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I created my own OC, but she's not the main one, just the daughter of the couple (y/n x Robby). which name would be better? y/n would be Jack's sister or cousin. Her nickname will be Evie, you still can ask whatever you want, okay?
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"And it was so shiny, Mommy! Like booom!? And all the colors...." the little girl said excitedly about the fireworks, walking down the hospital corridors to the parking lot beside her mother. The little girl, with wavy hair tied in two pigtails, jeans and a pink dusty cardigan, held a bunch of drawings and little letters she had made at school, for one person in particular.
The parking garage was half-lit, the kind of fluorescent hum that made everything feel slightly unreal. Echoes bounced off concrete pillars, distant doors sliding open and shut somewhere deeper in the hospital belly. You were finishing loading the trunk when Evie’s voice filled the space again, bright and unfiltered, she had talked about it the entire way out of daycare, still buzzing with excitement like her body hadn’t gotten the memo that it was bedtime-adjacent.
You smiled faintly as you closed the trunk. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“I LOVED it,” she corrected immediately, very serious about accuracy.
The parking garage doors opened, heavy footsteps on the concrete, they stopped as he spotted you both. “Hi daddy!” she called, like there had never been any doubt he would be there. "Look what I made for you!" she said, showing him the drawings in her hands. "For you to take on your trip." She says looking at him with that brown softly eyes, just like his. You're leaning against the car watching the girl talk to Robby.
She just ran straight at him.Robby caught her automatically, hands going under her arms, lifting her up like it was muscle memory. Like his body had already decided this was the most important thing happening in the garage. “Whoa,” he muttered, steadying her against him. “Careful.” Evie immediately shoved the papers toward his face, Robby blinked at the stack of drawings, he adjusted her slightly on his hip and took them carefully, like they mattered more than anything else he’d held all day.
“For me?” he asked.
“Yes!” she said, offended he would even question it.
He flipped the first page. Crayon fireworks. Bright, chaotic, completely unstructured. Stick figures that were probably you, him, and her, all standing under something that might have been a sky or might have been just emotion. He didn’t say anything for a second, then he flipped another.
Evie watched him like she was waiting for the exact moment he would understand the importance of what she had done. " is for your trip, daddy" she says, “When you come back? I’ll miss you.” The question landed harder than it should have. Robby’s jaw flexed once. Because that was the thing with him. He could handle trauma, blood, panic, bad news, screaming residents, and a hospital that never stopped taking from him. But a child offering him pictures she had made with all the love she knew how to give? That got through. Every time. He looked up at you then, still holding her. You were leaning against the car, watching him with that familiar expression of yours, the one that always seemed to peel him open without even trying. Calm. Certain. Dangerous in the quietest way. Robby let out a slow breath.
“I don’t know yet,” he said, voice low. Honest in the way he only got when he was too tired to hide. “Probably a few days. Maybe longer.” Evie frowned immediately, processing this like a tiny person who had never been taught not to take things personally. “How long is longer?” Robby gave a short, dry exhale that almost counted as a laugh. “You’re really coming at me with the hard questions tonight.”
“I am smart,” she announced. “I know.” She grabbed at the drawings again, pressing them to his chest. “Don’t forget.” That hit him square in the middle of whatever part of him was still pretending he had his life under control. He looked down at her little face, then at the drawings, then back at you. “I won’t,” he said, quieter now.
Evie seemed satisfied with that answer. She patted his cheek once like she was the adult in the room, then wrapped both arms around his neck. Robby held her tighter without thinking. For a second, he just stood there in the garage, with her in his arms and your eyes on him, looking like the kind of man who had spent too long pretending he did not need anything. The kind of man who could still be undone by a child’s handwriting and a promise he was trying very hard to keep. His gaze dropped to the notes in his hand again.
Then back to you. “Did she make all of these herself?” You nodded. “She started after school.” Robby looked down once more, and something in his face gave way. Not dramatically. Just enough. “That’s…” He stopped, swallowed, then tried again, rougher this time. “That’s a lot of fucking work.” Evie gasped immediately, scandalized on instinct. “Daddy!” Robby shut his eyes for half a second, already exhausted by the correction and absolutely doomed by the fact that he was smiling anyway. “Right,” he muttered.
