Including his moronic self...

"I—"

"Leave 'er alone," rumbles a low, accented timbre a handful of stools away.

"Mind your own fuckin' business," the drunkard promptly spits back. "We're havin' a conversation."

"And the conversation is at an end," the stranger growls. "Next hand you lay on her I mean to break. So back off. She's not interested."

Waiting with bated breath for something—anything—to happen, you remain quiet and still, like a tiny field mouse caught between two predators ready to fight.

Until he takes a step back and you breathe a sigh of relief. You only just manage to catch something mumbled about—presumedly you—"not being worth it" before he stumbles toward the door and out into the night before it falls shut behind him.

Glancing to the side, you study his lean frame and trimmed beard before looking nervously away. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it, darlin'," your rescuer utters gently—like a soft blanket thrown over jagged glass, which he was presenting himself as only just a moment ago for your own protection.

Releasing the toy umbrella, you frown, then shove your drink away before pushing off your seat, now no longer interested in finishing what you paid for. Should go home instead now.

This place no longer feels safe.

Was stupid of you to stop in in the first place. Would've been smarter to pick up a fruity bottle of something from the gas station for you to drink in the privacy of your apartment instead, but...

"Don't leave," he throws unexpectedly over his shoulder. "He's gone now and won't be comin' back. Finish your drink like you stopped in for. No one else'll bother you the rest of the evenin'."

You waver then. If you don't stay, he might grow angry at your disrespect—for being seemingly ungrateful about his saving you by making an immediate beeline for the door instead of obeying his simple request. This was actually the point of drinking tonight: calming the racing thoughts borne from your constant overthinking.

Sliding back atop the worn leather stool, you tug your drink toward you. Plucking a tiny plastic straw from between melting icecubes, you begin poking them one-by-one, watching as they bob before floating back to the surface.

You're unaware that you're begin watched now by the unnamed man, but not with salacious longing. Rather, mild curiosity.

When you shove the colorful umbrella open with a whispered "pop", his lips tug into a grin. You're a sweet young thing, that much is clear. He can't exactly blame the bloke from earlier for having taken an interest, but he does for the way he went about it.

Rising with a muffled groan, Price takes even, measured steps to your side. Gesturing to the unclaimed seat beside you, he rests an elbow on the countertop. "You mind? Or would you rather drink alone?"

Lifting your chin, you blink innocently up at him.

"I'm content either way," he assures. "You tell me to go and I'll go."

You chew your cheek while you consider. He seems harmless enough... Well, to you at least. But some men who present as white knights actually bear blackened hearts beneath their expertly crafted facades.

"Up to you," you reply simply before turning back to your drink.

He chuckles quietly. Leaving the ball in his court then, not that he's entirely surprised. Maneuvering himself atop the round seat, his thigh brushes against the side of yours and he takes a sip of his whiskey. "John," he offers with an extended, steady hand. "My name is John. 'Case you were wonderin'."

Wiping your sweaty palm against your skirt, you wrap it around his.

Your grip is kept purposefully loose—almost indifferent—while his is firm, but with room to breathe. It's remarkably gentle for a man of his stature. "Hello," you chirp.

"Pleasure," he returns, releasing you.

You take a sip of your drink then, unsure of what to say. Maybe he means to sit in comfortable silence? Maybe he expects repayment. Maybe—

"Should carry pepper spray in the future," he suggests. "If not a pea shooter. Something to keep yourself safe. Lot more men like him in the world than ones like me."

"Bad versus good?" you ask curiously.

He snorts. Lifting the bottle to his lips again, he shakes his head. "Bad versus dangerous 's more like it."

You suppose it doesn't much matter which one he means to represent him. Neither answer is good. "Oh."

"But you don't need to worry," he continues. "I don't hurt women." Not if he can help it, anyway.

"Reassuring," you mumble. Thankfully, he doesn't press you for your name in return. Lifting the straw to your mouth, you drag it over your tongue before plunging it back into your perspiring drink.

Concealed beneath the bartop, John readjusts himself over his pants at the sight with a calloused hand. He can't truly say the last time he had a woman, and even less so one who seems as reserved as yourself, but just your sweet scent alone has sent his loins stirring and head swimming.

When the hell did he get so goddamn lonely and desperate?

"If you don't mind me asking," he begins, hoping for casual conversation to serve as a distraction from the unsavory fantasies in his head of your soft female form quivering beneath his own in a dark motel room somewhere. "What do you do? For work."

You lean your cheek against your first. "Nothing interesting. Just office work," you grumble. "You?"

"Military. I'm a Captain."

He watches as your eyes widen and he nearly barks a laugh at the sight. Sweet young thing indeed.

You swivel in his direction. "What, uh... Branch?"

"British Army," he rasps before downing another drink.

You debate whether you should quip the predictable "thank you for your service" tagline. It often seems an empty platitude—something people say as a way of giving theirself a metaphorical pat on the back. It's less about the soldier and their sacrifices and more about... Well, the complimenter.

What do you say, then? Oh, neat! Do you get to shoot lots of cool guns?

"Have you ever been anywhere interesting?" Seems a safe enough question... You hope.

When he turns to meet your gaze, his knees knock against yours—contact which sends a fleeting, thrillful feeling straight from his cock and to his heart. "Russia count?"

You nod eagerly. "Did you get to see the Kremlin?"

John rests a loose elbow atop the bartop. Wrapping his opposite palm around his bottle, he figures if his hands are otherwise occupied, there's less chance of using them to touch you. "I did. Wasn't exactly given a grand tour, but I can say it's something I set eyes on, yeah."

He watches as you take a long pull from your drink. Resting it back atop a damp coaster, you stir the remaining colored liquid with a straw. "I've never really been anywhere. Or... Done anything."

You huff a sigh, sure he doesn't care to hear your complaints. Cue him telling you that you'd be prettier if you smiled in 3... 2... 1—

"It's not necessarily all it's cracked up to be. Not in my case anyway, when you consider why I was over there." He shakes his head while grimacing. All the shit he's seen—the blood coating his hands—it'd be all too easy to lose himself in a pleasant distraction such as yourself. "Vacation, though..." he snickers. "Wouldn't know the first thing to do on one of those."

He pictures warm, sandy beaches, you clad in a charming swimsuit that hugs your curves, and your fingers twined tightly together as you wade through pleasantly warm seawater that laps at your shins.

You're not the only unhappy one here, apparently.

"Me neither," you reply. "Not having anyone to take one with... I don't anymore. When I do take time off, it's for a dumb staycation. I hold up in my apartment watching Netflix and cleaning until it's time to go back to work."

Rather sad mental picture, in truth—you all alone somewhere, dressed in your pyjamas, counting down the days until you return to a place you'd clearly rather not be.

"That what you want? How you prefer it to be?"

You drain the remaining dregs of your drink. "No. I thought..." you brush a thumb over the rim of your glass. "Maybe I'd be married by now. With a family." You blink back brimming tears. In the lowlight, hopefully he can't see them. "Sometimes I get scared that it's too late."

Breaking his fucking heart, darling.

"You're young," he assures with a tender palm planted over your shoulder blade. "All the time in the world still."

Reaching into your bag, you retrieve a crumpled $10 bill which you toss next to your empty drink before making to stand. "I guess."

His half-empty beer bottle forgotten, John stands as well. "I'll walk you out. Long as you're alright with that, sweetheart."

Your cheeks warm at the pleasantry. "Sure, yeah. That's fine."

"Thank you for the conversation," you say while unlocking your car. "And the save. It was kind of you."

And quite charming.

Gripping the top of the vehicle's door frame, John nods casually. "No trouble at all. Was just fortunate enough to be there when I was needed, it seems."

Setting your bag inside, you turn back to John for a final farewell. Strange how the world works—the two of you gaining a pleasant acquaintance tonight with a bit of vulnerable conversation, only to most likely never meet again. To walk out of someone's life just as quickly as you enter is certainly something to ponder.

"Well... Goodnight," you chirp with a sweet smile and gentle nod.

Stubble-lined lips curve into a knowing grin. Leaning forward, he releases the door in favor of caressing your cheek. "Night, sweetness," he rasps before brushing a tender kiss over the flushed apple of your cheek.

Hot water cascades down Price's muscled back as he works at his twitching cock with tight, languid strokes. Forehead pressed to cool tile and teeth gritted together, he expends every imaginative effort he can to remain firmly planted within his made-up fantasy until his finish climbs over him.

You, lain back in bed, quietly whimpering as he ruts viciously away between your slick thighs, crying out over and over again "Da, da, da," the way a daughter would to her attentive father. You're so soft and innocent—so his. The only non-troublesome part of his life. Relief in female form.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he readies himself. You squeeze your cunt 'round him like a vice, and John throws his head back. Releasing a primal growl that borders on guttural—it comes from so deep within his chest—thick, hot ropes of cum paint the shower walls as the dream of you fades regrettably into steam.

"Yeah, you get the message I sent? Plate I wanted ran?"

He listens attentively while continuing to pace back and forth across hardwood floors.

"No priors, then," he confirms. "Not even a speeding ticket." He doesn't consider himself surprised. "Never married—no, yeah, yeah. Send me the address. All of it."

He licks his lips, then pulls his phone away from his ear long enough to watch as an email pops up on the notification bar. "Got it."

Instantly disconnecting the call, the foot of Price's king-size mattress dips heavily beneath his weight. Perusing the minimally-paged file, dark eyes flit over records of past schooling, predictable employment, and the address of your presumably charming one-woman apartment.

It's not that he means to frighten you as he pulls up a site to make an anonymous flower delivery order, but he's obviously never minded a good game of cat-and-mouse. Occupational hazard. He won't have you with anyone else; can scarcely tolerate the thought already.

The message on the cardette it asks?

Like the time you spotted a man passed out drunk in an alley way and went racing back inside to alert Shen who initially brushed it off, until you begged Ahmad to send someone out there to check on him.

Turns out he'd suffered a heart attack.

Had you only been a few minutes later, he wouldn't have made it.

Kicking up a loose piece of sandstone, you watch as it skitters before coming to rest next to an industrial HVAC unit. Lifting your head, you halt at the sight of a familiar form teetering frighteningly close to the edge.

Taking slow, measured steps with a now pounding heart, only once you've reached him do you press a gentle palm to the middle of his back. "Robby?"

Breaking into a short-lived fit of nervous coughs meant to cover up quiet cries, he jerks his head in the other direction while swiping at his eyes with the heel of his palm. But it's too late. You already saw the tears streaking down his freckled cheeks and into the brown and silver trimmings of his beard.

"Hey," you begin with a gentle tug against his arm. "Look at me." Reaching for his cheek, he maneuvers himself away from your grasp by spinning on the heel of his boot.

"Just somethin' in my eye," he mutters in an attempt to brush aside your concern.

You frown. Following close behind as he heads in the direction of the door, you latch onto his arm. "Don't give me that. Robby, talk to me. Did something happen during dayshift? Did... Was it a patient, or—"

Yanking free from the hold you have on him—even if he can't seem to do so from the metaphorical one—he scrubs both hands down his face before seating himself atop the steel railing he never should've bothered climbing over in the first place. Crossing his arms, he shakes his head dismissively. "Not your responsibility to worry about me anymore. It doesn't matter."

Your initial reaction is to plant disapproving hands on your hips, but scolding him like a child won't help anything. He needs compassion right now, not beratement.

Coming closer until you're standing between his long legs, you carefully caress the crown of his shoulder. "Do you think when you ended things that I stopped caring about you?"

"Usually how it works," he retorts, now studying the decorative laces of your Skechers.

You brush a piece of lint from his hoody. "Not with me."

If it was, it would make the moving on easier. But your caring nature is precisely why he fell in the first place. You had felt like a life preserver thrown to him in the middle of a tempest, and by God did he immediately latch on. So hard that he nearly drowned you both beneath the waves... Until he finally cut you free.

He tells himself that's why did as much anyway— for the sake of your preservation, and not because of his own cowardice.

Cupping his damp cheek, you brush a thumb along the apple of it. "I'm here and listening. So tell me what has you so tore up tonight."

His broad shoulders slump in defeat. Robby tries earnestly to fight back the oncoming storm, but fails miserably. His chin wobbles before a torrential downpour of unbidden tears pool against your palm he's now nuzzling pathetically against.

You click your tongue. "Oh, Robby..."

Grabbing either of your hips, he pulls you suddenly forward. When you stumble into him, Robby buries his face between your breasts and cinches his arms around your waist to keep you where you stand.

Circling his shoulders, you cup the back of his head and run your fingers through soft brown hair. "Shh, it's okay," you mumble soothingly. "Just tell me what it is so I can help. Please."

Squeezing his eyes shut, tears soak into the material of your scrub top. "Fuck, I can't do this anymore," he sobs. "Please. Please come back to me."

You still.

"I made a goddamn mistake. I don't—I don't know how to do it," he gasps. "Living without you is the hardest thing I've ever been forced to do. I can fucking fix it! Just leave him for me. I'm begging you." Lifting his head, he stares up at you through glassy eyes shimmering tears spill endlessly from. "I'll do anything," Robby whimpers.

Opening and closing your mouth in a desperate search for a reply, you come up woefully short.

"Leave him and come with me," he insists. Now standing, Robby cradles your face between his trembling hands. "Jack doesn't need you. I do. Sweetheart, you know that. You—you took care of me. You can do it again."

He knows it's a low blow. All of it is. But he's never felt such a dire need in all his fifty-five years as he does for you right now. Maybe you don't understand—a small part of him hopes not, because he can't stand the thought—of how it feels to constantly be hemorrhaging hope with every beat of your heart, but he does.

Considerably so since letting you go.

Had Robby known back then the way he would feel now, he would've made the selfish choice he's presently attempting to course-correct to: keeping the two of you together at any cost.

Being with you again will fix it: all that can be.

You always made everything better. From his home, to his job, to the general state of his life and mental health. Even if he wasn't always happy—couldn't find the strength to roll out of bed some days—you became whatever he needed you to be to see him through the darker moments.

It's why you went into doctoring to begin with: because you feel it your innate duty to service others. And when you were cleaning his house, bathing him in the shower, and cutting the crusts off his grilled cheese when he could hardly muster the energy to even lift a spoon to his mouth, he was helping you achieve that.

... Wasn't he?

He doesn't know it, but when you divulged minimal details to Jack as to the nature of your and his shared relationship—because it had felt wrong to share the meat of it, as it was your all's and yours alone to know the private particulars of—he'd told you it was codependence.

You still disagree with that assessment. To you, it was just... Love.

You never could be selfish with Robby. So if that's codependence—looking after your lover's every need—then you fail to see how it could ever be a bad thing when it always made your heart warm to see him tended to by your very own hands.

Robby's eyes flit briefly between your own before he crushes his lips to yours.

As your mouths move in ardent tandem, you find yourself wrapping easily around him as old habits become new again.

From your hands finding their way from the heft of his soft belly that weighed you down in bed as the two of you made love, to his chest you rested your head upon during the few and far between moments when he wasn't burrowing into yours, to the strong shoulders you'd hold him by when he'd cry into your arms at night and the hair at the nape of his neck that's sprouted up wildly with you not there now to give it regular trims.

You don't want to admit it as Robby's tongue practically mates with your own, but you scarcely know Jack so intimately. And he's your current partner! He's just... Never home while Robby always was when the two of you weren't at work.

With him constantly staying busy with the ED and the gym and the gun range and taking emergency calls from SWAT, you're left on your lonesome much of the time.

You tried asking him to cut back on his hours in regards to the latter, but the conversation didn't last long once he asked you to understand that people out there needed him more than the one inside his home did.

He didn't say it in those exact words, but it was nevertheless the message he was trying to convey.

Your problem has never been about needing him necessarily, but rather the other way around. You feel like you lack purpose in your shared relationship. He's so independent that it leaves you empty-handed whenever you try to service his needs. He cooks, cleans, goes to therapy, and takes care of his physical health. Something most women would die for in a male partner. Whereas you...

What did he ever want you for again?

Snapping back into the present, Robby's hand is just beginning to drift below the elastic waistband of your scrub pants where a pleasant pulse has now settled between your thighs, but you step back before he can make contact where he means to.

Where you shamefully want him to.

"Robby, you can't," you gently insist. "W-We can't."

"I need you," he repeats. "Come back to me. Sweetheart," he takes your face between his calloused palms again, "I didn't break it off because I stopped loving you. I feel like I can barely fucking breathe with you gone. I can't sleep, I don't eat—I just feel sick all the time. Baby, I... I see you everywhere I look. Do you want me to get on my knees and beg? Just—fuck! Tell me what to do and I swear to God I will so long as it earns me you in the end."

"Rob—"

"He will never love you more than me," he spits with vehemence.

Ah, the mood swings. Those you remember.

Hello, old friend.

"He will always choose this place or SWAT or his dead fucking wife over you. You will never be able to measure up—"

Slapping a hand over your mouth to choke back a broken cry, you turn and head for the door.

No. You don't want to hear this—the same awful truth you've time and again denied yourself. But every time you look at the ring he still wears, there it is. Waiting for your acknowledgement.

"Y/N, I'm sorry," he apologizes while making to grab for your hand. "I shouldn't have gone that far. But— But part of you knows it. I know you do or you wouldn't be so upset about me saying it."

"I have to get back downstairs," you whisper. You wrap your arms around yourself, as if they can shield or protect you from another bout of heartbreak. "My shift is starting."

"Think about everything I've said," Robby implores. "He's waiting for someone who isn't coming back, and using you to fill the gap in the meantime. I'm waiting for you."

You waver, and your heart thumps as his eyes bore into yours.

Finally, you look away and make way for the door.

Muscled arms currently folded across his chest, you watch the steady rise and fall of Jack's shoulders with every breath he takes to level his emotions.

You told him most of it.

Not all.

Some things just... Would've hurt him too much to hear. Like how Robby kissed you. And that you let him. Scandalously embraced it, even.

And the excruciating pull you felt from the bothersome organ that lies between your breasts the moment you spotted him on the edge of the roof, which of course drug you right back to his side.

Even now, instead of being concerned with the man standing in front of you, you're making a mental checklist of things you wish you were doing for Robby.

Like waking him up with a kiss, helping him into the shower and squeezing a dollop of toothpaste onto a damp toothbrush, selecting a clean pair of scrubs for him to be comfortable in—proceeded by dressing him—making him a filling breakfast, tying his shoe laces, holding his hand as he drives the two of you to the hospital...

