Fuck

And Robby… Robby had always been hard to read. That was part of him. He had built himself out of sarcasm, caffeine, bad posture, and the kind of medical instinct people either trusted immediately or resented on principle. He could save your patient, insult your differential, and somehow teach you three things before you realized your pride was bleeding.

But before Pittfest, there had been lightness under it. A grin beneath the sarcasm. A flash of amusement when you got mouthy with him. A low, pleased hum when you caught something before he did. A kind of trust that made you stand taller, because Robby didn’t hand it out cheaply.

When he teased you, it used to feel like permission. Like you belonged close enough to be annoyed by him. When he corrected you, it used to feel like teaching. Like he saw the doctor you were becoming and was stubborn enough to drag you the rest of the way there. And when you pushed too hard, which you always did, Robby noticed before you hit the ground.

He was good at that. Catching you before the fall. Not dramatically. Never dramatically. Robby would rather staple his own hand to a discharge packet than have an earnest emotional conversation in public.

But he caught you anyway. A granola bar dropped beside your chart without comment.

A firm, “Go drink water before you become my next patient.”

A hand closing around the back of your scrub top when you swayed after twelve hours, steering you into the nearest chair with a muttered, “Very inspiring. Try fainting somewhere with fewer witnesses next time.”

A consult room door closed quietly behind him after a bad case.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had trusted him with that version of you. The not-fine version.

You were an R3 during Pittfest. Experienced enough to know what you were doing. Not experienced enough for what happened. No one was experienced enough for what happened.

Afterward, everyone became a different version of themselves. Langdon went to rehab. Collins moved to Washington. The spaces they left behind became part of the department’s new anatomy. You became an R4. Mohan became an R4. And Robby was still there. Except he wasn’t. Not the way he used to be.

At first, you told yourself it was grief. Then exhaustion. Then trauma. Then the department falling apart in small, specific ways. But eventually, there was no softer name for it. Robby stopped catching you.

That was the first thing. Not the sharpness. Not the corrections. Not even the impatience. It was the silence where a dry joke used to be. The empty space beside you at the board where he used to appear, coffee in hand, already reading your face before you could fix it.

As an R4, you knew you were supposed to need less. You were supposed to move faster. Think cleaner. Lead without looking over your shoulder every time the room got loud. You were supposed to become the person the lower-level residents looked to, not the person still searching for reassurance from the attending who had taught you how to survive the place. You knew that. But knowing you had to stand alone didn’t make it hurt less when Robby stopped standing nearby.

Mohan handled it better than you did. Or maybe she was just better at looking like she did. She felt Robby’s distance too. You saw it in the pinch around her mouth when he cut her off during rounds, in the way her fingers tightened around a chart when he redirected an intern away from her.

But Mohan had Abbot now. Not officially. Not sentimentally. Abbot was not built for sentimental mentorship unless the soundtrack involved a cardiac monitor and someone bleeding on his shoes. But he had become a place for her to land anyway. A steady voice. A second opinion. A dry comment at just the right time to cut through panic without making her feel stupid for having it. You were happy for her. Mostly. Some days.

Other days, you watched Abbot lean against the counter while Mohan talked through a complicated case, watched him listen like her thinking mattered, watched him correct without carving her open, and something small and ugly twisted behind your ribs. Not because Mohan didn’t deserve it. Because you missed having that. And the worst part was, you used to.

Robby had been the one, years ago, when you were still a med student running on three hours of sleep and a dangerous amount of perfectionism, who pulled you into an empty consult room after you nearly passed out during a shift.

“Sit down.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re vertical. Those are different things.”

You had laughed then, because it was easier than crying.

Robby hadn’t.

He had leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you with that exhausted, X-ray stare of his.

“You seeing anyone?”

You blinked. “Like dating?”

“Like a professional who gets paid to listen to the things you’re clearly not saying.”

Your face had gone hot.

“I don’t need—”

“Don’t do that.”

Two words.

Quiet.

Cutting.

And somehow kinder than all the soft concern everyone else had tried to give you.

“You don’t get bonus points for white-knuckling your way through life,” he’d said. “You don’t get a better residency match because you refused help. You just get tired. And then you get dangerous.”

That had shut you up. Because dangerous was the word that scared you. Not sad. Not anxious. Dangerous. Robby had seen that. He had seen you.

Two weeks later, you made the appointment. A month after that, you started medication. Robby had been the first person to make help sound less like failure and more like maintenance. Like medicine. Like something you deserved before you collapsed. Which was why the last ten months had felt so much like punishment.

Because now, when you faltered, Robby didn’t pull you aside. He called it out in front of people. Not loudly. Robby didn’t need volume to humiliate you. He had precision.

“If I have to remind you about disposition at this stage, we have a bigger problem.”

“Either run the trauma or step aside for someone who can.”

“Don’t call it caution because you’re afraid to commit.”

“You’re an R4. Stop looking at me like a med student waiting to be rescued.”

Each comment, on its own, was defensible. That was the problem. Any one of them could be explained away as teaching. Tough love. High standards. Emergency medicine not being a place for ego or indecision.

But together, day after day, they formed a shape you couldn’t ignore. He did not trust you anymore. You could feel it in the way he stepped around your orders instead of asking about them. The way he redirected R1s and R2s before they reached you. The way his eyes moved past you at the board, landing on Whitaker instead.

Whitaker, brand-new R1, got the version of Robby you used to know. The patient one. The almost-cheerful one. The one who could take a mistake apart without making the person feel like the mistake had swallowed them whole.

“Walk me through it,” Robby would say, standing beside him at the bedside.

And Whitaker would. Haltingly at first. Then stronger. There was room in it. Room to be wrong. Room to learn. Room to become.

You watched it happen from across the floor with a chart open in your hand and an awful heat behind your eyes. You hated yourself for resenting him. Whitaker had done nothing wrong. But some bitter, exhausted part of you wanted to ask where that version of Robby had gone when you still needed him. Not to hold your hand. Not to save you. Just to stop looking at you like you had already disappointed him.

Mohan noticed. She found you one afternoon in the stairwell between shifts, your back against the wall, one hand pressed hard against your sternum like you could physically hold yourself together. She didn’t ask if you were okay. You loved her for that. Instead, she sat down beside you and handed you a granola bar from her pocket.

“It’s the gross kind,” she said.

You opened one eye. “Why do you have it?”

“Because I keep thinking emergency hunger will make it taste better.”

“Does it?”

“No.”

You huffed something that almost became a laugh. For a minute, neither of you said anything. Beyond the stairwell door, The Pitt carried on without you. Overhead pages. Cart wheels. Someone calling for respiratory. A place that did not care if you were falling apart, as long as you could do it quietly and come back useful.

Mohan rested her elbows on her knees.

“He’s doing it to you too,” she said.

You didn’t pretend not to understand.

“Yeah.”

“He’s harder on us.”

“He expects more from us.”

“That’s one explanation.”

You looked over at her.

Mohan stared ahead, jaw tight. “Not the only one.”

Something in your chest sank.

“He doesn’t want us here,” you said.

Mohan didn’t answer right away. That was answer enough.

Finally, she sighed. “I don’t know what he wants anymore.”

You looked down at the granola bar in your hand. The wrapper crinkled under your thumb.

“Abbot thinks it’s trauma,” Mohan said.

You laughed once, flat and humorless. “Abbot thinks everything is trauma.”

“Abbot is usually right.”

“Annoying habit.”

“Deeply.”

Another silence.

Mohan looked at you carefully. “Are you okay?”

There it was. The question you hated.

You forced a shrug. “I’m tired.”

Mohan’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened.

“That’s not what I asked.”

You looked away. For a second, you thought about telling her. 

That you could feel yourself getting worse. That every shift felt like walking into a room where everyone knew you were failing but nobody had decided who would say it first. That you were sleeping less, eating worse, forgetting stupid things, crying in your car before shifts and fixing your face with the resigned efficiency of someone cleaning up a spill.

That Robby’s voice had started following you home.

“R4s should not need reminders for things interns figure out by winter.”

“That’s hesitation, not judgment.”

“You’re too far into this program to look this unsure every time the room gets loud.”

Instead, you said, “I’m fine.”

Mohan looked at you for a long moment. Then she nodded once. Not because she believed you. Because she knew what it looked like to need the lie.

“Okay,” she said quietly.

And somehow, that made you feel worse.

By July, the department had accepted the new shape of things. Collins was still gone. Robby was still Robby, except sharper now. More distant. More impatient with anything that looked like need. And Langdon was back. Technically. He came in on the Fourth of July with his badge clipped to his scrubs and something guarded around his eyes, looking almost like himself if you didn’t know where to look. But you knew where to look.

The room shifted around him differently now. People smiled too carefully. Jokes landed half a second late. Nobody said rehab. Nobody said welcome back too loudly. And Robby rode him all day. Not cruelly, not exactly. Nothing anyone could point to and say too much. But enough.

Enough that Langdon’s jaw kept tightening. Enough that Mohan looked away more than once. Enough that you felt something inside you fold in on itself, because Langdon was back and it still didn’t feel right.

If anything, it felt worse. Because for months, some desperate part of you had told itself that maybe the problem was absence. Langdon gone. Collins gone. Pittfest still echoing. Too many empty spaces. But Langdon was here now, standing ten feet away from you, alive and sober and trying, and Robby still looked like a man determined to make sure nobody got comfortable enough to need him.

Not Langdon. Not Mohan. Not you. Especially not you. And you had learned to stop looking over your shoulder for someone who was no longer there. Mostly. Almost. Except some stupid, stubborn part of you kept waiting for him to notice. Not the mistakes. Not the hesitation. You.

The way your laugh had gotten thinner. The way you stopped eating during shift. The way you volunteered for the hardest cases because at least exhaustion felt like something you had earned. The way you flinched now when Robby said your name.

He noticed. That was the worst part. You knew he noticed. Robby noticed everything. So when his eyes flicked to you after you went too quiet at the board, when his gaze paused on your untouched coffee, when his mouth tightened after you blinked too fast at one of his corrections…

He knew. He had to know. He just didn’t come closer. And every day he didn’t, something in you learned to believe that meant he had chosen not to.

—

By the morning of the Fourth of July, you were already tired before you reached the ambulance bay doors. The city had been restless all night. Heat trapped between buildings. Sirens layered over distant fireworks. People testing their luck with alcohol, grills, illegal explosives, and the kind of confidence that kept emergency departments in business.

Inside, The Pitt was already awake and angry. Mohan stood near the board, hair pulled back, eyes shadowed but alert. She looked over when you came in and offered you the smallest smile. You gave one back. A weak one. A functional one.

Across the department, Whitaker was talking to Robby near room four, nodding intently while Robby pointed something out on a chart. Robby looked tired. More tired than usual. His sabbatical started after today. Three months away from The Pitt. Three months without him. You had spent weeks telling yourself that should feel like relief. Instead, it felt like abandonment with a calendar invite.

Langdon stood near the medication room, one hand braced against the counter, listening while Dana said something low and practical to him. He nodded once, mouth tight, eyes down. He was back. He was really back. And still, somehow, the department felt emptier than it had before.

Robby glanced up. His eyes met yours across the floor. For one second, something moved over his face. Something almost like concern. Then Whitaker asked a question, and Robby looked away. Your chest tightened. 

Mohan followed your gaze.

“Don’t,” she said softly.

You swallowed. “I didn’t say anything.”

“I know.”

That was the problem with old friends. They heard you anyway.

—

By noon, The Pitt had become a fireworks safety commercial written by someone with a personal grudge against emergency medicine.

Room three had a second-degree burn across his palm because he “wanted to see if the fuse was still hot.” Room seven had heat exhaustion, sunburn, and the kind of husband who kept saying she was “being dramatic” until Dana threatened to make him wait outside with the smokers. Room twelve was drunk, bleeding from the eyebrow, and loudly insisting he had been attacked by a folding chair.

You had not stopped moving in six hours.  Not really. You had signed charts standing up, eaten half a protein bar in two bites, lost your coffee somewhere between radiology and trauma two, and washed someone else’s blood off your wrist in the sink by the med room because the bathroom felt too far away.

It was fine. You were fine. You were an R4. That was what R4s did. They moved. They handled things. They closed loops before someone had to ask. They anticipated problems before they became Robby-shaped corrections at the nurses’ station. So you kept moving.

Room six needed discharge papers. Room ten needed repeat labs. Room fourteen’s family wanted an update. Whitaker had a question about a possible ectopic, and you answered it quickly, carefully, without looking over your shoulder to see if Robby had heard. You did not need him to hear. You did not need him to approve. You did not need anything from him. That was the lie you had been carrying all morning, tucked under your ribs like a blade.

Across the department, Robby stood at the board with one hand on his hip, scanning the names with that tired, sharp focus that made everyone around him straighten without realizing it. His eyes moved over you once. Paused. Then moved on. Somehow, that was worse than being corrected. 

You turned back to the chart in front of you and forced yourself to read the same line three times until it made sense.

“Hey.”

Mohan appeared beside you, voice low.

You didn’t look up. “I’m good.”

“I didn’t ask.”

“That’s why I’m saving time.”

She didn’t laugh. That made your throat tighten.

“You’ve been on your feet all morning,” she said.

“So have you.”

“I ate.”

“Congratulations.”

“Don’t be charming. It’s disorienting.”

That almost got you. Almost. Your mouth twitched, but it didn’t hold.

Mohan’s eyes softened in the way you hated lately. Like she could see too much. Like she was standing too close to a bruise.

“Go sit for five minutes,” she said.

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I said I can’t.”

It came out sharper than you meant it to. Mohan went quiet. You hated yourself immediately.

You looked down at the chart, blinking hard. “Sorry.”

“I’m not offended.”

“That’s annoying of you.”

“I know.”

The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, but her eyes stayed worried. Before she could say anything else, Robby’s voice cut across the station.

“Room ten.”

Your spine went rigid. Not because he yelled. He didn’t. Robby never needed to.

You turned.

He stood by the board, looking at the tablet in his hand.

 “Repeat potassium?”

Your brain supplied the answer too late. Ordered. Not resulted. No. Resulted. You had seen it. Hadn’t you? Your fingers tightened around the chart.

“Pending,” you said.

Robby looked up. A tiny pause. The kind nobody else would notice. You noticed.

“Resulted twenty minutes ago,” he said.

Heat crawled up your neck. 

Right. Right, because you had opened it when radiology called. The potassium was fine. You had meant to sign off on it after updating room fourteen’s daughter, but then Whitaker had asked about the ectopic, and room three’s dressing needed.

“I saw it,” you said. “It’s normal. I’m closing it now.”

Robby’s expression didn’t change.

“That would’ve been more useful twenty minutes ago.”

The station quieted around the edges. Not fully. The Pitt never gave anyone the dignity of full silence. But enough. Enough for Dana to glance over from the desk. Enough for Mohan to go still beside you. Enough for Whitaker to suddenly become fascinated by the supply cart.

Your stomach dipped.

“I’m closing it now,” you repeated.

“I heard you.”

There was nothing cruel in his tone. That was the worst part. It was flat. Clinical. Tired. Like you were another problem on the board he didn’t have time to solve.

You nodded once and turned back to the computer. Your fingers moved too fast over the keys. Password wrong. Of course. You swallowed, cleared the field, typed it again. Wrong. Your pulse picked up. Not now. Not here.

You could feel Mohan beside you, not touching, not crowding. Just there. That somehow made it harder. You typed the password a third time. The screen opened. You exhaled through your nose, clicked into room ten’s chart, signed off the lab, updated the plan, closed the loop.

There. Done. Easy. Basic. Minimum expectation.

Your vision blurred for half a second. You blinked it clear. Robby had already moved on. Of course he had. He was with Whitaker now, leaning over a chart, voice lower. Still firm. Still teaching. But there was patience in it. Space.

“Start with what you’re worried about,” Robby said. “Then tell me what you can prove.”

Whitaker nodded, nervous but focused. Robby waited. He actually waited. Something inside you twisted so hard you had to press your palm against the edge of the counter.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Then maybe believe me.”

The words landed badly.

You heard it as soon as they left your mouth.

Mohan’s face closed a little. Not hurt exactly. Careful. That was worse.

You looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I’m just—”

Tired. Overwhelmed. Embarrassed. Jealous of an R1 who had done nothing wrong except receive the version of Robby you missed so badly it felt pathetic.

You shook your head. “I’m just trying to get through the shift.”

Mohan watched you for another second before nodding.

“Okay,” she said.

There it was again. That soft, terrible ‘okay’. The one that meant she knew you were lying and loved you enough not to corner you with it.

You grabbed the next chart. Room fifteen. Anxiety after a firework exploded too close. Chest tightness. Tingling fingers. Shortness of breath. You almost laughed. Of course. Of course the universe had a sense of humor.

You walked into the room before anyone could tell you not to. The patient was young. Early twenties, maybe. Sitting upright, knees pulled close, one hand pressed to her chest while her mother hovered beside the bed.

“I can’t get a full breath,” the patient said, eyes wide. “I know it’s probably panic. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I know you’re busy.”

The words hit too close. Not because of the panic. Because of the apology. 

You softened before you could stop yourself. 

“Don’t apologize for needing help,” you said.

Her eyes flicked to yours. For one second, you believed yourself.

Then Robby’s voice echoed in your head.

“R4s should not need reminders.”

You pushed it down.

You assessed her carefully. Vitals. History. Risk factors. Pain description. Breath sounds. You ordered an EKG, basic labs, chest X-ray. Nothing excessive. Nothing careless. You were not over-identifying. You were not projecting. You were not seeing yourself in her wide eyes and shaking hands. You were being thorough. That was all.

Still, by the time you stepped out, Robby was waiting near the desk.

“What’s your plan?” he asked.

You gave it to him. Clean. Organized. Defensible.

His eyes stayed on you. “And your impression?”

“Likely panic response after the firework scare, but I’m ruling out cardiac and pulmonary causes.”

“Likely panic,” he repeated.

Your jaw tightened. “With appropriate workup.”

“I heard you.”

“You said it like that.”

Something flickered in his face. Warning. You should have stopped. You knew you should have stopped. But the whole day had been made of swallowing things, and something in you had run out of room.

Robby stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I’m asking you to separate the patient from yourself.”

The words punched through you. For a second, all the noise around you thinned.

“What?”

His expression hardened. His eyes looked exhausted, but there was no softness in them.

“You heard me.”

Mohan turned slightly from the board. Dana looked up. You felt it. Every glance you weren’t supposed to notice.

You kept your voice low. “That has nothing to do with this.”

“I hope not.”

Your face went hot. 

No. No, no, no. He didn’t get to do that. Not him. Not with this.

“You hope not?” you repeated.

Robby’s mouth tightened.

“You’re an R4. I need your clinical judgment clean. I need to know you’re looking at the patient in front of you, not filtering it through your own history.”

Your hand curled tighter around the chart. “My history?”

His eyes sharpened. “Don’t twist my words.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“You’re personalizing a panic presentation.”

“I ordered a standard workup.”

“You reassured her before you assessed.”

Your breath caught. The cruelty of it was so quiet. So clinical. Like kindness was a symptom. Like compassion was contamination.

“You’re criticizing me for reassuring her?”

“I’m criticizing you for seeing yourself and calling it medicine.”

Mohan said your name softly. You barely heard her. 

Your chest felt hollowed out.

“That is not what happened.”

“Then make sure it doesn’t.”

Your voice dropped. “You don’t get to use that against me.”

Robby went still. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No,” he said, colder now. “I’m doing my job.”

“Your job is accusing me of being unstable?”

His eyes flicked briefly toward the staff, toward the people pretending not to listen. When he looked back at you, whatever restraint he had left snapped into something uglier.

“My job is making sure my residents are safe to practice.”

The floor dropped out from under you. 

“Safe to practice.”

Your throat tightened so fast it hurt. “I am safe.”

“Are you?”

The question landed like a slap. Small enough that he could deny it. Sharp enough that everyone understood.

You stared at him. He didn’t stop. Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe some broken part of him had found momentum and decided cruelty was easier than fear.

“Because lately I don’t know if I’m supervising an R4 or managing someone who’s one bad shift away from unraveling in the middle of my department.”

Mohan moved. “Robby—”

He didn’t look at her. His eyes stayed on you.

“You’re hesitating. You’re overcorrecting. You’re taking everything personally. You flinch every time I give you feedback, and now you’re walking into a psych-adjacent case with your own history written all over your face.”

Your lips parted. Nothing came out.

Robby’s voice lowered further. “That is dangerous.”

There it was. The word. The same word he had used years ago to make you get help. The word that had scared you into saving yourself. Now he was holding it like a weapon.

Your hand tightened on the chart until the edge bent.

“You told me getting help made me safer.”

“It does,” he said.

“Then why are you acting like it makes me a liability?”

For half a second, something moved over his face. Regret. Fear. Then he buried it.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

The department went too quiet around the edges. 

Your breath stopped.

Mohan whispered your name again, this time like something had broken.

Robby kept going, and that was the worst part.

“I need an R4 I can trust when the floor turns bad. I need someone who can lead without making me question whether their illness is driving the call.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked it clear.

“You don’t get to call it that.”

“What?”

“My illness,” you said, voice barely holding. “You don’t get to throw that word at me like I’m something you’re diagnosing in front of the board.”

His jaw tightened.

“You want to be treated like a 4th year resident? Then act like one.”

The last piece of you went very still. Not calm. Still.

You set the chart down carefully. Too carefully.

“Room fifteen has appropriate workup pending,” you said. “I’ll follow results.”

Robby’s face shifted. Just barely. Like he heard it. Like some part of him realized he had not corrected you. He had cut you open.  But it was too late.

You stepped back.

“You were the one person who wasn’t supposed to make it sound ugly,” you said.

Then you walked away before your face could betray you. 

Behind you, Mohan said something low to Robby. You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Because if you looked back and saw regret on his face, you might break. And if you looked back and didn’t, you knew you would. 

You made it to the bathroom before your hands started shaking. The door clicked shut behind you, and for a second, you just stood there staring at the sink like you had forgotten how to move.

Then your body caught up. Your breath hitched hard enough that you gripped the counter. Not here. Not at work. Not because of him.

You turned the faucet on, letting the water hit the porcelain loud enough to cover the sound that broke out of you. Not a sob. You refused to call it that. Just air leaving wrong.

Your reflection looked pale under the fluorescent lights. Tired. Cracked. Exactly like the kind of person Robby couldn’t trust.

No. That was his voice. His damage. His cruelty. You knew that. You knew it, and still his words sat under your skin.

“Because I can’t keep wondering whether you’re making a medical call or having a mental health episode.”

You splashed cold water over your wrists, fixed your face, and went back out. Because if you fell apart now, it would prove him right.

The department swallowed you whole again. Monitors. Phones. Voices. Alarms chimed faintly around you. No one looked directly at you. That was how you knew everyone knew.

Mohan found your eyes from the board. 

You gave her one small look.

Don’t.

She stopped.

Room fifteen’s workup came back clean. EKG normal. Labs normal. Chest X-ray clear. Panic, most likely. You updated the patient with a voice so calm it almost sounded real.

“You did the right thing coming in,” you told her. “Fear can feel physical. That doesn’t make it fake.”

The patient’s eyes filled. “Thank you.”

You smiled. It hurt.

When you stepped out, Robby was at the board. He saw you. For one suspended second, it looked like he might say something. Then EMS called in another burn, Dana shouted for trauma two, and Robby turned away.

So you kept working.

You signed orders. Closed charts. Caught a med interaction before pharmacy called. Talked Whitaker through a discharge summary even though some ugly part of you resented how grateful he looked afterward.

“Thanks,” he said. “I know you’re busy.”

You swallowed. “Don’t apologize for learning.”

The words tasted bitter.

Across the room, Robby watched you. Not openly. But you felt it. Worry wearing a muzzle.

By the time the sun went down, your whole body felt far away. Someone brought red, white, and blue cupcakes to the nurses’ station. You stared at them until Dana appeared beside you.

“Eat something.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’re spiritually buzzing.”

A weak laugh escaped before you could stop it.

Dana’s face softened. That almost undid you.

“I’m okay,” you said.

Dana hummed. “Sure.”

Before she could push, fireworks cracked outside, loud enough to rattle the windows. Half the department flinched. Nobody said anything. Another burst followed.

Mohan closed her eyes at the board. Robby went still. You saw it. The way his shoulders locked. The way his hand tightened around the tablet. The way his face emptied.

For one second, Pittfest came back too clearly. Noise. Blood. Bodies. Robby’s voice cutting through the chaos. You and Mohan as R3s, moving because stopping would mean understanding.

After the last patient was transported out, Robby had found you in a supply room, knees to your chest, scrubs stiff with someone else’s blood. He had sat beside you and held out a water bottle.

“Drink.”

You had stared at him.

“Don’t make me do bedside manner. We’ll both hate it.”

You had laughed. Then cried. And he had stayed. That was the part you couldn’t let go of. He had stayed.

Another firework cracked. Robby looked up. His eyes met yours. Something broken moved across his face. Then he looked away first. And the last hopeful thing in you went quiet.

—

Later, when the rush finally thinned, Dana sent the day shift up to the roof.

“Morale,” she said, like that explained anything.

Mohan found you near the elevators. “Come up with us.”

“I should finish charts.”

“You can finish them after.”

“I’m behind.”

“You’re not,” she said softly. “I checked.”

You looked at her. For a second, you wanted to tell her everything. 

Instead, you smiled. “I’ll come up later.”

Mohan didn’t believe you. But someone called her name, and the elevator opened, and the moment passed. She stepped inside.

You stood there for half a second. Then, before the doors could close, you moved. Mohan’s eyes lifted in surprise.

You forced a small smile. “Changed my mind.”

Dana gave a satisfied hum. “There you are.”

You stepped into the elevator beside them. Robby wasn’t there. You were grateful. You were devastated.

The roof was warmer than it should have been, the concrete still holding onto the heat from the day. It was quieter than you expected. Not empty. Just intimate.

Dana stood near the low wall with a paper cup in hand, shoulders finally dropped from around her ears. McKay leaned beside her, arms folded loosely, face tilted toward the sky. Mel stood a little apart, still and quiet, watching the horizon like she was letting the colors settle somewhere safe. Santos sat on the edge of an old utility box, trying to look unimpressed and failing every time gold split open above the city.

Javadi had her hands tucked into her scrub pockets, eyes wide behind each flash. Perlah and Princess stood near a cluster of nurses, speaking softly between tired bursts of laughter. Mohan stayed beside you. Not touching. Just there.

It was a small pocket of people from the floor, all of you trying to make something beautiful out of a day that had been anything but.

The fireworks bloomed over Pittsburgh in bursts of red, white, and gold. For a while, no one really spoke. Not because there was nothing to say. Because there was too much.

The first explosion of color washed across Dana’s face, and you saw it, the tiny release. Not happiness. Not really. Something quieter. Relief, maybe. The kind that came when you were too tired for joy but still grateful the world could make something pretty.

McKay exhaled slowly. Mel’s shoulders dropped. Santos forgot to pretend she didn’t care. Javadi blinked up like she was trying to memorize it. Perlah and Princess smiled softly at them.

Everyone looked peaceful. Not fixed. Not untouched. Just… peaceful. And you couldn’t get there. That was what scared you. Not the noise. Not the height. Not even Robby’s words still embedded under your skin.

It was this.

Standing beside people you cared about, watching them find something gentle at the end of an awful day. And feeling nothing but distance. Like they were on the roof. And you were already somewhere else.

A firework burst overhead, gold spilling open like light through a wound.

“That one was nice,” McKay said quietly.

“It was,” Mel agreed.

It was. 

You knew it was. You could recognize the shape of beauty. You just couldn’t feel it.

Your hands curled into your scrub pockets.

Mohan glanced over. “You okay?”

You kept your eyes on the sky. “Yeah.”

Mohan let the answer sit between you for a second before she said quietly, “You don’t have to lie to me up here.”

Your chest tightened. Your demons pressed in harder. Because she was kind. Because everyone else looked like they could breathe again. Because you couldn’t.

Another burst cracked overhead. You flinched before you could stop it.

Mohan noticed.

“Hey,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.”

Too quick. Too sharp.

The peace in her face shifted into worry. You hated yourself for taking it from her. Dana glanced over, brief and knowing, but didn’t push. No one did. They let you stand there. Let you pretend.

The fireworks kept going. Louder. Closer. Then softer. Slower. Until finally, the last one bloomed. Faded. Left the sky dark again.

For a few seconds, no one moved. Then Dana pushed off the wall.

“All right,” she said, voice rough but steady. “That’s it.”

Everyone looked at her. Dana glanced around at all of you, something firm settling back into place.

“Go home,” she said.

No argument. No softness. Just Dana.

“You all did enough today.”

The words landed heavier than they should have.

McKay nodded first, like she’d been waiting for permission. Mel followed, quiet but immediate. Santos rolled her shoulders and hopped down from her spot, muttering something about finally sitting somewhere that wasn’t hospital-issued. Javadi gave the sky one last look before turning. Perlah squeezed Princess’ hands gently before heading for the door.

One by one, they moved. Not rushed. Just… done.

Dana passed you last. She nudged your shoulder lightly.

“Don’t stay up here all night.”

You forced a small smile. “I won’t.”

Dana gave you a look. The kind that said she didn’t believe you. The kind that said she knew better than to push. She nodded once anyway. Then she left. The door closed behind her.

Eventually, it was just you and Mohan. The quiet shifted. Heavier now. Closer. Mohan stayed beside you. Still not touching. Still there.

“You coming back down?” she asked.

“In a minute.”

She hesitated. You could feel it. The pull between staying and trusting you.

“You scared me today,” she said softly.

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

“I don’t think you do.”

She was right. That made it worse.

“I just need a second alone,” you said.

Mohan watched you for a long moment. Then she nodded, even though everything in her said she didn’t want to.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

She lingered. Then stepped back and turned. The door opened. Closed. And the quiet changed again. No longer shared. Just yours.

You didn’t move at first. You just stood there after Mohan left, staring at the dark sky where the fireworks had been. The smoke still lingered. Thin gray ribbons drifting over the roofline, breaking apart in the humid night air.