Robby held her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other steadying her small body against his coat. He buried his face in her hair for a second and closed his eyes, breathing her in like he needed the reminder that she was real.
“Yeah,” he murmured, voice rough. “I’ll come back. I promise.”
Evie pulled back just enough to study him, then touched his cheek with one tiny hand as if she believed him.
“Good,” she said, very seriously.
That almost undid him more than the drawings had.
He kissed her hair once, then looked up at you over her shoulder. The tiredness was still there, deep and relentless, but something in him had softened around the edges. He stood slowly, still holding her for one more second before setting her down with care. Then he reached for you.
Not hesitant. Not guarded.
Just certain. Robby pulled you into his arms like he had been waiting all day to do it, one hand sliding up the back of your neck, the other settling firmly at your waist. His forehead rested against yours for a brief second, and when he spoke, his voice was low and raw.
“Don’t make me miss this.”
You didn’t answer right away. You just held him back, feeling the exhaustion in him, the love he never said cleanly, the fear he tried to hide under all that control. So you softened first and that was always what got him. Robby shut his eyes for a moment, holding you close in the parking lot while Evie stood beside him with her drawings, waiting for the world to keep moving.
"Have you ever been to Italy?" you asked, leaning against the doorframe while Robby arranged his things in the closet to put his backpack away. After all that Fourth of July chaos, he would be going on sabbatical.
" Holy fuck" He's startled; he was so distracted he didn't see you there, glancing over his shoulder at you and sighing. "Why do you keep scaring people?" he grumbles, zipping up his backpack and locking his locker. He turns to her, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
"No, I wasn't," he says bluntly and visible confused. He walks past you down the hallway. You hum, following his steps to the parking lot and his bike. "Great, because we're going tomorrow," you say decisively.
He frowns, "We?" he says, surprised by your audacity. You hum in agreement, "Yep, you and me, on a plane, no motorcycle, no dangers, and to a beautiful place," you say, as if you've already decided, "and by the way, I'm a great tour guide and I dress very well"
He snorts softly, "And what if I don't go? What, huh? You gonna tie me up and take me by force? Because don't I go" he says.
"Oh, tomorrow the tow truck will take that child of yours away," you say dangerously calm and smiles, pointing to his motorcycle. "You wouldn't dare." He hisses, watching you walk by in disbelief—I mean, he wouldn't doubt you, of course, you're kinda crazy and extremely persistent.
"See you tomorrow, amore mio," you say, getting into your car and blowing him a kiss.
How do you think Robby would be with a daughter from a previous relationship? This ex of his would be Jack's younger sister. I thought about this while listening to:
They are just people with a daughter in common, but Robby still has the key of your apartment and knows every detail and curve of your body. And a picture of you pregnant in his wallet
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Even though you two haven't been together for years, and having a daughter together, Robby still narrows his eyes and clenches his jaw when he sees Brendon talking too closely with you. For Robby, you're just the mother of his daughter, that's what he's been trying to convince himself for a few years.
My friend's friend | Michael Robinavich (Chapter Three)
Summary: An inopportune situation makes the him to work be soft for the greater good. Or rather, the smaller good.
Notes: None, but cuteness.
PART I | PARTE II | PART III | PART IV
Weeks later
"Female ,toddler, sixteen months old. Fell from a toy at daycare; the caregiver reported that she hit her head on the chair armrest. 3 cm laceration and no loss of consciousness, just very frightened."
The paramedic says they are getting out of the elevator and pushing a stretcher. Robby stops in his tracks, moving closer they are getting out of the elevator and pushing a Robby looks up from the chart, reading the name.
Evangeline Marie Abbot-Robinavich.
For a second, something warm and heavy settles in his chest.
“Sixteen months,” the paramedic repeats, making him blink from his trance “Fell from a toy at daycare. Caregiver says she struck her head on the chair armrest. Three-centimeter laceration. No loss of consciousness. She’s been crying on and off, but she’s alert.”