"Are you angry with me?" you mumble with downcast eyes.

You're not sure whether you care if he is.

With a sigh, Jack seats himself heavily beside you. "No."

You find yourself disappointed. Not because you feel as if you deserve his ire, but because it might lead to a fight that could develop into—

"I'm doing my best to be understanding. Robby's not himself right now. I know he isn't trying to... Betray or hurt me with this." Hunched over with forearms planted atop his thighs, Jack sighs. "I don't have anything to worry about, though. He's just looking for familiar comfort."

He tilts his head slightly and watches as you pick nervously at your nails. "Right?"

Pulling yourself from a pleasant daydream of Robby suckling quietly at your breasts while you soothe him to sleep, you glance to Jack with furrowed brows. Catching up to the present, you shake your head. "No, you don't."

He wishes there were an outside window to the thoughts inside your head.

Jack wonders who he'd find you with right now if there were.

"You still care about him." Repositioning himself to face you, Jack takes your hand and twines your fingers securely together. "You know that a part of me will always love my wife, so I understand... Having a heart torn in two directions."

You don't want to talk about this.

What you feel for Robby is yours. Not his to make into a topic of conversation.

"I mean, if she walked through the door right now," he begins while gesturing toward it, "I'd do anything she asked of me."

He will always choose his dead wife over you.

Yanking your hand back like you've been burned, you cradle it close to your belly and study him from your peripheral. "If she asked you to leave me?"

You will never be able to measure up.

Jack purses his lips. "Honey—"

You stand suddenly and knock into the coffee table. "I... I need to use the bathroom." Turning to hide the brimming tears in your eyes, you make a swift exit from the living room with Jack following close behind.

"Sweetheart, I didn't mean it like that—"

Slam.

Click.

An overhead exhaust fan and the tap are both switched on before you slump over in front of the tub with knees drawn to your aching chest.

Pressed against the other side of the door, Jack tries the handle to no avail. "Honey, please unlock the door. Let me in so we can talk."

Gently rocking yourself with your forehead pressed to your kneecaps, you sniffle.

"Pumpkin, it just... It doesn't matter. She— She's gone and isn't ever coming back." Jack swallows down the lump in his throat. "You're who I've chosen to be with now. It's you and me."

You want Robby.

Not to be here with him.

But now that you know Robby feels exactly the same—that he never stopped—things have been put into perspective for you.

You see clearly now.

The only time Jack's been able to touch you for the past week is when you're asleep. You won't look at him, only speak to him monosyllabically, have no interest in intimacy of any kind (you can't begin to understand just how much he misses being inside of you), and though he hasn't broached the topic, he saw you apartment hunting two days ago on your laptop.

In Robby's neighborhood, no less.

He told himself it was just a coincidence.

Last night when you thought he was asleep, however, he saw the illumination of your phone screen casting shadows along the ceiling. He was curious who you were talking to of course, but the moment he tried gently shifting so that he could peek over your shoulder, you quickly locked and tucked the device beneath your pillow.

He's wondered from the beginning if you ever loved him.

You've never looked at him the way you still do Robby.

In all fairness, he's never felt the fire for you he did for his late wife. He just... He saw how good you were with his friend—tender and thoughtful—and maybe... Maybe he selfishly wanted that for himself. Perhaps his initiating a relationship was less about being with you and more about having a woman around again to interrupt the dreaded silence of widowerhood.

Even when he pulled into the parking lot this evening, you couldn't get out of the truck fast enough, instead making a break for the hospital without a moment of consideration for the act of holding his hand like you usually do on the way in.

When he enters the perpetually hectic ED, you're unfortunately nowhere to be found. Most likely already on the roof, he assumes.

With his vehicle still being in the parking lot, he wonders if Robby is too.

Robby finds you in the same spot you did him about a week ago. "You asked me to meet you up here." Coming nearer, his hand twitches at his side in want to touch what rightfully belongs to him. "You okay?"

"You were right," you murmur. "I don't know if it will always be her for him, but I do know that it'll never be me."

Hands now tucked into his pockets, Robby turns his ear in your direction, not wanting to miss a word if this is the moment in which you finally return to him. "His wife?"

You nod.

Watching as the sun sinks below the horizon, you half turn back to Robby with the outline of your body now illuminated in orange luminance.

You've never looked more beautiful.

God, it takes his fucking breath away.

When you go to make your way back over the cool metal railing that stands between the two of you, Robby gives you a helping hand which you're grateful to accept.

Cupping the back of your head once you're on flat, certain feet again, he pulls gently at your plump lower lip with the pad of his thumb. "Sweetheart, I will never not love you. I'll never not miss or need you. Jack can live without you." Taking your hand in his, he rests it over his pounding heart. "We can't each other. Do you finally see it now?"

Slowly smiling, you nod while tears that resemble small bursts of flame, due to the sun's reflection, slide down your cheeks. "I do."

Initiating this time, you don't hesitate before lifting onto your tiptoes and closing a gap which should never be present between the pair of you ever again with a delicate kiss.

"Will you come with me then?" he asks with breathless exuberance. "Leave all this behind?"

Robby guides you over to a nearby metal contraption before hoisting you atop it by the waist with ease.

Reaching forward, you yank the tines of his belt loose with one pull. "How soon?"

Hooking his fingers under the waistband of your scrub pants, he pulls them down to your ankles, and then the rest of the way once you've toed off your shoes. "Soon as possible," he replies before freeing his slowly growing erection from a pair of briefs you bought him some months ago.

You nod and spread your legs. "I'll talk to HR. Take as much time as I can."

Slipping two fingers inside of you, Robby watches as you throw your head back—now blissfully unaware to every and anything that isn't you and him. "Jack?"

You pull your shirt over your head. "I'll leave a note."

Guiding him forward, Robby pauses before easing between your slippery folds. "I don't have a—"

You wiggle your hips eagerly. "I don't want anything between us ever again." You dip your chin and press your forehead to his with fingers curled around the back of his neck. "Anything."

Pushing inside of you inch by inch, you hold fast to one another as each of your missing pieces come home to you.

"Tomorrow," he whispers in-between lustful thrusts. "Tell him you're sick. Stay home."

You rest your cheek atop his shoulder—your soul now overcome with a peaceful silence as your purpose returns at long last. "Okay." You kiss the side of his neck. "I love you, Michael."

He wraps his arms around your naked torso. "I love you too. Always."

Standing at the nurse's station with an iPad, Jack's stomach sinks when elevator doors spread apart, revealing you and Robby standing on the other side—each with gentle, private smiles playing on your lips.

When you exit, you meet his awaiting gaze with a nod. He grins and does the same before you each part with a brief squeeze of the other's hand.

He tries to make a beeline for you, but you're faster when you disappear around a corner.

"If you don't mind me asking, who in the ED's chain of command needs to be informed of my two month absence? I just figure since I'm headed back down there that I can do it for you," you state with a smile.

"That would be your attending," Gloria informs with a nod. "Dr. Abbot."

Wrapping your stethoscope around your neck, you stand and tuck the rolling chair you previously occupied back beneath a polished conference table. "Consider it taken care of," you chirp sweetly.

Gloria is pleased that she won't have to brace herself against the cacophony of the bottom floor.

Off to another meeting, then.

Once you're safely squared away within the confines of the elevator, you bring up Robby's contact and shoot him a quick text: Using all 2 months of my PTO. Told Gloria I'd tell Jack.

typing...

Will you?

You press to type your reply. No, the note will suffice.

The last thing you need is him—anyone—trying to talk you out of it.

typing...

I love you, sweetheart. So much.

I love you. ❤️

Jack smooths a rough palm over your brow. "Time to get up, honey."

Nestling deeper into your pillow, you shake your head and groan. "I'm gonna stay home today. Don't feel good."

He runs his hand down the bend of your spine. "What're your symptoms?"

"Nauseous," you lie. "Head hurts."

Glancing toward the doorway, he considers the bathroom where a pregnancy test is stored in the medicine cabinet. Looking at you again, he ponders if you even want that.

Rather, whether you would his.

Ghosting his knuckles along your bare skin, Jack frowns.

He doesn't want to leave you alone like this.

He wants to start prioritizing you more, and has started taking measures to. Like telling his SWAT captain to put him on less shifts from here on out. He even skipped the gym the other day so he could be home with you instead. Not that his effort for quality time seemed to register as you sat there staring at the TV instead of cuddling into his side like he hoped you would.

You even went to bed early.

Or... That's what you said you were doing, anyway. But when he peeked in on you, it was to the sight of you on your phone again.

He's afraid he's too late and that you've already checked out of the relationship altogether; that there's nothing he can do to repair the rift he alone created.

"You want me to stay home?" he brushes his thumb along the base of your spine. "Take care of you?"

You stir beneath the sheets and his heart leaps with hope.

"No," you mutter. "I'll be fine. The ED needs you."

Jack deflates. "They have Shen," he suggests. "Are you sure?"

You nod.

With a sigh, he leans over you and presses a kiss to your temple. "Call me if you need anything, alright?"

Another nod.

"I'll see you in the morning." Rising with a groan, he stalks toward the door.

Turning back one last time, Jack tucks his hands into his pockets. "I love you, honey."

"You too."

He closes the door behind him.

Staring up at Robby with a positively elated smile, he fastens his only helmet securely to your head. Has half a mind to make a pit stop for some knee and elbow pads, if not a roll of bubble wrap to keep you nice and safe, but knows he's just being silly.

"What about yours?" you ask curiously while eyeing the nearly overflowing luggage rack on the back.

Pressing a swift kiss to the top of your helmet, he smiles warmly. "I'm hauling precious cargo, so I'll drive safe." His eyes flit back to Jack's house. "One last time: you're sure you've got everything you need?"

If not, he has no problem buying it for you.

You nod. "Packed the necessities. Clothes, shoes, toiletries, charger, some snacks." You feel like you're practically vibrating with excitement. Not just because a life-changing road trip lies before you, but because the sense of fulfillment you once felt with him is soon to return.

You imagine he'll fall apart more than once along the way, in this motel room or that one, but that's what you're here for—to love him hard enough until he's whole again.

You can fix him. Just like he did his bike. To each their own purpose.

Rounding the Bonneville, he swings a jean-clad leg over the side and throws a look over his shoulder, watching as you do the same. Once you're pressed against his back, he shoves the kickstand up with the heel of his boot. "Hold on tight."

You wiggle impossibly closer and squeeze his ample waist, appreciating how his belly hangs heavily over the top of his pants. "I'll never let go," you mutter before pressing a kiss to his back.

Robby bears down on the kickstart before rumbling away, leaving your shared troubles behind to find something better ahead.

Jack isn't surprised to find the house silent when he comes through the front door with arms full of shopping bags. He picked you up all the fixings for a headcold—hot chicken noodle soup from a local place just up the road, a box of crackers, Pepto, Tums, lotion-infused tissues... All that was left to get was a copy of Reader's Digest.

He did preemptively take tomorrow off, though, refusing to go to work two days in a row while you wallowed in bed with no one to look after you.

He almost calls out to you, but if you're still asleep he doesn't want to risk waking you.

Leaving his purchases on the kitchen counter, Jack walks back to the bedroom and stops at the threshold when he finds the king-size mattress empty.

"H-Honey?" he calls across an empty house.

You don't normally leave the closet open.

Flipping on the bedroom light, his brows furrow at the sight of your missing clothes. Trying to make sense of it, his mind nonsensically wonders if you packed yourself a hospital bag because you got worse. But your car was in the driveway. Did you take an Uber? Why would you not have called him?

When his eyes land on a folded note on his bedside table, he feels a rush of nausea.

Maybe he's caught whatever you've come down with.

Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he picks it up with an arm that now feels heavy as led.

Unfolding it with trembling hands, he scans the words written in dainty handwriting with tear-filled eyes.

Dear Jack,

I'm sorry that this is the way I have to leave you, and much more, the way you're finding out that I have. I understand now, and forgive you for not being able to love me more than her. When you've found the love of your life, no one else can ever hope to compare, and I'm fortunate enough to have been given a second chance with mine. Please take care of yourself.

Sincerely, Y/N

Trailing your eyes along the generous swell of his stretch mark-laden belly—which you painted a slick trail along just a couple of hours ago with your fluttering cunt—you lick your lips at the sight and consider the prospect of sacrificing a few extra hours of sleep in exchange for another mind-bending orgasm.

Then again, Robby's been wanting to take things a bit slower the last few times you've been in bed together. A fact which is beginning to make you feel the least bit antsy for the favor of being fucked deep and hard into the mattress like he used to only a month ago.

Maybe it's too much on his back.

"And we agreed nothing long-term," he states.

Lifting your head, his brown eyes flit between yours.

"We did," you respond in agreement. Not that two months is really that to you, but you suppose everyone has their own metric by which they measure time by.

"Maybe tonight we, uh..." he sighs and scrubs a hand down his face; over the coarse brown and silver trimmings of his beard. "We quit while we're ahead."

You deflate. So much for another orgasm...

You're pretty sure you have fresh batteries in the junk drawer at home, though. A vibrator and Twitter porn will have to do just as well for tonight, you suppose.

"Alright!" you chirp with a gentle smile. "See you at work tomorrow, Robby."

Turning back to the door, you press the handle down with a swift click, leaving him standing alone at the threshold.

Watching as you toss your things into the passenger seat of your vehicle before climbing into the driver's side and peeling out of his driveway—some unfamiliar pop tune blaring from your radio as you rumble away—Robby finds himself at a loss for words.

When he pushes the front door closed, an unsatisfied feeling settles deep into his chest at just how well you took things. "Alright!"

That's it? That's all he gets?

No "Oh, are you sure?" Or "Did I do something wrong?" Not even a single tear shimmered in your fiery eyes in disappointment. Nope, just "Alright!"

Quietly grumbling to himself in discontentment, Robby pads back to the bedroom and slams the door shut before wrenching soiled sheets from the bed with a curse.

Where Robby would typically keep you close to his side like you're glued to it, he's instead kept you at arm's-length all day. Including when you were treating a case of anaphylactic shock together somewhere in the afternoon, during which he hardly glanced twice in your direction. It wasn't for a lack of wanting to, though—like a damn itch he needs to scratch—but Robby knows that if he does, it'll only lead to an open wound he won't have the first clue as to how to get closed again.

So as a distraction, he buries himself in work—as per his usual unhealthily avoidant coping mechanism—while the hours flit by and the sun begins to wane outside before finally dipping behind towering buildings, much like the hand of a clock, signaling that it's time to head home.

Your mouth waters at the scent of something meaty and delicious. "C'mon, Abbot," you whine. Hefting your backpack onto your shoulders, you turn to face him. "At least take it into the employee lounge so I'm not subjected to it."

Lips lined with silver stubble curve into a grin. "Maybe psychological torture was the point, kiddo."

Rolling your eyes sarcastically, you press your locker shut and study the logo on the side of the bag he's about to set inside his own. "Really? Applebee's? You know it's one of my favorites."

Swinging his head in your direction, he reaches into the oversized brown paper bag and produces a tempting container of Bavarian-style soft pretzels.

You take a step forward—your eyes now the size of saucers—and half think to reach greedily for it while chanting the mantra of gimme, gimme, gimme, but refrain.

Extending it toward you, Jack presses the to-go box to your chest. "Go on."

You keep your hands at your sides and swallow down pooling saliva. "No, I can't take your—"

"Got 'em for you," he explains. "Those," he grunts before diving deeper. "And this."

When a cheeseburger appears, you smile and squeal excitedly. "You're sure?"

He chuckles. "I am. Got myself a steak and a side of green beans. Figured you'd be starving by the time I got here."

Gently taking both containers, you clutch them to your chest with a grateful smile. "Thank you, Jack. You really didn't need to..." You throw a look over your shoulder—to your backpack which your wallet lies inside a zipped compartment of. "How much do I owe you?"

He blows a raspberry. "You know better than that. Just eat and enjoy."

Bounding onto your tiptoes, you press a quick kiss to his cheek before turning to head out. Sooner you get home, the sooner you can dig in.

Only once you're well out of sight does Robby round the corner of the wall he was previously hiding behind. "Dinner, huh?"

Closing his go bag securely away, Jack turns to Robby. "Just something quick and easy for her. It's only food, Mike."

Tucking his hands away into the soft pockets of his hoody, Robby shrugs. "No, it's fine. We're, uh..." he huffs a humorless laugh. "It's done. As of last night. Called things quits."

Jack raises a brow of surprise. Though, he can't really say he's shocked. He's been counting down the days, and this one came right on time.

He doesn't need to ask whose decision it was.

"She seemed okay to me. Didn't take it too hard, then?" he questions, folding his arms behind him—the paper bag knocking against his calves when he does so.

Robby nods with raised brows. "Yeah. No, she's been good today. Hasn't brought it up at all."

Somewhat to his chagrin...

Jack purses his lips and nods. "Good to hear."

And even better to know.

Slapping a hand over Robby's shoulder, Jack heads in the direction of the employee lounge so he can get to work on downing his own dinner before nightshift starts. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah," is Robby's simple one-word reply.

He frowns at the seemingly renewed pep in Abbot's step that's been missing since Robby took you into his bed.

He knew the vet was displeased when Robby made you his next person of interest—in terms of sexual partners—just two months ago, but he backed off and kept his distance out of respect, which the daytime attending appreciated. Now, however... It's dinner tonight and probably breakfast with a damn Tiffany necklace to accompany tomorrow.

Pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration, Robby considers venturing upstairs to see if Noelle is still around, but ultimately opts against it—refusing to acknowledge that it's because there's only one woman he wants coming home with him right now so he can get a straightforward physical release.

Whatever.

Time will do its thing like always, and he'll be onto the next one before long with you left far in the rearview.

Not that he's ever been much of a fan of the genre, but as Robby listens to the obnoxious sound of bombastic pop music drifting through your rolled-up car window, he grits his teeth.

Whatever happened to Heart, Pat Benatar, or Bonnie Tyler? Not this modern shit that sounds like a damn car accident. And first thing in the morning? Clearly no consideration for others and the prospect of giving them a damn splitting headache all before 7 o'clock. And of course you're singing along with a radiant smile.

Rolling his eyes toward the bruised purple sky, Robby groans a guttural growl of irritation before turning in the direction of the hospital on a booted heel.

"Morning, honey," Jack greets quietly, with a pleasant smile that causes his crow's feet to wrinkle charmingly around his eyes.

Gripping either end of your stethoscope, you turn to meet him. "Hey there."