For a while, you listened. To the distant traffic. To the muffled noise of the hospital below. To the soft mechanical hum from the roof units behind you. Everything sounded far away. Even you.

Your hands were still in your scrub pockets. Your shoulders were still loose. Your face was still arranged into something that could pass for fine if anyone opened the door and checked. But no one did.

The roof stayed quiet. And the quiet got inside you.

One step. That was all it was at first. Your shoe scraped lightly against the concrete. Then another. Slow. Unhurried. Almost curious. Like your body had decided to go look at something your mind had not agreed to yet.

The edge waited ahead of you. But there was a railing first. A low metal barrier bolted into the roof, meant to make the boundary obvious. Meant to tell people where safety ended. Meant to be enough.

You stopped in front of it. For a moment, you only looked. One hand lifted. Your fingers curled around the top rail. The metal was still warm from the day, but cooler than the concrete. Smooth in places where weather and hands had worn it down.

It should have stopped you. That was the point of it. A line. A warning. A small, practical mercy built into the roof of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stepped closer. Then, slowly, carefully, you lifted one leg over. Your shoe found the narrow strip of concrete on the other side. Then the other leg followed.

The railing was behind you now. That should have meant something. Maybe it did. Maybe that was why your chest went so quiet.

You stood on the wrong side of it, a few feet from the edge. No wall now. No barrier. Just warm concrete. Open air. Nothing dramatic about it. Nothing cinematic. Just a ledge at the top of a hospital where people spent all day trying not to die.

You stopped close enough to see over. Close enough to feel the air change against your skin. The parking lot spread beneath you, bright in patches beneath the lamps. Cars lined up neatly. Ambulance bay glowing. The city carrying on like it had not noticed you standing above it, wondering if there was any version of tomorrow you could still survive.

Your breathing stayed even. That frightened you distantly. You thought panic would come with noise. With tears. With shaking. But this was quieter than that. This was your body finally going still after months of begging to be heard.

You took another step. Then another. Until your toes touched the base of the ledge. You looked at it. No wall. No barrier now. Just the ledge. Lower than you expected. Or maybe you had known that. Maybe some part of you had known all along.

Your hands came out of your pockets. For a second, they hovered uselessly at your sides. Then you sat down. Slowly. Carefully. Like if your movements were calm enough, this could still be called something else. Just sitting. Just air. Just needing quiet.

The concrete was still warm from the day beneath you. Human-warm. Alive-warm. That almost made you stand back up. Almost.

Instead, you shifted closer. One inch. Then another. Your palms pressed flat against the ledge on either side of your thighs, steadying yourself as the backs of your legs met the edge.

For one second, your feet were still on the roof. Safe enough to pretend this was nothing. Then you moved them. One foot forward. Then the other. Your shoes found nothing. Just open space.

Your stomach dipped, but not enough. Not enough to make you scramble back. Not enough to make you choose. Your feet hung over the side of the building.

Below, the hospital looked small. Orderly. Distant. Like a place you used to belong to. Like a place that would keep functioning without you because places always did.

Your chest felt calm. Too calm. Like something inside you had stopped trying to be saved.

Robby’s voice came back, quiet and sharp.

“I don’t know if I can trust you.”

Your fingers rested against the ledge. Not gripping. Not yet. Just resting. You swallowed.

And for the first time… 

You believed him.

“Neither do I.”

The words barely made it out of your mouth. Then you looked down. Not quickly. Not all at once.

Your eyes moved from your shoes to the side of the building, then lower, following the long drop until the parking lot came into focus beneath you.

Ambulance bay lights. White and sterile. Cars lined in neat rows. Painted lines. Concrete islands. A world still organized enough to feel insulting.

For the first time, the height became real. Not symbolic. Not dramatic. Real. The kind of real your body understood before your mind could make language out of it.

Your stomach dipped. Your fingers flexed against the ledge. Below you, the hospital kept breathing. Doors opening. Lights shifting. A figure crossing the lot with keys in hand. Everything ordinary. Everything continuing.

Death looked different from up here. Downstairs, it had noise. Blood. Hands moving fast. Someone calling time. A family member making a sound that stayed in the walls long after they were gone.

Downstairs, death arrived like an emergency. Up here, it waited. Quiet. Patient. Polite. And for one awful, honest second…

You wanted the quiet.

Not death. Not exactly. You didn’t think you wanted to die. You wanted the hurting to stop.

You wanted five seconds where your chest didn’t feel carved open. Five seconds where you didn’t have to be the strong one, the steady one, the almost-attending who could close every loop except the one tightening around your own throat.

You wanted to stop waking up already tired. Stop swallowing pills with shaking hands and calling it maintenance. Stop sitting in therapy trying to explain a loneliness so old it had started to feel like a personality trait. Stop walking into The Pitt every day hoping Robby would look at you like he used to. Stop hating yourself for still needing him to.

Your hands had been resting on the ledge. Barely holding. Now your fingers loosened. Just a little. The concrete pressed into the backs of your thighs. The open air pulled at your shoes.

One lean. One breath. One second where you stopped fighting. A tear slid down your cheek. You didn’t wipe it away. You were so tired. So tired that the thought of falling almost felt like being held.

Behind you, the roof door opened. You didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. For a moment, there was only the scrape of the door. The distant hum of traffic. The last faint echoes of fireworks fading into smoke.

Then everything behind you went still.

“Hey.”

Robby.

Your eyes closed. Of course it was him. 

The person who had taught you how to survive yourself. The person who had made you believe help wasn’t weakness. The person who had looked at the softest part of you today and called it unreliable.

His voice carried carefully across the roof. Not too loud. Not too soft. Like he was trying not to startle you back into your own body too fast.

“Heard Dana sent everyone home after the fireworks,” he said. “You left your bag and phone downstairs.”

You didn’t move. Your eyes stayed fixed somewhere below the parking lot lights. Behind you, he rubbed the back of his neck. You heard the faint scrape of his palm against skin, the restless shift of his fingers into his hair before they dropped away.

“Figured I’d come find you before your stuff disappeared into the nurses’ station permanently.”

Nothing. No answer. No shift of your shoulders. No sign you had heard him at all. And somehow, that scared him more.

For once, Robby didn’t fill the silence with sarcasm. He just stood there. Seeing you. Seeing the ledge. Seeing the open air beneath your feet. Seeing the way your hands were barely touching the concrete at all.

Whatever he had come up here planning to say disappeared. Completely. His mouth opened. Nothing came out. You heard it. That tiny failure. That impossible silence from the man who always had a next step.

He swallowed.

“You’re probably ready to pass out,” he added, trying for light. “Hell of a shift.”

Still nothing. The silence stretched. But he kept talking anyway. Not because he thought it was working. Because stopping felt worse. Because if he could keep the conversation ordinary long enough, maybe you would remember how to be part of it.

“Your phone keeps lighting up,” he said. “A ton of texts. Apparently you’re very popular.”

A breath pulled in behind you. Too careful. Too controlled. Like he was trying to manage himself before he could manage you.

“Pretty sure if you don’t reply soon, the battery’s gonna die.”

Your hand didn’t move. Your feet hung over open air. The roof went quiet except for the city below and the uneven rhythm of Robby trying to breathe normally.

“I was thinking we could walk down,” he said, still trying to sound like this was normal. “Get your bag. Get you out of here before the night shift crazies start multiplying.”

Your fingers flexed against the concrete. He saw it. The movement was small, but it hit him like a monitor alarm. His shoe scraped once against the roof. Stopped. He’d almost moved. Almost.

You heard him drag a hand over the back of his head, fingers catching in his hair before falling to his side.

“You left your pen downstairs,” he said quietly. “The good one.”

Your fingers twitched weakly against the ledge.

Robby swallowed hard.

“Honestly, if we don’t go down soon, someone might steal it.”

A shaky breath left him that almost sounded like a laugh.

“I heard Ellis has been trying to steal that pen for months.”

Your right hand lifted from the concrete. Not purposeful. That was the worst part. It looked absentminded. Like you had forgotten why it was there in the first place.

Robby’s breath caught. The sound was small. Sharp. Impossible to miss. His voice came back thinner than before.

“Don’t move forward.”

The words landed carefully. Terrified.

“If you move, move back. Just back.”

A small, broken laugh left you.

“That’s usually my line.”

Robby went quiet long enough for you to hear his hand return to the back of his neck, rubbing once, twice, harder than before.

“Yeah,” he said, voice catching. “Hope you don’t mind me borrowing it tonight.”

He moved. Not closer. Not yet. Just a shift of weight. One hand lifted slightly, dropped again because even that felt like too much. His fingers flexed at his side, useless and frantic, looking for something to do when there was nothing he could safely touch.

You stared down at the ground. Your heart should have been racing. It wasn’t. That scared you more than anything.

“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you said.

Soft. Almost peaceful.

The breath behind you disappeared. For one awful second, there was nothing from him at all. No movement. No correction. No sound except the city below. But he didn’t say no. He swallowed it. Forced it down hard enough you could hear the breath catch in his throat.

“Okay,” he said instead.

His voice shook on the word. He rubbed the back of his neck again, faster this time, like he was trying to keep himself inside his own body.

“Okay. You don’t have to do this anymore tonight.”

You didn’t look at him.

“You can try again tomorrow,” he said, careful with every syllable. “Not the whole thing. Not all of it. Just tomorrow. Tonight, you just have to move back.”

“I’m tired.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“You’re right.” His voice shook. “You’re right, I don’t. Not exactly. Not yours. But I know enough. I know enough to know that quiet you’re chasing is lying to you.”

Your fingers loosened. Just a little. 

Robby saw it. His whole body went still. Too still.

“Okay,” he said carefully, fighting to keep his voice even. “I need both hands on the ledge.”

You didn’t.

His breath caught, but he swallowed it down.

“Not fast,” he added. “Just put them back where they were.”

For one suspended second, you didn’t.

His breathing changed. Fast. Ragged. The kind of breathing Robby corrected in patients and ignored in himself.

“Please,” he said.

That got through. Not enough to bring you back. Enough to make your fingers twitch.

Robby took one step closer. You shifted. He stopped so hard his shoes scraped against the roof.

“Okay. Okay. I’m stopping.” He lifted both hands, palms out. “See? I’m not coming closer. I’m not touching you. Just—hands back on the ledge.”

“I don’t trust myself.”

The words hollowed him out. You heard it in the silence behind you. The way his breathing stopped for half a second. The soft scrape of his shoe against the roof as he caught himself from moving too quickly.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, fingers pressing hard into the muscle there before catching briefly in his hair.

“Okay,” he said carefully.

His voice sounded lower now. Pulled tight.

“That’s okay.”

You stared down at the parking lot lights. Your right hand hovered slightly above the concrete again.

Robby’s breath caught. You heard him swallow it back down.

“You don’t have to trust yourself for the whole night,” he said. “Just the next ten seconds.”

A wet laugh left you. Wrong. Empty.

“You told me you couldn’t trust me.”

Robby went quiet. Not defensive. Not angry. Just quiet. You heard him breathe in too sharply through his nose.

“I was wrong.”

“You meant it.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck again.

“I’m sorry.”

Your fingers flexed weakly against the ledge.

“You were ugly.”

“I know.”

“You were cruel.”

His breath hitched.

“I know.”

Your voice thinned into something smaller.

“You made me feel like the sickest part of me was the truest part.”

Behind you, Robby made a sound like the words had gone straight through him. Not loud. Worse. Human.

“I’m sorry,” he said, rough now. “I’m so sorry.”

Behind you, his breathing turned uneven.

His hand dragged over the back of his neck again, rough and restless. Not the attending everyone feared. Not the teacher with impossible standards. Not the man who could run a trauma bay on instinct and fury. Just a person. Terrified. Choking on the damage he had done.

“I needed my teacher,” you whispered. “And you punished me for it.”

His breath broke. A sound came out of him like he had tried to swallow a sob and failed halfway.

“I know.”

Your right hand slipped off the ledge. Fully. Dropped into your lap. Your body tilted forward. One inch. Maybe less. Enough.

The metal rail rattled under his hand. His shoe scraped once against the roof and stopped. For one second, even his breathing vanished. This wasn’t a conversation anymore. You were going to fall. Even you knew it.

Robby moved before thought could stop him, then caught himself halfway, every muscle locked so hard he was trembling.

“Left hand stays,” he said, voice raw, urgent. “Left hand stays on the ledge. Do you hear me?”

You stared down. Your other hand started to lift. Slowly. Like your body had decided something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

“Kid.” Robby’s voice cracked. “Hands. Both hands back now.”

Kid.

The word hit somewhere old. Somewhere trained by years of following his voice through chaos.

Your palm slammed back onto the concrete. Then the other. Hard. Desperate. Your knuckles went white.

Robby bent forward slightly, hands braced on his own knees for half a second, like relief had nearly taken him down. But he didn’t let himself stay there. Couldn’t. He straightened, breathing too fast.

“Good,” he said, voice shaking. “Good. That’s good. Stay there.”

A sob caught in your throat.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sound like you still know how to take care of me.”

His voice twisted. “I do know how.”

His voice broke on the last word. For a second, neither of you moved.

The roof hummed around you. The city below kept breathing. Your hands stayed loose against the concrete, not gripping hard enough to feel safe.

Robby dragged a hand over the back of his head.

“I just stopped doing it.”

That was worse. Somehow, that was worse. Because it wasn’t that he had forgotten how to take care of you. It wasn’t that he hadn’t seen you. He had known. He had seen. He had stopped anyway.

Your breath fractured. “I hate you.”

The words came out small. Tired. Not angry enough to protect you.

Behind you, Robby went very still. “I know.”

Your throat tightened. A tear slipped down your face, warm and quiet. “I don’t.”

His breath caught. “I know that too.”

Your fingers curled faintly against the ledge. “I wanted you to come back.”

The words barely made it past your mouth.

Robby’s voice sounded scraped raw. “I’m here now.”

Your eyes stayed on the parking lot below. The lights blurred.

“Too late.”

He took it. No defense. No correction. No sharp little Robby answer to make it easier for either of you. Just silence. His hand moved to the back of his neck again. Rubbed once. Stopped. Dropped uselessly to his side. 

Behind you, his hand found the metal rail between you and him. The line. The awful, visible line. Safe roof on his side. Open air on yours. For the first time, Robby seemed to understand exactly where he was standing. On the wrong side of the lesson.

For years, he had been the one telling residents not to freeze. Not to panic. Not to let fear make their hands stupid. Now his hands were shaking. Now his chest was heaving. Now he was staring at one of his own residents and trying to convince them that life was still worth staying for.

“Maybe it is too late,” he said, voice hoarse. “Maybe I don’t get to fix what I did tonight. Maybe I don’t get to fix the last ten months.”

You cried silently, staring down.

“But late is what I have,” he said. “So I’m going to use it.”

He took another careful step. Then stopped. Waited.

You didn’t tell him no.

His throat worked.

“You told that girl downstairs fear could be physical and still matter.”

Your fingers tightened slightly.

He saw it. Held onto it.

“You were right. You were right when you said it to her, and you’re right now. This fear matters. Your pain matters. But it does not get to make the decision alone.”

“I don’t want tomorrow.”

“I know.” Robby swallowed hard. “Then don’t take tomorrow. Take the next minute.”

“I don’t know what’s left.”

“You are.”

“That’s not enough.”

“It is to Samira.”

Your face crumpled.

“It is to Dana,” he pressed, voice shaking but stronger now. “It is to McKay. Mel. Perlah. Princess. Everyone who stood on this roof tonight and breathed a little easier because you were standing with them.”

“They don’t need me.”

“They do. Not because you’re useful. Not because you’re an R4. Not because you catch mistakes and close charts and make scared patients feel less stupid for being scared.”

He took another step. Closer now. Close enough to reach the railing. His hand closed around it. The metal clanged softly under his grip. The sound made both of you flinch.

He froze. You froze. Your hands stayed down. Barely.

Robby’s voice dropped. “They need you because you are not just what you can do for people.”

You sobbed once. Hard. “I don’t believe that.”

“I know,” he said. “So I believe it for you tonight.”

His hand curled tighter around the metal until his knuckles blanched.

“You want a reason to stay?” he asked, choking on it now. “Stay because Samira is going to come back looking for you, and she deserves to find you breathing. Stay because Dana told you to go home, and she meant home, not gone.”

Your shoulders shook.

“Stay because Langdon still owes you at least one terrible joke. Stay because Javadi needs someone to tell her she’s allowed to still make mistakes. Stay because there is still coffee that tastes like burnt plastic and patients who apologize for needing help and people who love you badly, stupidly, imperfectly, but still love you.”

You shook your head. Barely. But your body went with it. Your shoulder dipped. Your weight shifted.

The open air seemed to notice before you did.

Robby’s grip on the railing tightened hard enough that the metal gave a small, sharp sound under his hand.

“Don’t,” he said.

The word came out too fast. He swallowed, forced his voice lower.

“Don’t move your head like that. Not while you’re sitting there.”

Your breath shook. “I can’t.”

“You can.”

“I can’t.”

“You can,” he said, and there was panic under the steadiness now, cracking through despite him. “Because you’re stubborn as hell.”

His hand scraped over the back of his neck, then dropped back to the railing.

“And because you’ve been correcting my terrible bedside manner since you were a med student.”

Your fingers twitched against the ledge.

His breath snapped when your fingers twitched. He stayed exactly where he was. Waited. Your hand held. Barely. A broken sound left you. Not a laugh. Not really. But close enough that Robby looked like he might come apart from relief.

“That’s it,” he whispered, nearly breaking.

Then your fingers slipped again. Both of them. Not fully. But enough. The tiny laugh died. The world lurched. Your body tilted forward. The metal rail jerked under his grip.

His breath tore out of him.

“Kid—”

This time it wasn’t command. It was begging.

You looked at him then. Really looked. And suddenly the calm was gone.

All of it.

The height rushed back into your body at once. The drop. The air. The fact that your feet were hanging over nothing. The fact that your hands were failing. The fact that some part of you had wanted this, and now every living piece of you was screaming.

Your eyes went wide. Your voice came out small. Childlike.

“I’m scared.”

The words changed everything.

Robby saw it happen. The emptiness in your face cracked. The awful stillness broke apart. Your eyes widened, and suddenly you were there again. Not gone. Not calm. Not chasing the quiet anymore.

There. Terrified. Alive.

Your breath caught hard enough for him to hear it. Your fingers, loose against the ledge a second ago, clawed suddenly at the concrete. Searching for purchase. Searching for anything.

Your shoulders jerked backward like your body had finally understood what your mind had tried to leave behind.

You didn’t want to fall. Not anymore.

“Robby—”

His name barely made it out of your mouth. Then your weight shifted. Too far. The ledge slipped beneath your palms. 

Your eyes locked on his. And the fear in them gutted him. It wasn’t peace. It wasn’t surrender. It wasn’t a choice anymore. It was panic. Regret. Please.

Your hand shot out toward him. Not gracefully. Not dramatically. Desperate. Fingers spread. Reaching for him. Reaching for the man who had taught you how to stay upright in chaos. Reaching like some part of you still believed he could catch you if you asked him to.

Robby moved. No thought. No plan. No careful distance. Just panic wearing his body. He lunged across the railing hard enough for the metal to slam into his ribs, one arm shooting out toward your hand.

For half a second, your fingers brushed his. Skin against skin. Almost. His hand closed too late. He caught fabric instead. The back of your scrub top bunched in his fist, tight and real and impossible. For one breath, he had you.

He felt your weight pull against his arm. Felt the sharp drag of cloth through his fingers. Felt your body jolt like maybe, maybe, maybe…

Your eyes stayed on his. Wide. Wet. Terrified. You were still reaching. Still trying. Your mouth opened around one last broken sound. Not his name this time. Just fear. 

Then the fabric gave. Not in one clean motion. Slowly. Cruelly. Thread by thread, inch by inch, slipping through his fist while his hand clenched harder, while his nails scraped uselessly against cloth, while every muscle in his body screamed no.

Your fingers slid away from his wrist. Your face changed. You knew. He saw the exact second you knew. That there was no ground beneath you anymore. That he was too late. That wanting to live had come back one heartbeat too late.

Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out at first. Your hand reached for him again, smaller now, farther away than it should have been. Then your name tore out of him. Raw. Destroyed. Begging the air to give you back.

And then you were gone.

Robby hit the railing so hard the metal screamed beneath him. His arm plunged into empty space, fingers closing over nothing, then opening again, reaching again, like some broken part of him still thought there was a way to catch you if he just refused to stop trying.

But there was only air. Only the drop. Only the place where your terrified eyes had been. Only the terrible truth that you had changed your mind. And he had still been too late.

Below, the world cracked open. Not the fall itself. The sound after. For one impossible second, there was nothing. Then the scream came.

It ripped upward from the ambulance bay so sharply that Robby’s whole body jerked against the railing. Not one voice. Several. Overlapping. Different pitches of horror colliding into each other.

Someone screamed like they had seen something no human being should ever have to see. Another voice shouted. Then another.

A sound of shock moved through the crowd beneath him in waves. Not words anymore. Just raw human devastation. Gasps. Cries. Someone sobbing openly. Someone shouting directions with panic cracking through every syllable.

Robby heard all of it. Every second. Every horrible sound. And he couldn’t make himself move. His hands stayed locked around the railing so tightly they hurt. His breathing came apart in shallow, uneven bursts.

“No,” he whispered.

The word disappeared into the noise below. Another scream tore through the ambulance bay. Closer together now. More frantic. More people arriving. More voices reacting to what they were seeing.

And through all of it, Robby stayed bent over the railing, staring into the dark space where you had disappeared.

His arm still reached downward. Still searching. His fingers opening and closing around nothing. His brain refused to catch up.

You had been there. Right there. Your fingers had touched his. Your eyes had locked onto his with sudden, terrible fear.

“I’m scared.”

He had heard it. He had watched you come back to yourself. Watched the calm vanish. Watched survival hit you too late. And now below him, the entire ambulance bay sounded like grief before grief even had a name yet.

A stretcher rattled violently somewhere beneath him. Someone shouted. Someone cried out so hard it turned into sobbing halfway through. Robby’s stomach twisted. Because he knew those sounds. He knew what people sounded like when hope collapsed in real time.

“No,” he said again, louder now.

But his voice broke apart. Below, the noise only grew. More footsteps. More panic. More horror spreading outward from one terrible point on the concrete.

And somewhere inside all of it was the unbearable truth his mind still refused to hold completely… 

You had changed your mind. You had wanted to live. And he had still been too late.

The roof door burst open behind him.

“Robby?”

Dana’s voice hit the night hard. 

Mohan was right behind her, breathless and already scared in the specific way people got scared when they sensed disaster before they understood it.

“What happened?”

Robby didn’t turn. 

Dana’s stomach dropped immediately. He was bent halfway over the railing, one hand still stretched out into empty space like his body hadn’t realized yet there was nothing left to grab.

“Robby,” Dana said again, sharper now.

Still nothing.

Then the screams below reached them. Not clear enough to understand. Not close enough to separate into words. Just sound. Human panic rising up the side of the building in waves.

Mohan froze. Not fully understanding yet. Just enough. Her eyes darted across the roof. The ledge. The empty stretch of concrete beside it. The railing. The wrong side of the railing. And not you.

“No,” she said immediately. Small. Reflexive. 

She looked toward the utility boxes. The corners of the roof. The door. Like maybe you had moved. Like maybe this was some horrible misunderstanding and you were sitting against a wall crying somewhere.

“No,” she said again, faster now, turning in a full circle. “Where are they?”

Dana’s face changed. 

Mohan looked back at Robby. “You were with them.”

Robby finally turned around. His face wasn’t a face anymore. Just shock stretched over skin.

Mohan’s pulse spiked. “Where are they!”

Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Below them, the noise kept rising. Not voices anymore. Not anything Mohan could make sense of. Just alarm. Horror. A terrible rush of movement and sound spreading somewhere beneath them.

Dana’s eyes shut for half a second. That was enough. 

Mohan shoved past her. “No.”

Dana grabbed for her arm too late. “Samira—”

“No.”

Mohan ran for the railing. Not because she believed it. Because she didn’t. 

Because her brain refused it so violently that some part of her still expected to look over the edge and see you standing on a lower landing or crouched somewhere crying or hurt but alive. Anything except what the sounds below were trying to tell her.

Dana caught the back of Mohan’s scrub top just as she reached the ledge.

“Don’t.”

Mohan fought her instantly. “Let me go!”

“No.”

“Dana, let me see!”

“You do not need to see that.”

Mohan twisted violently in her grip, trying to force herself toward the edge anyway.

“I left them here!” she screamed. “I left them alone!”

Her voice cracked apart on the last word.

Dana wrapped both arms around her waist now, physically holding her back from the railing.

“Samira, stop.”

“No!”

Mohan’s eyes were fixed on the edge like if she looked hard enough reality would change.

“They were right here,” she whispered frantically. “They were right here.”

Below, the sound kept swelling. Distant. Distorted. Devastated. The kind of noise people made when something irreversible happened in front of them.

Mohan heard it. And still her brain kept rejecting it.

“No,” she whispered again.

Then her eyes found Robby. He was still standing there beside the railing. Still shaking. Still staring downward like part of him had gone over with you and never come back. 

Mohan saw his empty hand. Saw the shape of guilt already crushing him alive. And suddenly her denial found somewhere to go.

“You.”

Robby flinched hard enough that Dana saw it.

“You were with them.”

His throat moved. No words.

Mohan’s eyes narrowed through her tears. 

“Why were you up here?”

Robby’s face twitched.

Her voice shook harder. 

“Why were you here?”

Dana closed her eyes.

Mohan’s face crumpled, anger folding into panic all over again.

“I left them alone,” she said. “I left because they asked me to. Because they looked me in the eye and told me they needed a minute.”

Her eyes flicked to the railing. The empty ledge. The wrong side of it.

“And somehow you were the one who found them?”

Robby’s mouth opened. Nothing came out. 

Mohan shook her head.

“No. No, that doesn’t make sense.”

Then she looked back at him, and the grief sharpened into something brutal.

“What did you say to them?”

Robby looked like the words cut straight through him.

“What did you say!” she screamed.

Dana’s grip tightened around Mohan’s waist. “Samira.”

“No!” Mohan snapped. “Why else would he be here?”

Robby couldn’t answer.

Mohan laughed once, broken and horrified. 

“What, did you come up here to push them over the edge one last time? Is that it?”

Robby’s face collapsed.

“Did you need one more chance to tell them they weren’t good enough before you left?” she spat. “One more private correction? One more way to make them feel unstable and useless where nobody else could hear?”

“Samira,” Dana warned, but her own voice was shaking now.

“No,” Mohan choked out. “No, he knew. He knew they were hurting.”

Below them, another wave of sound rose from the ambulance bay. 

Mohan heard it and broke completely. Because no one sounded like that unless there was nothing left to hope for. Her knees buckled. Dana caught her weight immediately, dragging her back from the railing while Mohan sobbed against her shoulder.

“I should’ve stayed,” Mohan choked out. “I should’ve stayed with them.”

Dana held her tighter. “They asked you not to.”

“I knew better!” Her voice echoed across the roof. “I knew something was wrong. I knew they weren’t okay. I knew and I still walked away!”

Then she looked at Robby again. And whatever mercy she might have had left disappeared.

“You did this.”

Robby didn’t deny it. That made it worse.

“You knew they were hurting,” Mohan sobbed. “You knew they were getting smaller every single day, and you kept going. You kept pushing. You kept cutting them open in front of everyone like it was teaching.”

Robby stared at her like he deserved every word.

“You made them think being sick made them dangerous,” Mohan said, voice breaking into something almost unrecognizable. “You made them think the part of them they trusted you with was ugly.”

His breath hitched.

Mohan shoved weakly at Dana’s arms, desperate now, grief turning frantic because there was nowhere for it to go.

“They just wanted you to be proud of them!” she screamed. “That’s all they wanted. God, Robby, they wanted your approval so badly they didn’t even know how to stand without it anymore!”

Dana’s face crumpled.

Robby looked back toward the ledge. His voice came out hollow.

“I didn’t want them in emergency medicine.”

Mohan went still. Dana’s grip loosened slightly. 

Robby stared at nothing.

“This place was going to kill them.”

“I thought if they couldn’t be happy they’d leave,” Robby whispered. “If I made them angry enough. If I made them hate me enough. They’d get out before this place took the rest of them.”

His face twisted.

“And I didn’t want them to miss me when I was gone.”

Mohan looked at him like he had slapped her. 

“You selfish son of a bitch.”

Robby closed his eyes. 

“I know.”

“You don’t know!” she spat through tears. “You don’t get to know! They’re gone, and you’re still standing here!”

Gone.

Robby’s knees buckled. Dana let go of Mohan only long enough to catch him.

“Robby.”

He didn’t respond.

“Robby, look at me.”

He stared past her. 

Dana grabbed both sides of his jacket and forced herself into his line of sight.

“You are coming off this roof.”

“I can’t.”

“You are.”

“I have to—”

“No,” Dana said, voice breaking now. “The only thing you have to do is to come down.”

His face collapsed. For a second, it looked like grief might take him physically apart. His mouth opened around a sound that didn’t become words. His hands lifted uselessly, still shaking, still curled like they remembered losing hold.

Dana pulled him against her before he could fall. Robby went stiff at first. Then he broke. Not loudly. Not at first. Just one ruined breath against Dana’s shoulder. Then another. Then his whole body folded into it.

Dana held him with one arm around his back and one hand at the back of his head, her own face wet, her jaw trembling with the effort of staying upright.

“I didn’t catch them,” he choked.

Dana squeezed her eyes shut. “It’s okay.”

“I had them.”

“Breathe.”

“I had them, Dana.”

“It’s okay. Just breathe.”

Mohan stood a few feet away, sobbing so hard she could barely breathe.

For one awful second, all three of them were just bodies on a roof, surrounded by smoke and heat and the echo of fireworks, listening to the world below rearrange itself around your absence.

Then another set of footsteps hit the roof. 