Robby nods once, already moving closer as the stretcher rolls into the trauma bay. Evangeline is bundled in a tiny pink blanket, her cheeks flushed from crying, her little hands clutching at the fabric of a Toothless teddy bear near her chest. There is a strip of gauze pressed gently against her forehead, but she still looks more confused than hurt, her wide eyes scanning the room with the serious, solemn expression only frightened toddlers seemed to have.
The medic hands over the chart while the Dana starts checking vitals. Robby scans the note quickly, then glances at the wound. It is small, but deep enough to need sutures. Nothing dramatic, nothing that would linger, but enough to leave a mark if not handled carefully.
“Where’s the daycare caregiver?” he asks.
“Outside, speaking with registration,” the paramedic answers. “She’s been cooperative.”
Robby nods again, then looks down at Evangeline when she looks back at him. Robby nodded at Dana and lowered himself beside her so he would not seem so tall and overwhelming. Evie blinked at him, then reached one tiny hand toward his scrub top, fingers opening and closing as if she wanted to grab him but was not sure she was allowed. When she sees him, her face crumples for half a second, in a sad pount.
“There you are,” he murmured. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asks.
Evangeline reaches up clumsily and touches his sleeve with her tiny fingers.
“Mm,” she babbles, frowning and sniffing.
“Mm?” he repeats, as if this makes perfect sense. “That’s very helpful, thank you.”
He is still bent beside her when his phone buzzes mutliple times his pocket. He glances at the screen and sees your name.
Nineteen missed calls and 10 text messages
Warning him about the little girl's situation, and others cursing him.
Robby exhales slowly, the message hitting him with that familiar, frustrating mix of tenderness and absence. Of course you were in surgery. Of course this was happening on one of those days when both of you were pulled in opposite directions.
He looks back at Evangeline, who is now staring at the ceiling lights with deep suspicion. “Your mother’s busy saving people,” he murmurs to her, and kisses her little hand “So it’s just you and me for now.”
Dana rolls her eyes, but she is smiling.
“Let’s get the wound cleaned,” she says.
Robby straightens, finally moving into doctor mode, though he keeps one hand resting lightly against Evangeline blanket as Dana prepares the supplies. Evangeline watches every movement with solemn concentration, as if deciding whether to trust the people around her.
“It’ll sting a little,” he warns softly. She blinks at him. “I know. Not fair. I agree.”
The saline touches the edge of the wound, and Evangeline lower lip trembles immediately. Robby makes a quiet sound, rocking the stretcher just slightly with his hand.
“You’re doing great,” he coos. “Just a second more.”
She lets out a small, offended whine, then buries her face against her teddy bear.
Dana glances at him. “You spoil her, huh?”
Robby’s mouth tilts faintly. “She deserves it.”
He keeps talking to Evangeline the whole time the wound is cleaned, his voice calm and steady, filling the room with nonsense little reassurances. Her crying fades to sniffles, then to tiny, frustrated babbles as the tension leaves her body. By the time the physician assistant arrives to help with the sutures, Evangeline is tired enough that her eyelids keep fluttering.
Robby watches her carefully while his team works.
She is so small. So sweet. So trusting in that uneven, toddler sort of way that makes every bruise feel like a crime. He tucks the blanket higher over her chest and leans down again.
“its okay, it's okay pumpkin.” He tries to comfort the little girl. "That’s it. Good girl. Almost done. I know, I know. You are allowed to be mad at all of us.”
A few of the staff exchange quiet glances, but no one interrupts.
Because in that moment, Robby is not the attending, not the doctor everyone else is trying to keep up with.
He is simply the a father kneeling beside a frightened toddler, kissing her forehead when she needs comfort, letting her hold his badge like it belongs to her, and making the ER feel a little less terrible than it was a minute ago.
My friend's friend | Michael Robinavich (Chapter Three)
Summary: An inopportune situation makes the him to work be soft for the greater good. Or rather, the smaller good.
Notes: None, but cuteness.