When something crinkles behind him, your lips tilt into a smirk. "What might that be?"

He shrugs playfully. "Have no idea what you're talking about."

Leaning all your weight onto one foot, you attempt to glimpse whatever he's hiding by leaning heavily to the side, but your plans are foiled when he turns to shield it from your view.

"Oh, I definitely smell food again," you mumble before jumping in an attempt to round on him, but Jack's reflexes are faster when he presses his back to the lockers.

Throwing your head back in frustration, you moan and he chuckles in response. "You really want it?"

Dropping your chin, you bob your head. "Pleeease," you drawl while batting your lashes.

Jack removes one of his arms from behind his back and taps his cheek with an index finger, indicating the required payment. You sigh, but with a cheeky grin to accompany before you step forward and press a lingering kiss to weathered skin that smells sharply of minty aftershave.

A paper bag is then pressed to your belly which you don't waste a moment in tearing into.

"Breakfast burrito," Jack states as your hand wraps around the warm wrapper it's encased in.

Pulling it free, you get to work on peeling damp paper away from the provided meal. "Thank you," you say with quiet appreciation. "You really don't need to do things like this for me, though. I don't want you going out of your way, okay?"

He raises a shoulder. "I Doordashed something for myself a little bit ago. Thought why not, since I knew you were coming in."

Biting into scrambled egg and cheese, you chew thoughtfully for a moment. "This was sweet of you, Jack."

Reaching forward, he runs a calloused palm down your arm. "Don't mention it, kiddo." Clearing his throat, he slips his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. "So, I heard that you and Ro—"

"Bring anything for your best friend?"

Jack clenches his jaw when Robby starts down the hall the two of you did have all to yourselves only a moment ago. "No. Sorry, brother. Tomorrow?"

Robby slides his arms around your shoulders, then tugs you back against his chest as you stare at Jack with wide eyes of confusion. "Gimme a bite, baby," Robby mutters.

"I got it for her," Jack deadpans displeasingly.

Robby snorts. "It's alright. We've shared way more than saliva."

Were Jack not already leaned against something solid, he'd be stumbling back in shocked response to his friend's distasteful candor. He's garnered quite the reputation around the hospital over the years, but has always remained anything but forthcoming when it comes to discussions of his female companions, even with him. So this is an unexpected change in character, to say the least.

Holding the burrito up above your shoulder while keeping your eyes on Jack with a regretful look painted across their irises, Robby dips his head and takes a hearty bite before leaning back and chewing. "'S good," he grunts before swallowing. "Thank you, sweetheart," he finishes with a peck atop your head. "Once you finish up, come find me. I want your help on this first case."

You nod. "Okay."

Robby's palm lingers against your hip momentarily before he reluctantly steps away, leaving you and Jack in each other's sole company again.

Stepping forward, Abbot crosses his arms defensively. "Did the two of you—"

You fervently shake your head before he can even finish that question. "No. Night before last he ended things. You're as taken aback as I am."

A frown tugs at his lips. "I thought it was just..." he swipes the heel of his palm awkwardly across his cheek. "Sex."

"It was," you confirm with a nod. "Just... Physical, carnal release." Your cheeks heat. "We both understood at the beginning and all the way through that it would never be anything more. I was happy with that arrangement."

"So you don't think he's having second thoughts? That that wasn't plain as day jealousy just now?"

You take another bite of your burrito, wanting to finish it before it gets cold. "I think he can have boundary issues... At times."

Jack bites back a laugh. "Oh, you think?"

You keep the story of him attempting to go through your locked phone one night when you accidentally fell asleep—instead of going straight home after the two of you got done fucking like you usually did—to yourself. Lucky for him, you'd been far too groggy and out of it to chew him out properly like you otherwise would've, had you been wide awake when it happened.

Or the night maybe a week and a half ago when he got all whiney when you demanded he either run out and pick up a box of condoms or have them delivered to the front door, otherwise you were going home.

He really tried his hand at making you out to be the one who was overreacting while you sat on the edge of the bed, repeatedly telling him go get them, go get them, go get them before he finally threw his hands up in a fit of curse words and stomped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom where—big surprise!—he just so happened to find a spare one in the medicine cabinet.

Whatever. It's in the past. The time for friends with benefits is over and you're onto other things. Or... Will be, anyway, when you have the time to figure something out.

Tinder is a rather unappetizing idea, but something about beggars and choosing...

You sigh. "I gotta get to work. But thank you for the food again. I really do appreciate it, Jack."

Cupping the back of your head, he presses an affectionate kiss to the bridge of your nose, earning him a bubbly giggle in response. "You're welcome, honey."

One night I was bored in bed

And stalked you on the internet

Stirring a crumbled granola bar into a cup of creamy yogurt, you swing your hips from side-to-side before licking the tip of the spoon clean.

It's feminine intuition

Park is just headed for the elevators when an attractive feminine form catches his attention from the corner of his eye. Turning back around, he plants himself in the threshold of the ED's employee lounge with crossed arms while an amused smirk crawls across thin lips.

'Cause I always had a vision of us standing like this

All pressed up in the bathroom line

Swallowing a bite of your stirred snack, you turn to the sink where a roll of paper towels rest, then promptly stumble back with a hand planted over your pounding heart when you see that you're being watched by a pair of unfamiliar eyes.

Yanking your headphones down to your neck, you set your food on the countertop and exhale a ragged breath. "God, you scared me."

A plucked brow merely twitches in response.

"Were you just... Standing there watching me?"

Leaning a muscled shoulder against the doorframe, Park trails his eyes from your tennis shoes that're adorned with floral blooms sprouting from the stitching to your pretty young face. "You always spend your breaks putting on performances like that?"

You blink dumbly. "I'm sorry, who are you?"

He snorts derisively, followed by extending a hand. "Dr. Brendon Park. Orthopedic surgeon," he states with emphasis.

"Uh huh," is your less than enthusiastic reply. "Y/N. Fourth year resident."

His grip is firm—bordering nearly on squeezing—but the contact is over just as soon as it began after one definitive shake is granted. "Might have to spend more time down here if the answer's yes."

Male chauvinist asshole.

You retrieve your yogurt again. "Nice to meet you."

Taking a step forward, you eye the narrowly allotted gap between him and the other side of the doorway, which isn't nearly enough room for you to squeeze through. When he turns, you eagerly step past—the crown of your shoulder brushing against his chest when you do so—before heading in the direction of the ambulance bay so you can finish eating in peace.

Brendon watches you go with eyes trained squarely on your ass.

If this were a cartoon, steam would be blowing from Robby's ears, but you'd never know it from the calm disposition he portrays when he greets the younger doctor. "Park."

He nods to your retreating form. "She single?"

An intrusive image of Brendon's head being shoved through one of the trauma bay's glass walls flits through Robby's mind unwelcomely. "Not sure," he lies. "Think she might've just gotten out of something, but I couldn't tell you a lot about it."

"Was it serious, do you know?" he inquires casually.

Robby grinds his teeth. "You know how the grapevine works—like playing a game of telephone, so take it with a grain of salt—but, yeah, I guess feelings were exchanged."

Even if they were apparently one-sided.

He hums in interest. "Don't always mind a chase. Seems like she might be worth one." Turning, he grants Robby a nod. "Thanks."

The senior attending keeps his mouth firmly shut, watching as Brendon finishes his walk to the elevators while thinking to himself that he has no idea what the hell he's asking for. A chase. He told himself the same damn thing only a couple months ago and look at the position it's put him in.

Once Park is out of sight, Robby goes after you—absolutely fucking fuming when he does.

"What was that about?" barks Robby, now advancing in your direction.

You only somewhat acknowledge him from the brick half-wall you're seated atop—otherwise occupied with mindlessly scrolling through social media while finishing your snack. "Huh?"

Crossing his arms in a humph, he levels you with a glare. "You could do with looking at me when I'm speaking to you."

Locking your mobile device, you lift your head and smile sweetly. "Sorry, Rob. What was what about?"

Somehow, the oblivious expression painted across your glowing features only serves to further light a fire under his ass. "The exchange between you and Park," he spits.

You shrug. "I was mixing up my yogurt. He was watching me."

He glowers from beneath heavy brows. "Watching you shake your ass for the whole of the ED to see, seemed to me."

Your sunny disposition is quickly overcast by a cover of dark, heavy clouds ready to break into a fit of lightening strikes if he keeps pressing the issue. "I didn't ask for an audience," you snip. "I was simply enjoying my music while taking a quick break."

He shakes his head, causing the chain of his gold necklace to glint against the overhead sun. "Well, going forward here at work you could try practicing a little self-respect. It'd go a long way."

Swinging your legs over the edge of the wall, you dig your nails into solid concrete. "Sounds to me like this is beginning to border on some sort of victim-blaming nonsense."

Robby chuckles incredulously. "Victim?" He leans forward onto the balls of his feet. "I'm sorry. Victim of what, exactly?"

"You, apparently," you scoff. "And whatever this conversation is turning into. Which, from your tone and the look on your face, seems to be an argument."

His hackles raise. "Is this you trying to get back at me because I cut things off?"

You choke back a laugh. "Excuse me?" you stare up at him with an open-mouthed smile, sure he can't be serious.

He sneers at your apparent inability to take the matter fucking serious. "Jack, then Park. Seems to me like you're making the rounds."

"First of all," you snap, causing Robby to take a small step back—he never did care for when you got a temper with him; typically preferring to fuck it out of you until you were a contentedly babbling mess coming around his cock with a smile. "I didn't even know who Park was until like two minutes ago when he introduced himself. And I can tell you with the utmost certainty—from that brief interaction alone—that he couldn't be the furthest thing from my type. Not that it's any of your business." Standing, you shove your phone into your pocket. "Secondly, Jack and I have always flirted. It's not exactly a well-kept secret."

He raises a brow. Bending at the knees to meet you at eye-level, Robby squints suspiciously. "You don't think that's the least bit cruel? Leading on a widower like that?"

You tuck your hands into your pockets to keep from slapping the smug look off his face. "We did it before you and I, and are clearly continuing the tradition after. It makes the day go by faster and the workday the least bit more bearable."

Which he should know, given the parade of women he's gone through around here.

Standing at full height again, Robby snorts in disbelief. "So it has nothing to do with the fact that he's my best friend?" he questions doubtfully.

You inhale a deep, calming breath. "As I just said, it's something we've done for years, Robby. Years." You quirk your head curiously to the side. "Is there something you'd like to say to me? Or can I enjoy the rest of my yogurt in peace and quiet—the whole reason I came out here to begin with?"

Hands planted firmly on his hips, Robby chews the inside of his cheek until the the metallic taste of blood pools on his tongue. With a roll of his eyes, he turns and heads back inside without another word.

Plopping back down, you scream quietly in the back of your throat before retrieving your now lukewarm snack. Frowning down at a honeybee who's now crawling across a melted chocolate chip, you shoo the creature away before tossing the cup into the trashcan behind you.

Steering clear of Robby for the remainder of your shift, you silently pray that tomorrow will be a brighter day.

Had you known he would behave this way, you never would've carried on with him in the first place. The last thing you want is for the ED to grow into a toxic workplace. Not that it's from a lack of you trying to keep the peace by being a normal, well-adjusted adult who's returned to treating Robby the way you always have—including when the two of you were screwing—but the fact seems to only be setting him off instead of putting him at-ease, as was your intention: that your work relationship remains unchanged, that is.

Absolutely beat by the end of the day, you manage to dip out early—just missing Abbot by ten minutes when he pulls in and you're already on your way home.

It pleases Robby, however, that the pair of you fail to have a chance to talk again tonight.

He wants a resident that he can dote on? He has plenty of them on nightshift. Hell, he can take any from dayshift that he wants if it'll get him to back the hell off of you once more.

Given how tired Robby is this evening, it's for the best, lest he fly into a fit of rage again when he sees Abbot wink at or give you another to-go container.

Sure, it's only been a couple of days, but lack of the utter relief he found daily between your legs and in your mouth—as well as the loss of being able to curl himself around you afterward while talking your damn ear off as he vented endlessly about work as his head rested between your soft breasts and you played with his hair, or when you would straddle his back in just one of his t-shirts while kneading the knots from it—has put him on-edge.

His hand can do in a pinch, but... It isn't soft and warm like you, nor does it quietly whimper as he comes undone in its arms.

Robby thought he wanted—like he always does—to get himself out sooner rather than later, but for the first time, he's regretting it.

At least with Janey, he didn't have to see her every day after he broke things off and shattered not just her heart, but Jake's as well.

A fact he still feels guilty about.

And Noelle... Well, she works on another floor, so contact between them is rare and fleeting. Maybe a nod in the hall or a quick "How are you?" is all he has to concern himself with every once in a blue moon.

But you? Everything that initially drew him in is now getting under his skin like a damn parasitic infection that he can't seem to rid himself of no matter how many measures he takes to do so.

Your easy-going nature and bubbly personality he found sweet. Perfect facets for a short-term fling. Your libido was a hell of a lot higher than his, but it only served to make him feel all the more desired. Now, however, with the rose-tinted glasses halfway removed, he sees that he wasn't quite as special as he first thought. He clearly could've been anyone, as it now turns out.

You just wanted something warm and hard to fill your... Needs.

He operates the way he does—dealing strictly in casual relationships—because it puts him in control. Of the coming and going, the how and why of when it ends... But this instance has thrown him fully off-kilter.

Because you just don't seem to care. In fact, in the ambulance bay, you were coming off as if it bothered you that he did.

Damn brat.

He has half a mind to pile on the work so high you can't even see the top. But that would surely earn him a one-way ticket to HR. Something he begrudgingly acknowledges he'd deserve for such assholish behavior.

With a sigh, he gathers his things, vowing to get his head screwed on straight before he blows his life to pieces all over a piece of ass.

He cringes on his way out for thinking of you like that.

Filing in alongside the afternoon rush, Noelle makes an appearance at the ED's hub, looking for none other than her past flame. She's well-aware that it's none of her concern, but if what she overheard upstairs a handful of days ago was indeed untrue, she'd like to have as much confirmed by the source before she goes correcting other people's ignorantly made statements.

Spotting the man in question standing tall at a computer cart, she heads in Robby's direction with quietly clicking heels.

"Heard from a little birdy that you've been seeing a resident." Crossing slender arms clad in a perfectly pressed suit jacket, she tilts her head to the side, sending silky black hair cascading over a shoulder. "Robby, please tell me that isn't true."

Keeping his eyes on the monitor in front of him, he snickers while the back of his neck warms. They've not spoken in weeks and this is what she presents him with as conversation material? "Alright, it isn't true."

She shakes her head with a disapproving look. "Really? Robby, I thought you were smarter than that."

Assuming a casual stance with hands tucked away into his pockets, he glances past her to where you sit charting but a handful of feet away. "It's not a big deal." Robby looks at Noelle again and shrugs. "It's over now anyway."

"May I ask whom?" she inquires politely.

He can't stop himself from looking at you again. Finally, you lift your head and he doesn't miss a beat. Sliding a hand down Noelle's arm, Robby barks an overly dramatic laugh. "You may, but I don't find myself obliged to answer."

When you greet him with a toothy smile, accompanied by two thumbs up and nod toward Noelle—as if you're encouraging him to make a fucking move—he drops the hand back down to his side with a feeling of defeat swelling up in his chest.

He'd like to carve it out with a scalpel.

Slowly turning her head out of curiosity, Noelle studies you with drawn brows. "Well, I suppose you don't have to now. She's certainly young enough." Returning her attentions to the chief of the ED, she folds her arms coolly behind her. "Are you aware that it's over?"

Now crossing his arms, Robby rocks back on his heels. "I'm sorry?"

Noelle grants him a knowing look. "You can hardly keep your eyes off of her."

Sarcastically rolling them, Robby locks the computer before heading to a patient room that lies behind where you presently sit. "S'cuse me."

Sighing to herself, Noelle debates momentarily before following behind. Stopping in front of the desk you occupy, she slides her forearms atop it and offers you her hand. "I don't think we've had the pleasure. Noelle Hastings."

Your mind whirring into a state of overdrive, you begin thinking of a way to be a good wingman for Robby, but after his actions from yesterday, you find him the least bit undeserving of such kind efforts. Wrapping your hand around hers, you give Noelle a firm shake. "Y/N," you quip with a happy smile.

Folding her manicured hands together, she leans forward. "I hope this doesn't come off as inappropriate... But out of a sense of morbid curiosity, I was wondering if you'd be opposed to sharing notes?"

"Notes?" you ask ignorantly.

"Well..." Noelle's lips tilt into a nearly imperceptible grin, like she's considering whether to go on with finishing her sentence. "Like his apparent inability to sleep without the TV on," she elaborates with a playfully scrunched nose. "Not that I experienced it but maybe twice since he's always so eager to usher you out the door once you're properly dressed. Heaven forbid he partake in a bit of pillow-talk," she says with a chuckle.

Eyes flitting to the room behind you, Noelle continues. "Sleeping with it on in the background was impossible for me." Her attentions return to you then. "He ever tell you why he does it? I mean, I have my theories, but..."

You slide now sweaty palms over the thighs of your scrub pants. Affable as you may be, gossip tends to make your stomach twist uncomfortably when it's presented. You don't enjoy lying, but she'll be none the wiser as to whether you're returning her honesty with the truth.

"I can't attest to it since I never stayed the night. Never could sleep in a bed that wasn't my own," you commentate with a laugh. "Vacations as a kid were a nightmare since hotels scared me."

The reality of it is, is that apart from the night with the phone incident, any other time you slept over was at Robby's behest. He'd stare up at you with these wide, pleading eyes while quietly whispering "please stay" as he clutched tenderly at your hand. Not wanting to hurt his feelings, you almost always agreed, despite it being against your mutually agreed to set of rules.

Once you were lain back in bed with the covers thrown over you, he'd scoop you into his arms and pull himself against the length of your body before burying his face between your breasts and closing his eyes.

Didn't take long after that for him to fall asleep.

She hums pensively. "Certainly is one for privacy, though, right? Couldn't believe how defensive he got the night I went looking in his medicine cabinet for a single bandage."

Is she positive you're both discussing the same man? From nearly week one Robby assured you that nothing was off-limits in his house. Hell, he actually encouraged you to make yourself at home during the handful of times you stopped by on the weekend for a quickie in-between running errands.

Never did take him up on such an offer, though. His space was his and yours was yours. Not that he ever came over.

