to maintain if they traveled any lower than your neck. 

Still, your neck is quite vulnerable, especially as Robby traces down the side, stopping at just the right place…

His lips curve upward, so self-satisfied when he rumbles, “your pulse is elevated.”

“Wonder why,” you roll your eyes. “Gonna give me the full exam?”

“If you’ll let me.”

You pull away with a laugh, let your head thud against his shoulder, take a deep breath then sigh it all out. 

“You should probably go.”

“Mm, I probably should,” he agrees, then, “hey.” Nudging the side of your head with his chin, he urges you to look at him, and when you do, he states softly but with the utmost confidence, “tomorrow will be fine. This was just—”

“The Robinavitch boyfriend experience?” you supply as an ugly sensation settles in the pit of your stomach. 

“Exactly. I expect a stellar review.”

You make a noise of uncertainty, see-sawing your hand, “driving could’ve been better. Blew through a few too many yellow lights for my liking.”

“I didn’t want us to be late.”

“Sure, sure. Whatever you say, babe.”

Something crosses over his face at that, and you clock the way he glances at your mouth one more time before shaking his head with a mumbled, “good night.”

“Night, Robby,” you unlock your door but pause before stepping inside. “And, for real. Thank you. For tonight.”

He nods, cheeks still red, hair a little mussed. 

Did I do that? Whoops. 

“Any time,” he responds, “see you tomorrow.”

Once safely behind your closed door, you toss your keys onto the catchall, drop your purse on the ground, then stride over to your couch where you throw yourself face first into the cushions. 

You had a pretty good idea that tonight would end up reigniting the flames you’ve been working so tirelessly to put out.