PART I | PARTE II | PART III | PART IV
Weeks later
"Female ,toddler, sixteen months old. Fell from a toy at daycare; the caregiver reported that she hit her head on the chair armrest. 3 cm laceration and no loss of consciousness, just very frightened."
The paramedic says they are getting out of the elevator and pushing a stretcher. Robby stops in his tracks, moving closer they are getting out of the elevator and pushing a Robby looks up from the chart, reading the name.
Evangeline Marie Abbot-Robinavich.
For a second, something warm and heavy settles in his chest.
“Sixteen months,” the paramedic repeats, making him blink from his trance “Fell from a toy at daycare. Caregiver says she struck her head on the chair armrest. Three-centimeter laceration. No loss of consciousness. She’s been crying on and off, but she’s alert.”
Robby nods once, already moving closer as the stretcher rolls into the trauma bay. Evangeline is bundled in a tiny pink blanket, her cheeks flushed from crying, her little hands clutching at the fabric of a Toothless teddy bear near her chest. There is a strip of gauze pressed gently against her forehead, but she still looks more confused than hurt, her wide eyes scanning the room with the serious, solemn expression only frightened toddlers seemed to have.
The medic hands over the chart while the Dana starts checking vitals. Robby scans the note quickly, then glances at the wound. It is small, but deep enough to need sutures. Nothing dramatic, nothing that would linger, but enough to leave a mark if not handled carefully.
“Where’s the daycare caregiver?” he asks.
“Outside, speaking with registration,” the paramedic answers. “She’s been cooperative.”
Robby nods again, then looks down at Evangeline when she looks back at him. Robby nodded at Dana and lowered himself beside her so he would not seem so tall and overwhelming. Evie blinked at him, then reached one tiny hand toward his scrub top, fingers opening and closing as if she wanted to grab him but was not sure she was allowed. When she sees him, her face crumples for half a second, in a sad pount.
“There you are,” he murmured. “What is it, sweetheart?” he asks.
Evangeline reaches up clumsily and touches his sleeve with her tiny fingers.
“Mm,” she babbles, frowning and sniffing.
“Mm?” he repeats, as if this makes perfect sense. “That’s very helpful, thank you.”
He is still bent beside her when his phone buzzes mutliple times his pocket. He glances at the screen and sees your name.
Nineteen missed calls and 10 text messages
Warning him about the little girl's situation, and others cursing him.
Robby exhales slowly, the message hitting him with that familiar, frustrating mix of tenderness and absence. Of course you were in surgery. Of course this was happening on one of those days when both of you were pulled in opposite directions.
He looks back at Evangeline, who is now staring at the ceiling lights with deep suspicion. “Your mother’s busy saving people,” he murmurs to her, and kisses her little hand “So it’s just you and me for now.”
Dana rolls her eyes, but she is smiling.
“Let’s get the wound cleaned,” she says.
Robby straightens, finally moving into doctor mode, though he keeps one hand resting lightly against Evangeline blanket as Dana prepares the supplies. Evangeline watches every movement with solemn concentration, as if deciding whether to trust the people around her.
“It’ll sting a little,” he warns softly. She blinks at him. “I know. Not fair. I agree.”
The saline touches the edge of the wound, and Evangeline lower lip trembles immediately. Robby makes a quiet sound, rocking the stretcher just slightly with his hand.
“You’re doing great,” he coos. “Just a second more.”
She lets out a small, offended whine, then buries her face against her teddy bear.
Dana glances at him. “You spoil her, huh?”
Robby’s mouth tilts faintly. “She deserves it.”
He keeps talking to Evangeline the whole time the wound is cleaned, his voice calm and steady, filling the room with nonsense little reassurances. Her crying fades to sniffles, then to tiny, frustrated babbles as the tension leaves her body. By the time the physician assistant arrives to help with the sutures, Evangeline is tired enough that her eyelids keep fluttering.
Robby watches her carefully while his team works.
She is so small. So sweet. So trusting in that uneven, toddler sort of way that makes every bruise feel like a crime. He tucks the blanket higher over her chest and leans down again.