Speaking of the medicine cabinet specifically, there had been an evening maybe three weeks ago when he told you to look in it while he was busy relieving himself in the toilet beside where you stood at the sink. When you popped it open, you weren't really sure what you were supposed to be looking for, until he nodded at a still packaged toothbrush. "Just incase," he'd remarked with a wink. "Figured you could put it next to mine in the cup there on the counter."

It didn't see much use in the end, though.

You don't know it, but Robby still hasn't tossed it.

Awkwardly clearing your throat, you swivel your mouse and the computer screen bleeds back to life. "I don't mean any offense, Noelle, because it's been nice talking to and meeting someone new, but I don't like to, um... Kiss and tell, for lack of a better term."

If Robby doesn't have as much respect for you, that's on him. You know your character.

"Oh." She leans back. "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable."

You wave your hands in a panic. "Oh, no, you didn't! I guess like anyone, Robby's a complicated man. I can agree on that account, at least."

She smiles. "That he is. Well," she says, now turning on her heel. "I'll let you get back to work then."

He was hurt initially when Noelle started in on disclosing his private behavior—worried it would lessen your opinion of him from wherever it currently stands at—but when you lied in order to shield him and the affection he tried to shower you with... It warmed his heart.

Robby had thought more of her than that. That she was more mature; seasoned when it came to concealing the details of an ex's private life like any middle-aged individual.

He was wrong.

Peeking at you from behind a patterned curtain, Robby's lips tug into a faint smile, appreciative of your discretion. And he hopes...protectiveness over what you had.

Admiring the swell of your backside and the outline of a pair of floral panties from where you're bent over trying to retrieve the Sharpie you dropped, Jesse stretches a rubber band between both of his index fingers before firing.

"Ow!" Clapping a hand over your ass cheek, you about-face and scowl at your offender. "You're such a pain in my ass, Jesse."

He grins. "Literally this time."

Were his glasses not resting on the bridge of his nose, Robby wouldn't have believed his eyes just now. So now it's not just one, or two, but three men that're vying for your fucking attention? Who's next, then? Shen? Mateo? Might as well just form a damn line at this point!

Crumpling a sheet of paper into a ball, you toss it at his head, but sorely miss when he rounds the end of the nurse's station with his head thrown back in a mocking laugh. You're just considering rifling through his desk drawer to steal a snack or a hard to obtain stationary item when your eyes meet with Robby's steely gaze.

With his lips drawn into a taught line and his nostrils flared, you shrink into yourself, like a child ashamed that she got caught with her hand in the cookie jar.

He shakes his head in disapproval before returning to the tablet propped up against his bent knee.

Throwing yourself down into a cushioned rolling chair, you switch on a computer to finish up your end of the day charting—far too aware of his nearby presence. Such a party-pooper.

Hopping onto your bed, you position the head of your plastic hairbrush above your mouth and belt the lyrics You're looking like an angel on the walls of Versailles as Olivia Rodrigo blares from the bluetooth speaker in the living room.

The most alive I've ever been, you cry while swinging your hips from one side to other, but kiss me and I might drop dead!

Falling onto the mattress, you bounce, then hang your head off the foot of it while kicking your legs excitedly in the air. Pisces and a Gemini, but I think we might go really nice together!

Robby can't sleep. No matter how much he tosses and turns, nor how many times he fluffs the pillow he's holding close to his chest which still smells of you—he'll do laundry this weekend, dammit; he has too much on his plate already to be worried about fucking sheets—rest refuses to find him.

Rolling onto his back, Robby stares up at a dark, lofty ceiling while stewing in anger aimed at none other than himself.

He wants to blame you—has tried to the last few days—but the fault lies solely with him as to his predicament of perpetual bachelorhood. Can he really blame any of the others for being so taken with you? He has been since you were but a doe-eyed med student, so he obviously understands the crushes they're all harboring, even if he wishes otherwise.

Maybe he's kidding himself by thinking the two of you ever had a chance at anything more, had he not broken things off.

When he presented you with the idea of quick, easy sex, you leapt at the opportunity, and it almost unsettled him how easily you went along with the typical set of rules he always keeps in place, so as to retain a healthy amount of metaphorical distance between himself and whoever his chosen sexual partner for the next month or two is.

Perhaps part of him had been secretly hoping you'd object—would complain about how you wanted to snuggle on the couch, hold hands while walking into work, and go on cute little dates to local diners. Instead, it seems he had finally met his match in the detachment department.

You were actually worse than him about it.

Robby wondered at one time if that was what made him pine for your attention before long: because you were trying to play hard to get, which only spurred him on all the more. But no, it's just your personality, apparently.

Makes for good doctoring, at least.

You're not entirely mercurial and free-flowing, though. Anytime he asked you to stay... You would. That was what made him fall, he thinks: the nights he spent curled around you, safe in your arms while he rested peacefully against your breast.

Before you, every night was an hour long battle—if not longer—in terms of getting to sleep. But with you? The sound of your softly thumping heart always sent him dozing off after only a matter of minutes.

He slept like a damn baby where you were concerned.

And there was the way you'd play with his hair when his head would be resting in your lap after a long day as he read aloud to you, or the stupid trivia gameshows the two of you would watch in bed, debating the answers to ridiculous questions before a buzzer proved you both wrong.

Being in your company was just...easy. It didn't give him anxiety about the future or instill him with fear of the unknown. For once, he was finally able to live in the moment.

And no, he didn't require the TV to be on while he slept next to you because being wrapped in your arms equaled a quiet head. You're quite the contradiction yourself, speaking of. A free spirit with a nurturing side.

Sighing, Robby yanks his phone off the nightstand and dials.

He lets it ring damn near a dozen times before finally ending the call—his head now swimming with visions of Park pounding away inside of you, or Jesse fondling your ass while your own intimate escapades become long forgotten as he's replaced with another younger model.

Blinking wet lashes, Robby sets his jaw and sniffles quietly. He supposes this is what he deserves: a taste of his own medicine for once.

Was only a matter of time before karma came knocking.

With the shower now heating up in the bathroom, you plunk down in the middle of your bed and begin scrolling through unread notifications. When you see a missed called from Robby, your heart lurches.

Uh oh, is something happening at the hospital? He didn't leave a message, so hopefully not.

Best call him back, though, to make sure.

"Hey!" you beam when he promptly answers "Sorry I missed your call earlier, I didn't hear it. What's up?"

Your shirt is eschewed and hanging off of one shoulder, your skin is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and your chest is rapidly rising and falling in a clear effort to catch your breath.

Not to mention the mess of bedding found just behind you.

Is that a damn shower he hears running in the background?

Robby's ears perk up at the sound of a man's voice coming from a room away which immediately sets his blood to fucking boiling.

Turning to the side with an arched brow, your face screws into an expression of confusion.

What? Your little one-night stand already crying for you from the other room?

"Nothing," Robby hisses while you're still turned away. "It was an accident."

Staring at your mussed reflection on a now dark screen, you sigh then toss the device aside before pushing off the bed and padding into the bathroom to change whatever God-awful dad rock has come onto Spotify.

Whatever was the cause for Robby's attitude isn't your problem right now. Or ever, really. Your apartment is finally nice and clean, as are you about to be before long, and there's leftover Chinese food in the fridge.

For once, everything feels peaceful again.

Removing your sweat-stained t-shirt, you toss it into the laundry hamper before stepping beneath a cascade of steaming water.

"Good morning," you say warmly while greeting Robby with a sunny disposition.

He only hums in response, choosing to keep his eyes trained on the inside of his locker rather than bidding you the same pleasantry.

Wrapping your stethoscope around your neck, you pluck a ballpoint pen from the middle shelf and tuck it into your pocket.

"Looked like you got quite the workout last night," Robby grumbles quietly.

Clicking your locker shut, you chuckle. "Oh, yeah, the best cardio," you reply sardonically—deciding not to mention how you started squealing when a sticky cobweb got stuck to your face. "I'm gonna go check the board. Let me know if you need any help today!"

Watching as you walk away, it's all Robby can do not to flip the bird at the back of your head. How can you be so cocky about it? It isn't normal for someone to be this happy all the time.

Are you on something?

He never got that impression before, but supposes it makes sense.

Perhaps he should take a peek in your chart. Finding out that Langdon was hooked on benzos was bad enough. To discover that you had to get high in order to lie beneath him... He doesn't know whether he could tolerate the knowledge.

Not even lunch from a nearby sandwich shop managed to improve Robby's mood. He can't keep on with this headspace. It's not fair to you, the staff of the ED, or any patients who he could potentially end up taking his frustrations out on when someone inevitably refuses to listen to sage medical advice.

A glass door slides shut behind Robby, casting the exam room you're wrapping things up in in silence. "Can I at least ask who?" he asks gently, not wanting to intrude if he's not welcome to.

He understands that he isn't entitled to anything here, including answers if you choose not to give them. Your affairs are your affairs and they have nothing to do with him.

It's not right him acting otherwise.

It'll only lead to you feeling uneasy around him and that's the last thing he would ever want.

Your education comes first.

Glancing to him, you cup your hand beneath a sanitizer dispenser. "Who what?"

He studies you from beneath long lashes. "Last night. Who you were with when you called me back."

Uh... Why does he think there was someone in your apartment with you?

Wait.

Did he see something on camera? A chill crawls up your back. "I was alone. Why do you think otherwise?" you ask hesitantly.

His brows furrow. "I heard the shower. And another man's voice. C'mon, sweetheart, I might be old, but I'm not stupid. Not to mention the—the state you were in."

Rubbing the sanitizer into both your palms and along the backs of your hands, you take a step forward. "I was warming it up. I'd just gotten done cleaning my apartment right before you called. Well... I cleaned my apartment, then sort of ran around singing pop music and putting on my own personal concert with a hairbrush," you admit sheepishly. "As for the voice, it was some awful rock station Spotify picked out. God knows why."

He takes it back. He's both old and stupid.

"You were alone."

"Just me and Olivia Rodrigo," you confirm with a nod.

He raises a brow, to which you bat a hand in response. "Singer."

"Ah," Robby replies with a nod.

Submerging your hands in your shirt pockets, you cock your head to the side. "Why do you ask?"

Moment of truth.

Robby sighs. "I was jealous. I have been this whole week and I've been making you pay for it." He presses his lips into a thin smile. "I'm sorry."

You give him a once-over with a scrutinizing gaze. "So, are things going to return to normal now?" You lean your hip against the exam table. "Or are you going to pout when Abbot gives me a piece of gum?"

Robby considers for a moment while watching the hustle and bustle of the ED on the other side of the door. "Maybe I made a mistake."

Your brows knit closely together. "What do you mean?"

Studying the laces of his boots, he shrugs with a dismissive shake of his head. "Calling it off. Letting you go. Not asking for more." He lifts his chin. "All the above."

"Are you saying you want to continue hooking up?" You question with a cocked head.

You don't know how keen you are on that idea with how tiresome he's been the last handful of days—it'd be akin to rewarding bad behavior without an ounce of consequences being paid for it—but a warm body is admittedly a considerable improvement over a silicone toy.

Running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck, Robby digs his fingertips into freckled skin. "No. I mean..." he sucks his teeth. "I'd want sexual intimacy, yes, but more than that. I want us to be together."

The last sentence was spoken so quickly and quietly that it was barely an octave above a whisper. Nevertheless, you heard him.

"Like a relationship?" you inquire with crossed arms.

He nods.

You've had him in bed—inside of you—but not even then did he looks so soft and small and vulnerable. Almost boyish with the way he's rocking back and forth from the balls of his feet to his heels. It's kind of cute, really.

So shy.

Coming to stand in front of him, you pull one of his hands toward you and wrap each of your own around it. "Okay."

Robby's head lifts so swiftly that something pops in the back of his neck. "Okay?" he repeats with a lilted tone of surprise.

"I have one rule, though. Or...an understanding, anyway, that needs to be agreed upon."

Cupping the side of your neck with a warm, heavy palm, Robby brushes his thumb along the underside of your jaw. "I'm all ears, sweetheart."

"You get one shot at this," you state point-blank. "And I don't mean we're not allowed to argue or have disagreements or lose our tempers on occasion. That's bound to happen; it's a normal part of any relationship. What I do mean is that if your commitment issues manifest a few weeks or months from now and you start thinking about running, that's it. I won't allow you to treat my life like a revolving door."

As if plenty of others aren't trying to pass through it, he muses. Sliding his palm down to the crown of your shoulder, he gives it a gentle squeeze. "So just like that you're mine?"

You nod and your stethoscope nearly slips off of you with the motion. "Yes."

His lips tug into a displeased frown. "So... I ask you to start sleeping with me and you do. I call it quits and you couldn't seem to care less. I come back groveling, and you hardly bat an eye before telling me okay to being together. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but it's hard to take this seriously when you seem to just go along with wherever the wind blows you."

You can feel the vein in the middle of your forehead swelling up to size. "Did you expect me to get down on my hands and knees while begging you not to leave me? You said it was over and that was that. I'm not pleading with someone to stick around who has no interest in it. I think more of myself than that."

Not to mention that he's way too old to be playing these sorts of head games...

He'll never admit it, but the pride you seem to have in yourself he finds the least bit threatening to his ego. But it's also a turn-on, if he's being completely honest with himself. "Just hard to feel like an exception when it's coming off like I could be anybody. Abbot, Park, Jesse. What makes me different?"

From the way he runs the ED with an iron fist, you'd never think him so insecure.

It makes you wanna pinch his cheeks. Or slap one.

"Like I said about Park, I don't like him. Period. As for Jesse... Yes, we've joked around every now and again, but I honestly think of him more as a brother. Whether he shares that sentiment is his own business."

"And Jack?" Robby presses.

Removing his hand from where it's slid down your arm, you splay his fingers apart and lightly squeeze his fourth one. "He still wears his ring." Lifting your head, you gaze into Robby's eyes. "They didn't... Fall out of love or go through a nasty divorce. She died while he was still in love with her," you explain with the utmost care. "I can't ever hope to compete with that. His ring would serve as a constant reminder of what I have to try and live up to: impossible standards I could never even attempt to meet."

He nearly asks you what if Abbot stopped wearing it, but supposes it's a moot point. For right now, he does. End of story.

Craning his head down to meet you halfway, you tilt your own back and smile when his lips brushes against yours. "My girl," Robby murmurs before closing the breathy gap between you with a kiss.

"You like that?" you ask breathlessly. Lifting your hips, you slide down the considerable length of him and he utters a quiet curse.

Slapping a hand against your ass cheek, Robby watches with appreciation as the plump skin ripples like water before digging his fingers into the meat of your hips again. "Told you it feels better without a condom."

You roll your eyes, but with him seated behind you, he's unable to see it. "Don't really feel much of a difference myself, but—"

"Fuck, feels so much better on my end," Robby moans.

Straightening, you begin bouncing on it with a repeated wet plap, plap, plap while toying with your pebbled nipples.

"Turn around, sweetheart," he mutters; his hands sliding up your stomach and brushing along the underside of your soft breasts. "So I can look at you."

Lifting off his hard cock, Robby fists himself in his hand as you spin around. Guiding his swollen, leaking tip back between your slick, fluttering walls, he moans pleasurably when your cunt swallows his girthy length again until the shaft disappears entirely.

You love the way he stretches you open so deliciously.

Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, you cup the back of his head in your other palm before pulling his face between your sweaty breasts. "C'mere, baby," you coo affectionately.

His dick stirs and you snicker softly. Leaning his head back, you flick the tip of your tongue across his lips. "You gonna come inside me? Huh?"

Robby blinks wide eyes of pleasant surprise. "You'll let me?"

You grin. "I want you to," you reply with a faux pout. "I'm not getting off it until you do." Crushing your lips to his, your tongues tangle together in a battle for dominance.

Rapidly rocking your hips until a familiar bang, bang, bang of the headboard can be heard, you break away, then reposition your lips next to his ear. "You're such a good boy."

He shudders, so you drag the lobe of his ear gently between your teeth. "Come for me, baby. Come for mama."

Slapping a hand over your ass and squeezing hard enough to leave a bruised print, Robby bends his knees before hammering away between your pulsating walls. "O-oh fuck," he stammers. "I'm s-so fuckin'—"

"That's it," you sigh encouragingly. "Y-you're almost there. A little more."

Biting down on your shoulder, he chokes back a muffled growl. His whole body seizes while his cock twitches and spurts inside of you in-between long, deep, filling thrusts.

"Good boy," you gasp happily. "Oh my God, that's such a good boy."

Pressing your lips to the crown of his head, you ride out your high—flexing your walls around his emptying cock as your own orgasm ascends to its pique, leaving you a mess of babbling, praiseful words as you cling to Robby, tracing your tongue along his naked, salty skin while you do.

Gazing up at Robby from where your chin is resting against the back of a hand you've planted atop his hairy chest, you smile when he does.

He's been doing so for the last almost half an hour while tracing lazy circles along your naked hip. "That good, huh?" you ask with a laugh.

He rolls his head from side to side. "Just happy," he rumbles.

You press a damp kiss to his stubbled cheek before toying with his necklace. "Can I ask you something?"

He smirk morphs into a contended grin. "Anything."

"Not to bring another person into bed with us, but... Noelle and I spoke the other day. I don't know if you were aware."

Bending an arm behind his head, he nods. "I was. Heard most of it."

Eavesdropper...

"Why were you so different with her? Or... With me?"

It's been eating at you, truthfully.

He chews his lip for a moment in thought. "It's not that she did or didn't do something. I mean, I had nothing against her being around. She just... She didn't make me laugh. I felt like when I was with her—and maybe this was just me—that I couldn't step out of my role as chief, even when I was here in my own home. I struggled to let my guard down or relax. There was this need to be in serious "adult mode" 24/7." He tilts his head to the side. "There wasn't any vulnerability."

You lift a brow. "Thought you preferred that?"

He sighs and readjusts the pillow tucked against the crook of his neck. "Thought I did too. 'Til you came along."

You curl your fingers into the coarse hair smattered across his chest. "Is it because you think more highly of her than me? So you felt a need to impress by being—as you say—serious? That because I'm younger, I'm just the fun squeeze toy to keep around?"

Finally he finds a crack in your perfect sunshine façade. He rocks his head from side to side. "No. Was just a difference in personality. We all have various faces we wear. With different people, during different occasions... With her, I was Michael Robinavitch, chief attending of PTMC's ED. With you, I can just be me."

Not that he's wholly sure who that is most days now, but he hopes at your side, he can finally start to figure it out.