Abbot. 

He stopped at the door. Took in Dana holding Robby. Mohan folded over herself. The empty ledge. His face went slack.

“No.”

Dana looked at him. That was all it took. Abbot crossed the roof and caught Robby by the back of the neck, firm and grounding.

“Michael.”

Robby made a broken sound. Abbot’s hand tightened.

“Look at me.”

Robby didn’t. Abbot stepped closer, voice low and rough.

“Michael. You are walking off this roof.”

Robby shook his head once, barely. Abbot’s face cracked. Then he moved in beside Dana and held him too. Not carefully. Not professionally. Like if he and Dana put enough hands on him, they could keep what was left of him from following you over the edge.

Robby’s knees gave anyway. Dana and Abbot went down with him. Mohan screamed into both hands. Robby knelt on the concrete between them, sobbing now, fully and violently, his hands fisted in Dana’s sleeve and Abbot’s jacket like he was drowning on dry land.

“They changed their mind,” he choked. “They wanted to live.”

Abbot’s eyes filled. He looked at Dana over Robby’s bowed head. Neither of them knew what to say. Because ‘no’ wasn’t enough. Not yet. Maybe not ever. 

So Abbot pressed his forehead briefly against the side of Robby’s head and said the only true thing left.

“Breathe.”

Robby couldn’t. Dana held tighter.

“Breathe anyway.”

The rest came apart in fragments. The walk downstairs. Dana on one side. Abbot on the other. Mohan behind them, shaking so badly someone had to guide her by the elbow. 

Police. Hospital administration. Questions. Statements. Hands on his shoulders. Voices saying his name. Robby remembered none of it clearly. Only pieces.

Dana saying, “Not now,” to someone who wanted answers.

Abbot saying, “Back off,” in a voice so cold the hallway went silent.

Mohan was crying somewhere he couldn’t see.

Your name spoken too gently by strangers. Your bag under the desk. Your phone lighting up again and again. Your good pen clipped to the front pocket.

At some point, someone told him there was nothing they could do. Or maybe no one did. Maybe he just knew from the way everyone stopped looking directly at him.

—

Later that night, Robby found himself sitting beside your bed.

He didn’t remember walking there. Didn’t remember asking. Didn’t remember Dana’s hand leaving his shoulder or Abbot’s voice telling someone to give him a minute.

There was a blanket over you. White. Pulled all the way up. Not carelessly. Not like someone was hiding you. Carefully. Tenderly. With the kind of mercy people offered when there was nothing left to fix except dignity.

Only one hand had been left uncovered. Just one. Your hand rested against the sheet, still and cold and unbearably familiar. And around your wrist was your watch.

The one you always wore. The one Robby had seen a hundred times while you checked pulses, signed charts, reached for coffee, stole your pen back with a muttered threat under your breath. The glass was cracked now. The hands had stopped.

Robby stared at it until his vision blurred.

That was how they had known. Not your face. Not your voice. Not any of the things that made you you. A watch. A broken watch on a still wrist. Your time of death held there in shattered glass.

His breath folded in on itself. 

Your hands had always been doing something. Typing. Charting. Stealing your pen back. Holding coffee you never finished. Pressing against your chest when the world got too loud. Now your hand did nothing.

Robby sat beside the bed and tried to understand a world where that was allowed. Where you could be still and he could be breathing. Where your watch could be broken at the exact minute your life ended, and his heart could keep going anyway, steady and obscene inside his chest.

His hands curled between his knees until his knuckles went pale.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

The room didn’t answer. There was no one left in it who could.

His eyes stayed on your uncovered hand. On the cracked watch face. On the stopped hands beneath the fractured glass. Time had ended for you. And somehow, impossibly, it had not ended for him.

“No,” he whispered. “No, that’s not enough.”

His breath shook.

“I did this.”

The words barely made it out.

“I keep wanting there to be another explanation. Trauma. Grief. The job. Anything that makes it sound less like a choice.”

His eyes burned. 

“But I chose it.”

A tear dropped onto the floor.

“I saw you getting worse, and I kept going.”

His mouth twisted like the words made him sick.

“I told myself I didn’t want you here because emergency medicine was killing you. Because you cared too much. Because this place takes people like you and teaches them to confuse being useful with being alive.”

He swallowed hard.

“And maybe part of that was true.”

His voice cracked.

“But it wasn’t all of it.”

He looked down at his hands.

“I didn’t want you to need me. I didn’t want you waiting for me after I left. I didn’t want to look back from that sabbatical and know I mattered enough to hurt you.”

His face folded.

“So I hurt you first.”

The silence pressed in.

“I thought if I made you hate me, you’d survive me leaving.”

His breath broke.

“But I didn’t make you hate me.”

He looked at the hospital white covering you. The single hand left uncovered. The watch that had become the only proof anyone could bear to name.

“I made you hate yourself.”

A sob caught in his throat.

“I made you believe the sickest part of you was the truest part. I made you believe you were dangerous. I made you believe I was right.”

His hand lifted like he wanted to touch yours. Then stopped.

“I was supposed to know better.”

His voice shattered.

“I did know better.”

The room hummed around him. Your hand stayed still. And now there was nothing left inside him trying to survive. That was the worst part. Not the grief. Not even the horror.

The relief.

Because your death had finally given him what he had been reaching toward for months. A reason. A sentence. A punishment that felt clean enough to deserve.

Robby stared at the blanket covering your body. At the careful mercy of it. At the way they had hidden what the fall had taken because dignity was the last thing anyone could still give you.

His fingers drifted to the Star of David at his throat. The metal was warm from his skin. He gripped it hard enough for the points to bite into his palm. He wanted it to hurt. 

He had pushed God out years ago. Out of trauma bays. Out of death. Out of every prayer that came too late to matter.

But this almost felt like judgment. Not from God. From you. From the empty room. From the stopped watch on your wrist.

“You died because of me,” he whispered.

No denial came. No voice in his head argued back. Just the truth sitting beside him, covered in white.

“I killed you.”

The words wrecked him because he meant them. Not metaphorically. Not dramatically. Completely. And the second he said it, some ruined part of him went quiet. Because if he had killed you, then maybe he deserved to die too. Not eventually. Not abstractly. Now.

The thought did not scare him. His grief had narrowed the world until there was only you, still and covered, and him, breathing when he shouldn’t be.

He thought of his sabbatical. Three months gone. Three months everyone already expected him to disappear into. An exit that had been waiting for him long before tonight. Before the roof. Before your hand slipped through his.

He had told himself he was tired. Burned out. Done. He had told himself leaving would be quieter if everyone hated him first. Now he knew the truth. He had been rehearsing his own absence. And your death had given him permission to stop pretending it was anything else.

His grip tightened around the star until pain sparked through his palm.

“You wanted to live,” he choked out.

That was the part that destroyed him. Not only that you died. That at the end, you changed your mind. He had seen it happen.

The terror crashing back into your face. Your hand reaching for him. Your body trying, too late, to come back from the edge. You had wanted to live. And by the time you did, he had already made dying feel easier.

A sob tore out of him.

He bent forward until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Your hand did not move. The watch did not start again. The room gave him nothing. He didn’t want comfort. He didn’t want forgiveness. He wanted consequence. He wanted the kind of punishment that ended.

The door opened quietly. Robby didn’t turn.

Mohan stepped inside. Her face was destroyed. Eyes swollen. Hair loose around her face. She looked younger than she had that morning. Younger and older and hollowed out.

For a while, she just stood there looking at you.

Then her mouth trembled.

“They asked me to leave,” she said.

She closed her eyes.

“They told me they needed a second alone.”

Her body shook once.

“I should’ve stayed anyway.”

Robby looked down.

Mohan wiped at her face roughly, almost angry at the tears for being there.

“I keep hearing them say ‘okay’.”

Her voice cracked once.

“I keep hearing myself say it back.”

Robby said nothing.

Mohan looked at him then. There was no softness in her face anymore. Only grief sharpened into something clean and merciless.

“I talked to Dana and Abbot.”

Robby went still.

“They think your sabbatical is suicide mission.”

His eyes lifted slowly.

Mohan stepped closer. 

“If you are sitting here thinking their death gives you permission to end yours, stop.”

Robby flinched.

Her voice stayed cold.

“You don’t get that.”

“Mohan—”

“No.” Her voice cut through his like a blade. “You do not get that.”

His mouth closed.

“You don’t get to hurt them, lose them, and then use their death as your exit. You don’t get to make yourself the second tragedy and pretend it’s guilt. You don’t get to make the rest of us bury you too because living with what you did feels unbearable.”

Robby’s breath hitched.

“Good,” Mohan said.

His eyes flicked to hers.

“Let it be unbearable.”

The words landed hard.

Mohan’s jaw trembled, but she didn’t look away.

“They don’t get to leave this room. They don’t get tomorrow. They don’t get therapy. They don’t get to heal from what you did or what this place did or how tired they were.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“You do.”

Robby’s face crumpled.

“So no,” she said, voice lower now. Blunter. “You don’t get to be free by dying.”

He looked away.

Mohan stepped closer anyway.

“You live. That is your punishment.”

His breath fractured.

“You wake up tomorrow, and they don’t. You walk into work, and they don’t. You hear their voice every time the building gets quiet. You remember their hand slipping through yours. You remember that they were scared. You remember that at the very end, all they wanted was to live.”

Robby’s shoulders shook.

“And you were too late.”

He bent forward like the words had gone through him.

Mohan didn’t soften. Not this time.

“And then you get help,” she said. “Real help. The help they don’t get anymore.”

His eyes burned.

“You go to therapy. You take a break. You come back. You tell the truth. You let Dana and Abbot watch you. You let people be angry. You let me hate you.”

Robby looked up.

Her face was wet. Cold. Furious.

“I hate you right now. I hate you so much I can barely stand in this room with you.”

His face folded.

“And you don’t get to run from that either.”

The room hummed around them. Your hand stayed still against the blanket.

Mohan’s voice dropped, each word blunt enough to bruise.

“You live so everyone who loved them gets to hate you.”

Robby’s breath broke.

“You live so we get to be furious. So we get to look at you and remember what you did. So you don’t get the mercy of disappearing before anyone can hold you responsible.”

“Mohan,” he whispered.

“No.” She shook her head once. “You asked for this when you decided your fear mattered more than their life.”

The words hit so hard he looked physically sick.

Mohan blinked through tears.

“And the worst part?” Her voice cracked, but the anger stayed. “The worst part is they would still want you to get help.”

Robby shut his eyes.

“They would hate what I’m saying to you right now.”

Her mouth twisted.

“They’d probably tell me I’m being cruel. They’d probably tell me you’re hurting too. They’d probably still find a way to make room for you, because that’s what they did. That’s what killed them.”

A sob tried to break through her voice. She swallowed it down.

“After everything you said to them, after everything you made ugly, they would still want you to live long enough to become better.”

Her voice hardened again.

“So do it.”

Robby stared at her.

“Not because you deserve peace. Not because this makes anything right. Not because you get to forgive yourself someday and call it healing.”

She stepped closer.

“Because they don’t get to heal, and you do. Because they wanted to live, and you still can. Because the only decent thing left for you to do is become someone who never would have done this to them.”

Robby whispered, “I don’t know how.”

Mohan’s face twisted.

“Then figure it out,” she said. “They don’t get to anymore.”

He looked toward your hand. The broken watch. The stillness.

Mohan followed his gaze, and for one second, the anger cracked. Grief broke through raw and ugly. She stepped to the bed and touched your uncovered hand with two fingers. Barely. Carefully. Like anything more might break what was left of her.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered to you. “I should’ve stayed.”

Robby’s eyes filled.

Mohan pulled her hand back. 

At the door, she stopped and looked at him one last time.

“They just wanted you to be proud of them.”

Robby bowed his head.

“And they were still trying,” Mohan said, voice raw. “Even after you made it hurt. Even after you made it ugly. They were still trying to become the doctor you told them they could be.”

Her face hardened through the tears.

“So do it.”

Robby looked up.

“Become the man they thought you were,” she said. “And live with knowing they will never be able to see it.”

Then she left.

Robby sat alone beside your bed. The room hummed around him. Your hand stayed still. For a long time, he thought punishment should feel like an ending. Something sharp. Something final. Something he could walk into and be done with.

But Mohan was right. Punishment was not an ending. Punishment was tomorrow. Waking up in a world where you didn’t. Walking into work and knowing exactly where the air changed. Hearing your voice in every silence. 

Knowing your last word to him had been scared. Knowing his last touch had not been enough. Maybe punishment was living long enough to become someone who would have never let this happen.

Robby reached out. His hand hovered over yours. Then, finally, he touched your fingers. Cold. Still. Real.

A sob bent him forward until his forehead nearly touched the edge of the bed.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered.

No answer. There would never be an answer again.

Eventually, Robby stood. Not because he was ready. Not because grief had loosened. 

Because Dana and Abbot were waiting outside. Because Mohan was right. Because you were gone. Because he was not.

He looked at you one last time. At the single hand they had left uncovered. At the broken watch circling your wrist. At the stillness of fingers that had once reached for him and found nothing.

The rest of you was hidden beneath hospital white. Carefully. Mercifully. Like even in death, someone had tried to protect you from what the fall had taken.

And Robby understood, with a grief so heavy it felt physical, that this was all he would ever be allowed to see of you again. 

For one wild second, he wanted to take the watch. The only piece of you still visible. The only proof that time had once belonged to you too. His fingers twitched. Then stopped.

No. He didn’t get to keep part of you just because he couldn’t survive leaving with nothing. Your time had stopped. The watch stayed with you.

Then he walked out. Dana was in the hall. Abbot stood beside her. Neither of them asked if he was okay. Dana only reached for his hand. Abbot put a palm against the back of his neck. For one second, Robby almost collapsed between them. Then he didn’t.

He kept standing. That was all. That was the punishment. That was the beginning. Behind him, the door stayed closed.

And this time, when Robby walked away, he understood that the punishment was not the moment he lost you. It was every moment after. It was knowing he had put the pain in your voice.

Knowing he had made the roof feel quieter than living. Knowing you had reached for him in the end because some part of you still believed he could save you.

And knowing that, for the rest of his life, he would look for you in every doorway, every shift change, every impossible silence and you would never be there again.

One Shots

➸ You’re losing me [9.8k+] 18+

he doesn't notice how his behavior in The Pitt is making you fall from his arms, until the consequences of his actions catch up with him.

➸ His Good Girl [2.4k+] 18+

Request: HE PUTS HIS COCK IN BUT HE DOESNT MOVE AT ALL (even if youre begging) AND WANTS TO GET YOU OFF ON HIS COCK BEFORE HE FUCKS YOU???? you also get so overwhelmed by the way hes stretching you out that you cant control your eyes going cloudy and some salty tears falling down your flush face. but his hands are soothing and cooing at you and just like major praise kink yk? anyways yeah okay love you byyeee (gets shy now) whejsjke xoxo

➸ Daddy’s girl [3.3k+] 18+

You finally manage to send your daughter to a sleepover and get your husband alone after various unsuccessful attempts to get your hands on his body.

➸ Alight With The Sparks [8.4k+] 18+

Jack and Samira open a dating account for Robby, and furious Dr. Robinavitch goes to shut down the poor girl they have managed to charm, only for the night to take a turn and change his mind.

➸ A Mistake Worth Repeating [4.3k+] 18+

waking up naked next to the day shift attending ensures nothing chaos.

➸ Doctor Of The Year [2.3k+] 18+

celebrating the night your husband wins the Doctor Of The Year after working so hard to achieve this award. Aka reader rides Robby into oblivion because she is proud of him.

➸ Maldives; The Land Of Chaos [7.3k+] 18+

you planned this trip a year ago when you had no idea you'll go to it as exes, especially not after the nasty breakup you experienced.

➸ in the cracks of light, i dreamed of you [3.9k+] 18+

he accepts the award he and his team worked so hard to earn, but every word that slips from his mouth is dedicated only to you.

➸ Summertime Sadness [12.1k+] 18+

meeting her on his sabbatical wasn’t something he planned, especially when he started to fall for her in the limited time. Will he be given a chance to see her again?

➸ Masked [3.4k+] 18+

after overhearing you and Samira talk about one of your fantasies, he decides he wants to make it real.

➸ A Cowboy’s Wildest Dream [3.4k+] 18+

they say if you put on a cowboy’s hat then you have to ride one too. You didn’t know that, but that’s okay, Robby will tell you about the rules.

➸ Glass Bridge [9.8k+] 18+

Robby’s in need of a girlfriend, and you, the intern who he was flirting with for a year but didn’t act on his feelings, decide it’s a win win situation if you step up and help, and in return, he writes you a letter of recommendation.

➸ Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love? [10.5k+] 18+

you’d done an splendid job of hiding your feelings for your attending for four years, but at one fateful night, everything changes.

➸ String of Love [16.8k+] 18+

Based on this req: Aaaaahhh congratulations on the 2.5K Rueee!!! • I've been following you for so long and forgive me for the anon ask l'm a little shy But can I please request a fic if that's okay? With Robby x Reader, where they're exes (married or not) with a kid (who's like 2-3 years old, I guess?) and it's just super angsty with all the yearning and lost love and whatnot, until it isn't? 00 angst turned happy with some smut, if that's possible? Angst prompt I loved: "I wish you'd just let me love you the way you deserve to be loved." Smutty bits that l'd worship you for forever if you include them: Body worship and lactation kink? Thank youuuuu so much ily

Series/mini series

➸ Holding You, Holding Me (hiatus)

your parents' wedding anniversary brings you and your mom's friend closer to each other, closer than it should be, but there is no harm if no one finds out, right?

➸ Gunpowder & Lead (hiatus)

he met you during a silly work gala he was forced to attend, but soon, you became his leverage over your mother.

➸ Spellbound (completed)

meeting Jack’s sister out of the blue on a random Tuesday at their shared place changes Robby’s life forever. Both are struck by a new feeling, one tries to explore it while the other runs away from it.

Blurbs/Headcanons

⥃ Robby helping you with your Ocular Migraine during your shift

⥃ Dr. Robby + medical kink

⥃ Robby talking you through it

⥃ Robby helping you with your puppy growing old

⥃ Robby’s birthday

⥃ Love in the sand/beach day with Robinavitchs

⥃ Riding Robby’s tummy

⥃ wiping Robby’s kisses to see his reaction

⥃ Robby spanking you with his belt

⥃ Baby daddy!Robby / p.2

⥃ Professor!Robby

⥃ Robby being a father figure to your daughter / p.2

⥃ Robby x Jack’s sister

⥃ exes reunion with Robby

⥃ Robby + masturbation

⥃ foursome with mohabbot

⥃ bunny!reader

⥃ pittfest argument

⥃ fucking his bunny!reader girlfriend while she screams in her plushie

⥃ munch!robby

⥃ arguing with Robby because of his bike

⥃ Robby x Baran dry humping (celebration)

robby being frustratingly Down Bad in their situationship and baran torturing him about it

⥃ OnlyFans!Robby (celebration)

You said Robby starting an OF so like- can I request that kind of AU for your fic fest? Maybe reader is a popular content creator and sees Robby’s stuff and wants to collab because he’s new? With the smut prompts “I want to be the one fucking you this time.”  “Eyes on me at all times, sweetheart.” “How are you feeling?” 

⥃ found family (celebration)

Pungent, searing onions pierce the atmosphere. Feet kicked up, you wrap your hands around a glass of chilled white wine and settle into Robby's expansive couch.

"You sure you're doing alright in there?" You call out, listening for his rummaging in the kitchen.

"Yeah, 'f course babe. Don't worry your pretty little head," he replies, sweet but distracted.

A frown twists your lips, though you decide to leave him be, stomach rumbling at the garlic he's now added to the dish.

You try to relax, though a lack of Robby is making it difficult. You take in the low light of the living room, the secluded, large windows of Robby's rural cabin.

A 45 minute drive from the city, he'd purchased the home during his sabbatical. You look out the sliding glass door, where you know a calm river greeted him each morning.

The thought fills you with peace, tears glossing your eyes at the thought of who he was before he took a break. He's still not perfect, but he's so much better. You want to see him through it all.

"Smells great, Mikey," you mention, craning your neck to try and sneak a glimpse of him.

"Thhhanks, babe…" he trails off, distraction lacing his tone.

Your brow quirks, and you can't help but pad into the kitchen. It's a bit of a trek from his living room, the square footage of this place nothing to turn your head at.

"You sure you're okay?" You ask softly, and he jumps.

"Shit," he whispers, placing a large palm on his chest. "Scared me, baby," he says, but doesn't make eye contact.

Guilt pools in your stomach for scaring him, your eyes darting to the pan sizzling on the stove.

"Sorry, honey," you smile, softly nudging your way into the space.

You set your wine glass down with a soft clink, and press your hands into his lower back. You pinch the excess skin at his hips, reveling in his little flinch.

"Hey!" He playfully groans, prodding at the searing vegetables in the pan.

"Need any help in here?" You prop your chin on his back, arms wrapping around his sweet tummy.

You silently pray he can't feel the rapid beating of your heart pressing against him, the sheer proximity enough to make you dizzy.

He shakes his head, but nothing comes out of his mouth. This is his telltale sign that he's not communicating what he needs. He's working on it, but he was so excited to have you this weekend, to make you this meal.

You understand, but you're not standing for it. Your fingernails dig into the plush of his belly, giving him a menacing pinch. His spatula clatters against the counter, his hands white knuckling the marble counter top.

"Baby…" you mumble against his back, "can I help?" It's quiet, neutral and unassuming.

He shrugs, shaking his head again. You huff, pressing a light kiss on his shoulder.

"Promise, baby," he mutters, giving you a small smile.

He reaches for your wine glass, placing it back in your hands and gently ushering you out of the kitchen.

"Go sit," he encourages with a pat on the ass. "I'm fine, promise."

You look back at him over your shoulder, an unsure smile on your lips as you pad back over to the couch.

You curl into the elaborate furniture, the plush cushions enveloping you. Your lips find the rim of your glass, your eyes straining to see as much of him as you can.

Your heart drops, though, when an unmistakable burning scent fills the air. You're on your feet quickly, rushing into the kitchen to find Robby, once again gripping the counter.

This time, he's hunched over a bit more, deep breaths wracking his chest over the pan of now burnt vegetables. He doesn't seem to register you, and you're frozen for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

You decide on a slow step, the creak in the floorboard alerting him to your presence. He jolts up, his face red and blotchy, eyes glossy. Your heart clutches at the sight, and you reach a hand out.

He tenses up at the action, but you persist. You lay a gentle hand on his forearm, and he rests back onto the counter.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Should've said yes, I'm sorry."

You frown, stroking his arm.

"It's okay, you wanted to do it. I understand," you say, inching closer to him. He allows it. "I appreciate you."

He melts at this, and your belly warms at his small smile. His eyes find the ground beneath him, and you take this as an opportunity to act, before he can notice.

You slink over to the cupboard, grabbing a short glass and filling it up with ice. Twisting open the lid of his favorite scotch, the liquid glugs into the glass. The sound piques his interest, head flitting up to see what you're doing.

You walk toward him as he nears the edge of the kitchen where it meets the living room. He accepts the drink, lifting his brows while taking a sip. He doesn't fully give in so easily, though.

He rests a shoulder on the archway of the kitchen, glaring up at you through the you knew he'd refuse to leave you alone with a running stove and oven.

"Let me help you?" You attempt to meet in the middle.

You watch him rattle the idea around in his brain, shaking his head from side to side as he contemplates. Your heart picks up at the sight of him, warmth swirling in your belly at his sleepy eyes, his angular nose.

"Mkay," he relents, setting his scotch down next to your wine.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you melt back into him. His warmth is all encompassing, and you have to will yourself to stand strong.

He walks with you to the fridge, where you grab a new onion and fresh bulb of garlic. You're quick at work, dicing and slicing the vegetables to sear them anew.

The wretched burning smell is quickly overpowered by the aromatic scent once again. Michael relaxes behind you, pinching your hip slightly before checking the meat that's braising in the oven.

You allow yourself a peek behind your shoulder, the slight bend in his torso allowing you a perfect view of his backside. He always claims it's unimpressive, especially compared to yours, yet you can't help but enjoy every bit of him.

You show him so, turning to swat him on the ass with your kitchen towel. He stands up starkly, hands on his hips as he turns toward you, a smile stretching across his face. It's tight lipped, annoyed, but loving all the same.

Your smile is sparkling, and you revel in the pink tint of his cheeks. He saunters back to you, pulling him back to his chest whilst you move the vegetable pan off the burner.

"Thank you, baby," he croons in your ear, placing sweet, slow, seductive kisses along your neck.

There's a flutter between your legs as you settle into him, your head falling back onto his shoulder at his touch.

"Mikey…" you moan, squeezing your thighs together as his hands run down your waist, your hips.

He kneads your plush skin, greedy fingers squeezing and pulling you closer to him.

"So pretty, baby," he mutters, placing one last kiss on your neck. "Gotta get the pasta ready."

He moves to the cabinet, a burst of cold air rushing through you at his absence. You lean down to grab a large pot, shock reverberating through you when he gets his payback, landing a loud smack on your ass.

"Michael!" You squeal, standing up to reach for your stinging behind.

He just shrugs, though his cheeks have been flushed this whole time.

"Can you blame me? You're so pretty, baby," he shoots you his best puppy dog eyes, his lips in a soft little pout.

"I could say the same for you," you quip back, filling up the pot with water.

You place it on the stove, burner turned on all the way to ensure a quick boiling point. A soft silence settles over you two, then, no longer a need to frantically flit around the shared space.

You find your wine glass, lifting it to your lips and taking a slow sip, your eyes never leaving his over the rim of the glass. You lean back on the counter, and he does the same, taking a sip of his scotch.

Tension settles between you, thick like rising steam. You take a deep inhale, heart racing at the mere sight of him. You trail your eyes up and down, committing his look tonight to memory.

He's got jeans on, they're snug, yet low on his hips. His white button up strains against his belly, and you sink your teeth into your lower lip. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and a bead of sweat pricks your forehead.

You look down at your own outfit, a navy blue dress that fits around your waist and flows down to your ankles, adorned with white polka dots, matched with white kitten heels.

Your eyes find his, just to see him devouring you the same way you did earlier. Your cheeks burn at the heat of Robby's gaze, worrying if this is too much. Your relationship is still new, still not official, though you've been slowly embedding yourselves into each other's lives.

Like tonight, for example. You fit into this secluded space, your ability to help him tonight proof of that.

"You look so pretty tonight, by the way," he murmurs, arms crossing over his chest.

Your heart shocks itself back to life at his compliment, and your tummy twists.

"Thank you, handsome," you smile sweetly.

He smiles, and it's sweet, genuine with no underlying teasing underneath it. He moves closer to you, your heart pumping rapidly in your chest. He places a hand around your waist as he reaches for the spaghetti noodles, cracking them in half before throwing them into the boiling water.

You flinch at the action, having totally forgotten what you were in here for.

"Oh! I could have gotten that," you mutter sheepishly.

He just shakes his head, turning your back towards his chest and walking you back to the living room.

"No, baby," he says, guiding you back to the couch. "I can take it from here, you relax, okay?" He tries to sit you down, to give you a kiss. You don't let him off so easily.

"Can't relax without you," you mutter, running your hands up his bare forearms.

He shudders as you drag your nails over his skin, and you bask in the goosebumps popping up on his skin. His head hangs back, giving you an elongated view of his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing on full display.

You place a soft kiss to the pointy skin, and he shudders once more.

"Fine, baby," he relents, and you knew you'd get your way. He swats your ass once more as you hop back to the kitchen. "C'mon, brat."

- Dinner was outstanding, more than anything you thought Robby could cook for you, even with your help. He'd pick the steaks out, seasoned and braised them, all while tossing together a tomato pasta sauce, cooking noodles, and chopping up ingredients for a salad.

He's now finally joined you on the couch, your legs propped up on his lap, refills of both your drinks in your respective hands. His large, calloused hand strokes up and down your shins, and the motion almost puts you to sleep.

"Feels nice, Mikey," you mumble, resting your head on the back of the couch.

"Yeah?" He asks, his tone light. "Makin' you feel good?"

You nod, the condescending lilt to his words burning deep in your stomach. It mirrors the way he speaks when he's deep inside you, and you can't help but press your thighs together once more.

He knows this, a small smirk playing on his lips as you squirm under his touch.

"This is so pretty," he mumbles, toying with the hemline of your dress. You want nothing more than for him to pull it up, drag you by your legs and have his way with you.

You want it so much that you kick your feet a little, twisting your body to give him as much access to you as possible. It's not the most comfortable position, but you'd rather deal with it than have him stop touching you.

He notices, though, because of course he does, and tosses your legs off him anyways. You scoff, heart sinking at the action. He sees the pout forming on your lips, a sad smile on his lips.

"C'mon, my girl, up," he pats his lap before reaching for you, essentially manhandling you onto his lap.

You allow it, grateful to be able to turn off the decision making part of your brain. You let him maneuver you onto him, knees hitting the couch on either side of his lap.

You straddle him, not sinking your weight down fully just yet. He's surprised by this, head cocking to the side, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What?" You shrug, like nothing's wrong. "You made me dinner just so you could get in my pants? Woooooow. Michael," you tease him, knowing full well you want him just as much as he wants you.

His hands grip your ass, squeezing and kneading, giving a light slap once again. You squeal, hips thrusting of their own volition. You feel a wet spot start to pool in your panties, desperate for friction. You won't let him win that easily, though.

He pulls your hips closer to him, your center pressed against his chest, his face in your tummy, your chest. He looks up at you, chin resting on your stomach.

"Not gonna sit on me, baby? Really?" He asks, soft and sweet.

"Nope!" You chirp, the heat burning in you making it harder to keep up this act.

"You don't want it?" He asks, expecting a predictable answer, expecting you to drop your core onto him and let him take you.

You decide to take his bait, shaking your head no, a proud smile playing on your face. Your heart pounds at the surprise seizing his features.

"Really?" His brows raise.