“its okay, it's okay pumpkin.” He tries to comfort the little girl. "That’s it. Good girl. Almost done. I know, I know. You are allowed to be mad at all of us.”
A few of the staff exchange quiet glances, but no one interrupts.
Because in that moment, Robby is not the attending, not the doctor everyone else is trying to keep up with.
He is simply the a father kneeling beside a frightened toddler, kissing her forehead when she needs comfort, letting her hold his badge like it belongs to her, and making the ER feel a little less terrible than it was a minute ago.
My friend's friend | Michael Robinavich (Chapter Two)
Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavich x fem!Abbot!neurosurgeon!reader
Summary: A ghost from the past returns to haunt the life of Dr. Robinavich.
Note: All of this takes place before the series. My work has been so stressful lately, sorry for disappearing. But you guys gonna have more from this, okay?
PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3
The elevator ride to the sixteenth floor felt longer than it should have. You stood with your arms folded, the chart tucked under one hand, while the fluorescent light above you hummed softly. Your reflection in the metal doors looked calm, composed, almost indifferent. But your pulse still hadn’t settled.
Behind the mask of professionalism, something else lingered, the look on Robby’s face. Not anger alone. Not surprise either. Something sharper, something older, something that had survived long enough to sting the moment you saw him again.
When the elevator doors opened, the surgical floor was quieter than the ER, but only on the surface. Nurses moved quickly in the hallways, voices low, footsteps measured, the usual controlled chaos of a place where lives could change in a second.
One of the residents was waiting near the nurses’ station. “Dr. Abbot?” she asked, glancing up from the clipboard in her hands. “We’ve got the patient from eight-oh-eight. The scans are being uploaded now.”
You nodded once. “Good. Prep the room.” She hesitated for half a second, looking past you toward the elevators. “Dr. Robinavich said he’d be up here soon.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the chart. “Of course he did,” you said to yourself, though your voice gave nothing away.
You moved toward the surgical prep area, slipping back into the rhythm you knew best. Checklists. Imaging. Orders. Numbers. It was easier to focus on the patient than on the memory of his voice in that room downstairs, low and defensive, trying to push you out before you could expose what had gone wrong.
You had seen enough cases to know when someone was protecting a mistake. And enough people to know when the mistake was not the only thing they were protecting, a few minutes later, the doors opened again. You did not need to turn around to know who had entered.
The energy in the hallway shifted before the man himself even appeared. Robby walked in with the kind of controlled tension that made everything around him seem slightly more unstable. His sleeves were still rolled up, his expression unreadable, his jaw set the way it had been in the ER.
Then he looked at the chart in your hands and spoke first. “Tell me exactly what you saw.” You raised your eyes to his. “well, hello to you too.”
“Don’t start.”
You almost smiled, but it never reached your face. “I’m not starting anything. I’m explaining why your patient is going to surgery.”
Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You said there were neurological signs.”
“There are.”
“Which ones?”
You glanced down at the file, then back at him. “Delayed pupil response. Mild motor lag. Subtle asymmetry in reflexes. Enough to suggest the dosage error wasn’t isolated.” His eyes stayed on you, searching for something. Doubt, maybe.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I don’t guess in a case like this.” That answer made him go quiet.
A nurse passed by, pretending very obviously not to listen. Somewhere behind you, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.
Robby exhaled through his nose. “What do you need?” The question surprised you more than anything else he had said so far. You looked at him for a moment, then answered. “Imaging review. Full neuro status. And I want the OR ready in case we need to intervene.”
He nodded once, already shifting into work mode. “Fine.”
You turned away before the conversation could turn into something else.
That was the problem with Robby. Every sentence had the potential to become a wound if you stayed in it too long.
The scan results came back ten minutes later. You stood with the resident and a radiology printout spread across the counter, eyes moving over the images with quick precision. There it was. Not dramatic enough to be obvious at first glance, but unmistakable if you knew where to look.
A complication.
Not catastrophic yet. Not unrecoverable.
But dangerous.
“Pressure is building,” you said quietly.
The resident frowned. “So we’re going in?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Robinavich already asked if he could be present for the procedure.”