Cupping his cheek, you press a kiss to his lips. "I know exactly who you are."

A curious brow curves upwards.

"Sweet boy," you simper.

He huffs a laugh.

Turning onto his side, Robby pulls you flush against his weighty belly. "I'll be whatever you want me to be, sweetheart."

"What's up?" you ask quietly before taking a bite out of your less than healthy snack. But after the day's whole back-to-the-Stone-Age fiasco, you can use the pick-me-up.

"I'm sorry that I'm asking so last minute, but I wasn't entirely sure about whether I'd be taking off tonight..." Robby shakes his head, then lifts his chin to meet your awaiting gaze. "I'd like for you to housesit for me while I'm away. If it wouldn't be an imposition."

You swallow a chocolatey bite rather thickly and run your thumbs nervously over smooth plastic wrapper. "Oh."

He tilts his head slightly. "Oh?"

"Sorry," you bleat suddenly. "You've just taken me by surprise, I guess. Would you not rather Abbot look after it for you? Or Noelle?"

His jaw feathers. "Abbot's got enough going on; wouldn't wanna put another thing on his plate. I want you to. I'm comfortable with my choice."

Robby doesn't bother acknowledging your Noelle comment. He scarcely managed to retain his focus when she came down earlier to talk to him—his sole concern being the act of catching up to you before the night was through and you headed home for the evening.

He couldn't lose this chance.

It would've been preferable for him to have asked this some weeks ago so you could make timely preparations to fulfill his request, but you suppose looking in on his abode every other day won't really be putting you out. You'll just swing by after work three or four times a week to ensure all is well before heading home. "Yeah, I can do that. It's no problem," you comply, coupled with a reassuring nod.

Robby sighs a breath of relief.

Settling a warm, heavy hand over your knee, he brushes his thumb over the cap of it. "Thank you. You're taking a weight off my shoulders with this."

Placing your half-eaten candy bar atop a loose napkin, you awkwardly pat the back of his hand. "Don't mention it."

Slipping his hand from beneath yours, Robby rests his palm atop the back of it before curling his fingers around the extremity. "You wanna follow me home after?" Overturning your hand, he traces the pad of his thumb along your heart line. "I'll give you a quick tour. Make sure you understand how everything works."

His eyes flit to yours in wait.

You smile. "Sounds good to me."

He isn't acting right... But he hasn't been for some time now. You and Jack have spoken about it, but only minimally since he didn't exactly seem too keen on acknowledging that his best friend is clearly going through a dire mental health crisis right now... Like he doesn't live in denial of his own problems.

He calls taking a bullet through the shoulder coping. You call it dancing with death.

When you saw the two of them speaking, followed by a tender embrace in one of the trauma bays not but a couple of hours ago, you had hoped that whatever Jack said to Robby finally managed to get through to him—that it would serve to halt his self-destructive plans—but with the pair of you now standing just outside his bedroom, with his back turned to the foyer, which leads to a front door he still means to walk out of, you fear that that isn't the case at all.

"When do you think you'll be back?" you ask quietly.

Robby swallows thickly and tightens the fist shoved in his pocket; the only thing left to keep him grounded. Because if he removes it—touches you the way he's always meant to—he'll never make it to the Badlands.

And then you'll be stuck.

Clearing his throat, he shrugs slumped shoulders. "Not sure yet. Awhile."

Rocking forward onto the balls of your feet, you nod halfheartedly. "Are you sure you've got everything? Long trip, just wanna make sure you're prepared for it."

The corner of his lip twitches. Always looking out for him. Always. It's no wonder as to how he fell so completely in love with you.

You've always been so selfless; loving; kind; purehearted.

"Think so. I've got my wallet if not. Buy it on the road if need be." Speaking of— Reaching into his back pocket, he pulls out a leather billfold and slips a rarely used credit card from it which he extends to you with slightly trembling fingers.

Don't let her see how scared I am to leave her behind.

"Incase anything goes out while I'm away and needs replaced. Just... Never know."

When your fingertips brush against his, he bites back a wince.

Pulling the small plastic card back to you, you study the Mastercard logo printed in the bottom corner before tucking it into your scrub pocket. "Ok, thank you. I'll put in my own wallet for safekeeping until you get back."

Glancing to the darkened bedroom, he blinks back brimming tears. "Use it for anything you need. Doesn't have to just be for an emergency here. I, uh—" he coughs to cover the sob crawling its way up his constricting throat. "I have no problem with—with knowing I'm helping to take care of you. Since you're doing this for me in return."

You don't bother arguing. You'd never dream of using his money, or anyone else's for that matter, on frivolous things like nail polish or iced coffee. It's his savings and should be used strictly on himself, or his belongings and home. "I appreciate that, Robby."

Dropping his chin to his chest, Robby tucks his hands into the pockets of his hoody and sniffles quietly. "Guess that's it then."

Your heart now hammering, you search your mind in a panic for an excuse to keep him here overnight. If he insists on leaving, fine, but why can't it at least wait until morning? During daylight, and after he's gotten a few hours of shuteye.

"Could always wait until tomorrow," you suggest cautiously. "Three months is plenty of time for a road trip. No reason you have to leave right this second. It's not like you're going to miss anything, Buffalo Jump isn't going anywhere."

His brows knit together. You're... You're asking him to stay? Now? After all this time?

Robby lifts his head, leaving his glassy eyes to flit between yours he's so many times over welcomely lost himself within the warm depths of.

Then again, until today, he was managing to hold himself together rather well. Or, he was able to portray himself as being such, anyway: relatively maintained and functional. Even if it was with liquid glue and cheap duct tape.

He swallows down the lump in his throat. "Do you want me to stay?"

Resting a steady palm atop his jacketed forearm, you give the limb a slight squeeze. "I think it'd be better to wait until morning, yeah."

All it takes is a brush of your shoulder against his in the ED, and his old knees nearly buckle beneath him every time contact is made between you. Now here you stand holding him to the Earth. You can't really expect him to tell you no in anything when you've got him like this, can you?

You're the only weakness he's got left.

Everything else he cares about just... Doesn't seem quite so important—pertinent, even—in this moment. Or as of late in general. Shaking his head, he exhales through his nose and a pained smile flashes across his features. "That's not what I'm asking."

You remain quiet, waiting for him to elaborate.

"Do you want me to stay?" he repeats.

You fail to understand why what you do or don't want matters to him insofar as the next choice he makes, but if it stays his hand just for tonight, then... "Yes. I want you to stay."

His world tilts on its axis, and in an instant, Robby sees clearly for the first time in years. Sees... That his missing piece has been right here in front of him the whole time. Had he not been so blind, so selfish, so self-centered, then all this pain and sorrow could've been prevented.

Not even his own, but yours from keeping the two of you apart the way he has. How could he have ever thought it was the better choice when your soul has been screaming for his own every fucking day in need; its other half?

"I'm so sorry, baby," he rasps before advancing on you.

Cradling your face between calloused palms, Robby handles you with utter gentility—like fine China—before pressing his lips to yours.

When your back bumps against the wall, you stare at his closed eyes with open ones of utter shock. He's kissing you. Robby—your superior and attending—is kissing you. Full-on, open-mouthed, passionately-searching-tongue kissing you. Was this some spur of the moment decision, or...? Why did he apologize before? Because he knows it's wrong, or some other reason you'll have to figure out later?

"I've waited for so long," Robby sighs—his warm breath that smells of peppermint fanning across the bridge of your nose, all the way to your cheeks. "No one else could ever compare to you."

Nipping his way down your chin, Robby peppers your neck in hot, wet kisses before trailing the speared tip of his tongue along your clavicle. Gripping the curve of your hips in either of his large hands, he pulls your rigid body flush against his own of sturdiness and languid warmth before continuing. "You set such impossibly high standards for me, sweetheart."

Easing a palm past the hem of your top, he circles around to your back and unclasps your bra in one fluid motion. "God," he groans against the swell of your breast which his coarse beard scratches against, leaving a feel of hot, crackling embers in its wake. "I can't believe this is finally happening between us."

Swiftly taking your hand in his, he guides you along into the bedroom. Kicking the door shut behind the pair of you, you're barely granted a moment to catch your breath—or your mind that's racing away from you, for that matter—before he shrugs off his hoody, followed by tugging off his scrub top and long-sleeve shirt under it, leaving them forgotten on the floor next to his socked feet.

Your mouth goes dry at the sight of him. Bare-chested, he's so much more this way.

Nearly stumbling over your own two feet while the thing between your legs takes the driver's seat, you stagger forward and back into his arms. Lifting each of your hands, you settle damp palms atop soft pecs smattered with thick, dark curls of hair. Sliding lower, you swallow down pooling saliva and carefully knead your fingers against the overhang of his gut. "Robby," you sigh, suddenly unsure of yourself—what the two of you are even doing here.

Cupping the base of your scalp, he tilts your head back. "Michael." He brushes a thumb over your bottom lip. "You're the only one I'll let call me that."

You pop open the button at the top of his Carhartts. "Michael," you utter; just to see how the foreign name tastes upon your tongue. Foreign, because you've never used it before. Not for him.

A watery laugh breaks past his lips. "Say that again."

Muttering the name while he carefully traces the bend of your cupid's bow with each of his thumbs, his crow's feet wrinkle when a smile bends his own lips upwards.

When he presses them to yours a second time, you welcome it. Opening your mouth with his own, he continues holding fast to you while his opposite hand works eagerly at his zipper as if he can't get inside of you fast enough.

He's so afraid that this is all just a dream and he'll wake up like he has a hundred times before, full of disappointment and acheful longing.

Clutching at wide shoulders, you card your fingers in unkempt hair and hold fast to the man before you.

Shoving his pants down his thighs until they finally pool around his ankles, Robby kicks them to the side along with the rest of his clothing and palms his developing erection over his briefs before guiding you back toward the bed.

When the backs of your knees knock against the edge of a king-sized mattress, reality bleeds sharply back into focus—slicing through the dark of Robby's disorderly bedroom like a flash of silver lightening.

What the hell are you doing?

Pulling at the tidy bow on the front of your pants with a frustrated grunt, Robby shoves the garment down to your ankles before practically yanking your top off over your head. Sliding your bra down your arms, he leaves it forgotten on the plush rug you stand atop before maneuvering his hand into your panties and circling your swollen clit with the pad of his middle finger.

Cursing quietly, he eases the digit between your fluttering walls. Curling it upward, you gasp quietly and he dips his head to suck a taught nipple into his mouth. Rolling it between his teeth, he slips a second finger inside before lapping at your breast and tracing your areola with the pad of his salivating tongue. "So perfect," he mutters. "For me. You always have been."

With a palm flat against the small of your back, Robby guides you slowly onto his bed. Falling back against it with a soft bounce, you watch him from between spread, quivering legs. With bated breath caught within your lungs, he encourages briefs that're now saturated with drops of precum past strong thighs, thus revealing the thick length of his veiny erection, complete with a healthy tuft of hair resting above the swollen shaft.

You've never seen such a masculine specimen in all your young life.

Fisting himself in his hand, his chest heaves with deep breaths of barely contained excitement.

Gripping your left knee, he slides his hand up your thigh and his chin wobbles. "You have no idea how long I've waited for you, sweetheart."

Nodding toward the headboard, Robby grants you instruction with affectionate, unguarded eyes. "Scoot back for me, baby."

Shoving against a mess of dark blue sheets and a wrinkled comforter that smells of his woodsy cologne—musky, with hints of sharp cedar—your head falls back against a pile of fluffy pillows, leaving you wholly at his mercy.

"Jesus Christ." Following the curve of your waist with his free hand, Robby licks his lips before dragging the bottom one between his teeth. "Better than I imagined."

Cupping your cheek, he brushes his thumb over your glistening lips. "I need to know what you taste like. I've wanted to so many times..." he huffs a laugh. "This almost doesn't seem real."

Slightly lifting your hips in response, you remain quiet in response.

Lying down at the foot of the bed, Robby alternates between your right and left inner thighs—planting messy kisses upon each while slowly working his way closer and closer to the pot of honey that lies between. "You don't understand what you mean to me," he whispers. Dragging his index finger between your slick folds, he admires the color of you; the shape; the scent.

His, his, his.

Finally.

Dipping his head, he swipes an enthusiastic tongue through your slit. When your back arches off the bed, he dives deeper. Working at your perfect nub with careful nibbles, he wraps one arm around your thigh to keep you steady while his other goes searching for yours. Once he makes contact with a hand that has sheets tightly twisted within it, he pulls the fabric from your grip before repositioning it in his hair.

When your fingers tremble against his scalp, he moans wantonly against your opening. "S'fuckin' long," he drawls. Swirling his tongue along your labia, he drinks up your plentiful juices as if it's the finest wine.

If he could fucking bottle and drink you, he would.

Squeezing your eyes shut, you tangle your fingers in his soft hair and sink your nails into his scalp. When your hips buck before long, he withdraws.

You open your mouth to protest, but words fall away when he settles his weight atop you.

"Rob—"

Swiping his swollen tip against your engorged entrance, Robby lifts your leg over his hip and onto his back before sinking inside with painstaking tenderness.

You didn't get a chance ask him about protection.

He never wanted anything between the two of you. Not here. Not like this. Not ever.

You've never had unprotected sex before. You didn't mean to.

Robby can't believe how easily your bodies work in tandem—how you seem able to match his every move with no effort even needing to be applied. How you both want the exact same things.

Inch by inch, he eases between your thighs, cursing quietly at how well you're taking him. Nevertheless, he pauses once he's bottomed out to grant you a moment to adjust. But it hardly seems necessary—it's like you were made to fit him. Perfectly.

"I didn't believe in soulmates until you," he mumbles into the hollow of your neck.

A tear slips from the corner of your eye. This isn't the Robby you know who's always collected and able. The chief who all others look to for certainty and guidance.

Who... Always has his mind about him.

Rocking his hips against yours, Robby knocks your knee to the side before settling into a steady, pleasant rhythm. His hand moves up your arm that's thrown over a pillow above your head to twine your fingers together. Kissing you again with firm resolve, his tongue slides along the twist of yours, followed by diving deeper until you're both lost in a land of breathless passion.

Resting his forehead against yours, a tear slides down his cheek and dribbles onto yours. "Fifty-five-years was more than worth the wait for you, sweetheart."

Puckered lips are pressed to your flushed cheek. "I'm sorry I wasted all those years that we otherwise could've spent together. I was just scared."

You want to ask him to slow down—it's too much at once—all the touching and kissing and confessions, but every time you think you've gathered the courage, he speaks again.

"Thank you for waiting for me so patiently." Circling his hips, your jaw falls open and you moan into his freckled shoulder.

"I love you," utters Robby. "The only woman I ever have. The others were just..."

"R-Robby—"

Caressing your chin, he tilts your head to the side until you're looking into his eyes. "Michael, sweetheart. Please. It's okay, I want you to."

Cupping his cheek that's wet with tears, you swallow down the protestations you meant to speak aloud. "Michael."

His cock squelches from how aroused you've become. With each plunge of his member that's so completely filled you, you find your orgasm growing closer.

"What is it, honey?" he swallows thickly; nervously. He needs to set your assumptions straight. "I want you to know that when I was with them—" he kisses the tip of your nose. "There was only one face I saw."

You shake your head—not wanting to hear this—then tug his lips back down to your own with fingers submerged in his beard. "Close," you whisper into his open mouth.

"Please," Robby begs quietly; his shoulder blades shifting from behind aged, tanned skin as he works at your body. "Tell me the same."

Your lashes flutter as you stare up at him through blurry eyes. "Wha—"

"I love you," he repeats.

But you don't. Not like that. Maybe as a friend, or—

"I love you," he presses. When your walls squeeze around him, he knows you feel the same. Your body can't lie; refuses to. Taking your hand again, he presses it overtop of his thundering heart. "Have since we first met. You're my other half, I know it now."

"I—"

He nods reassuringly, just once. Slowly, gently. "I'm right here, angel."

Just do it. "I love you."

Suddenly, his face crumples and he breaks into a fit of unexpected sobs. Burying himself between your breasts, Robby shudders and his heavy belly heaves as broken sobs wrack through his body.

Unsure of what else to do, you cradle the back of his head and quietly shoosh him.

This is well above your paygrade.

"I-It's okay, R—" you sigh, then start again. "You're safe, Michael. It's alright."

"Fuck." Nuzzling closer, Robby drags the bridge of his nose along your hammering carotid. "She left. I was just a kid."

Your brows bow together in confusion.

"But not you," he continues breathlessly with a suddenly stirring cock. "You're too maternal."

Moving your hand to the middle of his back, you begin considering how the hell you're going to get him off of you.

"Michael—"

"I know. We're both so close." He lifts his head, cups your cheek, and crushes his lips to yours. Snapping his hips, Robby grinds his pelvis against your own. "Come with me, baby."

Each time his pubic hair brushes against your exposed, sensitive clit, you've been curling your toes and tightening your muscles in preparation of an orgasm... Until he talks again.

Slinging your arms over his shoulders, you push his head down to your lips to keep his mouth otherwise occupied.

Racing toward your shared finished with gyrating hips and breathless abandon, only the sound of slapping skin, Robby's occasional cries, and a quietly knocking headboard interrupt an unreal silence you had never thought you would find yourself within.

Tossing your head back, a pretty whimper crawls past your lips before bubbling into existence.

Smoothing a hand across your brow, Robby watches with wide, vulnerable eyes as you come undone in his bed, his arms, his home, against his body while a part of him is buried inside you.

It's too much.

His dream come true.

"Fuck, Y/N," he groans from behind clenched teeth. His cock twitches and spurts, releasing hot cum inside of you.

God, let it take hold. Let me have her forever; give us a family. She deserves that.

Robby tremulates and his breath grows ragged. Collapsing atop you in a heap of sweaty limbs once he's emptied himself, he says it over and over again until it's a garbled mess that bleeds together—Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Iloveyou.

Clenching your jaw to keep from bawling due to a sense of panic, you shut your eyes and wait. For him to stop, or let you leave, or fall asleep, you... You don't know. He shouldn't be alone like this, though.

Curling an arm around your waist, in one smooth movement, Robby has turned you onto your side. When his cock slips out of you, cum dribbles out and over your thigh.

When he sucks a nipple into his mouth, your initial response is to assume that he's trying to make himself ready again... Until he starts to suckle.

Is he... Does he have a—a fetish?

Maybe—

"Can you rub my head, sweetheart?"