You've pushed it before with Robby, but due to the early nature of your relationship, it's never gone this far. Never have you denied him yourself, nor denied yourself him, because, as much as you pretend, this is a two way street.

"Really, 'm totally fine," you chirp, and you see his eyes darken. "In fact, is there dessert?" You twist your torso, going to move off of him, but he grips your waist even tighter.

Hook, line, sinker.

"Totally fine?" He grits, hands moving lower. "You mean, if I get my hands on your pretty panties, you won't be drooling for me?"

You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, body on fire at not only your proximity, but lack thereof. The distance between your lap and his feels like miles away, but his hands on you are electrifying.

Still, you shake your head no, defiant despite knowing exactly what he'll find. His hands travel farther and farther up your thighs, circling around to your backside, pushing your dress up over your hips.

Your pink panties give you away instantly, wet spot big and dark. His brows furrow, lips forming into an 'o' as he takes you in.

"Oh, baby," he coos, sliding the fabric to the side. "Fuck, drippin' for me, angel."

You squeal at his words, vulnerability seizing you as his thick fingers press against the damp fabric. You clench against nothing as his fingertips collect your wetness, running through your silky folds.

"Feels so good, Mikey," you whisper, grinding your hips to further the friction.

"Ooohohoho," he chuckles. "Now we want it," he teases, recalling your earlier defiance.

"You know I always did," you whine, giving him your widest eyes, the ones that get him every time.

You're proven right once more as he stands, your legs still wrapped firmly around him. He carries you to the bedroom, a large, cozy bed taking up most of the room.

The windows are floor to ceiling, and the late evening sun sets in pinks and oranges around you two. He tosses you onto the bed, and your heart picks up as you look up at him.

His eyes bore into yours as he settles a knee on the bed, his fingers reaching up to unbutton his shirt. You quickly sit up, folding your legs underneath yourself as you kneel, taking his buttons into your own hands.

You indulge in his half naked frame, trailing a finger down his chest, past his belly all the way to the waistband of his pants. You pause there, grazing your nose against his ever so slightly. His jaw goes slack, panting breaths fanning over your face.

Your heart pounds, tummy twisting with warm desire. You unlatch his belt, finally pressing your lips to his. He melts into you, lips crushing yours as he pushes you back on the bed.

He slides his pants down the rest of the way, boxers coming with it. It's always on brand for him to skip the middle man.

He shakes his head incredulously as he crawls back on the bed. He gestures to your fully clothed form.

"How's this fair?" He poises, and you can't help but giggle.

This gets a smile out of him, inching closer to you on the bed. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you the rest of the way to him until his hips are flush with yours.

You whimper as your sensitive core hits his, his hard cock pressed against you. You wiggle your hips, trying desperately to feel something before he releases you from the restraints of your clothing.

He coos, tutting his tongue and swatting your inner thigh. You squeal, lifting your hips up as his hands pull your underwear down your legs. He tosses them across the room, but not without taking a quick sniff.

"Michael!" You scoff, a small smile creeping on your face. "You perv!"

He smiles at your teasing, tapping his cock onto your clit. You flinch at the contact, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

"Can't help it, baby, pussy's so sweet," he mutters, lifting your dress over your head to get you the rest of the way there.

The warmth from the sunset radiates from the windows, coating you in a golden sheen. You can almost feel the rays through the glass as your naked frame settles into the bed.

Insecurity settles deep in your stomach as he takes a moment to stare. He's slack jawed, eyes trailing from your face all the way down to the apex of your thighs, and back up again.

"You're incredibly beautiful, I don't tell you that enough," he mutters, pressing a finger to your entrance.

You moan, arching your back from the bed at the intrusion.

"So tight, shit," he whispers, and you clench around his digit. "No idea how you take my cock every time."

That last part seems more to himself than anybody else, and you can't help but agree. Taking in his length that sits right in front of you, you swallow. It's considerable, especially knowing the guys you've dated in the past.

His finger is fully inside you now, down to the knuckle. You whine, wiggling your hips to add friction. He coos, shushing you before pulling out and adding in a second finger.

You mewl at the stretch, cheeks heating up at the gush of your wetness around his fingers.

"Y'always get so wet for me, fuck," he whispers, jaw going slack at the squelch of your pussy.

"It's so much," you whine, embarrassment creeping up your spine. "'m sorry."

He stops at this, fingers halting inside of you. He quirks a brow, and you feel yourself shrink under his gaze.

"What was that?" He asks, his voice testy. "You're sorry?"

You nod, heart pounding deep and loud in your chest.

"I'm ruining your sheets," you whimper, and he swats your inner thigh.

You squeal at the sharp contact, squeezing your eyes shut.

"Not ruining anything, sweet girl, y'hear me?" He picks up the pace of his fingers once more, massaging your sweet spot with each thrust. "Could never ruin a thing, I promise."

You nod your head, his words shining bright within you. A white hot sensation burns in your lower belly, your blissful edge nearing with each motion.

"Michaelll," you whine, throwing your arms over your face.

"Shhh, I know sweetie, I know," he whispers, maintaining his agonizing pace. "We're gonna get you nice and stretched out for me, get you nice and ready to take me, yeah?"

You whine, wriggling in his grasp, arching your hips off the bed to be closer to him.

He pushes you back down with a firm hand, and a tut of his tongue.

"Nuh-uh, baby, you're gonna sit still and take it like a good girl, hm?" He raises a brow, and all you can do is nod, the pleasure building up to its peak.

Your orgasm is achingly close, your pussy clenching down on his fingers with all its might. He laughs at this, at the heightened resistance his fingers meet inside of you.

Your orgasm hits, then, a blinding hot wave of pleasure sweeping you out to sea. Robby unravels you, continues his brutal pace until your legs are shaking, your breath small, whiny gasps.

"Good girl, good girl," he repeats as he continues to work you out. It's so genuine, your heart clutches.

Tears prick your eyes, caught in a perfect intersection of his praise and the overstimulation. He nods, kissing your cheek as his fingers slow. He pulls out gently, you still whimper at the loss.

Your pussy pulses through the aftershocks, warmth blooming bright in your stomach. Robby nudges your cheek with the point of his nose, lightly grazing your soft skin.

"You ready for me, baby?" He asks, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek.

You nod against his lips, and he lines himself up to your entrance. He slides his head up and down your folds, collecting your wetness before pushing in.

His tip breaches your hole, and you feel instantly hazy. Your eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks as he pushes even deeper.

Your jaw falls slack, gripping his hips, relishing the plush skin there as you pull him ever more closer to you, legs spreading even wider to accommodate his large size.

Taking him has always been a challenge, though you're never one to back down. Soon enough, he's buried in you, hips flush together. He sneaks his hands under your legs, pulling them up to his shoulders. Your shins dangle down his back, allowing him to push even deeper.

"Ohhh yes," your breathing is shaky, his tip nudging your sweet spot.

"I know, baby, I know," he mutters, pulling out slightly just to thrust back in.

You whimper as his hips hit your ass, a wet 'plap' echoing through the room. The feeling of him is intoxicating, the smell of him invading your nose and making you dizzy.

Your head falls back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as he continues to snap his hips. He finds a steady rhythm, his length pistoning through you like a bullet.

"Feels so good," he grunts, thrusts growing sloppy. "Always so fucking good with you, baby."

He turns his head to press a sweet kiss to your ankle, maneuvering your legs back around his waist.

"Never been this good before," he mutters. "Never."

His words knock the wind out of you. Things are still so new that you never really know what he's thinking. You love when he's like this, sensitive and vulnerable and unable to stop his mouth from running.

The telltale sign of your release creeps up once again. You're more sensitive as your second orgasm approaches, positively gushing around him.

Your juices flow down your ass and onto the bedsheets, the familiar embarrassment returning. Robby catches it before you can spiral, a sharp shake of his head keeping the tears at bay.

"Don't even go there, baby," he grumbles beneath his breath. "Get me as wet as you need to, 's okay."

The tears slip anyway, soft streams rolling down your cheeks. He kisses them away, shushing you as he continues to take you apart.

"You're okay, baby, we're okay. It's all okay," he whispers, kissing all over your face. "It's so okay, so good," he mumbles aimlessly, "so good for me, gonna cum, okay? Gonna cum inside, oh God please can I cum inside?"

You nod breathlessly, tears still spilling, a quiet cry escaping your chest.

"So fucking pretty when you cry, baby, fuck, 's gonna make me cum," he groans, halting his hips against yours as he spills inside you.

You fall apart at the same time, your entire body seizing against his. He brings his mouth to yours, brows furrowed as he parts your lips with his tongue. He kisses you through it, shushing you and stroking your hair.

You shiver and shake as he thrusts through it, gripping at his biceps to anchor you.

"That's it, you got it, you got it," he whispers, bringing your ankle back to his lips for another sweet kiss.

He pulls out slowly, collapsing next to you. Wasting no time, he pulls you into him, wrapping yourself around him so he can bring you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

There's a shift between you two, you can feel it as he lays down next to you. The air is thicker, more intense. You lean into it, hands immediately finding his bicep and sinking your nails in.

He hisses at the contact, furrowing his brows before pulling you in for a sweet kiss. You melt into him, his firm grip allowing sleep to fall over you, content and in his arms.

The start of the week at PTMC is, as always, loud, chaotic, and smelly. Though, the influx of patients is not what's on your mind most, even though it should be.

You're eager to find Robby, missing him already, though you spent the whole weekend together.

You fill your locker and make quick work of rushing onto the scene, finding your guy immediately. You walk with him alongside a gurney from the ambulance bay as he describes the state of the new patient.

A child with bruises littering their skin and a head injury from a fall at the skate park nearby. This is fairly routine, and you go to retrieve the proper paperwork when he gives you a small tug on your elbow.

Your heart picks up in speed at the touch, albeit professional.

"We don't need you here," he mutters, and your heart drops.

After this weekend, the words feel like poison bubbling in your gut. You jerk your head back to look at him, brows furrowed in surprise and hurt.

He clocks it immediately. You watch his eyes shift momentarily before finding his work zone once again. You feel like you're drowning, like he was throwing you out to sea.

It's just your job, you know this. It doesn't stop the ache from nearly splitting your heart in two.

"It doesn't look like an abuse case," he eases your professional worries, and it helps, though it's not enough to quell your personal ones. "I'll call you if it ends up going that route."

You nod slowly, your ears flooded with anxious noise. You feel as if you're traipsing through water, movements fluid and languid, like you're not even here.

The juxtaposition of the Robby from this weekend and the Robby standing in front of you nearly gives you whiplash, and you're unable to take your eyes off of him.

"Go work with Langdon," he nods across the E.R, and you turn your head.

He's in Trauma 1, barking orders and checking a young child's pupils. You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, turning your head back to find his face a hell of a lot closer than it was when you looked away.

"Robby-" you start, trying to knock some sense into him.

"What?" He quips. It's short, punctuated, and thoroughly pissed off.

This sparks something within you, a fiery combativeness that you can't seem to find the off switch to.

"Really? Langdon?" You prop your hand up on your hip, rolling his eyes.

He scoffs at your attitude, and 48 hours ago, you know he'd have you over his knee for this later.

Now? You're not so sure. The uncertainty knocks you off kilter, your legs like jelly beneath you.

You knew this was a possibility when you'd started seeing him, you've worked with him for five years now. The mood swings aren't surprising. What is surprising, is the fact that he's never taken it out on you before.

It's terrifying.

"You'll be of better use there," he clips, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach.

"But, Robby-" you try, but he cuts you off.

"Now," he punctuates, and leaves the room.

The kid Langdon was with has been discharged, though a pile of CPS paperwork is going to loom high on your desk for the next few days.

As you scan the busy room for more cases to jump on, you spot Robby, still with the same child.

Your brow quirks, making your way over to the scene. He seems to be in some sort of verbal altercation with the mother, who is getting closer and closer to Robby, unkind words spewing from her mouth.

"I'm going to sue you, and I'm going to sue this entire fucking hospital!" She shouts.

Robby has two defensive hands up at his shoulders, and you can tell he's struggling to maintain his composure.

You slink in between him and this woman, a public service smile plastering your face.

"Hi!" You chirp, giving her your name and a hand to shake. "I'm our pediatric specialist. What seems to be the problem here?"

Your tone and demeanor soften the woman, a skill you've honed over half a decade of working this position. Really, all these parents want is for someone to listen. That's where you come in.

You shoot Robby a look as you guide the ever calming woman away from the scene, allowing them to work. He looks sheepish, eyes not leaving yours even after he moves back to the child on the hospital bed.

A sense of pride floods your veins at his battered expression, a smile reading 'I told you so' spreading your lips.

Around 2:30, you're able to steal ten minutes in the break room for a 'lunch' break. Your teeth sink into a granola bar, your chin in your palm as you allow yourself to zone out for a moment.

Since your earlier interaction, you've quietly eyed Robby's every move, tracking the way he darts from one patient to the other with learned ease. Not once had he looked at you, not even to spare a glance.

It's starting to chip away at you, withering you down to your rawest parts. You decided to give him the rest of the morning to reset- knowing the transition from his cabin back to reality can be tough for him.

His behavior today surpasses that, though. Blatantly ignoring you all morning- not letting you help, assigning you to cases with Langdon, of all people.

You've got nothing against the guy, you'd even consider him a friend. It still doesn't explain why Robby would hand you off to him instead of keeping you to himself.

By the time you've scarfed down a semblance of food, you're angry all over again. You march back out into the Pitt, greeted by all the familiar sounds and smells.

You wrinkle your nose, spotting Robby at the charting station. His glasses sit low on his nose, fingers clacking on the keyboard.

You stop in your fiery tracks as you take him in, heart pattering against your chest like a caged bird. It knocks you off kilter for a moment, the mere sight of him standing there.

His head snaps up instantly, and you roll your eyes, annoyed once again at how deeply he feels you. You stomp over, plopping yourself on the stool at the station opposite him.

You don't even pretend to look at the computer, folding your hands on the counter as you glare at him. His eyes divert from the screen to you, still glancing over his glasses.

His brows are arched, an expression on his face that, at home, usually reads as 'I'm done with your shit.'

But you're not at home. You're at your jobs, and the feeling is mutual.

"What's going on with you?" You ask, clipped and blunt.

He flinches at your brusque tone, still not fully used to your direct way of communicating. You don't let him get away with anything. He needs it, even if he doesn't like it all the time.

He averts his gaze, tapping his fingers against the keyboard once again.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, and you're seeing red.

You roll your eyes, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and dragging him through the E.R.

"Are you kidding-" he begins to complain, but you shove him into the ambulance bay.

"Do not whine at me, Robinavitch," you hold up a finger, and he relaxes just slightly. "Don't lie to me, either," you prop a hand on your hips, eyes big and sad. "What's going on?"

He's quiet for a moment, pensive and sad. The air hangs thick between you, flooded with the words you're too scared to say.

"It-" he starts, but you stomp down a foot.

"Do not tell me it's nothing, again, Michael!" You whine.

It's petulant, bratty, even. He's seen this part of you. It's not that you're worried about. What worries you is the pained crease resting between his eyebrows.

"What is it?" You whisper, heart pounding against your chest.

You're officially considering worst case scenarios. You lean into the anxiety, let it consume you whole.

"I don't know if this is working," he whispers. It's broken, his eyes sad. You feel your heart lurch at his words.

"What do you mean?" You ask, voice low.

"I think we may be taking things too fast," he mutters, and the words dart around in your brain like a pinball. They just don't make sense.

"What is going too fast for you?" You ask, the words wobbling from your lips.

He scoffs, shaking his head and avoiding your gaze, his telltale sign that he is not planning on telling you the answer.

"You're really going to let this go, just like that?" You ask, the reality of the situation settling over you like a cold, wet blanket.

"I didn't realize there was much to let go," he mutters.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. Your bold facade does nothing for the pounding of your heart against your rib cage, each throb a chip in your armor.

Logically, you knew you'd be getting this version of Robby eventually. You've worked with him for five years. You'd been there for PittFest, Adamson's death, but also for all the people he'd saved, the children's lives you'd changed together.

Then, two months ago happened. A shared beer on a late night after a long shift leading to a salacious make out against the hood of his truck, leading to dates and cabin trips.

You recount this past weekend, now in more detail. The nights you spent in his arms, in his bed, in his space. The breakfasts you'd shared as the sun crept through the windows. It was glaringly, achingly intimate.

Embarrassment burns low in your belly, acidic and tangy. as you study his face.

"I know you don't mean that," you power through, refusing to take your eyes off him. "Come find me when you're ready to talk about how you're actually feeling."

You slide off the stool, leaving him to stew in his own bad attitude.

The painful adrenaline coursing through you gets you to the end of the day. Shift hand off goes relatively smooth, essentially updating Abbot on all of your ongoing cases

Before you can turn to leave, he stops you with a quiet, 'uhm…'

You turn, immediately receptive to the shift in his tone. It's no longer work related, you can tell by the lost puppy look in his eye.

"Jack…" you start, inching closer.

"How's Robby?" He asks, and your heart stops.

"Not great, actually. Why?" You cross your arms in defense.

"I-I think I may have said something to freak him out," he confesses.

You arch a brow, heart ricocheting off your ribcage. It's all you can manage to not lose your mind.

"I'm sure you're aware of his…uhm, history," he starts, and loose pieces of this puzzle start to form together in your brain.

"The 'seven-week-itch'," you remark, recalling years worth of gossip of Robby's dating habits.

"And, how long have you two been seeing each other?" He supplements, and the final piece clicks into place.

"Two months," you whisper.

Eight weeks, more specifically. You had both let it fly right by you, not even noticing the passage of time.

"And I made a joke about it," Jack says, guilt lacing his tone. "On Sunday, after you guys had gotten home."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't take your anger out on the wrong subject.

Jack is a dear friend, to both you and Robby. You know he'd never intentionally say something hurtful. You also know that Robby's triggers, while on the mend, are still raw and vulnerable.

"Okay," you sigh. "Thank you for telling me, Jack. I appreciate the honesty."

You mean it, because, although it's not the best case scenario, you now know how to tackle it accurately.

"For sure," he nods, guilt spreading across his soft features. "I'm sorry, bud."

You smile softly at the nickname he'd bestowed upon you at your first handoff.

"It's okay, I can handle it," you assure him, before spinning on your heel in the direction of the lockers.

Robby's not there, and you curse softly under your breath. You make quick work of gathering your things and running out to the parking lot.

You catch his broad frame across the parking lot, and you break into a jog, catching up with him swiftly.

"Robby!" You call, slowing your pace as you reach him, and you can feel the iciness radiating off of him.

He stops, takes a deep in hale, and turns to stare daggers at you. You take a step back at the look in his eyes, a dark, distant sadness to them that stuns your nervous system.

"Is this about the seven week itch?" You ask, and now it's his turn to take a step back.

The space between you is deep and vast, an ocean of swirling emotions. His chest begins to heave, and for a brief moment, guilt bubbles low in your belly.

Maybe you took it too far, but you're nearing your point of no return. He can deal with it.

You adjust, rolling your shoulders back- standing taller, unafraid. You stare down the empty barrels of his eyes, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

"The what?" Is all he manages, and you scoff.

"Really, Robinavitch? That's how you want to play this?" You ask, giving him another shot.

He shrugs, and you just fold your arms across your chest.

"We've been dating for eight weeks, dummy. Jack told me about what he said. Is that really what this is about?" You ask, rage boiling from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.

He laughs sardonically, a furious smile painting his lips.

"This isn't about Jack, or the-what the hell did you call it?" His tone is gruff, and he runs a palm down his face.

"Your seven-week-itch, Michael? Ringing a bell?" You poise, brows raised. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I know I'm not the first girl in this department that you've dated, hell, I'm probably not the youngest, either," this part is a little hyperbolic, but you wouldn't be surprised. "People talk, and if Jack's joking about it, that all but confirms the gossip."

He scoffs, hands coming up to the nape of his neck.

"Fuck," he growls, and you flinch.

You watch him falter at that, and it pauses you for a moment. Each beat of your heart is a throb of affection, for him, for your relationship- or what's left of it.

"You heard all of that and still wanted to be with me?" He asks, and it's insecure as much as it's defensive.

"Yes," you breathe, your heart clutching. "Because I got to know you for myself, and I really like the Michael I know. It doesn't feel like I'm talking to him right now."

He scoffs, walls immediately shooting back up.

"I'm not one of your case kids, y'know," he remarks, and you roll your eyes.

"Okay, so stop acting like a child," you quip back, not missing a beat.

An incredulous chuckle wrestles itself from his chest, eyes glossing over. In this agonizing, purgatorial waiting game, you've stopped feeling sorry for speaking your mind.

"I can't," he mutters, eyes focused on the ground.

You see the wet drops fall from his eye and hit the pavement, fighting your resolve down to the bone.

"I'm sorry, it's not fair," he croaks, and rage pounds in your ears. "But I just can't. I think you need to find someone better."

Your heart burns, tears stinging the backs of your eye ducts.

"But I don't want that," you grumble, pouting your lip. "I want you. Do I not get a say in this?"

He shakes his head, and annoyance pricks at your stomach.

"Really? I don't get a say in my own relationship?" He flinches at that word, and it's like a knife to your gut.

"Relationship?" He repeats, and you throw up a disbelieving hand.

"What the hell else are you calling this?" You ask him, voice raising.

"Of course I'm calling it a relationship I just don't think I've ever actually…" he trails off, and you nod, not needing the rest of that sentence.

"Got it," you press your lips together, egging him to say more.

"I don't know if a relationship with me is what you want," he mutters.

"Well, I know for sure that it is," you stand firm, despite his denial. "What do you want?"

The question hangs in the air like a bomb, prompt and deadly.

"I don't know," he says, and it's the final nail.

"I guess that's our answer, then, isn't it?" You croak, not daring to look at him as you walk past him to your own vehicle.

"Congrats on a new record, Robinavitch," you shout across the parking lot, slinking into your car and slamming the door.

The tears are immediate, flowing down your cheeks, smudging your eyeliner. Your hands white knuckle the steering wheel, chest heaving as your sobs rack through you.

You knew seeing Robby wasn't going to be necessarily easy. He's your colleague, an attending at the hospital you work at, not to mention multiple decades your senior. Plus, everything else.

You're sure of your choices, though, and it's agonizing to know that he's not.

Your mind goes back to this past weekend, how sweet and assuring he was, how safe he made you feel. The difference between that Robby and this one is enough to give you whiplash.

A new set of cries strangle you, clutching your stomach and wringing it out like a dirty dish rag.

You lift a shaky finger, pressing the on button of your car. You let the cool air hit you, drying the wet streaks on your cheeks.

Your veins rage with a cocktail of shame, hurt, and embarrassment. You should have listened.

You should have listened to Princess and Perlah when they dropped you subtle hints on his dating life. You should have listened to Trinity when she told you this was crazy. You should have listened to Dana when she told you he'd break your heart.

It starts with texting to try to figure out a date to grab coffee. (Not a single day of your schedules line up in the next two weeks. Not one goddamn day.) And then, one evening, when you’re just sitting in bed, he responds to a text that you sent two minutes ago.

He never answers anything on his phone that fast when he’s at work, which can only mean--

“Hello?” he says, sounding exhausted and slightly confused.

“Hi,” you breathe. “I think this might be a miracle.”

His laugh rumbles down the line, warm and soothing. “Jack sent me home early.”

It’s probably nothing, and none of your business too, but you still frown and ask, “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, just--” He pauses. He sounds like he’s walking home. “My therapist sometimes fits in a session for me before I go into work and today it was…not a bright idea.”

Your heart aches for him. You’ve made the same mistake before, doing a session before a busy or important day, thinking it’ll be easier to push through when it only makes everything worse. You told your therapist about it after one particularly rough session followed by probably your busiest day of the year, and the look she gave you was enough for you to never do that again.

You are, however, very happy that Robby at least listened to Jack and went home early instead of fighting it. He would’ve fought Jack on it before, and then stayed late just to spite him. You see this as a little glimmer of progress.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask tentatively, sliding down in your bed to get more comfortable. You’ve known that he’s been in therapy this whole time, but the two of you haven’t talked about it. Not like this.

“Not really, no,” he says, chuckling again. “Tell me about your day.”

And that’s how it starts. One minute you’re just texting him once every few hours, sometimes once a day with your schedules, and the next thing you know, nightly phone calls with him are something you look forward to the second you wake up in the morning.

It’s dangerous. But that doesn’t make you want or even try to stop.

Two busy weeks pass easily with a call every night. Robby jokes once that it reminds him of shift handover in a weird way. The way you debrief him on your day, and then he does the same. It’s the fact that he reciprocates that has a spark of hope blooming in your chest.

He doesn’t give you full details, obviously, because there are things he can’t say, and some things he won’t say because he’s not going to traumatize you unnecessarily. But he tells you the good stories, like:

“Dana misses you,” he says out of the blue one night. “I told her that we’ve been talking again.”

“Yeah?” You can’t help the evil grin that crawls onto your lips, not even caring that he can see you because tonight you finally convinced him to work the video option on the call. “What’d she have to say?”

“A few choice words,” he admits, shaking his head. He’s sitting up in bed as well, raking his fingers through his hair. “And that if I fuck this up again she’s going to kick my ass into the next decade.”

“So into the grave, then.”

He looks up at you, smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, but a genuine offense hiding in his playful gaze. “Hey.”

Your uncontrollable laughter at his playful hurt is something that Robby wants to bottle up and keep forever. The sound, the look on your face. You don’t realize it until you’ve calmed down that he’s been watching you the whole time, a devastatingly fond look on his face.

“What,” you murmur, now a little sheepish, looking at the blanket on your lap.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, softly, looking away.

But it’s obviously something. 

Two weeks ago, you wouldn’t have pushed it. Tonight, for some reason, you’re feeling bold. “You can’t look at me like that and say nothing.”

He looks back at you with that same expression. “I just miss you.”

It cracks your chest open, hearing him admit it so openly. In words.

“I miss you too,” you say, and it sounds a bit like a vow. You’re promising something to each other, neither of you know what just yet, but you feel it there. The heaviness of it.

He drags a tired hand down his face. “If I wasn’t so exhausted right now…”

“I know,” you smile. “Me too.”

If he hadn’t worked a full day today. If you hadn’t too. If both of you didn’t have full, busy days tomorrow. Always if and never when. 

When you shift to lay down, he tilts his head at you, smiling softly. “Tired?”

You nod. “I don’t know how you’re still awake.” You get up two hours later than him and get off work two hours earlier.

“I’m used to it.”

You just scrunch your nose at him, and he laughs. 

“Go to sleep,” he says. “I probably should too.”

“Or we could do what the kids do these days and stay on the phone until one of us falls asleep.”

“The kids?” He’s incredulous. “The kids do that?”

You’re giggling too hard to hear as he rambles nonsense about how he did that when he was younger so really his generation started it and the kids these days don’t know about their history.

“You are so dramatic!” you cut him off, still laughing. “It’s so easy to rile you up.”

“Oh, so you are doing it just to get a rise out of me!”

“Why else?” you snicker. “You’re cute when you’re so heated.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re laughing at me.”

The two of you just stare for a moment, recognizing what has happened. Somehow, somewhere, the conversation veered dangerously close to sounding like something the two of you would’ve had when you were dating. At least at the beginning.

“Get some sleep,” he says.

You don’t argue this time, you just shut your eyes with a little nod.

He doesn’t hang up until the morning, when he wakes up for work before you do. But you’ve got him all soft again, so he sends you a little good morning text and tells you to have a good day at work. And all of it makes him feel like being hit by an ambulance would hurt less than the fact that he can’t have you and that it’s all his fault.

+++

one year ago

The very first time you went to visit Robby at PTMC, you weren’t immediately met with smiles. 

You went through the main entrance, asking at the desk to see Dr. Robinavitch. You told the clerk to tell him that you were waiting for him, and that he would know who you were. Lupe looked skeptical, and like she did not want to tell Robby that you were there, but she did anyway.

Thankfully, the waiting area wasn’t too packed that day. It was still pretty full, because it always is, but there were still some empty seats. You didn’t take a chair, just stood off to the side in eyesight of the doors to the ED.

No less than five minutes after you spoke with Lupe, Robby came barreling through the doors, eyes wide as he searched for you. And once he found you, he was a stream of questions, both hands resting on your elbows. Are you okay? Are you hurt? What are you doing here? Despite the fact that you were standing, fully conscious, and had coffee and a croissant in hand -- because you had a sneaking suspicion that he didn’t eat that morning, and he didn’t -- Robby still looked you over like he was checking for injuries, blood, or anything else concerning.

“I’m fine,” you laughed through it, through the fact that he was causing an obvious scene. “I’m just dropping off coffee and a croissant. I doubt you ate this morning and we were on the phone until late last night.”

He melted. He sighed, shoulders visibly relaxing as he bent to kiss your forehead. “Thank you,” he said softly. “Why don’t you come back for a moment? I can introduce you to everybody.”

Your eyebrows raised slightly. You had only been seeing Robby for a little over a month. You hadn’t introduced him to any of your friends and only briefly mentioned him to your sister, and yet here he was, asking you to come back and meet his coworkers -- who, arguably, classified as meeting his friends. 

“Sure,” you had said, forcing him to take the coffee and croissant right then just so you knew he had it. “If that’s okay.”

He shoved the croissant into a hoodie pocket so he had one hand free to hold yours. “‘Course it’s okay. Come on.”

That was the first day you met Dana, and the day you learned her coffee order so you’d “know what to bring in for the next time,” she had told you with a wink.

Hearing it then, next time you’re in, made it all feel so real, so permanent. Like you could get used to it. To stopping by with breakfast after you finally woke up a few hours into Robby’s shift. To dropping in with lunch because you knew otherwise he would only eat a protein bar. And you did get used to it, maybe too quickly.

You became a welcome face in the Pitt, a welcome smile among all the chaos. You only ever stayed for a few minutes at a time because of how busy they were, but it was enough. It was a genuine reprieve, Robby told you. There was a weight that you lifted just by showing up with a smile and a kiss.

You just don’t know when that stopped being the case.