That made you pause.
You looked up slowly. “He did?”
She nodded very uncomfortable. “Very specifically, actually ”
Of course he did.
You handed the scan back and took a breath. “Then tell him yes.”
The resident tried not to react, failed, and looked down at the chart again. “Understood.”
You were halfway down the hall when Robby caught up to you, entering the surgical room after you; you were finishing getting ready when he started washing his hands next to you. entering the surgical suite
“Did you review the scan already?”
“Yes.”
He asked beside you. “And?”
“And the patient needs intervention.”
He stopped talking for a second. “That bad?”
You looked straight ahead. “Worse if we wait.”
Robby was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “You always talk like you’re not the one holding the knife.”
You turned to him then. "Excuse me?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not deny it or replies.
The tension between you sharpened again, and for one impossible second, it felt less like an argument and more like a memory trying to become a mistake all over again.
Then a voice came from the end of the hall.
“Dr. Robinavich?" One of his residents asked.
He turned his head, annoyed by the interruption. When he looked back at you, the hard edge in his expression had returned.
“This isn’t finished,” he said.
You adjusted the gloves in your hands. “No, it isn’t.”
He left first. You watched him go, noticing the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he did not quite look back even though you could tell he wanted to. The patient was moved to surgery soon after. By the time you entered the OR, everything had become movement and light and sterile routine. Masks. Gloves. Bright overhead lamps. The sharp smell of antiseptic. The room felt calmer than the ER, but the silence here was heavier, more focused.
Robby was already there when you arrived, standing near the monitors, arms folded, watching the team prepare. He looked at you once, then away.
“Anesthesia is ready,” one of the nurses said.
“Good,” you replied.
“Vitals are holding,” another added.
“Good.”
You washed your hands at the sink and let the water run over your fingers. For a moment, you caught your own reflection in the metal above the basin. There was a steadiness there that had taken years to build. A kind of control. A kind of armor.
When you turned back, Robby was watching you. Not in a rude way. Not even in an obvious way. Just enough to make it impossible to pretend you had not noticed.
“Are you going to keep doing that?” you asked.
He blinked once. “Doing what?”
“Staring.”
That earned you the smallest reaction from him, almost a smirk but not quite. “You noticed.”
“I’m a neurosurgeon. Observation is part of the job and besides, is kinda creepy."
The surgery began.
For the next hour, everything narrowed down to the patient. Your hands moved with practiced certainty. Your voice stayed calm. Your focus never slipped. Robby remained nearby, assisting where needed, calling out values, watching the screen, the room, the patient. He was good at this. You remembered that too. That competence had always made him infuriating in the most difficult way.
At one point, when the monitor shifted and one of the numbers dipped lower than expected, he reacted immediately. “Pressure’s dropping,” he said.
You were already adjusting. “I see it.” He looked at you from across the table. “You said we had time.”
“We do,” you answered. “If nobody panics.”
His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than necessary.
Then he looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of something there. Not frustration alone. Trust, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
When the procedure was finally stabilized, the room exhaled all at once.
A nurse started documenting. Someone else updated the family waiting list. The resident near the door let out a breath like they had been holding it for hours.
You stepped back from the table and removed your gloves.
“It’s controlled now,” you said.
The attending nurse nodded. “He’ll need monitoring overnight.”
“He will.”
Robby wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, then looked at you. “You were right.”
It sounded like a simple sentence, but from him, it carried more weight than it should have.
You met his eyes for a moment. “I usually am.”
After some minutes nither of you spoke at first, the silence between you did not feel hostile this time. It felt loaded. Deliberate. Like both of you were standing near something fragile and neither trusted the other enough to touch it first.
Then he broke first.
“How long have you been back at this hospital?”
Your eyes stayed on the screen of your phone “Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It was the only one you got.” You said.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here?” he asked.
You shrugged lightly. " it should?
The words landed exactly where you meant them to. Robby’s expression changed, but only slightly, enough for you to notice. He had always been good at hiding what he felt. Better than most people. Worse with you.