When you tilt your chin to study him, you find that his face has gone soft and his eyes droop sleepily.

"Relaxes me," he explains. "I'm fucking exhausted after today." Kissing your breast, he licks your opposite nipple. "Be nice to fall asleep in your arms."

Draping an arm around his shoulders, you slide your dominant hand into his hair and do as requested, and he promptly begins to favor your other nipple.

"Promise you'll stay," he mutters between wet, contented sucks.

You rest your cheek against the top of his head. Even if you wanted to leave, you're far too beat to feel safe behind the wheel. "Promise."

He hums happily.

It isn't even a handful of minutes later before quiet snores rumble through Robby's chest and past his parted lips. Staring at the window across the room clad with blackout curtains, you blink back pooling tears, unaware that the dying smartphone in your bag has an awaiting text from Jack.

Interrupted again. "Can't handle the workload anymore, for one. And with power grids going down left and right, it's only a matter of time before we're next. It's right outside our doors; all you have to do is step outside to hear the artillery fire. People would rather—" He shrugs—a gesture that's accompanied by another sigh. "I'm doing as much as I can, and plan to continue doing so until the last second. As for what comes after?"

Robby runs a trembling hand through unkempt hair. The bags beneath his eyes appear as heavy as the invisible weight bearing down upon his broad shoulders—a sight which causes your heart to squeeze painfully.

He hasn't been this bad since Covid.

You were taught to never get attached to your subjects, but he and Jack were different. That, or you made them as much when you started spending ample amounts of time with them outside of working hours. When you left PTMC in the rearview after your assignment was through, your heart ached for them in their absence.

So when the president remained in office for an unconstitutional third term and war began, there was only one place you wanted to be.

"I have no idea what the fuck I'm gonna do," Robby spits. "It's not like there's any safe place left to go. If another hospital will take me... God knows every medical establishment can use all the help they can get right now."

You chew your lip thoughtfully for a moment and watch as personnel clad in dark-colored scrubs run back and forth while body after bleeding body gets rolled in.

"I know some people," you state. "Last we talked, their plan was Washington." Returning your attention to Robby again, you take a small step forward. Reaching for one of his hands, you twine your fingers between his. "Come with me."

Cupping his cheek, you search soft pools of brown pleadingly. "Maybe we can meet them on the road."

"Hey, kiddo." Joel gives you a pat on the knee, then seats himself beside you on a faded metal bleacher. When he extends a plastic water bottle, you take it with a quiet thanks. "You doing alright?"

Unscrewing the cap, you drain a third of the lukewarm liquid before answering. "Are any of us?"

Resting his forearms atop his thighs, Joel huffs a quiet laugh. "Stupid question." Silently watching people mill about, he tilts his head to the side; toward you. "So, war journalism now, huh? What happened to hospital galas and rich philanthropists walking red carpets?"

Hanging your head between your shoulders, you sarcastically swing it in his direction. "Think those days are over, don't you? For awhile, anyway." You lean back. "When Lee called and told me your all's plan, I just made a choice. Well, my first one was to go to PTMC to try and... Document—I guess—what frontline workers were dealing with, same as I did during Covid. But by the time I got there, they had three days left on the clock until the lights were to be shut off. And it's not like this is my first rodeo, y'know?"

Joel nods. "Fair enough." He squints against the beaming overhead sun. "Saw one myself that..." Exhaling slowly, he tries again. "It had a whole wing blown off by C-4," he says with a grimace.

Your mind paints a picture you're more than okay with you not having actually been there to see.

"So," he chirps. "You and the doctor. What's the story there?"

Thankful for the change of subject, you snort. "There isn't one. Not really. Like I said: Covid. And like you said: galas." You gesture to Jack, who's presently leaned back against a tank with crossed arms while he converses with Robby. "They've known each other for years and years. Jack, the soldier, that is, is a doctor too. Not long after the fighting started, he left to do what he could; to help. Robby didn't know what else to do with himself with the hospital being closed, so I offered for him to come along for the ride."

You force a smile and meet Joel's eyes. "To Old Dominion."

"Next stop, D.C.," he quips.

"You really think he's there?" you question doubtfully. "I mean, yeah, maybe he technically is, but it's not like any one soldier will be able to just waltz into the Oval Office to perform an execution. They've probably got him sequestered away in a bunker somewhere."

Joel takes a sip of his water. "Might be the case. And if it is," he stands, "somebody'll know where. City's only defended by radical splinter cells at this point. And with what they've got coming, the Loyalists won't last much longer."

"She seems bizarrely at home here," Robby remarks while observing you acutely from afar.

Jack watches you tightly hug the middle-aged blonde journalist he's yet to become acquainted with. After you brush stray tears from your cheeks, you smile at the younger one and shake her hand.

He'd heard something about one of their riding companions getting caught in the line-of-fire, and wonders then if you knew him well. From the tears, he assumes so.

Studying Robby from beneath his lashes, Jack attempts to gauge whether he's doing as well as he claims to be. "Makes two of us. You?"

Clamping a hand over the back of his neck, Robby rolls his eyes. "Told you I'm fine. I know how to compartmentalize." He eyes Joel warily. "Maybe too well."

Jack purses his lips. "This and Covid are two wildly different things, Mike."

Scrubbing his hands down his face, Robby sighs exhaustively. "What do you wanna know, Jack? Do you want to hear about the bodies we saw swinging from an overhead pass? Or, I dunno, how about the smoking heap of a car with a booster seat in the back that was still fucking occupied by a burnt corpse? That make you happy to know about? Is that what you wanted?!" he shouts irritatedly—a sound which draws unsuspecting stares from nearby spectators.

He doesn't mention how you photographed the former, and that the action horrified him because he failed to understand your lack of tact. But he supposes it's your self-imposed job now: documenting the atrocities this war has wrought so the world can never forget.

As if it seems to give much of a shit as it is.

Jack's brows draw together—bowing slightly at the graying ends in concern. "Yeah, it is. Bottling this shit up isn't good for anybody."

He barks a laugh. "The two of you are!"

"Because we're familiar with war, Robby. She and I—"

"She isn't," he interjects. "So I don't know where the hell you're getting that from."

"Y/N was in Iraq a few years ago, documenting the work Doctors Without Borders was doing there," Jack supplies. "We talked about it one day, after my shift ended."

Robby flinches. "Why wouldn't she have told me that?"

Jack rests steady a palm atop Robby's shoulder. "She just wanted someone to confide in; somebody who'd understand the shit she saw, the nightmares that came from it, and how she was struggling. So I listened, and she did the same for me."

Robby shakes his head and glances back to Jack's olive green tent. "I'm beat." He takes a step back and Jack's hand slips away. "Think I'll just lie down for awhile."

Now he feels on the outs, Jack assumes. Between you and him, you're each familiar with the cost of war, whereas Robby is utterly unfamiliar, apart from whatever he's seen on screen or read in books and articles. "Still daylight out," he mutters disappointedly.

He's only just got here, so Jack had hoped for a bit more time to talk...

"Just for a couple hours." Taking a step in that direction, he half turns back to Jack on his heel. "Lucky you thought to bring it."

"You know me," he calls after him. "Gotta have my go bag. I'm prepared, if nothing else."

At least Robby stocked up on medical supplies—most of which he stole from PTMC when he made the decision at the last minute to tag along like you offered.

It's come in handy more times than he cares to admit.

"Where'd he venture off to?" you ask curiously.

Offering you a granola bar from his MRE, Jack nods in the direction of his tent. "I would say it was to actually grab some rest like he claimed, but I think the real reason is because he feels out of place here."

Peeling the crinkled plastic wrapper open, you regard him with a raised brow.

"You know him," he says while digging into a packet of cold ravioli with a plastic spoon. "Always Mr. Reliable at work. But now that he's out of his depth, and surrounded by strangers who're used to the circumstances..."

You'd taken inventory of it on the way here: how he grew increasingly quiet as the miles passed, and the scenery became all the more gruesome. You hadn't been sure of what to say to coax him back out of his shell, so you didn't say much of anything at all.

Now, you think you perhaps should've. But he's also never been much of a talker. Not when it comes to trauma, that is. You learned as much during Covid when you repeatedly attempted to interview him and only got brief "not nows" in response.

"Should we go talk to him?" you question before taking a bite of the snack you've been given.

What you wouldn't give for a cheeseburger right now with all the fixings—including the toppings you dislike—coupled with a large fry loaded with salt and a cold milkshake to top it all off.

Jack shakes his head. "No. Just give him some space for right now. If Robby feels crowded, he'll snap." After downing a spoonful of ravioli, he chews, swallows, then speaks again. "Told him about your time in Iraq. Think it hurt him—that he was unaware of it."

One more reason for him to feel the odd one out...

"I mean, it's not like I saw any actual fighting. I just documented the healing side of things."

He shrugs a shoulder. "Still. It's how you know them, right?"

"Just Lee," you explain. "The younger woman apparently tagged along with them back in New York, whereas Joel and I met a couple times during Covid. There were these journalistic functions we both attended and had drinks afterward." You take another bite. "He works for Reuters."

"And the gentleman who died?" Jack questions gently.

"Sammy. He worked for The New York Times. Lee was closest to him." Glancing away from Jack, you blink back building tears. "He was her and Joel's mentor."

Jack's lips tug into a frown. "I'm sorry."

You take a drink of your rapidly emptying water bottle. "Me too."

Unexpectedly, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you against the wealth of his sturdy chest. "Glad you're here, though. Both of you." He gives you a peck on top of the head. "I think you and I knowing large swathes of people got to him. Sure, he knows us, but we know others."

Inhaling the musky scent of sweat and pungent gunpowder which cling to him, your eyes flutter closed.

You feel so very weary.

"We're all together now; safe. At least for the time being. If he gets up in a bit, maybe we can both try to talk to him like I said. Or... Get him to talk to us."

Jack nods in agreement. "Maybe."

"$300 for a cheese sandwich?" you hiss in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

Lee rests a knee over an ankle. "They were a lot more interested when I told them I meant Canadian."

Jack lets out a low whistle. "Guess we're partly to blame for it: collapse of the US dollar."

Joel shakes his head and waves a hand in his direction. "Would've happened either way. Military spending was to be expected."

"Might just finally be paying off," Jack replies. "Pun not intended," he finishes with upturned palms meant to signal innocence.

Lee directs her attention behind you. "Looks like we're going to need another seat."

Glancing over your shoulder, you watch as Robby silently approaches with hands tucked into the pockets of his zip-up hoody. You promptly stand and gesture to the plastic chair you've just vacated. "Evening, sleepy head. You can take mine if you want."

He forces a small smile and shakes his head. "It's alright. I can stand."

Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, when he sees Joel considering the overturned bucket he's fashioned into a makeshift chair, he knocks his head to the side. "On second thought..." Robby quickly sits, then tugs you into his lap by your hips, which he circles with his arms.

Throwing one of your own around his shoulders, you submerge your fingers in the overgrown hair at the nape of his neck and gently massage. "You get some sleep?"

He nods. "A bit."

Robby bows his head sheepishly, then trails his eyes along each of your fellow reporters. "Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt."

"Can I ask," you begin while turning to Lee. "What happened... With Sammy?"

"Fucking fascists," grumbles Joel. "They... You never met 'em, but they shot two of our other friends too: Tony and Bohai. Was a paramilitary group," he says, finally launching into explanation. "They had this... Mass grave. Asked all of us one-by-one where we were from, and if you gave any answer other than a US state..."

You brows furrow. "But Sammy was from here."

"He ran them over," Lee interrupts quietly. "Came in full speed ahead in our SUV. They opened fire. He got hit."

You tighten your fingers in the hood of Robby's jacket. "I'm so sorry."

"You wanna tell 'em about Christmas Town?" Joel asks with a chuckle—the change of subject an obvious attempt to lighten the mood.

Robby runs a hand up your back, then rests his cheek against your breast.

"There was a sniper," Lee sighs. "Held up in some brick mansion. Guess they were just trying to keep people away. There was already a couple men there trying to fight back, and they won."

The group grows quiet, so Lee folds her arms. "Sorry. I'm better behind the camera. It's why someone else writes the articles."

"You would've liked the small town we passed through," Joel remarks.

Jessie speaks up then. "It was, like, completely untouched."

"Like driving into a time capsule before all of this started," Joel expounds. "If you had no access to the world outside the city limits—no TV, radio, internet—you'd never know that there was a war on."

"How the hell'd they manage that?" Jack prods curiously.

"Chose not to fight," Jessie explains. "If you don't go looking for trouble, then I guess—"

"Yeah, but how long before looters decide to take them for all they're worth?" you utter cautiously. "Places like that... It won't last. I mean, I hope it does, but..."

Silence again.

"Sorry, man, here we are going back and forth while you haven't gotten a word in edgewise," Joel remarks while looking at Robby.

He shifts beneath you, then pulls you impossibly closer. "Suppose I feel out of my depth here. Like I'm sitting with the big leagues while I'm part of the—not even minor—but little league, I guess."

"No, man, you're a doctor. You're out there saving lives while the rest of us—"

"Are either taking them," Jack mumbles. "Or documenting as much happening."

You turn slightly from atop Robby's thigh and press a tender kiss to his forehead. "There is just as much of a need for healers as there is for soldiers," you quietly assure him.

Lying his head in the crook between your breast and bicep, Robby studies your fellow journalists. "So, how do you all know each other? Anything to do with your time in Iraq?" Robby asks with a squeeze of your waist.

"I told him," Jack whispers while leaning over.

Maybe you should've yourself, but at the time, during Covid, he was already dealing with enough of his own grief. He didn't need yours too.

"That's how we do," Lee confirms—gesturing between the two of you with a pointed finger. "But you and Joel met during Covid, right?"

You nod. "Was this whole Spotlight on Frontline Workers thing."

"We ran into each other at a couple expos," Joel concurs with a smile.

"That all it was?" Robby questions suspiciously. "Work thing?"

Lips tugging into a playful smirk, Joel hunches forward. "You don't have to worry." His eyes flit to you. "We never got around to dinner."

Not that it hasn't gotten to him, but a civil war isn't what finally sends Robby into a huff. No, it's another man's light flirting, who he's only just met.

The three of you now sequestered away inside Jack's tent, you find that there's not much breathing room—Robby's sour mood causing the air to feel all the more charged.

At least there's privacy with the flaps being mostly closed. Jack decided to leave them each pinned slightly back, so as to allow a bit of fresh air inside, though, thankfully.

You'd give your left arm for a shower. Or a bath—including one that someone else has already dirtied before you.

Creature comforts becoming habit, etcetera.

"You should take the cot," Jack says with a jerk of his head to the right where it stands on small metal legs.

Tugging your shirt up and over your head, you toss it in the corner, opting to sleep in a sports bra tonight as an attempted reprieve from the heat. "No, Jack, you're the soldier here. You need your rest far more than someone who's working from behind a camera lens."

"Honey—"

"Why don't we all just sleep on the floor together?" Robby suggests.

When you and Jack turn to look in his direction, he shrinks into himself. "Sorry." He shrugs off his hoody and folds it into a ball. "I'm just..."

Robby sniffles, his chin wobbles, and then he yanks you against his soft chest like a security blanket. "I'm so fuckin' scared," he sobs into your shoulder.

And finally the dam breaks.

"We all are, Robby," Jack reassures him while you quietly shoosh his ragged cries of exhaustion. "But we're together now, so that has to count for something."

Pressing himself against Robby's back, he wraps his arms around both of you. "By tomorrow night, with any luck, he'll be fucking dead. And this will all be over."

You all three opted for the floor in the end. Jack is pressed against Robby's back with fingers twined between his own while you otherwise have a leg hooked over his hip. His face is shoved between your breasts, and his cock buried inside of you while his pudgy belly rests heavily between your thighs.

You wanted to give him this so he could feel safely surrounded tonight.

You all didn't have sex—you and Jack both offered it; something you know has been a long time coming—but Robby was too frazzled, and all of you too exhausted to bother giving something so intimate your all, like it properly deserves.

So here you nakedly lie instead, drifting off to the soothing sound of crickets and cicadas, praying that what Jack said earlier soon comes to fruition.

You snicker when an anvil is dropped atop Wile E. Coyote's head, a most beloved sound which causes Leonard to lift his chin—choosing to watch you for awhile instead of continuing on with reading the novel currently sat in his lap.

He ruminates over it more often than he'd like to admit: how close he came to losing all of this, and for good, when he cast you out after your calling him a name which he now constantly looks forward to hearing morning, noon, and night. All because he felt like he was betraying a family he no longer has; a daughter he'll... That he'll never see again.

Gazing at you with unabashed adoration from over the rim of his glasses, he knows it isn't a sense of replacement that he's seeking with you like he initially thought—punished himself over.

No, just purpose.

You make his life a bit more worth living now. Alright, maybe more than just a bit.

His daughter will always be his little girl, yes, but that doesn't mean that he can't also make room for another.

Watching as you gently twirl the promise ring he gifted you not terribly long after your return here—rather, his carting you back home in his Duster—which he picked up for a pretty penny at a pawn shop in town, Leo smiles.

Its purpose wasn't just one thing.

He wished for it to serve as a symbol of stability and security in your shared relationship; an assurance that you belonged solely to him and he to you, and that through it, he was dedicating himself to you in every way that you needed so you could finally feel safe. And that he would fill every role you wished for him to this time around without conflict.

Father, lover, husband, confidant, teacher, protector, and provider.

In terms of the latter most... He knows you hate what he does. That it serves only to remind you of the life you were trying so hard to leave behind when you fled the derelict house your parents called home, in exchange for the North Carolina wilds. But so, too, is that ring a promise of better days to come.

A promise that he wholly intends to make good on.

When the dogs start barking outside, you jolt, then jerk your head in Leo's direction and stare at him with wide, frightened eyes. With a sigh, he leans over and grabs his pistol from a nearby table, followed by tucking it into his waistband and throwing his button-up flannel over it in an act of concealment.

A knock sounds at the front door just a moment later.

Speak of the devil and—

"You in, professor?" calls Carlton while welcoming himself inside—presumptuous asshole that he is.

Your heart now pattering away like a jackrabbit's, you pull a folded blanket from the back of the couch and fan it across your naked legs before turning the volume down on the TV.

No time to hide away in the bedroom this time, unfortunately.

"Yeah," croaks Leo. "Come on in."

Rounding the now open front door, the hefty man steps inside and promptly greets you with a toothy smile. "Well," he drawls. "Was wonderin' when we'd get a chance to become acquainted with one another."