The first day you met Jack, you coincidentally had bought a small Redbull. You had planned to give it to Robby to have him give it to Jack at shift handover. You were delighted to see Jack was still there so you could hand deliver it.

“This is Jack,” Robby introduced you. “Who should be going home.”

“I have a gift for him actually, so this is perfect,” you said, so pleased with yourself as you dug the can out of your bag. “Redbull, right?”

Jack’s ears perked and he smiled just a little, which for Jack was a lot. “Yeah, thank you,” he took the can from you, then tipped it at Robby. “You better keep her.”

“I’m trying, brother,” Robby said seriously, smacking Jack’s shoulder. “Now go home. Don’t drink that.”

“Saving it for shift tonight,” Jack promised, offering you another little smile. “Thank you again.”

You just beamed at him, and then beamed at Robby even though he was shaking his head and calling you a menace.

But he kissed you right through it, right there in the middle of the ED, as if he didn’t have things to do -- but he always did.

“You’re a bad influence,” he had mumbled against your lips, smiling through the words and the kiss. “What am I going to do with you?”

“I can think of a few things,” you had whispered against his mouth, just quiet enough for only him to hear.

The look he had given you was full of awe and lust, one he had to physically shake himself out of. You left that day with a smug smile, knowing exactly what you had done, and knowing with bone-deep certainty that as soon as he got off shift, you’d see him. And you did. 

He didn’t even call. Just showed up at your door, and grinned like a madman in love when you pulled him inside by his hoodie.

+++

You try to tell yourself that it isn’t that bad.

Even as you drive yourself to the ER, finger wrapped in a dish towel soaked with your blood, you keep saying it. Out loud, even, because you’re trying to keep yourself sane while you’re behind the wheel.

“It’s not that bad,” you repeat, over and over. “Maybe a stitch. Or two. But it’s fine. It’s fine!”

You’re less and less convinced as you feel your finger pulsing with every heartbeat. You check at a stoplight to see if it’s still bleeding, and curse loudly when you see that oh, it’s bleeding alright.

And then you’re lightheated, so you quickly wrap it up and take deep breaths and think about literally anything else for the rest of the drive.

You park at the hospital in a reasonably close space, thank fuck, but your legs are feeling a little weak on the walk to the ER entrance. You chalk it up to your anxiety and apparent squeamishness -- that up until now you had no idea about -- and make it inside.

There are quite a few empty chairs, so that bodes well for you at least. When you walk up to the desk to check in, though, Lupe’s eyes go wide, her mouth opening to no doubt shout for someone.

“I’m fine!” you rush to tell her, dropping your injured hand out of her view. “I just nicked myself in the kitchen. It’s fine.”

She takes your ID and insurance and says it won’t be long. You believe her, sort of. You don’t think Robby’s here, or Lupe probably would’ve shouted for him. You texted him earlier asking if he was at work and he didn’t respond. Usually when that’s your question, he sends a quick reply, especially if he is at work, so you know he’s there in case, God forbid, you need him to be at the ER. 

Today, he hasn’t replied, and it’s around the time for shift change, so you’re thinking he’s gone for the day. Or in therapy. Or sleeping.

God, you wish he had replied. You hold your finger in your lap, still feeling the pulse and cringing each time. But it’s slightly less now than it was on the drive over.

So, like an idiot, you decide to check on the cut. Just very quickly.

Except, even though it’s brief, it still ends with your head in between your knees and the back of your neck tingling like you’re about to pass out any second now.

You distantly hear the doors to the department opening through the ringing in your ears, and then you hear Dana’s voice right by your head.

“Hey kid,” she says gently. “You out?”

“No I’m up,” you say, lifting your head and looking at her, but now the room is spinning, so you kind of look around her, which just means she’s not at all convinced about you being fine.

“Come on, sit,” she pats the seat of the wheelchair she brought for you. “We need to get you back.”

“No, I’m fine,” you say, shaking your head a little. “Just a little cut.”

She raises an eyebrow at the dish towel with red patches coming through. “Uh huh. Sit. Do you need help?”

“No,” you grumble, surprisingly able to shift yourself onto the wheelchair. “This is dramatic.”

“Sure, kid,” she laughs, wheeling you back. “Just be glad Robby already left.”

The confirmation makes your heart tug a little. Maybe he’s just in therapy then, and that’s why he hasn’t replied.

Or maybe he’s just busy doing other things in his free time. He doesn’t have to be texting you all the time. It’s not like the two of you are dating. Anymore. Even if you’ve been talking more.

You never thought you’d let him back in like this, and now that you have, all you want is for him to be here. He told you that if you ever thought you needed the emergency room to call him first. And you did. He just didn’t answer. Why didn’t he answer?

Dana notices your silence. She doesn’t mention it.

She wheels you into an open room, shouting over her shoulder for Jack. You spotted him a second ago through your haze but hoped he wouldn’t acknowledge your presence because at this point you’re just mortified.

Jack calls out your name in surprise the second he sees you and you groan in embarrassment. 

“I’m f--” you start to say fine but Jack speaks right over you.

“What happened? Vitals?” And a dozen other questions while he shines the stupid pen light in your eyes.

“My vitals are fine,” you hiss, not knowing what they actually are but not caring either. “It’s a small cut. Just wouldn’t stop fucking bleeding.”

“Didn’t get a chance to triage her yet, she put her head down in chairs and Lupe yelled for me,” Dana relays the info to Jack.

“Lightheated? Dizzy?” he asks, eyes scanning your face as you speak, no doubt assessing how alert you are, but you’re starting to just feel stupid.

“Both,” you admit anyway, knowing better than to lie, especially when Dana is right here. “I’m just squeamish, alright? Don’t laugh when you see how small the cut is.”

Jack just gives you his little smile, wheeling the stool over so he can sit in front of your chair. “Let me take a look.”

You hold your hand out and squeeze your eyes shut. “I genuinely can’t look.”

You hear him chuckle but he says, “Okay, just-- I’ll let you know when you can look.”

You feel him lifting the towel, but he makes no noise, no indication of how bad it is, so like the idiot you are, you crack one eye open.

You see the blood and can barely say, “Oh fuck me,” before you feel lightheaded again, your head dropping into your free hand.

“I didn’t say you could look!” Jack scolds, but you can hear the humor in it. He really is amused by how squeamish you are, and you know you’ll never live this down, but right now all you can think about is how fucking nauseous you are. 

You keep your eyes shut as Dana and Jack help you onto the bed, propping you up. You don’t dare open your eyes yet, still feeling cold yet somehow hot and a bit like your body is floating toward the ceiling.

“Dana, can you get some fluids just in case and maybe a sandwich?”

With your eyes still closed, you retort, “I’ll literally throw that dry sandwich at your head, Jack.”

Dana just laughs. “I’ll find something else. And bring you some juice.”

While she’s gone, Jack actually takes your vitals this time, silent as he does, making sure to not mention anything about the cut in your finger (that does need a couple stitches, but he can tell you that after you stop looking like you’re going to hurl). 

“So…Robby tells me you two are talking again.”

You feel your pulse jump a little, knowing damn well that he felt it, too. “Yeah.” You pause. “Dana said he already left?” An innocent question. But still hopeful. 

Jack nods. “I can see if I can reach him if you want.”

You think about it for a moment, but eventually shake your head, opening your eyes to give Jack a half-hearted smile. “No, it’s okay. Thanks though.”

Jack is quiet while he listens to your lungs just out of habit. Or maybe he’s stalling. He’s not sure yet. “He can’t be far.”

You finish your deep breath and say, “I don’t want to bother him if he’s got things to do.”

Jack hangs his stethoscope around his neck, shrugging. “I think he’d just want to know you’re here.”

“I texted him.”

Jack nods. “Let me see if I can reach him while Dana gets you hooked up, yeah?”

Dana is already emerging in the doorway of your room as he says it, sugary cereal bar and protein bar in hand, both no doubt from her and Robby’s secret stashes. She nods back toward the ED as she walks over to your bedside. “Princess is coming with your fluids.”

You smile, taking the cereal bar from her and ripping it open. 

Jack stands and gives you a knowing nod. “I’ll be back in just a second.”

He shuts the door as he leaves. 

Dana collapses into the chair next to your bed, setting the protein bar on your thigh. “First time back and it’s you giving us a scare,” she laughs. “What’s the matter with you?”

“I know,” you groan, tipping your head back with a laugh. “I was just trying to make dinner!”

She squeezes your leg fondly. She waits a beat before asking, “Jack going to call Robby?”

“Yeah,” you nod sheepishly, biting off another mouthful of the cereal bar.

“You okay with that?”

“I texted him already,” you say. “So yeah.”

“Okay then,” she says with a smile. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

“We’ve been talking,” you blurt, even though you know she knows, because Robby has told her. And Jack. It makes you wonder who else he has told, and if he told them because he just couldn’t help himself. If he’s just been so consumed by the hope of speaking to you again, the same way you have been.

“He told me,” she says. “Saw your name come across his phone one day and practically smacked him with the tablet.”

“Did he tell you he showed up at my door the night after Pitt Fest?” you ask quietly.

You see the surprise cross her face, and then the sadness. “He didn’t.”

You nod slowly, picking at a string on your leg. “When I broke up with him I told him he could still come to me if he ever had a shift he couldn’t be alone after,” you explain. “I didn’t think he would, but that was the one.”

“That was a rough day for everybody,” she sighs.

“Yeah, speaking of,” you remember what Robby told you and you nudge her arm. “How’s your nose?”

“Better,” she laughs. “Bruised like hell.”

“I bet,” you grimace. “And how are you?”

She squeezes you again. “I’m okay, kid.”

You don’t push it, though you can tell she knows that Robby must’ve told you about her thinking that she’s done here. You don’t think she is, and she’s still here so maybe she isn’t, but you leave it be, just as she leaves the subject of you and Robby alone.

+++

Robby’s phone finally turns back on after having it plugged in for a few minutes at home. He had forgotten to charge it last night, and because it’s older and kind of a piece of shit, it died before his shift ended.

Text messages start rolling in and he sees your name, but before he can click on it to reply, his phone lights up with a call from Jack.

“Yeah?” he asks because Jack only ever calls like this if he forgot something Robby said in his debrief at handover.

“She’s here.”

Robby’s stomach drops. Surely Jack doesn’t mean-- “What?”

“She’s conscious and alert, she cut herself pretty bad while trying to cook dinner, definitely going to need a stitch or two but the bleeding has stopped now. She nearly passed out a couple times, though, so Dana got her something to eat and I ordered some fluids just in case.”

Robby is listening, but he’s putting Jack on speaker so he can put his shoes back on and start grabbing his shit to leave again. But then he stops. 

Jack is telling him you’re there, but he hasn’t mentioned anything about if he’s telling Robby this for a reason other than to keep him in the loop.

Robby sits down on his bed, puts his phone back up to his ear, rubs his face with his hand. “Okay. But she’ll be okay?”

“She’ll be fine once you get here.”

“But--”

“Robby. Man. I’m calling you because she asked me to.”

Robby jumps up, his charger getting yanked out of his phone in the process. “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Jack tells him what room you’re in and Robby is flying out his door, damn near sprinting down the street back toward the hospital.

He’s never made it to the Pitt as fast as he does right now, and he scoots in through the ambulance bay. Jack is just coming out of another patient’s room when he spots him, and he points toward your room.

The door is open and he can hear you laughing with Dana, so that at least eases his worries. He slows to a walk so he doesn’t startle you when he stands in the doorway, knocking softly on the wood.

“Told you he’d run here,” Dana whispers clear as day, winking at you.

You’re hooked up to an IV and have one of his protein bars half-eaten in your hand. Your finger is wrapped loosely in some gauze with no red peeking through, so that’s a good sign.

Dana stands and lets Robby have the seat by your bed. “I’ll go get everything so we can get those stitches done and get you out of here.”

You nod but you don’t say a word and Robby can see the fear on your face.

He sits next to you and rests his hand over your non-injured one. “Hey clumsy.”

A laugh bubbles out of you and he’ll take it. “Hey,” you murmur. “This is what I get for trying to cook when I’m already starving.”

Ah, he thinks. So that explains you nearly passing out on Jack and Dana. Pair your squeamishness -- that he doesn’t remember being this bad -- with intense hunger and it was inevitable that you’d feel faint.

“Are you feeling any better?” he asks, discreetly glancing up at the bag of fluids and the speed of the flow. He trusts Jack and Dana, of course he does, but still. Doesn’t hurt to double check things.

“Yeah,” you nod. “Sorry for stealing a protein bar.”

He just shakes his head at you. “Don’t.”

“Thanks for coming,” you whisper, turning your hand over to squeeze his palm against yours. “Dana said you had just left.”

“My phone died too, or else I would’ve seen your text and I could’ve been here when you got in,” he says. “I’m glad they got you back quickly.”

“Yeah, well, nearly passed out and Dana came over with a wheelchair,” you chuckle. “Pretty good for a first ER trip here.”

“I’m just glad it wasn’t anything worse,” he says sincerely, gently rubbing your hand with his thumb. “Jack said you just need a couple stitches.”

“Yeah.”

Robby cups your hand with both of his. “Hey.” He tips his head down a little, trying to get you to look at him. You finally do. “Jack’s gonna do the stitches, and I’m gonna be right here the whole time distracting you, okay? We can get Dana in here too, keep you focused on us, and Jack will be quick. He’s a pro.”

“Okay,” you breathe, leaning your head back. “God. I feel like such a baby.”

“You’re not a baby,” he says sincerely. “You might be the most squeamish person I’ve ever seen, though.”

You just glare at him, but you’re smiling. You’re smiling and laughing and talking with him and that’s all he needs. His worst nightmare is you being here unconscious, unstable. He’s not happy that you’re here right now, but Jesus, is he happy that you’re conscious, stable, alert, and you just need a couple stitches before he can take you home.

Jack comes back with Dana a few minutes later, wheeling in a little cart with them. And when you start eyeing all of it warily, Jack shakes his head at you. 

“This is none of your business,” he scolds, then points at Robby. “Look at him.”

You look at Robby and say loud enough for Jack to hear, “Tell him he needs to work on his bedside manner.”

Robby snorts, leaning over, “Hey Jack--”

“Can it, Mike,” Jack tells him, but he’s smiling just a little, hands working practically on instinct as he sets everything out the way he needs it.

Dana sits on your bed, so you’re flanked on both sides, and so she can be mostly in your line of sight. Jack stretches your arm out to rest on the tray, and you keep your gaze locked on Robby.

“Do you want me to tell you what I’m doing or just--?”

“Jack, I swear to God, if you don’t get this over with in the next five minutes--”

“Duly noted,” he says. “I am gonna tell you about the lidocaine, just because I don’t need you flinching away from me. Just a prick and some burning, okay?”

You chew on your bottom lip when you feel the burning just as he warned. 

“What were you trying to cook earlier?” Robby asks, redirecting your focus. 

“Yeah, what’s for dinner?” Dana jokes.

You tell them the dish and Robby immediately recognizes it as one of your favorites -- and his. “I haven’t made it since--”

Well, since that night. The night you broke up with him.

He remembers. “It was really good,” he says softly. “I did eat it all.”

“Good,” you say sincerely. “That’s why I made it.” You pause, trying not to focus on the dull pressure you feel in your finger, no doubt from Jack starting the stitches. “I didn’t get very far tonight, though, so we’ll have to order pizza or something.”

You swear everyone in the room -- including yourself -- freezes. We. You said we’ll have to order pizza. 

Instead of calling you out on it, Robby takes it in stride. “Yeah,” he says, face soft as he continues the conversation. “We can order from that place down the street, have it ready to pick up on the way home.”

Home. You love the sound of that. You’ve missed the sound of that word coming out of Robby’s mouth, especially in this context. A place the two of you share. A place the two of you can run away to.

You just nod weakly, hoping he means it. Hoping this isn’t just to distract you. “I can make you watch another shitty romance movie.”

“Anytime,” he replies easily, squeezing your hand. He glances over at Jack’s work. Jack catches his eye for just a moment, a knowing look passing between the two men. “He’s almost done,” Robby tells you, looking back at you with a smile. “Just needs to tie the final knot.”

You nod. “That was quick.”

“Why, thank you,” Jack says, smirking. “You’ll just need to keep it clean and dry for about a week. These should dissolve on their own, so you don’t need to come back unless it gets infected -- redness, if it’s itching, leaking.”

“I’ll just panic and send Robby a picture of it every single day,” you tease. 

But in all seriousness, Robby replies, “I can come check on it every day just to be safe.”

It’s a small, though deep, cut. Both Robby and Jack (and Dana and you) know that he doesn’t need to check on it every single day. He really doesn’t need to check on it at all, unless it bothers you. But you all know what this is really about. 

An excuse to see you every day. Even if for just a moment, just to hold your hand in his, and take his time examining the stitches just so he can hold you a little longer. 

This knowingness hangs above you all. And none of you mention it. 

“You should be fine with some ibuprofen for the pain, but again, if it gets too bad, just panic and call Robby,” Jack chuckles. “But seriously, you’re all done.” 

“Can I look now?” you ask. 

“Are you going to try to pass out on me again?” Dana says, sounding a bit like she’s scolding you, but you can hear the genuine worry. 

“No,” you protest. Then, quieter, say, “I don’t know. I hope not. There’s no more blood, right?”

“You’re all cleaned up, kiddo,” Dana says, patting your leg. “Look now while we’re all here to catch you if you go down.”

Robby opens his mouth to protest, but he supposes you need to look at some point, and Dana is right. Might as well look while you’re in the ER, safe in a bed, with all of them surrounding you. 

So, you look. And it isn’t so bad now. You take a deep breath and smile, looking up at Jack. “I’m good. Thanks for the handiwork, Jack.”

“Anytime,” he says. “Try to be more careful, yeah? You’re not supposed to be a patient when you’re visiting us.”

“Noted,” you say with a salute of your stitched hand, doing it only because you want to see his eyeroll. 

“Okay soldier,” Jack scoffs but grins. “I need to go check on everyone else, but Dana’ll get your discharge paperwork.”

“I’ll bring you a Redbull tomorrow,” you say. “Or two.”

“Looking forward to it,” Jack says, sharing another little look with Robby before he leaves. 

Dana leaves as well, with the promise that she’ll return with the formal discharge information that they have to give when you get stitches. Robby stays with you, continuing the distraction, even though you’re better now, and your fluids have finished, so he takes out the IV for you.

While the two of you talk about anything that comes to mind, Dana is at the hub, pretending she doesn’t notice the night shift -- notorious for their gossip -- peering into the room where you sit with Robby.

“Is that…?”

Dana just nods, keeping her eyes on the computer. “Yep.”

“I thought they were--”

“They are,” she says.

“So what the hell is he doing?”

Dana looks up with a smirk. “Groveling. What’s it look like?”

+++

As soon as you’re free to leave, and after giving Dana a hug and Jack another thank-you wave, you head out the main doors with Robby in tow. You turn toward the parking lot and realize you don’t have your keys in your hands yet.

“Let me just dig my keys out of my--”

Robby’s head snaps toward you. “Keys? Car keys?”

“Yeah?” you reply, just as confused while you dig through your bag. “I drove here. You think I have money for an ambulance? Don’t even get me started on what this might cost me--”

“You drove here?” he asks again, his face growing more and more incredulous by the minute.

“Yes,” you huff, finally retrieving your keys.

“Give me those,” he says, though he doesn’t exactly give you a choice because he promptly snatches them from your hands as soon as he spots them.

“Robby!”

“You are not driving,” he says. “I can’t believe you drove here when you were feeling faint. Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?”

You just glare at him, even though you know you deserve this scolding. It wasn’t your finest moment, you’ll admit that. “Fine. You can drive. Just don’t wreck. You’re not on my insurance.”

He barks out a laugh as you reach your car. “I’ll be careful, just get in.”

You grumble the entire time, though deep down, a tiny fire ignites in you again after hearing him scold you and tell you, not ask, what he’s going to do.

But you shove that feeling away because you can’t. You can’t think about that without it being dangerous. Especially when you’re about to do something that’s equally as dangerous.

“About dinner,” you blurt.

He buckles himself in and turns the key in the ignition. “We don’t have to if you--”

“Do you want to have dinner with me?” you interrupt.

He turns his head toward you, features softening. “Of course, if that’s what you want.”

You nod. “It is. It is what I want.”

His smile is full of relief. “Then let’s order a pizza so we can pick it up on the way,” he says. “The usual?”

“Yeah,” you reply, as if no time has passed since your last dinner with him. The usual, as if the two of you had it just last week. “And--”

He rattles off your favorite drink and dessert with no hesitation. “I know what I’m doing,” he says with a smirk, pressing his phone to his ear.

You melt into the passenger seat as he orders everything and says he’ll pay when he picks it up, which just tells you that he’s planning to pay for it himself, but you don’t have it in you to argue about it. You want to let him, for once.

So you do. He drives straight to the pizza place, heads inside to pick it up, and comes back with a smile and an armful.

He’s driving with one hand, the other arm propped on the center console, and you have to restrain yourself from clinging to his arm the way you used to. It’s so tempting that you almost give in, missing the way you used to weave your limbs around him in any way you could, because he’d let you. He always let you hang on him around the house, never one to complain when you’d walk up behind him and bury your face in his back as you wound your arms around his middle, sometimes underneath his shirt. 

You’re just about to say fuck it and wrap yourself around his arm when your phone buzzes rapidly in your lap.

“That would be my sister,” you chuckle. “I sent her a picture of my battle wounds.”

Robby laughs as you answer the phone, barely getting one word in before your sister starts going in on you. He tries not to eavesdrop on your call, he really does, but he can’t help it when your sister is practically shrieking over the phone, so much so that you even have to pull the speaker away for a second.

“Are you okay?! You can’t just send me a picture of stitches with no explanation!”

“I’m fine,” you chuckle, and you pointedly ignore Robby’s little scoff. “Just nicked myself trying to cook dinner and it wouldn’t stop bleeding so I drove to the ER.”

“You drove?”

Robby is glad to not be the only one incredulous about the fact that you drove while feeling faint. 

“Yes, but I am fine,” you hiss. “Just shaken up, but fine.”

Your sister says something that he can’t hear, and then says something like, “...eat enough today?”

Robby’s eyebrows furrow as he drives. He really shouldn’t be paying attention to this call. It’s clearly personal and private and none of his business anymore, but. 

“I was in the process of making dinner” is your quiet reply to your sister and he can’t help the way his eyes narrow a little at the road. Does that mean you didn’t have breakfast? Lunch? A snack? Anything until Dana handed you a protein bar?

Your sister’s voice goes soft again, but you’re nodding along, looking out the passenger window and saying, “It’s fine. No, I know. I was just busy. It’s fine. We got pizza and stuff. Yeah. He’s driving me. Yeah. I know. Love you.”

You’re quiet when you hang up. Robby doesn’t mention what he heard. He just drives.

When he parks at your place, he grabs all of the food before you can even try, handing your keys off to you instead so you can get the door. Your little glare is met by his unfazed smile.

He drops everything on the kitchen counter, letting you help unload it because he can tell you’re restless. He focuses on clearing away the little bit of dishes from when you were attempting to make dinner earlier, trying to give you some physical space. 

He doesn’t want to bring up what he heard, but clearly it’s bothering you. Or maybe it’s the fact that he’s here again, in your apartment, when you told him he couldn’t do this again. Except you invited him in -- again. 

Just as he’s about to open his mouth and say something probably very stupid about how he can go if he’s bothering you, you speak instead.

“It’s not a thing,” you say.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence and you both know it. He reaches under the sink for the pack of paper plates you always keep there, retrieving a few.

You let out a sigh, taking a plate from him. “What my sister said. It’s-- It’s not a thing.”

He nods slowly, grabbing a slice of pizza and putting it on your plate. “Okay.”

“You don’t need to pretend like you didn’t hear it,” you chuckle. “She was practically screaming.”

“Well,” Robby lets out an awkward laugh, grabbing his own slice. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

“I know we’re not,” he gestures vaguely between the two of you, “so if you say it’s not my business, then…it’s not my business.”

You rub your forehead, setting your plate down on the counter. “It’s not that it’s-- I just don’t want you guilting yourself.”

“Why would I--” he starts but then stops, the realization dawning on him.  

“It’s an old habit, you didn’t cause it,” you clarify. “But the breakup and a load of other shit happened at once and it sort of created the perfect conditions for it to come back, I guess,” you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t want you guilting yourself, it just got worse after things ended, but I know I ended things, so I don’t really have room to talk--”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

“But it’s the truth, I’m the one that pulled the plug.”

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt,” he argues. “That doesn’t mean you hadn’t been hurting. Because of me.”

You open your mouth, pause, close it. You frown. “Are we doing this right now?”

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Should we?”

“I don’t know,” you reply, just as honest, just as quiet.

“Eat first,” he says, softly, not accusatory. “And let’s sit.”

“Yeah. Okay.” You nod absentmindedly, heading for the living room with your plate in one hand and drink in the other, careful of your finger.

Robby tries not to watch you like a hawk, but still you feel his eyes on you as you move and settle down on the couch. He sits beside you, nowhere near as close as when the two of you shared a blanket that night, but close enough. Close enough to mean something.

“I’m scared,” you say before you’ve even taken one bite. “I’m fucking terrified. Because you’re starting to remind me of the Robby that I fell in love with.”

He sighs, brown eyes softening and growing sadder with your every word.

“And part of me loves it, part of me is so-- so giddy every time I talk to you because I can see it. I can see the man I first met,” your voice breaks at the end, and when you look up at him, there are tears shining in your eyes. “But he disappeared on me once. How do I know he won’t disappear again?”

“Fuck” is all Robby can think to say, and maybe it isn’t the right thing to start with, but it’s honest. It’s raw and it hurts when he hangs his head and thinks about the ways he treated you, the way he snapped at you for days on end.

“Yeah,” you let out a wet laugh, resting your forehead in your palm. “That’s all I can think about. I want you so badly and every time I just-- I remind myself about the way it felt at the end and I don’t want to feel that way again. I can’t watch you fall out of love with me twice.”

His head whips up at that, eyes a little wide as he looks at you like you’ve just said the single most absurd sentence he’s ever heard. “Fall out of love with you?” he repeats. “I never stopped loving you.”

You sniffle, just offering him a sad smile. “Well it sure seemed like you did.”

“No, I--” He stops himself, turns his body toward you, hands reaching for you and landing on the couch cushion instead. “I was so-- Jesus, I was so angry but it wasn’t at you, it was never at you. Or I never meant it to be, but I know that doesn’t change that I hurt you because clearly it looked like I was angry at you, but I promise, you never did anything wrong.”

You cover your face with your hand, sniffling harder as you shake your head. “I want to believe you Robby, I really do, I just--”

“I know,” he cries. “I know and I know it’s my fault that you can’t believe me, I know I did that and I won’t blame you if you can’t, but--” He pauses, realizing abruptly that there are tears clouding his vision too. “When Jack called me and told me you were at the Pitt, for a second I thought something had happened to you, and I’d regret it forever if I didn’t get the chance to tell you I’m sorry and to beg for one more chance, I--” He cuts himself off again, making a split-second decision that he knows he’ll pay for tomorrow with the way his knees creak, but he has to do it. He has to get on his knees in front of you; it’s what you deserve.

“Robby,” you’re fighting back a disbelieving smile, “what are you--”

“I’m begging for forgiveness,” he says, as if it isn’t obvious. He reaches for your hands, sure to be gentle and careful with your injured finger. “For just one more chance. Because I need you to know I never fell out of love with you. I hated myself so much that I thought I didn’t deserve you or to be with you and every time you were kind to me I just felt like I didn’t deserve it, and I was driving myself crazy because I couldn’t understand how you couldn’t see that I was a waste of your time,” he admits it all in a rambling haze, not even sure if any of it makes sense to you, but he needed to say it. He needs you to know that it was never you. It was all him.

You’re shaking your head at him, though, like none of his words are helping. “That’s so-- Part of me hates that you had that twisted train of thought because you do deserve love but a bigger part of me is so pissed at you,” you let out an incredulous laugh. “You didn’t think you deserved me and so instead of breaking up with me, you just treated me like shit?”

“I know,” he cries. “I know it makes no sense, and I realize it now, that none of it made any sense. My therapist is-- We’re working through it and part of it has been recognizing that it was twisted and so unfair to you--”

“Uh, yeah,” you scoff, wiping under your eyes with one hand, but then you return your hands to his, and that small action gives him the tiniest glimmer of hope.

“I’m staying in therapy,” he promises. “And I’m going to keep trying and keep doing whatever it is you need me to do for you to forgive me because I can’t-- I can’t go another day without you. It doesn’t feel right, and I know I did it to myself, I know you don’t have to forgive me, but-- Please.”

You just stare at him. For the longest time. And he lets you. He holds your gaze, never once wavering, because he needs you to see that he’s serious. He means all of those words. Every last one of them.

“You get one chance,” you begin. “Because I meant it, that I can’t watch you leave me twice.”

He nods. “Just one chance, that’s all I need.”

You stare. And stare. Until your silence makes him squirm.

“Please,” he whispers one more time, knowing that you don’t have to forgive him and knowing what a real possibility that is because it’s well within your rights after how he treated you. But he can’t let go until you tell him to. He can’t have this be the end. “Please, just one more--”

He doesn’t get to finish his sentence. Because you don’t let him.

Your hands leave his so instead you can cup his face, tears and all, and bring his lips back where they belong: pressed against yours. He can taste the salt on your lips as he’s sure you can taste the salt on his, and it makes him sigh and relax, hoping this means what he thinks it might.

“You have to stay in therapy,” you mumble when you pull back for air. “I mean it.”

He nods, looking deep into your eyes. “I will. I promise.”

“Good,” you kiss him again. “For the record, I will be too.”

He laughs against your lips. “That’s good, it’s good for us.”

You pull back and stare at him. You twist his head as if you’re inspecting every inch. “Who are you and what did you do with Michael Robinavitch?”

He dives back in for another kiss. “He’s still here,” he whispers. “He just got a little lost there for a while.”