You sighs and look at fim before handing out the room, " she's on the daycare, if is that you're trying to know."
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
My friend's friend | Michael Robinavich (Chapter Two)
Pairing: Michael "Robby" Robinavich x fem!Abbot!neurosurgeon!reader
Summary: A ghost from the past returns to haunt the life of Dr. Robinavich.
Note: All of this takes place before the series. My work has been so stressful lately, sorry for disappearing. But you guys gonna have more from this, okay?
PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3
The elevator ride to the sixteenth floor felt longer than it should have. You stood with your arms folded, the chart tucked under one hand, while the fluorescent light above you hummed softly. Your reflection in the metal doors looked calm, composed, almost indifferent. But your pulse still hadn’t settled.
Behind the mask of professionalism, something else lingered, the look on Robby’s face. Not anger alone. Not surprise either. Something sharper, something older, something that had survived long enough to sting the moment you saw him again.
When the elevator doors opened, the surgical floor was quieter than the ER, but only on the surface. Nurses moved quickly in the hallways, voices low, footsteps measured, the usual controlled chaos of a place where lives could change in a second.
One of the residents was waiting near the nurses’ station. “Dr. Abbot?” she asked, glancing up from the clipboard in her hands. “We’ve got the patient from eight-oh-eight. The scans are being uploaded now.”
You nodded once. “Good. Prep the room.” She hesitated for half a second, looking past you toward the elevators. “Dr. Robinavich said he’d be up here soon.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around the chart. “Of course he did,” you said to yourself, though your voice gave nothing away.
You moved toward the surgical prep area, slipping back into the rhythm you knew best. Checklists. Imaging. Orders. Numbers. It was easier to focus on the patient than on the memory of his voice in that room downstairs, low and defensive, trying to push you out before you could expose what had gone wrong.
You had seen enough cases to know when someone was protecting a mistake. And enough people to know when the mistake was not the only thing they were protecting, a few minutes later, the doors opened again. You did not need to turn around to know who had entered.
The energy in the hallway shifted before the man himself even appeared. Robby walked in with the kind of controlled tension that made everything around him seem slightly more unstable. His sleeves were still rolled up, his expression unreadable, his jaw set the way it had been in the ER.
Then he looked at the chart in your hands and spoke first. “Tell me exactly what you saw.” You raised your eyes to his. “well, hello to you too.”
“Don’t start.”
You almost smiled, but it never reached your face. “I’m not starting anything. I’m explaining why your patient is going to surgery.”
Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You said there were neurological signs.”
“There are.”
“Which ones?”
You glanced down at the file, then back at him. “Delayed pupil response. Mild motor lag. Subtle asymmetry in reflexes. Enough to suggest the dosage error wasn’t isolated.” His eyes stayed on you, searching for something. Doubt, maybe.
“You’re sure?” he asked.
“I don’t guess in a case like this.” That answer made him go quiet.
A nurse passed by, pretending very obviously not to listen. Somewhere behind you, a monitor beeped in a steady rhythm.
Robby exhaled through his nose. “What do you need?” The question surprised you more than anything else he had said so far. You looked at him for a moment, then answered. “Imaging review. Full neuro status. And I want the OR ready in case we need to intervene.”
He nodded once, already shifting into work mode. “Fine.”
You turned away before the conversation could turn into something else.
That was the problem with Robby. Every sentence had the potential to become a wound if you stayed in it too long.
The scan results came back ten minutes later. You stood with the resident and a radiology printout spread across the counter, eyes moving over the images with quick precision. There it was. Not dramatic enough to be obvious at first glance, but unmistakable if you knew where to look.
A complication.
Not catastrophic yet. Not unrecoverable.
But dangerous.
“Pressure is building,” you said quietly.
The resident frowned. “So we’re going in?”
“Yes.”
“Dr. Robinavich already asked if he could be present for the procedure.”
That made you pause.
You looked up slowly. “He did?”
She nodded very uncomfortable. “Very specifically, actually ”
Of course he did.
You handed the scan back and took a breath. “Then tell him yes.”
The resident tried not to react, failed, and looked down at the chart again. “Understood.”