When he extends his hand in your direction, you look to Leo before taking it. When he grants you a terse nod, you cringe, but ultimately plant your palm atop Carlton's. When he folds his grubby fingers around the back of your hand, it takes all your might not to cringe. He lifts it to his lips and brushes a kiss over the back of it. "Pleasure's all mine, young lady," he asserts with a wink.

Jerking the limb back to you, you swiftly hide it away beneath the blanket.

Out of sight, out of mind. You'll scrub it with antiseptic later.

Leaning back on his heels, Carlton hooks his thumbs over each of his front pockets and nods to Leonard. "Figured I'd come by for my cut, seein' as I was in the area."

When Leo rises from his recliner, a metal spring groans when it pops back into place.

You watch wordlessly as he heads in the direction of the bedroom to rifle through the strong box stored beneath the bed, and you remain looking in that direction, lest Carlton be left to think that eye contact equals a want for conversation. Now left alone together, you can practically feel his eyes roaming across your skin, much like a parasitic insect does its prey—with spindly legs and searching antennae.

You hate him, and hope he dies a horrible death sooner rather than later.

"Alright," Leo calls from the hall—his return signaled by thumping footsteps. "Got it here."

You breathe a sigh of relief when he reappears.

Slapping a stack of folded bills down in the scumbag's outstretched hand, Leo takes a step back.

Carlton tucks the cash away into a back pocket.

"Not gonna count it?" questions Leo with crossed arms.

"Oh, no, professor. I trust you well enough. 'Sides, if you ever tried to short me... Well, I know where you and this pretty one live," he finishes with a wink shot in your direction. "Might just have you make it right in a non-monetary sort of way, if you catch my meanin', were that to happen."

Brushing his flannel back a touch, Leo settles a heavy hand over the grip of his pistol. "You ever come near her—you ever speak to her again after today—and it'll be the last thing you do. She belongs to me and me alone. You understand?"

Inopportune time for liquid warmth to pool between your thighs, but—

Carlton mockingly raises his hands in faux surrender, but you can see the way they lightly tremble, as well as the hint of fear that fills his dark eyes that wasn't there even a moment ago. "Never took you for the possessive type, but a man's property's a man's property." He drops his hands. "I know it well enough." He nods, then turns for the door. "Be seein' ya."

Once the door has shut behind him, you throw the blanket aside and jump up, into Leo's arms. Burying your face in his neck, and wrapping your legs around his ample waist, you whine tearfully. "Daddy—"

Softly shooshing you, he smooths a hand down the back of your head. "It's alright, sweetheart, he's gone. Everythin's alright. You're safe; I've gotcha."

Carrying you back to the bedroom, Leo gently kicks the door shut behind himself before lying you down on the bed with the intention of making all your worries go away with a tender bit of lovemakin' to pass the time.

You pant heatedly against Leo's chest that's smattered with coarse brown hair. Gently pawing at the soft swell of his gut, you stare up at him through bleary eyes. "P-please," you whimper with a pouty lower lip extended for emphasis.

Easing his fingers back between your fluttering walls just the same as he's been doing for the last fifteen minutes, Leo runs the thumb of his opposite hand between your knitted brows. "What is it, honey?" he whispers quietly.

"I want you inside of me," you sniffle. "Please."

Removing his slick fingers from inside your cunt, he dips his chin and presses a lingering kiss to your forehead. "Alright, baby, just gimme a minute."

Pushing himself overtop of you, Leo cups your cheek and eyes his bedside table.

"Don't," you insist with raised hips. Brushing your weeping cunt against the thick tuft of hair that sits above his heavy cock, you curl your fingers in his beard. "Just you, daddy."

Bracketing his other arm beside your head, his eyes flit between yours with wavering uncertainty. "Are you sure, darlin'?"

You nod and smile happily. "Yes."

Lifting his arm, he reaches between his thighs and takes himself in hand. Swiping the mushroom tip of his swollen erection between your wet folds, he eases gently inside you—inch by inch.

Your eyes nearly flutter closed at the relaxing feel of him so close. The two of you connected so intimately like this—familiarly—is heaven. He curses quietly once he's bottomed out, then grants you a moment to adjust, same as always.

Kissing warm tears from your soft cheeks, Leo smiles encouragingly. "Is this what you needed, sweetheart?"

You nod fervently, then wrap your arms around his tanned neck. "Thank you, thank you, thank you," you babble contentedly.

Only words you manage to make out are "The" and "It" before losing interest entirely. Tucking it back away, you consider the rear of the house before spotting a modestly-sized kitchen at the front. Eyeing a box of Pop-Tarts on the counter, you reach it in record time and rip the cardboard top off before prying out a foil packet and tearing it open with your teeth to get at the frosted pastries inside.

Only after you've gone through four of them do you bother wrenching open the rest of the cabinets and cupboards in search of other treats to take with you on your journey to God knows where after this. Makes no never mind to you whether the man who lives here'll miss 'em or not.

Small glass jars and condiments clink together when you open the fridge door next. You greet a container of pickled eggs with a raised brow before moving on. Swiping a can of peaches from the top shelf, you set it on the kitchen table with the rest of your gathered provisions.

The low rumble of an engine suddenly grows nearer then, causing you to still like a deer in headlights. Reverberations swell, and you consider the still open window with wide eyes and a pounding heart.

When he kills the engine, you bolt toward the back of the house.

Searching every room in a frenzied panic for a place to hide, you opt for the closet in the bedroom with a lack of other options at your disposal. Shoving a pair of wooden folding doors open, you grit your teeth and curse—fighting desperately to get them shut again. Kicking a scuffed boot out of the way, they finally slide closed, submerging you in muffled silence. Daylight streams through the thin wooden slats in front of you, drawing lines across your neck and breasts and knees.

You hope it doesn't soon turn to rope instead, should he find you here. Not many men 'round these mountains got a gentle disposition... Like your daddy.

Why didn't you hide the damn food?

Hinges creak open, followed by the front door being slammed shut, and silence descends once more.

You count the seconds and the seconds between the seconds while holding your breath in anticipation of what comes next. Would've, could've, should've thrown yourself back out the window.

You just wasn't thinkin' straight, not expectin' him to be back anytime soon. He'd only just left when you bothered comin' in.

"Come on out now," commands a deep, steady timbre, underscored by a southern drawl.

He's down the hall; doesn't know where you are yet. But you imagine there ain't many places to hide in a house as small as this one. Not from what you saw, anyway.

Footsteps grow closer, and your breath hitches in your throat.

He's in the doorway now.

"Outta the closet 'fore I start firin'," he warns. "Nice and slow. With your hands raised."

Reluctantly obeying the orders set before you, you slowly slide the doors open again, then emerge with palms held in front of your chest. Stepping over the boot from earlier, you stare at the tall, bearded man who's holding a revolver aimed at your belly. Would be a terrible waste, considerin' that the toaster treats are still digestin'.

Lowering the weapon with a sigh, he pops the lever back into place and tucks the gun away into the waistband of his jeans. "Christ," he sighs. Running a hand down his weathered face, the strange man crosses his arms atop a round belly. "You're just a kid."

You glower. "I'm older'n that."

Snorting amusedly, he shakes his head. "Younger than I am, so that makes you one in my eyes." Jerking his head toward the hall, he eyes you curiously. "You take anything else? Or just what I found in the kitchen?"

Raising your chin, you meet him with defiance. "Just the snacks. Pop-Tarts are coming with me."

He barks a laugh. "The ones you bothered not eatin', sure." Lips quirking into a grin, he tilts his head. "You still hungry?"

Clink, clink, clink.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

"Slow down," Leonard—that's his name, you've now learned—insists with a large, steady hand rested on your shoulder. "Or you'll choke, if not make yourself sick."

You tug the dish territorially toward you.

"If you're still hungry after, I'll make you another plate. Just... Give it a chance to settle first."

Stabbing another slice of country ham with your fork, you pop it in your mouth and chew. But slowly this time.

Seems to please him when you do, so you take a sip of juice and nibble on a buttered roll next.

Might just be the best meal you've ever had, you think.

He chuckles. "Should mind our table manners, starvin' or not."

"I ain't got none," you grumble over a mouthful of food.

Wooden chair creaking when he leans back, he slides the pad of his thumb down a glass bottle of beer slick with condensation. "Don't have any."

Cheeks bulging with food, your brows draw together. "What?"

"Don't have any table manners," he enunciates. "Proper way of speakin'."

You shrug, uninterested in a grammar lesson right now. Or ever.

"Elbows," he continues with a nod. Leonard slides his own off the table until just his forearms remain positioned on either side of his porcelain plate in way of example.

"Why's it matter?" you question after swallowing.

He lifts a shoulder. "Just does. Not here necessarily, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't learn. Also impolite to talk with your mouth full."

"It's not now," you counter.

"But it was." Grabbing his fork with one hand and a serrated knife with the other, you watch as he slices into a salty slice of ham. "Things to keep in mind if you're plannin' on stayin' here for awhile."

You perk up at that. Crossing your ankles, you study his features—waiting for his eyes to crease at the edges, or for his mouth to turn upwards into a mocking smile, indicating that it's all one big joke. Such a reaction never comes, however. "I... I can stay? Here?"

"'Less you got some place else to be. But from the sight of you, I take it that's not the case?" He slides a bite of ham off his fork and chews.

So he thinks he knows everything, apparently. Actin' like he can read you like you're one of his lengthy novels when you've only just met. "It could be."

He studies you with a quizzical brow. "You just do B 'n' Es for fun, then? Never heard of a grocery store?"

You roll your eyes, then peel fluffy buttermilk bread apart. "This way's cheaper."

Leonard huffs a laugh. "Given you don't get caught." He takes a pull from his beer. "Where've you been stayin'?"

You bob your head from side to side. "Here and there."

He leans forward. "Meanin'?" he presses.

You stuff half a roll in your mouth. "Nowhere."

Thought as much, he thinks, but doesn't say. He keeps diggin' long and hard enough, and he'll get the answers he desires. You seem pretty harmless—just looking for a bit of food, and maybe even some clean clothes—but one can never be too sure.

Not here in Marshall.

"You like readin'?" he inquires with folded arms.

You shift in your seat. "Don't have much time for it."

"Should make time," he groans while standing. Padding over to shelves brimming with stories you'll surely never read, Leonard peruses the selection put before him with hands planted on his narrow hips.

"What's your favorite genre?" he calls over his shoulder. "Romance? Mystery? Non-fiction, maybe?"

Quietly sipping your drink, you silently will him to drop the subject. "I dunno," you mutter. "Didn't have many books growin' up."

Not sure you had any, truthfully. Your folks were more concerned with spendin' what little money they had on keepin' beer in the fridge and meth in a bulb for smokin'.

"Well," he begins before turning on his heel with a book in hand. "This is one of my favorites. Faulkner can be a bit..." He sucks his teeth.

Leonard sets the book on the table and nervously rubs at his brow with his thumbnail. "Can both be easy to read and not, dependin' on the person, I s'pose. Used a style for this one called stream of consciousness. Peculiar when you first start it, but once you've got the hang of what he was tryin' to convey—" he shrugs. "I flew through it my first time."

Man sure does like his ten dollar words, you muse. Makes him sound full of himself. But also worldly and intelligent, in a confident, lived-in sort of way.

You wish your daddy had been more like him growin' up. Or even just your mama. Carin'. Instead, they was—

He taps a finger on the title. "Can you tell me what that says?"

By his tone, you would think he was requesting something simple—like for you to pass the salt, or tell him what time it is. Not somethin' you're incapable of doin'.

You've lost your appetite all of a sudden.

"I—I will later," you whisper ashamedly.

"Like for you to now," says Leonard.

Balling your hands into fists beneath the table where they rest in your lap, you study printed letters through eyes blurred from welling tears. "As I... L—" A, but not a hard A. Its sound should be similar to the A from the first word. "L-ay..." You huff in frustration after a beat of silence.

"You're illiterate," he murmurs with just a hint of mild disbelief.

Jerking your head back, you scowl up at him—your face immediately heating in burning mortification. "I'm not stupid!" you shout acidically.

"Didn't say you were," he assures with a gentle hand cupping the back of your head. "Just a word, like any other. That's its definition is all: if you can't read or write, you're illiterate. It's nothin' bad, darlin'. Promise."

Sitting again, he slides a calloused palm between your shoulder blades. "I could teach you. It's what I used to do. I mean, not English. History. But—"

You cock your head to the side and narrow your eyes. "What do you do now?"

Leonard's pursed lips morph into a lopsided smile. "Everything I shouldn't."

You can't help but return the funny look on his face. "Me too."

A lengthy spool of nylon whirrs, followed by a colorful bobber plopping atop the water's surface while the baited hook sinks beneath it once more. "It's not workin'," you mumble. Curling your toes against smooth gray stone, you glance to him over your shoulder.

Seated atop a threadbare towel, Leonard's long legs extend before him while his bare feet are crossed at the ankles. Resting back against a girthy tree trunk, he's currently thumbing through one of those Civil War recountings he so often likes to busy himself with.

His concentration otherwise occupied with somethin' else for the time being, you take the opportunity to appreciate the sight of his pudgy belly, as well as the planes of dark hair found all across his brawny chest that's been left bare for you to peruse with hungry eyes due to his shirt being unbuttoned.

Following a thick trail of hair to the waistband of his faded jeans, you lick your lips.

The corner of his own twitch into an almost-grin. "Have an easier time of it if you took your attention off of me and gave it to the fish instead."

You stomp and unknowingly send minnows scurrying in a panic when water splashes up onto your thighs. "I have been," you whine. "Maybe the bait's bad."

He shakes his head and turns the page. "Bait's fine, baby. Just need to be patient. They'll come."

With a huff, you turn back around. "Could bother doin' it a little faster."

"Why?" he calls from behind you. "Got somewhere else you need to be?"

You shrug and begin to reel in again with a quiet click, click, click. "Over there with you. Havin' you read to me."

"That what you were interested in?" Leonard rests an arm behind his head. "My readin' materials?"

You sigh in exasperation. "Maybe the fish moved up river."

Studying the back of your own with a toothy grin, he shakes his head. "They're there. You'll get one 'fore long. Surprised you're so eager to make a catch in the first place."

You raise a brow. "Why's that?"

"'Cause you're going to be the one to bleed and gut it," Leo explains after resituating his glasses upon the narrow bridge of his nose. "Not to mention cleanin' it."

You nearly drop the pole. "What? No! I just wanted to catch one. You can do all the dirty work."

"Never gonna learn if I do it all for you," he retorts.

You screw your face and repeat what he's just said in a quiet, sardonic tone.

"What was that, sweetheart?" calls Leo over his book.

"Nothing!" you chirp. "Just talking to myself."

Suddenly, something tugs on the line. Narrowing in on the bobber, you gently jerk the pole back toward you... And then the frenzy begins. Droplets fly into the air while a fish swishes this way and that—desperate to escape. Just as you've gripped the handle to turn the reel, Leo shuts his book and sets it to the side. "Pull it in the opposite direction of where the fish is going, And don't reel it in while it's fighting or you'll snap the line off. Only do it once it's exhausted itself."

After a terse nod is granted, you do as instructed.

Once the fish has calmed, you reel as fast as your hand will allow—until your bicep is burning as result of your diligent efforts. Just when the animal is about to break the surface, it starts battling yet again. Not about to lose all your hard-earned progress, however, you stumble back a few feet and wrench it from the water by yanking the pole upwards.

A fat, squirming trout whose scales glisten in the sun emerges—a wanted sight that causes you cry out in victory. "I did it!" you holler. "I caught one! I did it, daddy! I got it!"

Now standing on the shore, Leonard smiles. "Proud of you, honey." He gestures for the pole. "I'll take care of it this time, but next—"

You come splashing out of the water and excitedly wrap your arms around his neck before showering him in kisses. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

Settling his arms around your waist, Leo kisses the tip of your nose. "You're welcome, sweetheart."

You beam with a toothy smile. "Are you proud of me?"

Cupping the back of your head, his honeyed gaze holds the same contented warmth the sun provides to all life here on Earth. "Always am when it comes to my little girl."

Without him looking after and providing for you—in unseemly ways or otherwise—you'd still be haunting the local woods at night trying to find a safe place to rest your head every evening. Or tempting ne'er-do-wells at various watering holes in towns, hoping they might spare you a shred of kindness and buy you something to fill your aching tummy because they found you pretty enough to spare the time. But those men always wanted something in return for it... 'Til him.

"Still young and learnin'," he replies with affectionate reassurance. "Could live a thousand years and still not know all there is to."

"Had to teach me to read and write." School system never could be bothered to care anymore for you than your drunk daddy or addict mama did. So you ran and searched until you found—much to your surprise—someone who did. "Never bothered you?"

"If it did," he sighs. "Then I wouldn't have offered to see it through. Wouldn't have held onto every page you wrote the alphabet on for safe-keepin'." He shuts the book. "Treasures to me now, just like you."

There's a pleasant ache between your legs where Leonard made love to you not even an hour ago. It's your favorite part of being here: warming his bed.

That, and eating TV dinners and playing with the dogs outside.

Sometimes you worry you're too young for him, even though you feel very old sometimes. Maybe it's just exhaustion from the weight of the world.

Pawing gently at the generous swell of his gut, you appreciate the weight of him; how sturdy he is. It always grounds you. You'd been something akin to a mangy mut when you first arrived. Or... Rather when you broke in looking for food to steal when he wasn't home. Skin had been stuck tight to your ribs with no healthy cushioning to speak of. Now, you think you've filled out quite nicely.

Gazing at Leo while carefully tracing the softened lines of his face with deft fingertips as he sleeps, you blink wispy lashes. On occasion, you think of him as more father than lover. You've always wanted one, 'cause the one God gave you wasn't worth a lick and he seems suitable enough for the position.

You'd tried calling him as much once.

It'd not ended well.

Saw you cast back out into the cold with him shouting with angry vehemence that he already had a daughter and wasn't looking for another. That he wasn't your old man and had no interest in filling the role, so you best get lost.

When he found you three days later, you'd been in town... Digging in a dumpster for scraps like some feral creature.

A bottomless well of guilt had gotten the better of Leonard when he saw the sorry sight of you, so he packed you away in his Plymouth and took you back with a bunch of apologies to accompany.

It took a long time after that for him to re-earn your trust. For you to even speak to him again or let him touch you.

Long time.

Even now, you sometimes think about leaving. Nothing ever lasts, including this. You know it.