“You’re telling me,” you mutter, but you’re smiling through it. “We’re doing this?”

“I want to,” he says, and every word sounds like a confession. “But it’s your decision.”

“I want to,” you echo. “My sister might kill me, but I really want to.”

“Well, the entire Pitt crew will probably kill me if I fuck this up again,” Robby jokes, though knowing Jack and Dana, you imagine it isn’t that much of a joke. 

“Let’s start with dinner,” you smile, hands smoothing down his hair, then ghosting over his cheeks. “Because I’m starving.”

“Yes,” he agrees. He starts to get up, bracing himself on the couch and promptly ignoring the popping sounds his knees are making. 

You don’t ignore them, though, based on the little giggles he hears you letting out. He settles onto the couch beside you, a bit closer than before, and you take the opportunity to move even closer.

“I believe I was promised a shitty romance movie,” he says, leaning over to grab the plates of pizza, handing yours off to you.

“And who am I to break that promise?” you grin, reaching for the remote. “I saw one last week that was awful. I need to see your face in the third act.”

“Hit me,” he smiles, letting you tuck yourself into his side as you search for the movie. 

⋆ ꩜ ⋆

You were weird.

That wasn't new; you always had been. 

The sense of perpetual oddness that people tended to tiptoe around. Not everyone; some people were drawn into your orbit based on that alone. The way you'd laugh at someone's joke when you noticed no one else was, but would somehow slip yourself back into the shadows. Or, how your voice was just a decibel below everyone else's, easily talked over and interrupted. 

In some cases, you were sure that it had something to do with it. That they were drawn to your oddness because they had a desire to fix it, fix you. If not to fix it, then at least use it to their advantage. Someone kind and malleable that'd smile and nod as they shoved their problems onto.  In defense of your hospital colleagues, most of them were kind to you. Some you'd even call friends. They'd look to you during traumas for an opinion they valued and then ask you to join them on whatever outing they had planned after work. They'd ask even if they didn't expect you to say yes, which you often didn't.

Every once in a while, like clockwork, you'd force yourself to join. For the sake of team building, you'd tell yourself. Really, you wanted to belong somewhere. To be understood, quietly and gently.

You knew you couldn't blame people for not feeling things at the same intensity you did. That was one of life's many curses for someone like you. Someone who lived with an open heart that trickled metaphorical blood, staining everyone you met with love. But, an open heart that never gets filled empties quickly.  The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Yet, every time you went, you had some kind of hope that you'd magically feel different. That you'd blink and suddenly people would see you.

Because every time you looked in the mirror, you were convinced what you saw was different. You saw your own reflection, the pores on your skin, and the rise and fall of your chest. You were real, alive. But when others looked at you, all you could imagine they saw was a shadow. Amorphous, dark, confusing. Something tangled in the wires of your thoughts you were sure they could read if they squinted enough.

At the very least, the feelings subsided during work. A small mercy through the blood and chaos you deal with every day. When you were in trauma, your voice had to carry; it had to boom. You couldn't afford to be pushed aside. When you were gloved up, people listened. Every night as you fought sleep, you pondered if that was better or worse.

If there was ever a quiet moment between the workload, and the feelings started clawing their way out of your chest, an incoming trauma would force them back down, letting them settle there and no doubt finding a way to eat at your liver.

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

So, your gaze disassociated further, eyes locked onto the computer screen in front of you. Your head blared that you should be comprehending the words on screen, not letting them get lost in the swirl of thought. You were relieved to hear Dana's voice echo around the nurses' station before you accidentally suffocated.  "MVA rolling in, ETA 2 minutes out."  "How many we gettin'? You hopped out of your chair, grabbing sterile gloves from the rack as you passed.  "Three minor, two major. But, who knows if it'll stay that way." Dana gives an exasperated sigh from behind the desk.

"What do we got?" Robby asks, winding up beside you on his seemingly never-ending circling of the hospital floor.  "Car crash." You say simply. Never leave much room for filler words when you speak. Especially not once you find yourself in trauma mode. Already heading towards the ambulance bay, Robby falls into step with you.  You liked having Robby as a boss, actually. Being his resident was the one steady thing you had. At the beginning of every day, you could expect him to already be there. Chart in one hand and that thermos of coffee he always had in the other. Whatever chaos happened in between was the hard part. Whatever horrors you both saw that day and whatever ways your brain decided to attack you during the quiet moments. But then the end of the day came around, and you could expect a pat on the shoulder from Robby's hand, strong and steady like he didn't just live through the same disastrous day you did.

Robby didn't always say much. Especially not standing in the ambulance bay like this, mentally trying to come up with any sort of a game plan without seeing what damage has been done.  But, he always had this way of his eyes saying more than his words could. You weren't sure if he was aware of it. Like a language he didn't even know he could speak.

Everything about him was contradicted in his eyes. Not only his anatomy, but how dark they were, deep-set with age, but unexplainably soft in expression.

Whenever he'd look at you with those eyes and a tiny tilt of his head, you knew what he was asking in that language only he was fluent in, but you'd somehow manage to pick up.

Are you okay?

With a nod of your head and a hollow smile, he didn't press further, but you saw the unbelieving squint in his eyes once again.

ــــــــــﮩ٨ـ

These people were going to die.  There was no way around it. They were in your care, and they were going to die.

An accident. One that could've happened to anyone. A speeding car, a car that ran a red light, and a minivan passing through an intersection at the wrong time that got T-boned. The fact was left completely up to fate that they were in the left lane, so the right side of the car took the brunt of the impact. Father, who chose to drive, and his daughter, who chose that side of the car today.

That's the part that never made sense to you. How did accidents get decided? Was it fate? Was it religion? Was it punishment of some kind, or was it predetermination? Were you always going to end up here no matter what kind of life you lived? If that was true, how was that fair?

A father and daughter were completely helpless to anything modern medicine could do. His wife and second child were in the adjoining room beside you, their comparable injuries so mundane it really was unfair. They were even alert enough when brought by ambulance for you to hear the wailing and screaming. The wife got a chance to say whatever words she could to her husband and daughter while they wheeled them in together. The other two lost their chance to say anything else once that car hit them. Unfair With Langdon gone, leaving Robby down a resident, he had to up your workload. Putting you as lead on two of the major traumas tonight. He didn't like it, putting more on you. But you were capable and reliable. If those were the two words someone thought up when it came to you, you'd take it. It was the typical thought everyone seemed to have about you. Only what you're capable of, how you perform at work, and nothing else. Nothing about you. But, at the very least, you took up occupancy in someone's brain enough to be thought of. You didn't have a clue at the reverence the other doctors held for you, Robby included. Maybe most of all.  Santos did what she could with the father as you ran between both rooms at the sound of someone yelling for you or the beeping of a monitor that sometimes jolted you awake in nightmares.  You yell for Santos to page surgery, even though you know it would be an anomaly for these two people to make it long enough to become emergency surgery candidates. You can't even get a sentence out to Garcia's voice on the other end before you hear the beeping from the other room.

"If he crashes, shock and come get me! And get surgery down here!" You yell over your shoulder at the nurses and doctors in the father's room with you.

Shouldering your way into the daughter's trauma room, it's a worse sight than before. Javadi and Whitaker were exhausting themselves with the daughter. Beads of sweat are already forming on Whitaker's forehead from the extensive CPR.  Over his shoulder, McKay shakes her head at you just once. Enough to tell you there's nothing to do.

"Alright," You shake your head out once, feeling it clear the mental debris there. "Intubate. Then we're gonna ventilate that way." A nurse scurries off to grab the items required the moment you ask. "Whitaker, tap out."

You physically tug his arm off and straddle the bed before beginning compressions yourself. Whitaker's hands go to his knees immediately as a small bead of sweat falls onto the floor already dirtied with blood.  "She's had three rounds of Epi already." Someone calls out, voice mixing in with all the other stats being shouted.

Hair slips loose from your clamp as you continue with the compressions, the motion rattling the girl's body and your own in different ways. You blow it from your eyes as best as you can to see the screen. Agonal rhythm is still, and no positive change in blood pressure. Not to mention the blood loss. Focusing completely on compressions, you can't let yourself get lost in the image you see. So much life-saving work has already been done that it's left her looking half-machine.  "She's crashing!"

You think the voice belongs to Whitaker, but don't look up.  Your hands stop compressions for the short second after you say "clear", immediately back to work, the stats showing no changes. After the third shock, the sweat is stinging your eyes as it travels down your face in streaks.

"Again!" You yell. You put your arms up and yell clear, but you're not even sure how you managed it since your arms are completely unfeeling besides the vibrations coursing through them.  You recognize the change in sound that follows the fourth shock. It's the same one that plays in your ears when you're finally alone and able to crumble. The same one you somehow manage to hear in the hospital bathroom when you lock the door with tunnel vision setting in. The specific flatline that people don't come back from.  "Asystole." The room was still for the first time since the young girl was brought in. That's the worst kind of sound you can hear in a hospital room. Maelstrom means there's still hope, but stillness means there's nothing left. Another person gone and another piece of yourself you're sure you won't get back.  "Call it, and I'll notify the family." You say somberly, not sticking around to hear anyone offer to take that burden off you. This should be your cross to bear.

Maybe you should've been a better doctor.

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"He's not an ECMO candidate." You hear Robby saying in the vague direction of the nurses and doctors from where he stands near the front of the room. The monitor is screaming, and the rhythm is showing asystole. A father's and daughter's hearts both giving out within minutes of each other, nothing but a wall apart.

"Time of death 20:14."

Your legs get that same burning feeling your arms have, but they haven't been strained at all. It seems like the sole act of holding yourself upright is starting to become too much for them. The stillness and quietness are setting in again, and your body is taking notice.

Robby gestured with a nod of his chin to the room next door. All you can do is shake your head in response. You see the pain flash through his eyes, mirroring your own. You look away quickly, choosing the floor as your target, afraid that his eyes will somehow betray you for the first time and turn cruel.

"Let's all take a moment of silence." Robby's commanding voice comes out in the somber tone it takes on during times like these. "Remember this man for who he was, a husband, father, a son to someone." A few people clasp their hands as everyone's heads bow.

Robby's head tilts again just a bit as he looks at you, stuck in place, eyes still on the floor. His heart clenched in his chest in a way it often didn't do anymore. The way you have this tendency to cower in on yourself. It's like he can physically see some kind of force pushing you down, making your shoulders hunch.

Believing you're to blame somehow sits easier in your chest. Sometimes that hatred soothed the stabbing in your chest. Yeah, it was sick and unhealthy, you knew all that. But you were in no place these days to sit down and fix it. 

You had all the words, the trite sayings that'd been said to you by multiple people over the years. You even had a little stack of papers from professionals with a written list of what to do and say when you felt like the world was resting entirely on your shoulders. You are not in control of other people's feelings and bullshit like that.

But, as it was Atlas's punishment to hold up the heavens alone, so it seems it should be yours.

You can't take standing in the room a minute more; not only are you facing the failure of this body on the table, but behind you, just a door away, is the daughter with the same fate. And both of them should've survived. Whether it was because you should've been a better doctor or just that fate's a cruel bastard doesn't matter. Either way, it's unfair.

"I'm going to go notify the family." A hand clamps down on you before you're even halfway down the hallway. The shuffle of his boots on the vinyl gave him away before you even had to turn around. His taller frame should feel daunting in this little hallway, especially with the way his fingers are curled around your forearm but it doesn't.

You're pretty sure you can feel your own heartbeat under the spots where every one of his fingers is. But, as a doctor, you know that's just not possible.

"I sent McKay to speak to the family." His words feel like they reverberate in your skull even though he's speaking softly to you.  Instead of answering right away, your eyes just focus on the hand he still has on your arm. This is the oddness that usually made people turn away from you. The long silences during what should've been conversations, the way you'd hone in on one specific thing and stare sometimes. That could be unnerving to people who didn't know you enough. But Robby? He knew you.  So, instead of speaking again and scaring you out of whatever small hole inside you've just crawled into, he just squeezes your arm. Carefully, barely a flex of any muscles. But, similar to what you'd done for him in the times you'd found him in a similar state. Silent but there.  "No." You say, finally shaking out your head and finding his eyes. The glasses made his eyes look bigger, amplifying every emotion he had in them. "I should. I was the one…" Your voice trails off, unsure even which word was going to come next. Doctor or Reaper? "I sent McKay." He says with finality this time. "Why don't you head out early. There's less than an hour anyway."

Once again, your silence drags on, taking up the entire hallway.  "I have some charts I need to finish up." Gesturing vaguely with your thumb back towards the hospital floor.  "Charts can wait until tomorrow." "I know. But, I'd just rather not have it on my mind." That was almost a laughable excuse. Charts would be lowest on the totem pole of worry. No doubt they'd be there, floating around like everything else, but not enough to matter. "I'll help Abbot with the handoff too. Thanks, though."

"Okay."

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The wires in your head were tightening. Every thought stretched into a thin line and managed to tangle itself together. The cacophony of sounds blaring through your head defied any medical logic. But, even that was more tolerable than the images of people you failed to save burned behind your eyelids.

Charts

You reminded yourself, blinking the thoughts away and forcing your eyes to focus. The chatter of everyone around you actually served as a nice buffer for a while until you felt the same hand on you once more.

Your shoulder instantly unraveled the built-up tension inside, dropping from where it felt like they were hiked up to your ears. Your night was back on track, finally. Robby's hand on your shoulder and some empty words of, "Get some good rest tonight."

"We're heading across the street to unwind, maybe have a few beers. Why don't you join us tonight?"

Great. It already sucked enough rejecting your colleagues' offers, but now you're going to have to reject your attending. 

That emptiness in your chest begged you to say yes. But this time it burned differently. Something inside you that you couldn't trace to a specific place was begging for more time with Robby. 

Your heart dropped. Usually, you could figure out what was hurting you, where it was metastasizing. But this? This was entirely different.

"Not tonight. I have some more stuff I wanna get done here."  "You sure?" Donnie popped up behind Robby, six-pack already tucked under his arm. The invitation was real and open. He wanted you there, like you weren't some nuance that would wreck someone's night. "We might even manage to get Javadi drunk!"

A smile actually graces your lips, small and fleeting. Man, Robby hates how his eyes lock onto it immediately. He glances away quickly, scuffing his foot across the floor quietly at the fact that he wasn't the one who got it out of you.  "I'm okay. Kinda tired anyways." You pull your shoulder up into a shrug. "Thanks, though."

"Can I talk to you before I head out?" 

Robby waves Donnie along, shouting something about being there in a second, as he lingers by your desk.

"Me?" You point to yourself. Idiot. Of course, he means you. Who else could he possibly be speaking to? "I mean, yeah. What's up?"

Your head starts working so fast that, for all you know, there may be a hole burning through you somewhere. Were you in trouble? Anything but that, please.

As he guides you down the hallway, his hand barely hovering just over the small of your back, like he was afraid to push you too hard. That, or he was so unsettled by you that he didn't want to touch you right now. Either way, the gesture felt more humiliating than if he were to drag you down the hall by the ear. 

Was he going to go through a checklist, point by point, of everything you did wrong with that poor father and daughter? Okay, that probably wasn't it, but still.

The sound of the door clicking shut felt like it reached the volume of a gunshot, every nerve in your body was screaming at you to somehow fix whatever you've done wrong.  "You're not in trouble." He says the second he turns enough to see your face. He bends his knees just a little bit to get closer to your level as he speaks. Like he was making himself a little smaller for you.

Oh. So, your emotions must be showing on your face, clear as day.

"I just wanted to check in before I left… Do you have anyone to talk to after days like this?"

You want to burst into flames where you're standing. Either bile or humiliation climbs up your throat as you stare back at him unblinking. Was your loneliness that palpable?

"Yeah." You shake your head no before course-correcting it to an up-and-down nod. The single word burns your lips as it passes through, a punishment for lying, you'd assume.

Robby doesn't crowd you or reach out to pat you on the shoulder again; he just stands there with that slight bend in his knees, his eyes not leaving your crumbling face. His eyes narrow just slightly, but stay impossibly soft.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I'm sure."

You feel so small right now. Not like you're prey caught in front of a predator. No. Robby could never be a vulture like that. Not when he's looking at you like this. Small, like somehow all the strings that make you up, make you appear human on the outside, have given way at once. Now, all that's left of you is a tangled mess of twine on the floor.

"I should really get back to work." You say, brushing past him before he could interject. Whatever pieces of yourself you couldn't manage to pick back up stay there in that room with him. More of yourself is lost tonight.

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A single chill racks through you as the wind seeps in through your unzipped jacket. But the most important matter at hand is getting your headphones untangled. Once those are in, everything will be fine.

Your phone shows 12:24 as you plug in your cable. No calls, no texts, one alert from iCloud that you don't have storage space anymore. Great.

Spotify picks something old and slow as you cross the street, zipping your jacket up to rest over your mouth, the zipper ice cold as it bumps your nose with each step.

The song crescendos in your ears as the vague silhouette of a man comes into view, barely illuminated by a streetlight that the city needs to change. He's slumped against the back of the park bench that's become a landmark for you to pass on your walk. The short hair, big hoodie, and bad posture could only belong to one person.

Part of you considers turning around, taking a different way home, but another part of you, same as before, begs you to move. Your feet make the choice before you do.

"Dr. Robby?" You say quietly as you take the headphones out. Tony Bennet, whom you've just identified, is now singing into the night through the dangling headphones.

"Hey." It's all he says for a moment. He doesn't seem shocked by your presence, like he knew you'd stumble upon him eventually. Hoped maybe. "Everyone headed out pretty early." He tries to explain why he's still sitting on this park bench two hours after a casual after-work meet-up that probably only lasted half an hour max.

You nod, no words finding their way out. Lips pulled into a thin line. But, instead of your feet forcing you to leave, they kick at the dirt idly. Why won't you leave? And more importantly, where the hell is this feeling coming from?!

He kicks at the half-empty six-pack with his foot. "Want one?"

"I'm really not a big drinker."

He bends over toward his backpack, resting against the park bench. His hands dig for a second, the sound of a Ziploc being opening sounds before he retrieves what he was searching for.

"I have an apple."

You stare at the red apple in his hand for a second, then back to him, completely earnest in his offer. Just anything to keep you here a little longer.

"Yeah, okay." You say quietly.

He rubs the apple along the sleeve of his hoodie, haphazardly cleaning it before tossing it to you. The bench barely makes a creak as he shifts over. No big fanfare, just a now-open spot beside him.

"Sit."

You keep enough distance between you two as you scoot onto the bench. A little wary, like somehow you were going to break something or scare him. You take a careful bite into the apple, your stomach twisting as you do, far more hungry than you'd realize. Yeah. Hunger. That had to be all this feeling was! That's why your stomach is in knots.

"Thanks." You say through a bite of an apple. "What are you still doing out here?"

He sipped his open beer before he answered. Staring ahead at the treeline, trying to plan out his next words before he spoke. He had no interest in scaring you off now that he got you to stay. Like a stray that finally butted it's head against his hand after months of letting them adjust.

He didn't want to admit that he stayed out here for two hours in the hopes that you'd turn up eventually. That he's been worried about you. That he worries about you more than the rest of his residents, and worst of all, that whenever you let him get close enough, you have a way of making him feel an assortment of things that he thought he lost the ability for.

"Didn't feel like facing my couch." Is the final casual sentence he lands on.

"Yeah." You nod back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand.

The silence takes over the two of you for a bit, and neither of you rectifies it. It was comfortable. For the first time you can remember, your silence didn't feel like it was imposing on anyone. You didn't feel like the weird girl in the back of the class getting laughed at or told to "speak up".

"How were the mom and son?" You ask. The images of the way you failed them flashing through your head. You give a tiny shake of your head to rid the thoughts. Robby doesn't comment on it.  "Medically, they're gonna be fine. Emotionally, it'll take a while. But, they'll figure it out."

You make a sad sound of agreement, poking at the apple with the end of one of your nails.

"Why do you think it happened?" You ask, offering up no more information on the question.

"Guy ran a red."

"No. Not like that." You say, spinning the apple in your hand. "Why does anything like that happen? Is it God? Just the way life goes sometimes?"

Robby hesitates with an answer. He probably had less of an idea than you did. But it wasn't lost on him the way this was eating away at you. Maybe you actually did need an answer. One from him specifically. You trusted him to teach you medicine. Why couldn't he answer this for you? Surely this was easier than explaining how to put in a chest tube.

"I don't really think I'm the one to ask." He laughs, but the sound is hollow and gruff. "I think it depends on what you believe in."

"What do you believe?"

"I don't know on days like today." He shrugs with his hands in his hoodie pockets. The tension in his shoulders is even more obvious.

He turns his body towards you on the small park bench, uncrossing his legs so he doesn't crowd you.

"But what I do know is that you did really well today." 

Your eyes shoot up quickly. He must be mistaken. You? Who lost the only two patients you were supposed to handle? You search his eyes quickly for any signs of deception, but there are none there. No, what looks back at you is earnest.

You have to peel your eyes away immediately. The lump in your throat forms so quickly you're afraid the look he's giving you might actually kill you. How is he not looking through you? He's looking like you're not some figment of imagination that accidentally stumbled onto this plane of reality.

"I don't see it that way." You clear your throat after your voice cracks on the second word.

His eyebrows knit together, getting lost behind the rim of his glasses as his eyes soften, barely adjusting them with two fingers. That little sideways frown on your stone face showed him how much guilt you held for yourself.

"You know that's not true."

You pull your legs up on the park bench with you, tucking your knees against your chest and wrapping your arms around them. Not to hide or cry into, but just to have another barrier to the world. Like an animal protecting their soft points.

"Isn't it? You trusted me with half that MVA, and my half died."

The words have harshness behind them. Like you were talking about the wrongdoings of someone you hated. 

There was the same feeling creeping up Robby's neck. The one he gets when the anger you have for yourself seeps into your words, the pain he feels for you, like he was divinely sent to care for you, and you won't let him. Or, he won't let himself.

"They didn't have a chance. You did better than anyone else could've."

What was he trying to do to you, seriously? Tears burned at the back of your eyes, but there was nothing you wanted to do less than cry in front of your attending. Especially not one that's the only person you've ever come across that's made you feel something that, for the first time, was even lost to you.

"I've been training residents for a long time, and you're one of the best I've ever had."

He saw the way your eyes were glassy and half lidded with exhaustion. The kind you always carried but worsened after days like today. The adrenaline had left your veins a long time ago and left nothing but guilt in its wake.

"Thanks- uh, thank you." Is all you can get out without your voice betraying you even further. Blinking in rapid succession for a few seconds, angling your head away so he couldn't see the sheen of tears covering them.

There you were, cheek pressed against your knee as you rested your head, your body slowly and against your will relaxing in his presence. The worst part was that you didn't even look sad, necessarily. You just look faded, like pieces of you were being carved away every day. Robby recognized this pain.

He collapsed in on himself the same way every night. At home, if he was lucky, in some tucked-away corner of the ED, if Adamson's presence loomed too heavily. But right now, he saw you armorless.

"I should probably go." You said once your voice felt solid enough coming out.

Now, it was his turn to let silence stretch on. The kind of quiet that forms around two people feeling adjacent things that they don't have names for yet. Maybe Robby knew long ago, but this feeling was new to you and confusing, not to mention terrifying.

His eyes found yours over the rim of his glasses, and for a second, he didn't look burdened. Like he'd let all of his reservations go. Maybe that was the natural order of things. One person could be so petrified of their own feelings that they give the other a new sense of self.

"Not if you don't want to."

"Do you want me to?" Your voice comes out uneven.

You had no idea how he saw you. The fact that you'd even have to ask. Like he hadn't been half begging for you to just be near him all night. He had more respect for you than you could ever fathom. How you acted as a doctor, how you poured life into everybody else. You were extraordinary to him, and yet you acted like you were nothing.

"No, I don't." He had to force the words out, not because they weren't true, but because they were hard for him to say, to admit.

Robby’s emotions had been stuffed down for so long that he wasn't even sure they were there anymore. But, for you, he'd work at them, chip away at whatever he had to.

Looking at you right now, he felt a pull like he never had before. Like everything awful that had happened, happened so that you could be sitting right here.

You couldn't fathom what was happening in your body. But maybe it wasn't bad? 

Yes, you couldn't identify what part of the body these feelings were sitting in. One of the stupid things you tried to train yourself to do when "complicated feelings" arose, as your old therapist called them.  

But, maybe the reason you couldn't trace them was because it was everywhere. Like your skin was prickling. But this didn't feel the same, not the feeling you had when you'd lay in bed hollow and alone, and certainly not the feeling you'd get when you lock yourself in the bathroom, with a hand over your mouth sobbing. 

Was this actually good?

His hand lifted slowly, just enough to land on the spot between your collar and jaw. His thumb barely brushed across your jawbone. His touch was so careful, not grabbing at you or rushing you, just there. Feeling you under his hands, rough from work. You were almost shocked when his hand didn't go through you. You were here, real, and he was touching you.

"You okay with this?" He asked quietly, bringing his hand up just enough to wipe a stray hair away from your temple. He was giving you the chance to retreat if you wanted to. 

But if not, he had no issues taking this weight off your shoulders and guiding you tonight.

"Yeah." You say, nodding, turning your head into his touch just barely. Maybe unconsciously even, just needing it to stay.

Robby felt your stillness when he kissed you. You panicked. You saw him going in for the kiss and even leaned in yourself. But now? All those thoughts swirled in your head again. Not to mention the newest one blaring about how he must be hating you right now for messing up this kiss. Your hand on his shoulder, perched awkwardly, trembled against him just a little.

"Hey," Robby said, pulling back enough to speak, your foreheads almost touching. "I got you."

Those words undid you completely.

When you finally met his lips again, your kiss wasn't aggressive or with years of pent-up tension behind it. It was careful and tentative. It felt like you were testing to make sure this was real. His lips softened against yours, following whatever pace you set. He has a firm, guiding hand on your back, anchoring you here. He traces his fingers up and down your spine slowly over your scrubs. All of his motions give you some kind of security in this moment. That he's here, he's got you, that for once it's okay to rest.

His thumb strokes small circles on your cheekbone. A quiet kind of tenderness that Robby can't remember the last time he showed anyone. 

With little confidence in your movement, you brought a careful hand up to his face, letting one of your fingers barely trace over his beard. He exhaled through his nose, a quiet breathy sound. 

His own hand leaves your back and covers the one on his face, intertwining your fingers together, keeping you there. A silent, that's good.

Your touch was so soft. The tips of your fingers tracing over his beard, the grays peppering throughout it giving it a new kind of coarseness. The way you drew him in closer, like the feeling of the beard, of the age it showed, the stability was something of deep reverence to you.

You were wrecking him.

His lips slowed against yours again. He didn't want to deepen the kiss or devolve into hunger right now. He wanted you to know he was there. That he had you. You were here, you were safe, and he wanted you. Two people who could understand the weight the other one carried without words.

Pulling back from the kiss felt torturous, but you had to. You couldn't bring yourself to pull your hand away yet, loving the way every part of his face felt under your fingertips. He couldn't help lean into it, taking a ragged breath like a man starved for tenderness.

"Still with me?" He asks.

And the smile on your face was one of the best things he'd ever seen. Not the polite one you'd give to patients, or the fake one you gave while fighting your way out of tough conversations. No, this was real. Your eyes crinkled around the edges, even. Because someone had chosen you.

"Yeah."

Your heart is hammering in your chest so rhythmically it sounds like knocking. Like it was physically pounding against your skin to be let out. Because, for the first time in a long, long time, it had the strength too. 

Ever since you were a little girl, you knew this was what you wanted, to spend your life helping people in the ways that mattered most. Nothing else ever came close to the satisfaction of knowing you’d made a real difference, even if it was just for one person on one impossible day.

Working as a social worker at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center has shown you the rawest edges of humanity. Abused kids, elderly patients with no one to hold their hand when the doctor delivered bad news, addicts fighting for one more chance while the world keeps telling them they’ve run out. You’d been there almost a year now, long enough to have learned the rhythms of the place, but it wasn’t perfect. Some nights, the weight on your shoulders was too much to carry alone. When a kid you thought was safe got pulled back into the same house, when an addict relapsed and the look in their eyes said they had already given up, when you left a room and realized you were crying in the stairwell without even noticing.

Your office was tucked away in a quiet corner of the administrative floor, a small room crammed with files and silence, so much different from the noise and chaos of the ED. But lately, your sanctuary had been invaded, not unpleasantly, but persistently, by Robby.

You first noticed him about a month ago, during a particularly grueling case involving a young mother who'd been in a car accident. You'd been called in to assess her family's needs, and there he was, scrubbing out after stabilizing her, his scrubs splattered with blood. "Tough one," he'd said, nodding at you as you passed in the hall. "You holding up? I know you’re new here. It can take some time to get used to." It was casual, but there was something warm in his voice… something you couldn’t shake off.

Since then, it'd escalated. Subtly at first, he'd bump into you in the cafeteria, offering to grab your tray. "Let me get that for you," he'd say with that lopsided grin, brushing his hand against yours just a second too long. Then came the coffees, the first time, it was a surprise on your desk, a steaming latte from the hospital's overpriced kiosk, with a sticky note: "Fuel after a long day. -Robby." It slowly became a pattern. Every few days, another coffee, sometimes with a muffin or an oatmeal cookie. "Thought you might need a pick-me-up," he'd say if he caught you in person, leaning against your doorframe like he had all the time in the world.

You weren’t naive. You knew exactly how men worked. You could read Robby’s flirting as clearly as a neon sign: the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you passed in the corridor, his voice when he asked about your weekend like he actually cared what you’d done, the easy smile he flashed when he shared some absurd story from the ED that always made you laugh before you could stop yourself.

Every time he locked eyes with you, you felt that familiar flutter in your stomach. The dangerous kind. The one that whispered this could be trouble, while your pulse kicked up anyway. Because Robby’s reputation wasn’t just gossip, it was more like a well-documented pattern. You’d overheard all about his brief hospital romances with nurses, residents, and the occasional admin, who’d all fallen for the same things, his charm, his attentiveness. Until the moment things edged toward anything real… anything that required staying, vulnerability, effort, then poof: Robby was gone. Vanished into long shifts, vague excuses, and polite distance, leaving the other person to pick up the pieces and pretend it hadn’t stung.