You were halfway down the hall when Robby caught up to you, entering the surgical room after you; you were finishing getting ready when he started washing his hands next to you. entering the surgical suite
“Did you review the scan already?”
“Yes.”
He asked beside you. “And?”
“And the patient needs intervention.”
He stopped talking for a second. “That bad?”
You looked straight ahead. “Worse if we wait.”
Robby was silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. “You always talk like you’re not the one holding the knife.”
You turned to him then. "Excuse me?"
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he did not deny it or replies.
The tension between you sharpened again, and for one impossible second, it felt less like an argument and more like a memory trying to become a mistake all over again.
Then a voice came from the end of the hall.
“Dr. Robinavich?" One of his residents asked.
He turned his head, annoyed by the interruption. When he looked back at you, the hard edge in his expression had returned.
“This isn’t finished,” he said.
You adjusted the gloves in your hands. “No, it isn’t.”
He left first. You watched him go, noticing the stiffness in his shoulders, the way he did not quite look back even though you could tell he wanted to. The patient was moved to surgery soon after. By the time you entered the OR, everything had become movement and light and sterile routine. Masks. Gloves. Bright overhead lamps. The sharp smell of antiseptic. The room felt calmer than the ER, but the silence here was heavier, more focused.
Robby was already there when you arrived, standing near the monitors, arms folded, watching the team prepare. He looked at you once, then away.
“Anesthesia is ready,” one of the nurses said.
“Good,” you replied.
“Vitals are holding,” another added.
“Good.”
You washed your hands at the sink and let the water run over your fingers. For a moment, you caught your own reflection in the metal above the basin. There was a steadiness there that had taken years to build. A kind of control. A kind of armor.
When you turned back, Robby was watching you. Not in a rude way. Not even in an obvious way. Just enough to make it impossible to pretend you had not noticed.
“Are you going to keep doing that?” you asked.
He blinked once. “Doing what?”
“Staring.”
That earned you the smallest reaction from him, almost a smirk but not quite. “You noticed.”
“I’m a neurosurgeon. Observation is part of the job and besides, is kinda creepy."
The surgery began.
For the next hour, everything narrowed down to the patient. Your hands moved with practiced certainty. Your voice stayed calm. Your focus never slipped. Robby remained nearby, assisting where needed, calling out values, watching the screen, the room, the patient. He was good at this. You remembered that too. That competence had always made him infuriating in the most difficult way.
At one point, when the monitor shifted and one of the numbers dipped lower than expected, he reacted immediately. “Pressure’s dropping,” he said.
You were already adjusting. “I see it.” He looked at you from across the table. “You said we had time.”
“We do,” you answered. “If nobody panics.”
His eyes stayed on you for a second longer than necessary.
Then he looked away, but not before you caught the flicker of something there. Not frustration alone. Trust, maybe. Or the beginning of it.
When the procedure was finally stabilized, the room exhaled all at once.
A nurse started documenting. Someone else updated the family waiting list. The resident near the door let out a breath like they had been holding it for hours.
You stepped back from the table and removed your gloves.
“It’s controlled now,” you said.
The attending nurse nodded. “He’ll need monitoring overnight.”
“He will.”
Robby wiped his forehead with the back of his wrist, then looked at you. “You were right.”
It sounded like a simple sentence, but from him, it carried more weight than it should have.
You met his eyes for a moment. “I usually am.”
After some minutes nither of you spoke at first, the silence between you did not feel hostile this time. It felt loaded. Deliberate. Like both of you were standing near something fragile and neither trusted the other enough to touch it first.
Then he broke first.
“How long have you been back at this hospital?”
Your eyes stayed on the screen of your phone “Long enough.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It was the only one you got.” You said.
“Why didn’t anyone tell me you were here?” he asked.
You shrugged lightly. " it should?
The words landed exactly where you meant them to. Robby’s expression changed, but only slightly, enough for you to notice. He had always been good at hiding what he felt. Better than most people. Worse with you.
You sighs and look at fim before handing out the room, " she's on the daycare, if is that you're trying to know."
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