Day'll come when he's had his fill of looking after a girl with hardly any sense in her head and decide that he wants to try the family thing again, you figure.

You want to tell him that you can be his daughter if he wants. You wouldn't mind. Not at all. But you also learned long ago as a girl that it's best to keep your mouth shut about business men don't seem to have much interest in talkin' about. Besides, given how handy he is with a gun, you don't mean to go tickin' him off and givin' him cause to use it.

You don't truly think he ever would, however. He's gentler than that, even if people around say otherwise.

All those books he keeps, and not one tells you anymore about him than what he means for you to know.

Tugging the thin sheet that covers you a touch higher and over your naked shoulder, you loose all the breath in your lungs before inhaling again.

You know enough about his life before and how he was a teacher, though. That a jaded student was responsible for his downfall when he planted some pot in his car after some failed test or other. Lost his job for it, followed by his family soon thereafter, Leonard had explained one night after a few glasses of Tennessee whiskey had mingled with his bloodstream.

He says he's not your father, yes, but when he pours you a bowl of cereal in the morning or gives you a warm bath when you're too tired to care about being clean, you wonder if he doesn't feel otherwise in his heart.

Leaning your head forward, you press your lips to his, but real careful like, so you don't wake him. "I love you, daddy," you whisper. Burrowing into his chest, your eyes flutter closed in search of sleep.

The musky scent of his cologne invades your senses and sooths your mind. Pine needles littering a forest floor, from which the aroma of burnt woodsmoke emanates from, fills you.

"So says you," he mutters before turning on his heel. "Yorkel—"

"Poor spoilt little princeling got his feelings hurt by... What?" you jeer. You trail your eyes along a life-size painted doll which lies discarded to the side. "A puppet? And you think to liken yourself to the Black Dread?" you mock, laughing with incredulity.

Stalking forward, you grab his arm forcefully, then spin him around on his heel.

"You do not—"

Swinging your fist back, it meets with delicate cartilage and a satisfying crack sounds when your knuckles fracture his nose. A gesture which is meant with quiet "Oooohs" from the witnessing audience.

Cupping his hands beneath nostrils a flood of fresh blood now pours from, Aerion looses a guttural growl like an animal wounded. "You fucking—"

You swing again, but make his left cheekbone your target this time. The sheer force of the hit sends him stumbling. Making quick work of his being knocked off balance, you clamp a hand over his shoulder and force him to his knees.

Sinking claw-like fingertips into his scalp, you wrench his head back and gesture broadly between the girl and the knight with a pointed finger. "Call off your dogs. Now!"

Baring white teeth that glitter crimson in the dim light, Aerion snarls.

"Say it!" you scream.

Drawing your fist back again, he sputters. "F-Fine! Let the shitstain of a knight go. I'll deal with him later."

You shake your head with pursed lips. Leaning down, you stare into his good eye, as the other has now swollen shut—a sight which admittedly pleases you to see. "No. You will apologize and the matter will be considered settled once and for all."

"You can't—" he cries, interrupted by a stinging slap across the face.

"Apologize!" you shout fervently—that now bloodied hand remaining raised and ready for further action.

Spitting up a mouthful of blood, it splatters upon the knight's tunic. "Sorry," he mumbles.

Gesticulating to the weeping girl, you tighten your fingers in his hair. "Now to her," you sneer.

"I'm sorry," he whispers in defeat.

You draw your fist back for one final blow.

"Princess!" roars a baritone tenor behind you.

You grit your teeth and scowl at Maekar over your shoulder.

"That is enough," he asserts with arms folded coolly behind him. "The Prince has learned his lesson. This display is unbecoming."

An unexpected laugh bursts from your lips. "If you do not mean to teach your son common decency, then I will," you seethe.

His steps are evenly measured—much reminding you of your own father's disposition in this moment when anger is most assuredly acceptable. "Let him go," Maekar rasps near the shell of your ear; his warmth breath fanning across your flushed cheek. "Your point has been made and the matter is now settled. Your temper burns as hot as molten fire. Would you see the entire tent set aflame to quench your thirst for reprisal?"

A pale hand adjusts something just below his waist, but just as quickly, it disappears behind his cloak again.

Loosening your hold upon your cousin, his head bobs exhaustedly. Tilting it back, you steel yourself for whatever insults are about to come your way. "You impudent little—"

Unable to contain yourself, you strike Aerion hard enough to send him toppling over and onto his back. When he curls into the fetal position as a useless form of protection against your wrath, you smirk in satisfaction. "I hear word of anything unpleasant befalling the knight or the puppetress, and you will answer directly to me, cousin."

Exiting the tent in a flash of skirts, Maekar grants hasty orders to each of his son's henchman to see him escorted to his own tent for the night before following you to yours.

"Do you've any idea the spectacle you just made of yourself?"

Scrubbing dried blood from your dominant hand in a clean bowl of water, you snort and shrug indifferently. "But your ill-behaved son didn't?" you snipe.

Maekar drags calloused palms down an exhausted face. "You wish to speak to me of ill behavior?" he groans with a condemnatory tone.

Once your hands are washed clean of any trace of Aerion's blood, you dry your hands, then toss the linen towel to the side before folding your arms. "You let that boy run wild with fantasies of being untouchable. Thinking—" you drag an exasperated hand through your hair. "Thinking that he may do as he pleases simply because he bears the surname Targaryen. Wearing a sword does not imbue him with an inherent sense of justice. Clearly."

"Nor does a satin dress you with gentility. Clearly," he echoes.

Toeing off your shoes, you kick them away with an irritated huff. Padding across richly woven rugs, you begin tearing at the laces that would see you trapped in the aforementioned garment for the remainder of the evening. Just as you think to call for your handmaiden, Maekar steps forward.

"Turn around," he commands. Not one for patience in the moment, however, he grips each of your arms and spins you until you're facing away from him.

Making deft work of the ties that bind you, you curl your hands into fists. "I can do it myself."

"Gods, you're a fucking brat. Truly," he ridicules.

Shoving the dress down to your waist, you shimmy out of it the remainder of the way before grabbing the neckline and tossing the gown atop your folding screen.

Circling back around, you tilt your head back and raise a brow in challenge. "If I'm such miserable company, then you're welcome to leave. Uncle," you spit.

His upper lip quivers with rage. In an instant, he's on you. His lips crash down upon yours, his hands encircle your waist, and his erection presses firm against the soft skin of your belly.

Throwing your own arms around his neck, you deepen the embrace with parted lips and a hot, explorative tongue sweeping across his own.

Maekar guides you back toward the bed, and when your knees knock against it, you turn and lie face-down with raised, eager hips.

The metal tines of his belt click quietly before it—along with his scabbard—clatter to the floor. You bunch up the thin material of your shift and drag it above your waist. Cool air washes across your naked skin, but a fire remains burning hot between your thighs.

"Fuck," he curses while freeing his erect cock from his trousers. "Why aren't you wearing any smallclothes?"

A lazy grin spreads across your lips. "Does it matter?" you drawl. "Seems to be serving you rather well."

Knocking your legs apart with a booted foot, Maekar plants a large palm atop your shoulder while the other guides his cock between your slick, fluttering walls.

Hopping onto your tiptoes, you clench blankets fisted tightly in your quivering hands. "Gods, uncle," you sigh wantonly.

Leaning over you and sinking impossibly deeper, he encourages your shift above your head before removing it entirely and throwing it across the tent.

Cupping your breasts, he snaps his hips against yours. "You drive me fucking mad," he grates. "At times, I think you do it on purpose."

Willing to meet his every thrust, you buck your hips back against his own. When the unmistakable sound of skin against skin fills the previously quiet space, you chuckle darkly. "Are you complaining?"

He reels back and grabs your hips between his hands before setting a pleasant, punishing pace. "Hardly."

Lifting a leg atop the mattress to grant him better access to what he's so eager to spill himself inside of, you shove your face into a feather pillow. "He deserves what I gave him," you mumble.

"Don't talk about my son when I'm fucking you," he cautions.

You raise your shoulder. "Well enough by me."

His ministrations send soft ripples through the plump skin of your ass and his cock twitches at the sight, along with your every whimper and whispered surety of love.

Sliding easily between your contracting walls, Maekar finds his finish upon him sooner rather than late. Consequence of your temperamental display. It always sends his blood racing squarely between his legs when he bears witness to you so lost in your own righteousness

Holding onto the wrist of his hand that is now situated beside you, you twine your fingers between his while quietly begging for your release.

"Please, uncle," you whine. "Inside me. Please."

Maekar grinds his teeth together and his hips stutter forward.

"Like that," you encourage. "I'm nearly—"

"Gods," he moans. His testicles tightening close to the base of his lengthy cock, Maekar throws his head back and sighs with relief when they empty inside of you in thick ropes of virile seed.

Smooshing your face back into a drool-covered pillow, you wiggle your hips against the thick tuft of hair that sits above his hardened member and squeal with quiet delight when your walls rapidly pulse around where he's buried so very deep inside of you; milking him for every last drop he has to offer.

When Maekar collapses atop you in a series of ragged breaths, you extend an arm behind you to cup the back of his head that's flush with silken silver hair. "Much better," you sigh.

He has barely the mental fortitude to roll his eyes. "Your father will be cross with you come the morrow." Maekar plants a sloppy kiss upon the back of your neck.

Instead, your face crumpled the moment the door swung open, followed by you throwing yourself at his chest and collapsing in his arms while you sobbed—grief-stricken over the baby which died inside of you.

You'd secretly prayed for such an end. And when you actually got it, determined that you were a monster.

You deserve everything that's happened.

"Just drink some water," Frank murmurs softly while rubbing soothing circles against your back with his palm.

Sat on the edge of a too-familiar bed you'd like to watch burn someday, he hands you a plastic cup which trembles between your hands.

You shake your head. "Can't," you whisper tearily.

He cradles the base of your scalp then and lifts the cup toward your lips. You take a few small sips of lukewarm water before turning away.

Least he could've done is go get ice. Instead, you're sure he otherwise busied himself with taking a pill.

"Have you..." he trails off with a sigh and sets the drink to the side. "Does anybody know?"

"That you raped me?" you bark with a vicious scowl. "Or that my baby is dead? No," you sneer. "Don't worry—your disgusting secrets are safe."

He hangs his head between his shoulders. "I'm sorry," he mutters. "I—" Frank shakes his head. "I'm so fucking sorry."

"I helped you. Everything I did: taking time off work, sacrificing sleep, not to mention my own sanity, going against my moral compass while we carried on here, and that— That was what you did to me in return as thanks." You stand suddenly and Frank follows suit.

"Baby, I—"

Suddenly and with great force, you shove him back by the shoulders.

He stumbles, and only just manages to right himself before you do it again.

"I hate you!" you cry. "You destroyed me!" you shout, accompanied by another push. "I hope you overdose! It's what you deserve! You've ruined all our fucking lives!"

You keep shoving and shoving and shoving until he's finally backed against the wall next to the door, and then you start slapping. His chest, his face, his neck—all of it.

"Y/N, stop!" he shouts while attempting to combat your violent outburst.

"My baby!" you wail. "Something I didn't even want—you took it away from me! It's because of you!"

Clasping his hands tightly around either of your wrists, Frank spins you around and pulls your back against his chest while keeping a firm hold on your squirming limbs.

"Let go of me!" you scream.

"This doesn't fix any of it!" he bellows right in your ear. "It doesn't change the shit I've done!"

You double-over his arms. Hideous, gut-wrenching sobs wrack through your body, and with his biceps tangled around you, it paints the illusion of being suffocated. "Please," you blubber. "Make it stop! It hurts! I can't do this anymore..." you moan defeatedly.

Finally releasing you, you turn on your heel and cling to him. Burying your face in his chest, you release a quiet, strangled cry and Frank holds you close while all that pent-up sorrow you've been containing soaks into the front of his t-shirt.

"I can give you something," he mutters with a soft kiss against your brow. "If you really want it to stop. It'll... It'll help you relax."

You tilt your head back and stare up at him through blurry, tear-filled eyes.

The room has grown quiet again, thus granting you a moment of reprieve from the storm. "Okay."

A bitter pill dissolves on your tongue before you take a hearty swig of water to wash it down with a quiet gulp.

"It won't take long," Frank assures while taking the crinkled cup from your grip again. "You'll feel better soon."

You'd asked him who the orange bottle belonged to, but before you could voice the sentiment aloud, he spoke it into existence: doesn't matter. And it doesn't, you suppose.

Nothing does.

Not anymore.

Helping you out of your clothes—minus your underthings so that you'll be comfortable—Frank peels back the heavy duvet atop the bed before ushering you under it. Following suit, he draws you against his chest and holds you there.

Such a familiar position.

Old habits die hard, they say.

When your heart slows and your lids begin to droop, you smile softly. "Think it's working," you drawl slowly; lazily.

With your body now feeling like it's pleasantly numb and your head like it's floating, you nuzzle against his breastbone.

"Good," he replies. Frank kisses the crown of your head and squeezes you gently. "I am sorry. For all of it. If... If I could take it back—"

"Doesn't matter now," you interrupt, essentially echoing his earlier statement about the drugs. "Feels easier if it doesn't."

You slide your hands up his naked back.

"Does this mean..." he swallows thickly and pets the back of your head. "Does it mean you've come back to me? I was scared that I'd lose you. To Robby, or—"

Your brows knit together. "Robby?" you inquire ignorantly. "What does he have to do with anything?"

He exhales a sigh of relief. Even now, you never noticed. Too otherwise caught up in him and your indecent affair, apparently.

Frank never meant to manipulate, but it seems he managed to burrow inside your head like a parasitic insect anyway.

But with Abby filing for divorce and full custody, you're all he has left to lose, since the rest is now gone. You were his second chance, and now it seems you're giving him as much: an opportunity to set things right again.

"Nothing," he shoots back before you think on it for too long. "Just me being paranoid over losing the love of my life."

You don't know that this is that, but are too exhausted to argue now.

Soon, you drift off to sleep.

You're awoken at 7:30 the next morning with a buzzing phone you otherwise choose not to answer when you slide a red decline button toward the middle of the glass screen.

A moment later, a text pops up from Robby: Where are u sweetheart?You ok? do u need me to come get you if ur having car troubles?

Swiftly replying before shutting your phone off altogether, you turn onto your side and bury your face in Frank's chest while he twines his arms around you once more.

In the middle of the night, he gave you another pill, so you're too far gone to care about work. You'd rather rest with your lover now.

Standing in the middle of the ED, a cold chill runs down Robby's spine when he reads over your curt reply again and again, sure that you don't mean it: I'm not coming back.

He types out a panicked reply, but all the message shows is sent.

Robby looks up and follows his line-of-sight to the head of the room. "Y/N?" he questions.

Jack shrugs. "I mean, it's not like either of us have ever shied away from making it obvious that she's our favorite." Turning his head, he scowls at Robby. "'Til you stole her from nightshift."

Robby grins. "She had to switch to day if we wanted to keep her on when she became a resident."

Jack rolls his eyes sarcastically. "So, are you going to ask her, or am I?"

Robby crosses his arms while keeping his gaze focused on you. "You really think that'd be the best look? Both of us on one of her arms and squeezed between us all night at an already cramped table? There's going to be photographers, Jack. She'd never hear the end of it after the photos go up online." He takes a step closer. "How long before a rumor gets started that she's sleeping her way to the top?" he whispers.

Jack stands at full height with his feet evenly planted on tile floor. "Listen, the invitations stated that we can each have a plus one. So we bring one." He raises a brow. "Weren't you just complaining the other day about Park circlin' her more than you cared to see? You know he's going, too, right?"

Robby's eyes flit to Jack.

He continues. "You okay with the idea of him taking her instead? Because I wouldn't put it past him for this to be the first year he finally takes an actual date instead of a one-night stand, so long as it's her."

Robby wavers for a moment, then drops his arms before heading in your direction.

"You got much left to do, sweetheart?" Robby asks while pressing a steady hand to the small of your back.

You shake your head and return the clipboard you were just signing paperwork upon to its corresponding cradle. "No, that was the last of it," you reply with a gentle smile. "Why?"

"Somethin' we wanna talk to you about," he states while nodding toward Jack, who stands on the other side of you.

"C'mon," Jack says while bobbing his head in the direction of the ambulance bay outside.

Shifting nervously from atop the brick half-wall you're seated upon, you stare up at Robby who's standing in front of you, then glance to Jack out of the corner of your eye who's sitting on your right. "Am I in trouble?" you ask quietly. "Did I—"

"Course not," Jack says while cupping the back of your head.

A statement Robby mimics the sentiment of by shaking his own. "You're aware of the gala that's coming up in a few days, right?"

Your brows knit together and you nod slowly. "Yes..."

Robby looks to Jack with an unreadable expression, which seems to be bordering on entertained.

"Come with us," Jack offers while winding an arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. "As our date."

Your eyes flit to asphalt and you blink dumbly. "To the...gala."

Robby's lips twitch into a smirk. "Yes, sweetheart," he replies while stepping forward. "We both want you there."

You tilt your head back to meet his eyes. "I... I don't have an invitation."

Jack rests a palm atop your thigh. "No, but we do. Invitations which explicitly state that we're each allowed a plus one. We want that to be you."

Your head feels rather empty all of a sudden, like all thoughts and words have been suctioned out. "Oh."

"So?" Robby asks while sliding an index finger under your chin. "Could you do that for us?"

"Will you get in trouble?"

Jack snorts. "How about you let us worry about that?"

You feel like there's many other concerns to discuss, but can only focus on one. "I don't have any appropriate dress wear," you supply helplessly. "Just...some sundresses and—"

"Another thing for he and I to worry about," Robby interrupts while wagging a finger between himself and Jack in gesture. "We'll pay for it. Dress, shoes, jewelry. Whatever you need."

It doesn't feel right to let them foot the entire bill for a black tie event. "But—"

Jack slips his hand firmly between your thighs then. "No objections. We're the ones extending the invitation, so it's only fair that we cover whatever costs come along with it."

"Alright?" Robby questions with a raised brow of expectation.

You suppose that whatever is purchased can always be returned for a full refund, so long as you keep the tags on and receipts in a safe place. As for shoes, you'll make sure to pick a dress that matches the cheap pair of heels you have at home that're already broken in just enough that you should be able to make them work. You nod hesitantly. "Only if you're both absolutely sure..."

Jack presses a kiss to your cheek, followed by Robby planting one atop your head. "We are," the latter whispers.