So it didn’t matter that he was exactly your type: a little older, tall enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes, that beard framing a jaw you’d caught yourself staring at more than once, kind eyes with wrinkles at the corners when he laughed, and a sharp mind. He could be funny, thoughtful, devastatingly good at his job. None of it changed the math.

You were done with flings. Done with hookups that left you hollow. Done with anything that came with an expiration date. You’d spent too many nights replaying conversations, wondering where you went wrong, promising yourself next time you’d be smarter. You weren’t going back.

Robby could flirt all he wanted. He could keep showing up with your favorite coffee and those stupid blueberry muffins he pretended he “just happened to grab.” He could lean against the nurses’ station and talk to you like you were the only thing worth his attention in the middle of a fifteen-hour shift.

But you weren’t going to let him charm his way past your walls just to discard you at week seven like everyone else. You’d built those walls for a reason. And this time, they were staying up.

One day, you found yourself buried in paperwork when you heard the knock. You looked up, and there he was, framed in your doorway, holding two coffees. He was in his navy-blue scrubs, a stethoscope draped around his neck, a hint of vulnerability in the smile he offered you that made your resolve waver.

"Hey," he said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. "Figured you could use this. Double shot, no sugar, right?" He set one cup on your desk, grazing his fingers on the edge of your keyboard as he did. Up close, you could smell his cologne, and it made you want to bury your face in his neck.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms to create some distance. "Robby, you don't have to keep doing this." Your voice was steady, but inside, your heart was doing that annoying skip it always did around him.

He perched on the edge of your desk, ignoring the stack of files he was displacing. "What, bring coffee to my favorite person in this building? It's no trouble." His eyes sparkled with that playful mischief, and he tilted his head, studying you. "Besides, it gives me an excuse to see you. How's your day going? Has Gloria come and annoyed you with her bureaucratic nonsense already?"

You couldn’t help but chuckle, despite yourself. He was good at this, disarming you with humor, making the conversation flow like it was the most natural thing. You told him about the elderly patient you were advocating for, the one whose insurance was denying coverage for rehab. He listened intently, nodding, offering insights from the medical side. It was easy talking to him, he got the grind of hospital life with more compassion than most doctors showed.

But as the chat stretched on, you felt the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you spoke, the subtle compliments woven in. "You're amazing at what you do," he said softly. "Don’t know how we managed to get by before you." His hand reached out, almost touching your arm, but he pulled back at the last second, as if sensing your hesitation.

You've been here before, not with him, but with men like him. Now, all you were craving was something real. You wanted stability, commitment, a partner who sticks around when the novelty wears off. And Robby? From what you'd heard, he was the opposite.

Every time he got too close to you, you remembered the nurses talking: “He's dated a resident, nurses, oh, and that radiology tech too. He pulls away when things get serious. That man is really damaged”. "Seven weeks," one of them confided over lunch last month. "That's his record. Gets bored, or scared, who knows. But he's the type of man you should run from."

You decided it was time. No more dancing around it. "Robby," you said, your tone shifting to one firmer. He straightened, sensing the change. "You're really sweet. The coffees, the chats... It's nice. You’re nice."

He smiled, but it was cautious now. "But...?"

"But I've heard what people say about you." You met his eyes directly, not accusatory, just honest.

He smiled, arching his brows with both curiosity and amusement. “Ah, good things only, I presume.”

You sighed, leaning forward. “You have a reputation when it comes to women, Robby.”

His brow furrowed harder, and he set his coffee down, crossing his arms defensively. "Reputation? You’re making it sound a little dramatic. I don’t have a reputation, come on."

“I’ve heard about the seven-week curse,” you said without preamble, no sugarcoating the truth.

Robby choked mid-sip, the coffee going down the wrong pipe. He coughed hard, his eyes watering as he thumped his chest like he was trying to dislodge a lung. “Seven-week curse?” he wheezed, half-laughing and a little-horrified. “What the hell am I, some kind of demonic entity?” He gestured wildly with both hands, his palms up, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline in exaggerated disbelief. “Jesus. Is that really what people are saying about me?”

"I know you've dated other people here at the hospital. A few, actually. And from what I've heard, you don't stick around. Things get too serious, and you're out. You’ve never lasted more than seven weeks with any of them."

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck, a telltale sign he was uncomfortable. For a moment, he looked vulnerable. "Whoa, okay. That's... I’m sure it had to be more than seven at least once." He narrowed his eyes, as if he was thinking deeply about it. “Are you sure they said seven?”

“That’s what they said.”

“I must sound like a douchebag.”

“You do. You’re like Leo DiCaprio when his girlfriends turn twenty-five,” you said flatly.

He frowned, clearly lost. “Yeah… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He dumps them and moves on to the next,” you explained. “You’re the same, except you do it when the relationship hits seven weeks.”

Robby scoffed, getting a bit defensive already. “You make it sound like it’s a pattern. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” He paused, then added, thinking it over, “And I’m pretty sure one of them lasted eight weeks… ish.”

He paused, like he was trying to read the verdict before you delivered it. “Look, I know exactly how that makes me sound. I don’t have a strong case here, and I’m not gonna pretend I do. But for what it’s worth… that was before. I’m a different man now.” You couldn’t help it, a mocking snort escaped you. “No, no, don’t laugh, I’m serious! The sabbatical really changed me. Three months away from this place, I’m not the same man I was.”

You raised an eyebrow, your skepticism kept creeping in. "A new man? If I got a dime for every time I’ve heard guys saying that, then I wouldn’t be working here."

He slid off the desk, stepping closer, his presence filling the small office. "I've been thinking a lot lately. About what I want. I see you, and... you're different. I don’t see you as just... a distraction from my life. I want to try something real this time."

His words hang in the air, and they sounded so tempting. Part of you wanted to believe him, the part that had enjoyed his relentless attention, the butterflies when he smiled at you. You imagined it: dates outside the hospital, lazy mornings, building something solid. But the wiser part, the one scarred from past disappointments, held back.

You stood up, creating space, pacing to the window. "Robby, I appreciate all you do. I do. But at this point in my life..." You turned to face him. "I'm tired of one-night stands, of no-strings-attached flings that go nowhere. I've done that, hookups after bad days, situationships with guys who are not willing to commit. I want something solid, shared dreams, someone who won't bail when it gets hard. And honestly? From everything I know about you, you're just not it."

He stared at you, opening his mouth and then closing it like the words were slipping through his lips before he could catch them. “Wait—that’s not fair,” he finally managed. “You can’t judge me on rumors and hallway gossip. Let me take you out. Just once. Get your own idea of me.”

You shook your head, unyielding. "It's not about one date. It's about patterns. I've seen too many people get hurt chasing the 'new man' version of someone. And I can't afford that anymore.” You paused, “I’m sure there are plenty of impressionable, young residents and nurses in this hospital who’d jump at the chance for something casual with the hotshot attending. You’d have no shortage of takers.”

“There might be,” he admitted before he caught the sharp arch of your brow. He exhaled through his nose, recalibrating. “But none of them are you.”

“You’re a manwhore, Robby,” you said without preamble. “And I don’t do men who can’t commit.”

“Manwhore? You— I’m not—”

“And if you want my opinion,” you cut in before he could scramble together an excuse, “you’re a little old to still be acting like a fuckboy with commitment issues.”

“I’m not that old.”

“You’re what—fifty?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Ish,” he said, rolling his eyes and making a vague gesture with his hand. Then, smirking, he added, “Have I ever told you how much I love it when you put me in my place?”

You chuckled, and for a second, the air between you felt too charged. “I’m sorry, Robby. At some other point in my life, I would’ve said yes. I would’ve let you take me out, let you charm me, let you break my heart. But I’m not that person anymore.”

The silence stretched. Robby's face fell, the charm giving way to something that looked just like disappointment, maybe even hurt. He nodded slowly, stepping back toward the door. "Okay. I get it. But for what it's worth... I think we could've been good together." He picked up his coffee and gave you one last look. "Take care of yourself."

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him, louder than it should have been in the quiet office. Maybe he was right. Maybe he had changed… maybe the man who just looked at you with unguarded eyes wasn’t the same one who used to disappear when things got real. But you’d been burned before, and you were not willing to gamble your heart on “maybe” anymore. 

You threw yourself into the chaos to drown out the echo of his voice. Every time you stepped into the main emergency bay, your gaze flicked involuntarily toward the trauma bays, the hallway, the nurses’ station, half-expecting to catch him leaning against the counter, with a crooked grin as he tossed out some flirty line just to watch you roll your eyes. But he wasn’t there. 

The week that followed felt strangely hollow. Robby didn’t hide. He didn’t avoid you. He was there, same shifts, same corridors, but he’d dialed himself back to something painfully professional. A polite nod in passing. A clipped “good work”. Eyes that met yours for exactly the appropriate second before sliding away. He was respectful and controlled. Too controlled.

You should’ve felt relieved. You’d told him you wanted boundaries, and he was giving them to you. He was doing exactly what you’d asked. So why did it sting? Some small, traitorous part of you missed the game, the way he used to lean too close when no one was looking, the teasing drawl of your name, the hum that crackled between you every time your shoulders brushed in the hallway. The mouse-and-cat chase that made the long shifts bearable, that made you feel seen. 

You missed the heat of it. The stupid, addictive thrill of knowing he wanted you.

Two weeks later,  the rain was coming down in sheets, turning the hospital parking lot into a glossy black mirror under the glow of the streetlights. Your shift had stretched with consultations with a suicidal teen, a battered spouse reluctant to press charges, and an overdose case that required hours of coordination with rehab facilities. Your muscles ached, and all you wanted was to collapse into your bed after a hot shower.

You pushed through the employee exit, you'd forgotten your umbrella again in the rush of the day, and now you were regretting it as fat drops pelted your shirt and hair. Cursing under your breath, you hunched your shoulders and made a dash for your car, parked in the far corner of the lot because the closer spots were already taken.

"Hey! Wait up!" The voice cut through the downpour. You turned, squinting against the rain, and there he was. Robby, jogging toward you with an oversized black umbrella clutched in one hand. His hair was plastered to his forehead, but that grin, God, that irrepressible grin, was still there, lighting up his face like he hadn't just pulled a 15-hour shift in the pitt.

"Robby? What are you—" You started, but he cut you off by stepping close, angling the umbrella to shield you both. The sudden proximity sent a jolt through you. He was only inches away, and you could feel the warmth of his body next to yours.

"Come on, let me walk you," he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "It's pouring out here. You'll get soaked."

You hesitated, it'd been two weeks since that awkward conversation in your office, and true to his word, he'd stepped back. No more overt flirting, but small gestures: a quick "How's it going?" during rounds, even stepping in once to vouch for a patient's social services needs in a meeting. It was like he was proving himself without pushing, giving you space while still being present. But now, here he was, holding his umbrella in, looking at you with those eyes that seemed to see right through your defenses.

"Fine," you stepped under the umbrella's canopy. It wasn’t big enough for two without being close, your shoulder brushed his arm, and you felt the solid muscle beneath his scrubs. "Thanks."

You walked in silence at first. "Long night," he said finally, breaking the quiet. "I saw you with that OD case earlier. You handled it well, got the family on board without a fight. Not easy."

You glanced at him sideways, surprised he noticed. "Yeah, it was rough. Kid's only 16. Parents in denial. But that's the job, right? Patch 'em up, send 'em out, hope they make it."

He nodded, his expression turning somehow thoughtful. "We do what we can. Day after day."

You reached your car, fishing for your keys in your pocket. The rain had eased a bit, but droplets still cascaded off the edges of the umbrella. You clicked the unlock button, and the headlights flashed in response. "Well, this is me. Thanks for the escort, Robby. I appreciate it."

He didn’t move, though, holding the umbrella steady over you as you opened the door. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you'd come to recognize. "Hey, wait. Can we talk? Just for a minute?"

You paused before getting inside the car. "Robby..."

"I know," he said quickly, anticipating your protest. "I know what you said before. About my so-called… reputation, about not wanting something casual. And I've been trying to respect that, giving you space. But... come on. Give me a chance to prove I'm right. That I can be different from what you’ve heard."

His eyes were earnest, pleading almost, and in the dim light, he looked younger, more vulnerable. Water beaded on his lashes, and his breath fogged slightly in the cold air. You'd heard this before, but Robby's persistence felt different, or maybe you were just tired enough to want to believe it.

“I might’ve been a little… uncommitted before,” Robby said quietly,  like he was forcing the words out. “But I’m not a bad guy.”

You looked at him, even if doing so felt like daggers sinking in your chest. “I’m not saying you are, Robby. I just… I think we want different things.”

He leaned forward slightly. “What do we want, then?” His tone was careful, almost daring you to say it.

You exhaled, the sound coming out small and tired. “I want something real. Something with a future. I want stability, a routine. Someone who stays when shit gets hard. I want the boring parts too. The grocery runs, the quiet mornings. I want to build something.” You paused, searching his face. “And you… I think you want something you can use to run from whatever’s eating at you. A distraction. A good fuck. A way to feel alive for a few hours before you disappear back into your own head.”

He blinked, his eyes widening for a split second before he tilted his head to the right, a shocked little laugh escaping him, full of disbelief and admiration. “Oh-ho, you’re good at this.”

You couldn’t help it, a reluctant laugh bubbled up too, breaking the heaviness for just a moment. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. We’re incompatible. You’re a master at deflection, and I’m… I’m tired of being someone’s escape hatch.” You shook your head. “I don’t want to waste seven weeks of my life on something that’s just going to end when you decide it’s too real. I’d rather walk away now than wake up in week six hating myself for hoping.”

He leaned against the doorframe, the umbrella still sheltering you both. "Look, I get why you're skeptical. My track record sucks, I own that. Seven weeks? Yeah, that's probably accurate. But I can't stop thinking about you." He shifted closer. "One date. That's all. Let me show you."

The words hang there, tempting. Your resolve wavered, maybe it was because of the rain, maybe the exhaustion, or the way his presence felt like a warm anchor in the storm. You'd been single for over a year, focusing on work, on yourself. But the loneliness crept in on nights like this, and Robby was offering a glimmer of possibility.

"Fine," you said the word escaping your lips before you could overthink it. "I'll go out with you."

His face lit up, that grin breaking through like sunshine in the middle of the storm. "Why do I feel like there’s a “but” coming?"

"But," you interrupted, holding up a hand. "There's a condition."

He tilted his head, curious. "Of course there is."

"No sex. Not until we've been dating for at least seven weeks."

He blinked, stunned, the umbrella dipping slightly as his grip loosened. "What? Sorry I.. I don’t think I heard you right, with the rain and the cars passing by."

You crossed your arms, trying not to laugh at the confusion etching his features. "No sex, Robby. Seven is your magic number, right? The point where you usually run. If we hold off on the physical stuff, then you’ll be forced to have something real with me. No using me as a distraction, no running away from your problems, no rushing into bed to avoid dealing with emotions. You’ll get the chance to prove if you're serious or if this is just another fling."

He stared at you, processing what you’d just said. For a moment, you thought he might back out, but then he chuckled. "Seven weeks, huh."

"Is it a deal-breaker?" you asked, arching an eyebrow, though your heart pounded waiting for his answer.

He met your gaze, and somehow, he managed to look smug even now. "Oh, please, I could do fourteen weeks." 

“Fourteen?” You bit your lower lip, noticing the way his eyes moved there, full of want.

“Easily. But I’ll settle for seven, I don’t wanna make it too hard for you.” He extended his hand through the open door, and you shook it. The touch lingered a second too long before he pulled back. “We have a deal.”

"Okay, then," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "When do we start?"

"I’m free this Friday. Pick you up at seven? Dinner, maybe a walk after if you’re up for it."

You nodded, sitting in the driver’s seat, closing the door but rolling down the window. "Friday it is. Don't be late."

He stepped back as you started the engine, folding the umbrella now that the rain had slowed to a drizzle. "Wouldn't dream of it." 

You drove off, watching him in the rearview mirror as he stood there, hands in his pockets, with a stupid smile painted on his face. The wipers swoop rhythmically across the windshield, clearing the view, and you wondered if you'd just made a huge mistake or the best decision of your life. Seven weeks. It sounded simple, but you knew it'd be anything but. 

The days leading up to Friday crawled by in a blur of hospital work. A multi-car pileup flooded the ER, keeping Robby buried in work while you worked in the aftermath, grieving families, insurance nightmares, and child custody issues for orphaned kids. You crossed paths a few times: once in the elevator, where he flashed a quick smile and said, "Still on for Friday?" You nodded, and he winked before the doors opened. 

By Friday evening, your stupid nerves had you second-guessing everything: the dress (too much? too little?), the way you laughed too loud at his last text, whether this whole thing was going to crash and burn the second you both made it to week seven. You were pacing your apartment when the doorbell rang at exactly seven. Not a minute early, not a minute late. 

You opened the door, and the air left your lungs. He was standing there looking unfairly handsome, holding a generous bouquet of tulips. “For you,” he said, with a small crooked smile that made your stomach flip.

The date was… easy. Stupidly, disarmingly easy. He took you to a quiet place. The food was perfect, but it wasn’t the food that made the date perfect. The conversation flowed naturally, from work stories to childhood memories and favorite movies. He listened, really listened. Robby kept his eyes on yours, no phone, no glancing around the room, no interrupting to one-up you. When you talked, he leaned in just a fraction, like he was afraid he’d miss a single word. 

Every now and then, his knee brushed yours under the table, and each time the contact sent a spark up your spine. When you laughed, really laughed, at something he said, he dropped his gaze to your mouth for half a second before he caught himself and looked away, flexing his jaw like he was trying not to do something reckless.

By the time the check came, you were warm from the wine and warmer from the way he was looking at you, like you were the only person in the room, maybe the only one who’d ever mattered.

After dinner, you walked along the riverfront, and he slipped his jacket over your shoulders when you shivered. "So," he said eventually, stopping at a bench. "We’re really doing this… seven-week ban."

“Yep," you replied, sitting beside him. The jacket smelled like him, and it comforted you. "Does it feel weird? Not drawing your sorrows in meaningless sex?"

Robby let out a low, genuine laugh that rumbled through his chest. “Oh, my sorrows keep getting bigger every day. And you’re not helping me.” He dragged his gaze over you deliberately, taking in the way your simple black dress clung to every curve like it was painted on, hugging the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the soft line of your thighs. “You put that thing on just to punish me. Don’t even try to deny it.”

You felt the heat crawling up your neck despite yourself. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a weapon,” his eyes kept roaming like he was memorizing you for later. Then his expression softened, just a fraction. “And just so you know, the sex wouldn’t be meaningless with you. Not even close. It would be… very, very meaningful.”

A small chuckle escaped your mouth, and you half-hearted swat at his arm. “Don’t try to seduce me. It’s not gonna work.”

He caught your wrist gently before you could pull away, brushing his thumb over your pulse point. A beat of charged silence stretched between you, then he shifted, leaning back on his hands, trying to look casual even though the tension was rolling off him.

“Okay. We should probably establish some ground rules. Before I lose what little self-control I’ve got left.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “Ground rules. Very mature of you.”

He shot you a half-amused look. “Kissing?”

You let the smile break free. “Allowed.”

Robby nodded once, like he was filing it away. “Second base?”

You tilted your head, considering, letting him sweat for a second. “We’ll see.”

His eyes darkened, and he exhaled through his nose. “Third base?”

“You’re pushing it, Robinavitch.”

He leaned in just a fraction. “I’m really good at third base.”

The confidence in it, cocky but earned, sent a fresh pulse of heat straight between your legs. You arched a brow, holding his gaze without flinching. “Then prove it. But after week seven.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin and losing. Finally, he nodded. “Week seven,” he leaned in just enough that your breaths mingled, but he didn’t kiss you. "I will."

When he walked you to your door afterward, he didn’t try for a kiss either. He just brushed a strand of hair off your face, grazing his thumb over your cheekbone for half a second, and said, “I had a really good time. Let’s do this again next week.”

After that, the rhythm established itself naturally. Every week, like clockwork, you found time. Sometimes it was a proper date: drinks at some bar near the shore with the city skyline glittering across the river, a late-night showing of some old film at a cinema where you shared popcorn and your knees kept touching the entire time. Other times, it was quieter, just takeout at your place after a brutal shift, tangling your feet under the coffee table while you binge-watched a crime documentary and argued about who the killer was. One time, he showed up at your apartment with grocery bags, insisting he was going to cook for you. He burned the vegetables and cursed under his breath, but the meal turned out surprisingly decent, and you ate it straight from the pan standing at the counter, chatting and laughing until your sides hurt.

You learned things about him in fragments: the foods he hated, the summers at his grandma’s house when he was just a child, and why he got into this job in the first place.

You noticed how, when he was anxious, he’d apply hand sanitizer and rub his palms together a little too long, to keep his emotions at bay whenever they threatened to spill over, like a tiny unconscious tic. Or how he was terrible at texting back quickly, but when he did, the messages were thoughtful, never one-word replies.

You opened up with him things, too. Told him about messy exes who’d left you shattered. Why you became a social worker after a rough childhood. How you check your phone every night before bed, terrified you’ll miss a call about a patient in crisis. 

The third date was different. It was a Saturday, and you met him at a park. He was already there when you arrived, leaning against a tree in a dark green jacket, two coffees in hand. You walked the trails for hours, talking about everything and nothing. When the sun started to dip, he stopped on a small wooden bridge over a creek. You were both quiet for a moment, just listening to the water.

He turned to you, looking at you with those soft eyes you couldn’t say no to. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart tripped over itself. You nodded. The first kiss was slow and careful, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. He cupped the back of your neck, stroking the soft skin behind your ear with his thumb. When you finally pulled back, resting your foreheads together, he exhaled a shaky laugh.

“Been thinking about that since the day I met you.”

You smiled against his lips. “Good things come to those who wait.”

After that, kissing became part of the routine. Quick ones in the hospital corridors when no one was looking. Longer ones on your couch when a movie neither of you was watching faded into background noise. Stolen ones in the elevator when you were both going down to the cafeteria at the same time.

By week five, the tension was a living thing between you. It was a Thursday night. His place this time. He was off tomorrow, you had a rare three-day stretch, so you’d decided to cook together. 

Dinner was eaten at the small table by the window, and afterward, you migrated to the couch. You were curled against his side, his arm around your shoulders, tracing patterns on your upper arm.

It started sweet and innocent, nothing more than a soft kiss. Then another, hungrier, deeper. Robby slid his hot tongue against yours, and you shifted without thinking, turning fully into him. He splayed his hand across your waist, digging his fingers in possessively as he yanked you closer until your chest was pressed flush against his.

Before you could catch your breath, you were swinging a leg over, straddling his lap, sinking your knees into the couch on either side of his hips. The thick, rock-hard outline of his cock strained against his cargo pants, pressing right up against your clothed cunt. You rolled your hips once, then again, grinding down harder, feeling every inch of him twitch and throb beneath you.

A low groan rumbled from his throat straight into your mouth, vibrating through you. He shoved his palm under your shirt, sliding up your bare back as he gripped you tighter, urging you to keep moving.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dropping his head back against the couch as he jerked his hips up instinctively to meet your next grind. “You’re gonna make me lose it, baby… you’re driving me insane.”

You ground down again, rolling your hips in a filthy drag that let you feel every ridge of his cock. He clamped his fingers down hard on your hips, bruising in the best way, guiding you into a lazy rhythm, making you ride the fat length of him like you were already fucking. 

Robby latched his mouth onto the tender skin of your throat, sucking softly at first, then harder, grazing his teeth until he’d left marks on your skin.

“You’re torturing me,” he sounded wrecked against your collarbone. “Every time I see you, all I can think about is this. You on me. Under me. Bent over every surface in this house. Fuck, just… everywhere.”

His filthy words hit you like a punch, making your cunt throb against him. You kissed him harder, twisting your fingers tightly in his hair and yanking it just enough to rip a hiss from his throat. He slid one of his rough hands up your ribs, dragging his thumb deliberately under the swell of your breast, teasing the stiff peak through your thin bra until you arched into it shamelessly, chasing more of that sweet friction.

He squeezed your right breast hard, digging his fingers into the soft flesh, kneading and rolling it roughly like he was trying to brand his handprint there. Robby bucked his hips up at the same time, grinding the head of his cock right against your throbbing clit through the layers of your clothes. Even with the fabric barrier, you felt every pulse of him pressing insistently against your slick center, making your pussy clench around nothing.

Robby clamped his other hand down on your ass, spreading his fingers wide as he yanked you forward, forcing you to grind faster.

Even with his reputation preceding him, Robby had gone long stretches without sex in his adult life, but this was different, seeing you every week, being so close to you was slowly killing him. He had to swallow the animal urge to pin you against the nearest wall, yank your pants down, and bury himself so deep you’d forget your own name.

He was so pent-up it physically hurt. His cock stayed half-hard most nights, throbbing painfully against his lower stomach. The restraint was agony, his balls were full, heavy and aching, every pulse was a constant reminder of how badly he wanted to spread you open, lick into your wet pussy until you were dripping down his chin, then fuck you raw until he’d pumped you so full of cum it leaked out for days.

He’d jerk off in the shower sometimes, quick and furious, biting his fist to keep quiet, picturing your thighs clamped around his head while you rode his face. It never helped. The second he saw you again, the need roared back twice as vicious.

But then… something clicked. You froze, pushing gently at his chest to pull away. Robby stilled instantly beneath you, snapping his eyesopen, his pupils blown so wide they were almost black.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice a little unsteady. It was difficult to remember the rules you had established for yourself when Robby felt so tempting under you. “I should… I should probably go home.”

He blinked, dazed in a cloud of pleasure. “You really have to?”

You slid off his lap, feeling your legs shaky as you stood. Your shirt was rumpled, your lips swollen, and your hair a mess from his fingers. “The rule,” you reminded him, though your own body was screaming in protest. “Seven weeks.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, dragging both hands down his face. “Right. The rule.” He looked wrecked, his cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling too fast, the obvious bulge in his pants doing nothing to hide how affected he was.

You grabbed your jacket from the arm of the couch, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” He stood too, wincing a little as he tried to adjust himself subtly. “Don’t apologize. A deal is a deal. I’m a man of my words.”

He stepped closer, not crowding you, just enough to reach out and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I really, really like you,” he said quietly. “Like… stupid amounts. I love spending time with you. The dates, the quiet nights. God help me, I even love losing our silly arguments. And I hate losing.” He gave you a small, crooked smile. “I love getting to know you. The way you hum when you’re concentrating. The way you steal my hoodies and pretend you don’t notice.” He took a breath, locking his eyes on yours. “So yeah. Even if you leave me here like a horny teenager who just discovered what a boner is… I’m still in. All the way. No rushing things.”

Your throat felt tight. You stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat was fast under your ear. His arms came around you immediately, cradling the back of your head with one hand.

“I like you too,” you murmured into his shirt. “A lot.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. You’d be a fool not to.”

You stayed like that for a long minute, just holding each other, the tension from your shared desire easing into something more sweet and innocent.

Eventually, you pulled back. “I really do have to go. Got an early meeting tomorrow.”

He nodded, reluctantly letting you go. “I’ll walk you down.”

At your car, parked on the street right in front of his house, he kissed you again, softer this time, nothing like the hunger he’d shown you on his couch before.

“Two more weeks,” he whispered, half-laughing. “I can do two more weeks. I’m great. Abstinence is curing all my trauma. I feel reborn already.”

You grinned. “You’d better.”

He watched you drive away, standing under the streetlight until your taillights disappeared around the corner. In the quiet of your own apartment later, lying in bed, you realized something… You were not just waiting for seven weeks anymore. You were building something together.

The seventh week arrived on a Friday, exactly seven weeks from that first rain-soaked parking-lot promise. Tonight feels different from the start.

He texts you at 4:17 p.m., while you’re wrapping up notes on a domestic violence case that’s left your chest tight all day:

Dress nice. Pick you up at 7:30. I’ve got plans.

You choose the deep green velvet dress you’ve been saving, the one with thin straps, a fitted bodice, and a skirt that flares just enough to move when you walk. When you open the door at 7:29, he’s already there, ready to knock, but he freezes mid-motion.

Robby is in a navy suit, no tie, the top button undone, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and his hair is tamed but still has that just-raked-through-it look. He’s holding a bouquet of white roses, almost shyly.

“Jesus,” he breathes, his eyes instantly traveling over you in an appreciative sweep. “You trying to kill me before we even leave?”

You smile, taking the roses. “You clean up nice, too, Robinavitch.”

He steps inside just long enough to help you into your coat, allowing his fingers to linger at your collar, brushing the nape of your neck. The touch is electric after weeks of holding back. “Ready?”

The restaurant is one of those places you’ve only ever seen in movies. None of the men you dated before would’ve dreamed of bringing you here, too expensive, too formal, too much effort for what they were willing to give. Tonight, though, the candlelight flickers across the white tablecloths, and in the corner, a jazz trio plays soft music.

He’s reserved a corner table near the window. Dinner is luxurious. Wine, plates of charcuterie and truffle oil, handmade pasta, and tiramisu shared with two spoons. 

Conversation flows effortlessly, you talk about the week’s chaos, his patient with the ruptured aorta, and your achievement with a teenage girl who finally agreed to foster care placement. You laugh about stupid things too: the way he can’t pronounce Italian words correctly, or how you’ve started adopting his little mannerisms, like scratching your neck when you get shy.

But underneath it all is a hunger that gets louder with every passing minute. Every time your knees brush under the table, every time he reaches across to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time his gaze drops to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly how it tastes.

Dessert comes and goes. Coffee, a third glass of wine. The check arrives, and he pays without fanfare, then looks at you across the candlelight.

“So,” he says, “seven weeks. To the day.”

You lean forward, placing your elbows on the table, your chin on your laced fingers. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Thought you’d ghost me by now.”

He grins, shaking his head as he places a hand over his chest. “Ouch, you had that little trust in me? Told you from the first moment… this was different, and I’m never wrong.” 

“Give me your final evaluation, Dr. Robinavitch. How’d we do?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, rubbing his jaw like he’s thinking about it. Then he leans in too, close enough that you can smell his cologne, a smell that’s so familiar now. “I’m deeper in this than I’ve ever been with anyone,” he says without any hesitation. “I like you so fucking much it scares me sometimes. Not in a bad way—just… I’m used to you. Your laugh when I say something stupid. The way you steal half my blanket when we watch movies on my couch. The little crease between your brows when you’re reading a chart. I can’t picture waking up and not having that in my life anymore. I don’t want to.”

Your throat tightens, you want to speak, but you don’t interrupt. He keeps going. “That sex ban? It was brutal, I’m not gonna lie. But it was good. Really good. It forced me to stay. To talk instead of fuck my way out of feeling things. I had to learn you, really learn you. And I did. I do.” He pauses, locking his eyes on yours. “But I’m not gentlemanly enough to pretend I’m not dying here. I’ve spent the last seven weeks imagining every single way I want to take you home and rip that dress off you. Slowly. Then not slowly at all. I want my hands on every inch of you. I want to wake up tomorrow with your marks on my back and you on my bed.”

The words land like sparks, the heat floods your chest, your thighs, everywhere. You swallow, your voice coming out barely above a whisper. “Then take me home, Robby.”

His pupils blow wide. For half a second, he looks stunned, like he wasn’t sure you’d say it. Then he’s moving, standing, offering his hand, pulling you up with him. 

In the parking lot, he holds the passenger’s door open for you, and then rounds to the driver's side, starts the engine, and pulls out onto the street. You glance at him and feel a surge of boldness. Leaning over the console, you press a kiss to his jaw, soft at first, then trailing down to his neck. He inhales sharply, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

"Careful," he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. "Trying to drive here."

You hum against his skin. "You can handle it," you nip lightly at his earlobe, sliding your hand to his thigh, squeezing gently, feeling the muscle tense under your palm.

He lets out a groan, glancing at you sideways with heat in his eyes. Emboldened, you continue, peppering kisses on his neck, flicking your tongue to trace the curve of his ear. The car swerves just a fraction before he corrects it, chuckling breathlessly. "Okay, okay… Save some for when we're not moving at sixty miles an hour."

But you don't stop entirely, just slow down, brushing your lips over his skin in lazy patterns as the miles tick by. He finds your knee, stroking it in slow circles that mirror the rhythm of your kisses. 

Finally, he turns onto a quiet residential street in one of Pittsburgh's nicer neighborhoods and pulls into his driveway. "Home sweet home," he says, killing the engine and turning to you. 

Before you can respond, he's leaning over, capturing your lips in a kiss that's deeper than the ones before. He cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you melt into it.

You break apart only when breathing becomes necessary, both of you grinning like idiots. 

"Inside," he says. "Before the neighbors get a show."

You nod, fumbling with your seatbelt as he comes around to open your door again, placing his arm around your waist as he leads you up the porch steps. He fumbles the key at his door, cursing under his breath while you laugh against his neck. Then the door swings open and you’re inside, coats shed somewhere in the hallway, shoes kicked off, his mouth never leaving yours.

The hall is dark, but Robby confidently walks you backward toward the bedroom. The air in the room is charged with seven weeks of anticipation. Robby's hands are on you immediately, as if he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. He backs you against the door for a moment, pressing his body flush to yours, claiming your mouth in a kiss that's all desperation, tangling your tongues, teeth grazing, and breaths coming in gasps.

His fingers tremble slightly as he slides them up your arms, hooking under the thin straps of your green dress. He pulls back just enough to look at you. "God, I've waited for this," he murmurs with longing. "I can't believe I finally have you here. Like this. All mine."

The dress slips down your body in a slow cascade, pooling at your feet until you're left in black lace panties and bra. Robby's gaze rakes over you, hungry, almost feral. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and you can see the restraint cracking in him.

You step forward, closing the distance, your hands going to his shirt. You unbutton it slowly, revealing inch after inch of his chest, the faint dusting of dark hair trailing down to his lower abdomen. His skin is warm under your fingertips, feverish almost, and he shudders when you scrape your nails lightly over his nipples.

"You were killing me," he breathes, tipping his head back as you push the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "Every date, every kiss… Watching you walk away, knowing I couldn't have you. I wanted you so much it hurt. Physically hurt."

His words send a thrill through you, and so you sink to your knees before him. Your hands work his belt open with ease, the buckle clinking softly. He watches you, transfixed, one hand coming to rest lightly on your head, not guiding, just needing the contact.

You yank his pants and boxers down in one rough tug, letting them pool at his ankles. His cock springs free, rock-hard and aching, the thick length curving upward toward his stomach, veins standing out along the shaft, the fat and flushed head already slick and shining with a fat bead of pre-cum that drips slowly down the slit. The sight hits you like a punch, making your mouth flood with saliva, your cunt clenching hard and empty, dripping down your thighs in anticipation.

You wrap your fingers tight around the pulsing base, stroking once, twisting at the head, and Robby lets out a low groan in response, jerking his hips forward like he can’t help it, trying to fuck into your fist.

“Fuck—baby—” His voice is already ruined, desperate, and you’ve barely touched him.

You lean in close, letting your hot breath ghost over him first, then you flick your tongue out to lap at the salty, musky bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip. Then you open your mouth wide and take him in. His grith forces your lips to stretch tight around him as you slide down inch by throbbing inch.

“You taste so good, Robby.” You say, swirling your tongue around the swollen head, sucking lightly at first, teasing the slit, making his knees nearly give out as his whole body shudders, a choked sound ripping from his throat.

“Oh God—yes—fuck—” He gasps, squeezing his eyes shut for a heartbeat like the pleasure’s too much, before snapping back open. He can’t look away from the obscene sight of your mouth stuffed full of him, lips shiny and stretched, cheeks hollowed as you start bobbing in earnest, taking him until he hits the back of your throat and you gag just a little, the sloppy sounds echoing loud in the small space.

He fists his hands tighter in your hair, holding on like you’re his only anchor while his thighs tremble under your palms, twitching his hips forward in shallow thrusts. Every time you suck harder and swirl your tongue, he groans like he’s dying, completely undone

"You have no idea… How many times I imagined this," he pants. "In the shower, at work… fuck,  I'd zone out thinking about your mouth. You're perfect— so fucking perfect."

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. You take him as deep as you can, brushing your nose against the coarse hair at his base, and he chokes out a moan, thrusting into your mouth despite himself. Tears prick at your eyes from the stretch, but it's worth it for the way he's unraveling, his head thrown back, his free hand braced against the door for support.

But then his grip tightens, tugging you back gently but insistently. "Stop—wait, please—" His voice is desperate. You pull off with a soft pop, looking up at him questioningly. His chest heaves, and his cock twitches in the cool air, shiny from your mouth. "If you keep going, I'm gonna cum right now, and I—fuck, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you first."

The raw plea in his words ignites something fierce in you. You stand, feeling your legs a little shaky, and he pulls you into him, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue without a hint of hesitation. His hands roam your body, unhooking your bra with fumbling fingers, sliding it off, then hooking into your panties and dragging them down your legs. You're both naked now, skin to skin, and the contact is electric.

He walks you backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, until the mattress hits the backs of your thighs. You sit, then scoot back, and he follows, crawling over you like a man possessed. His weight presses you into the sheets, comforting and overwhelming. He kisses down your body with open-mouthed drags along the sensitive column of your throat, grazing his teeth over your racing pulse before he moves lower.

His lips map the line of your collarbone, sucking lightly enough to leave faint marks, then down to your breasts. He latches onto one stiff nipple with his wet mouth, swirling his tongue hard around the swollen peak before he sucks deep, pulling the bud tight between his lips with suction that makes you curl your toes. At the same time, his rough palm cups your other breast, kneading the soft flesh possessively,  pinching and rolling the neglected nipple until it’s throbbing and aching in rhythm with the one he’s devouring. 

You arch into him, a broken moan tearing from your throat as you dig your nails into the thick muscle of his shoulders, clawing at him like you need to anchor yourself or rip him closer, either way, you’re desperate. Every pull of his mouth sends electric jolts straight to your dripping cunt, making you grind your hips uselessly against nothing. 

"Been dying for this," he whispers against your skin, trailing lower, over your ribs, your stomach. "Every night, I'd lie here thinking about touching you. Tasting you. You drove me insane. I wanted you so bad I could barely think straight."

He slides his big hand between your trembling thighs, brushing his fingers against the drenched heat of your cunt, finding you absolutely soaked, your slick dripping down your folds, coating his palm in a slippery mess the second he touches you. 

A groan rumbles deep in his chest, like discovering your wetness is the single greatest thing he’s ever felt in his life. “Fuck, baby… you’re dripping for me. You wanted me this much?” 

You nod, and Robby parts your lips with two thick fingers, gently at first, spreading you open, exposing your pulsing clit to the cool air before he pushes them inside, stretching your tight, greedy walls. He curls them just right, hooking perfectly against that spongy spot deep inside, stroking it with firm pressure that sends white-hot stars exploding behind your eyelids and a fresh gush of slick coating his knuckles.

“Robby—Oh fuck!” You curse, bucking your hips up off the bed, chasing more of his fingers, more of that perfect friction while your cunt clamps down around him like it never wants to let go.

He watches your face intently, finding your clit and circling with perfect pressure, slow at first, then faster, matching the pump of his fingers. 

“Like this?” he asks as he scissors his fingers wider inside you, angling them higher, curling the tips harder. “Tell me what feels good, baby,” The dual assault is making you tear up.  “Use your words, let me hear how much you love it.”

“So good… fuck! Like that—yes yes yes—” you cry out, cracking into desperate sobs. 

"Look at you," he whispers. You can hear the desperation in his voice. "So wet for me. So ready. I can't believe I get to have you."

“Just like that… don’t stop, please…” You beg him as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core when he plunges his fingers, curling and scissoring them inside your soaked cunt. The lewd, squelching sounds of your slick fill the room.

He ducks his head, latching back onto your breast with hunger, grazing the swollen nipple before he sucks hard. At the same time, he presses his thumb down firmly on your clit, rubbing filthy circles that match the punishing rhythm of his fingers fucking into you.

"Cum for me," he pleads, almost begs, his own desperation bleeding through his words. "I need to feel it… need to know I'm making you feel good. Please, baby. Can you do that for me?"

It crashes over you. Your cunt clamps down hard around his fingers, spasming wildly as you come undone, your walls pulsing and fluttering in rhythmic waves that milk every inch of him. He doesn’t let up. Not even close. He keeps thrusting through the slick mess of your orgasm, curling against that good spot, grinding merciless circles over your oversensitive clit until every aftershock drags another whimper.

“Oh, God. You made me cum so hard…” You giggle, blinded with the disbelief of feeling this good for the first time. “I’m still shaking…”

When you finally collapse, he drags his fingers out slowly, inch by glistening inch, strings of your creamy release clinging to his knuckles. He brings them straight to his mouth and sucks them clean, swirling his tongue deliberately over every drop of your taste

"Taste so good," he says, completely lost in the moment. "I could do this all night. But fuck, I need you now. Need to be inside you before I lose my mind."

You pull him up, kissing him fiercely, tasting yourself on his lips. "Get inside me," you manage to say through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Robby settles between your spread thighs, pressing his knees on the mattress as he notches himself right where you’re aching most. The thick head of his cock nudges your slick entrance, parting your folds. He drags the leaking tip up and down your slit, coating himself in your dripping arousal until every inch of him glistens, strings of your slick stretching obscenely between his cock and your greedy hole.

He pauses there, just barely breaching you, letting you feel the ridge of his crown stretching your tight ring of muscle, teasing you with the promise of being filled without giving it to you yet

He pauses, pressing his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you've wanted me as much as I've wanted you."

"More," you breathe, framing his face with your hands, lifting your hips to try and get him inside you. "Now, Robby—please."

“Fuck, look at you… so wet, so ready to take every inch,” He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every rigid vein, every throbbing pulse as he stretches you around his girth.

Your walls try to pull him deeper while he holds your hips steady, controlling the pace, making you take it all in agonizing slow motion. The burn is perfect, your slick dripping down his shaft with every careful slide.

When he finally bottoms out, his hips flush tight against yours, balls pressed against your ass, you both let out a broken moan in perfect unison. 

"Fuck—" His arms tremble where they brace beside your head. "You're so tight… so hot. I can't—God, I can't believe I have you. You were killing me for seven weeks, walking away every time. I wanted to pin you down, make you mine right then."

He starts moving with punishingly deep thrusts that drag him along every nerve inside you, stretching and stroking your walls. Each pull-out leaves you clenching around nothing, dripping down your ass, before he sinks back in to the hilt with a wet slap of skin on skin.

“Right there—right fucking there—yes, yes, yes—” You wrap your legs tight around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, digging your heels hard into the firm curve of his ass, pulling him deeper, forcing him to bottom out harder, grinding your clit against his pubic bone with every brutal roll of his hips.

He groans at the pressure, the way your pussy sucks him in deeper, and then he picks up the pace, snapping forward faster, until his balls are slapping wetly against your ass on every deep plunge.

"Feels so good," he groans, burying his face in your neck. "Better than I imagined… And I imagined a lot. Every night, thinking about you like this, wrapped around me, moaning my name."

The words fuel the fire, pushing you higher. You push at his chest. "Let me ride you."

He smiles as he flips you both effortlessly, so now you’re straddling him, your thighs spread wide over his hips, his fat length stretching you even fuller from this position, the blunt head kissing places inside you that make your vision flicker.

“Oh god… Robby, you feel so fucking good inside me…”

Robby clamps his hand down on your hips, digging in hard enough to bruise, guiding you exactly where he wants you. His eyes devour every inch: your flushed tits bouncing with each movement, the way your stomach trembles, the slick shine of arousal coating his shaft where it disappears into your hole.

You rise slowly, until just the head catches at your entrance, then you sink back down, taking him to the root in one plunge that makes you both groan. His cock throbs deep inside you, and the slap of your ass meeting his thighs echoes in the room as you start to ride him, rolling your hips in sloppy circles while he watches, mesmerized, like you’re the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

"Ride me… Yes, just like that—" He's babbling now, completely undone, his head thrown back against the pillows until his throat exposed. " Fuck, look at you… You’re so perfect."

“You’re so deep—fuck, I can feel you in my stomach…” You grind down, dragging your clit along the base of his cock, and then you pick up speed, bouncing harder, taking him to the hilt on every downstroke.

He digs his fingers deep into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider as he helps guide your rhythm, lifting you just enough before yanking you back down onto his length. He meets every bounce with an upward thrust of his hips, fucking up into you with precision.

You notice him locking his eyes on where your soaked pussy swallows him whole, creamy rings of your arousal frothing at the base of his cock with every punishing bounce.

“Use my dick, Fuck, you’re so goddamn good.. I'm close—fuck, so close—" His voice is wrecked, desperate. "You feel too good… Gonna cum inside you, fill you up."

“I can’t—too good—too fucking good—” You moan, and the way he jerks his hips upward to fuck into you, tip you over again.

You come hard, clenching around him, your vision whiting out. He follows seconds later, hammering into you in erratic stutters. His cocik swells even thicker as he unloads in heavy spurts, filling you with thick ropes of cum that seem to go on forever. You feel every fat jet deep inside you, the heat of it blooming against your walls.

You collapse forward onto his sweat-slick chest, both of you gasping for air. Robby buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard against your skin, while his cock still twitches weakly inside you.

Robby’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, with one arm wrapped around your waist before you shift slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can see his face. He looks wrecked in the best way, completely blissed out, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you watch him.

“Hey,” you say softly, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip. “Promise me something?”

He hums. “Anything.”

“Don’t ghost me now that we’ve fucked.” The words come out quieter than you mean them to, but they land anyway. “Don’t disappear.”

He stills his hand on your back, and he shifts, rolling toward you so you’re face-to-face, your noses almost touching. “Baby, I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze, searching for honesty.  “I need to know this isn’t the end of the version of you I’ve been getting for seven weeks.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he leans in, presses the softest kiss to your forehead, lingering there. “I know it’s gonna sound like the most cliché thing in the world,” he starts, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes again, “but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good before. Not just the sex, though Jesus, that was—”

He lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head like he still can’t process it. “That was unreal. But it’s not just that. It’s everything about you. Being with you is different. I don’t feel like I’m running from my problems anymore. I used to, every time shit got real, every time someone got too close, I’d bolt. Find an excuse, pick a fight, disappear into work. Because staying meant dealing with the mess in my head, and I was terrified of that. But with you?”

Robby strokes your cheek again. “It feels like I’m choosing you. Every single day, because I want to stay. I want the mornings where we’re both half-dead and fighting over who gets the last of the coffee. I want the nights we do nothing but lie here and talk about stupid shit. I want your bad days, your good days. I’ve spent years convincing myself I wasn’t built for this, for someone to matter this much. But you make me want to be. You make me feel like I can be.”

He swallows, and you can see his eyes shining a little in the dim light. “So no,” he says firmly, “I’m not ghosting you. I’m not running. I’m right fucking here, and I’m staying. You’re stuck with me, okay? All of it. I’m choosing you. Every day.”

The words settle over you, comforting and easing all your doubts and fears. You feel the knot in your chest loosen, the old fear that always whispers “what if he leaves” starting to quiet.

You lean in, kissing him, tasting the truth of everything he just said. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his. “Okay,” you whisper, smiling against his lips. “I believe you.”

A/N: Uhhh, thank you so much for all the support and love on the first one-shot I wrote for Robby. I honestly wasn’t expecting it hehe, but it made me so happy. And since he’s my latest obsession, I can’t stop all the ideas for new fics from popping into my head. I’m feeling really inspired, so I’ll probably keep writing more stuff for him in the future.

Like I said, I’m new to the fandom. I’ve read a couple of fics, but I haven’t really had time to fully get into it yet. I mostly write whatever ideas pop into my head, so if I end up writing something that’s already been done a million times… sorry jskdjd 😭

You sat up in your bed, sipping leftover wine you had in your glass from the previous night and watched as Robby hastily zipped up his pants muttering his usual daily complaints. You focused on the way his hands moved, the same hands that had been holding your hips just minutes before as he pounded deep inside of you grunting and panting while you cried out in pleasure. His hands were your favorite feature of his, they were large and slightly calloused and felt like the perfect fit anytime he gripped your wrists behind your back or held your neck

 Much like his eyes, his hands told a story. The same hands that he used to fuck you were the ones he used in that hospital that you had grown to despise. Whether it was a gentle hand on a patient's back during a tough diagnosis, a reassuring handshake to a distressed family member or holding a patient's hand as they gave their last breath, his hands were always being used in some form

“I probably won’t see you for a bit” Robby spoke up as he put his shirt back on “I work 3 days straight and I’m gonna want a day to just sleep after I’m done” “I can stop by and bring you lunch if you want me too” you offered He simply sighed as he tied his shoe and turned his upper body towards you “Yeah that’s…that’s not gonna work anymore actually” You looked at him slightly confused and chuckled “Uh I always bring you lunch on Wednesdays ? How else are you gonna eat ?” “I didn’t wanna tell you this in this way” he said in a softer tone “I just think that maybe-” “Just say it Michael” you sighed “I think it’s best this stops” he admitted looking at you “I think you’re a great girl and you’re smart and truly it’s-” “Not you it’s me” you finished for him with a slight grin “That what you’re going with ?” Robby let out a sigh “It’s true in this case. You deserve a lot better than dinner here and there and hookups. I’m not in the good headspace to be able to offer you more than that and I think you should be able to explore your options and life way more than using it with me” There wasn’t much to do or say other than agree because at the end of the day you and Robby were exactly just that, a hookup. A very quiet one being as your father was head of neuro at the hospital and Robby’s colleague, not exactly the ideal combo but it’s what made it just as exciting for you

“Well if that’s what you want then so be it” you shrugged as you picked up your dress from the floor and sighed “You left a cumstain on my dress Robinavitch, how am I supposed to wear this to go home ? This is Herve Leger, do you know who he is ?” “Uh no. But I’ll give you something to wear” he said softly “Sorry about that” “I don’t wanna wear your musty clothes thank you very much” you said as you put your bra and panties back on “Hand me my coat, I’ll put it on and call it a day” “Just wear this” he handed you a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie Rolling your eyes you took it and carefully folded your dress back into your purse “Well I guess this it, was a nice 7 weeks I won’t lie” He chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck “I just, I’m sorry. I wish something could be but seeing as circumstances are rough as is and you’re still young and have a lot of life to live it’s best to end it here. I still like you, you’re really smart and helpful and you help out a lot of patients with donations. You’ve got a good mind and heart” “No need for the soft letdown here Robinavitch” you grinned “I’m very well aware of circumstances and that I’m pretty much a god given angel in that hospital” “There she is” Robby laughed “There’s no hard feelings” you said softly “And don’t worry…my dad won’t know a thing” “Preferably not seeing as he could most likely ruin my career” he nodded “He’d be pretty pissed so let’s not even joke about that.” Standing there in front of him felt different, he seemed more off than usual which already said a lot. You knew about Robby’s issues, it’s what had brought you two together in the first place. One night after you had been at the hospital to drop something off for your father, you had seen him upset and head to the roof where you followed and watched as he laid his stethoscope on the railing and simply looked down at the ground

Nothing had shaken you up so bad in your life until that moment and by some miracle you had interrupted what you now knew was his attempt. You knew he still wasn’t okay but he didn’t seem to want to talk about any of that, even when you’d bring it up as kindly as possible. He’d usually kiss you or initiate sex soon after and then it’d be forgotten in his mind but it was still clear in yours and you knew this would be your last shot to finally get the answer

“Michael, are you dumping me because you plan on killing yourself ?” you asked “Because if so, I think it’s time we…we get you some help. It doesn’t have to be at the hospital, I know doctors in other places. It can be private, it can be confidential” The look on his face told you that you should have immediately taken it back but there was no going back now “Michael, answer me please” “Are you fucking insane ?” Robby suddenly snapped at you “Seriously ? You think that just because I decided to stop this that I wanna kill myself ?” You stayed calm and shrugged “It’s just a question, you haven’t answered me.” “You and I aren’t anything, we were just hooking up. This wasn’t anything special or important” he motioned between you two “Whatever idea you had in your head throw it the fuck out. We hooked up a couple times, that’s all. It was never going to be anything more with you. Look at you and look at me okay ? Use that brain of yours for once and think” “What is that supposed to mean ?” you suddenly asked “Say it, be a man for once” “You’re spoiled” he threw his hands up and rubbed his face “My god you’re a fucking spoiled brat who lives off mommy and daddy’s money. You don’t even work at the hospital, your dad had to make you volunteer because he was tired of you doing nothing with your time. Your mother would come in to have lunch with him and I’d hear her tell him how you were just wasting your life and how she had bigger expectations for you. She was embarrassed and I don’t blame her one bit. You’re rude, you’re snobby and honestly you’re a bitch most of the time” he shook his head “You’re good in bed though and that’s what mattered to me the most.” The last part was the most cruel thing you had ever heard but you couldn’t let it show. If Robby wanted to hurt you, you’d hurt him back. By the look of his face you could tell he knew he had taken it too far, in the 7 weeks of knowing him you knew his little quirks that would come out when he felt certain emotions. 

Stress would make him self soothe such as cracking his hands or rubbing his thumb, anxiousness would make him touch his hair like crazy and whenever he felt like he was about to break down he’d zone out. His eyes would go blank but they’d water, his chest would heave heavily and he’d struggle to take a breath and regret consisted of him looking ahead with quiet breaths, something he was currently doing

He wasn’t foreign, he wasn’t this enigma he tried so hard to be perceived as. Michael Robinavitch was a man who wanted you but didn’t need you and while you knew that going into this, you didn’t expect him to be so cruel about it. Not when you genuinely wanted him to be okay and had grown to care about him more than you wanted to admit

“I’m glad you’re honest” you said simply with a nod “Honesty is the best policy, my mother taught me that but you wouldn’t know anything about that would you now ?”

You could’ve sworn you saw his eyes twitch slightly. His face paled and you could tell he was replaying your words over and over in his head. You had both said things that were too far but somehow now you were the bad guy “What ? You’re the one who can be an asshole and call me a bitch and use my parents against me and slutshame me but I say one little thing and you wanna go all psycho on me ?” you scoffed crossing your arms “Yeah okay Robinavitch”

“Get your shit and get fuck out of my house” Robby whispered lowly “Now.” “There is a bitch here and it’s clearly not me” you said back grabbing your bag That was the last time you saw Robby until a week later when you stopped by the hospital to see your father for a meeting. You were in the middle of getting checked in when you spotted Robby talking to a case manager you had seen before a few times “That’s Noelle” Cassie came up next to you “They’ve been flirting all morning, I was in the middle of it earlier and it was the most awkward shit I’ve ever had to live through. I felt like they were about to fuck right in front of me” “Oh…uh I didn’t know they were involved” you said softly “His new hospital honey” she nodded with an eye roll “I saw them making out last month and almost wanted to bleach my eyes” “Last month ?” you asked slightly shocked 

“By his motorcycle” she made a face “Day shift had just ended and it was dark, nastiest shit I’ve ever seen and keep in mind my ex is pretty up there in that category”

You managed to chuckle as calmly as you could, excusing yourself as you walked to the nurses desk and finally realized why Robby had been so weird with you…he already had someone lined up. By the looks of it Noelle was closer to his age, understood the profession and was truly quite beautiful. She was the perfect package for him and she was heading your way “You’re Jonathan’s daughter right ? I’m Noelle, Noelle Hastings” she offered you her hand with a smile “Nice to meet you” you introduced yourself “And yes, he’s my father” “Dr.Jon has spoken wonders about you, are you a doctor too ?” she asked From across the room you could hear Robby scoff and saw him shake his head almost as if to mock you, an action even Dana frowned at from behind her station “What ? She could still be a doctor if she wants, she can go to school” she defended “I mean look at her, what’s not to like ? She’s a doll.”

“I never said anything” Robby held his hands up in defense walking away and looking at Noelle and giving her a wink “See you later Hastings” “He’s something else” she shook her head and laughed “I swear that man is one person here at work and a totally different man when he’s at home. I’ve enjoyed our time but there’s just so much that’s off. We lay in bed with the tv on till morning because he told me he hates the silence” You looked at Dana who looked equally as uncomfortable as you did, “I don’t think we need to be knowing this at all” “Oh come on it’s girl talk” Noelle grinned with a shrug “His pillow talk is just as bad, constantly talking about needing a break, he invited me to go on a trip with him that he’s taking. Claiming he wants a companion” “You should go” you looked at her “He probably told you that because he needs someone. Maybe he’s going through something”

“When isn’t he ?” she sighed “I swear first it’s Adamson then Collins and now it’s something else he’s hiding” “Collins ?” you asked “Heather Collins ?” Dana sighed softly “You know gossiping on the clock isn’t really smart” “She was a resident…she was also his girlfriend” Noelle informed you "Apparently everything he wanted in a woman, she was perfect but he just couldn’t commit so she left to another state. I think she’s the one who got away” “And what do you think you are ?” you asked a little harsher than intended “Sweetheart” she chuckled “Let me tell you something as someone who’s older, Robby is someone who will never ever commit, ever heard of his 7 week itch ? It’s the most he lasts with someone. Janey broke the record but she had a kid so I think he felt bad. But he did it to Heather and he’s trying to do it to me but I won’t let him which is why he’s chasing. It’s a weird game to him but if you’re willing to put that aside, it’s kind of nice. He’s great in-”

Dana suddenly picked up her clipboard and a pen from her drawer, closing it shut loudly enough to stop Noelle from continuing “Alright that’s truly more than enough for me. I shall see you ladies soon. Have a good day” “See you” you grinned politely and turned back to Noelle “So you…you like him ?” “I do” she admitted “He’s attractive, funny, he’s got good taste in local restaurants and bars and he’s amazing in bed. I’m not throwing that away just because he doesn’t wanna commit. The last month has been kind of fun, it’s exciting” That was all the confirmation you needed to know the reason he stopped wanting anything to do with you was for her. You had reached the end of his seven week itch and he had moved onto his next one. You knew it wasn't cheating, it was agreed you’d just hook up but it still stung knowing he had been with you while already being with her too. It made you feel cheap more than anything.

You said goodbye to her and headed to the elevator, muttering a string of curse words when Robby walked in “Your father got called in for emergency surgery” he spoke “He most likely won’t be out of that for another 3 hours or so” “Alright, cool. I’ll leave” you reached your hand to press a button, meeting his eyes when he stopped you by grabbing your wrist “Let me go” “What did she tell you ?” he murmured quietly “That you’ve been fucking her for the last month” you answered “You and I weren’t anything” he reminded you “You knew that, I can do as I please”

He was mostly telling himself that to convince himself that he was right but every fiber of his being knew he was wrong. He knew it was a shit thing to do to you, he knew he should’ve at least told you “I never said you couldn’t” you shook your head “I just would’ve liked to know I was dating the hospital whore” Robby chewed the inside of his cheek, visibly annoyed at your remark “The what ?” “You’re ran through Michael” you said simply “That should be your new nickname, ran through Robby with his hospital honeys he replaces after 7 weeks of getting his itch scratched. It’d make for a good gossip sesh with Perlah and Princess for sure. Who would’ve thought such a highly regarded attending would be such a whore. Guess you got yourself confused with me” “You wanna be childish go for it, it’s all you can come up with anyways. You know you went to the states’ best private schools and college and all you can manage to do is give middle school level remarks. Does that head of yours rattle when you shake it ?” “Watch it” you snapped “Don’t start what you can’t finish” he retorted with a finger point “You started this, we were fine. We were good friends and you ruined it. I told you what we had was just casual and you agreed to it. You cannot be mad at me for something you agreed with. I was honest with you.” “Well maybe I wasn’t” you whispered wiping your eyes with the back of your hand “Maybe I lied and maybe I genuinely like you Michael. But you don’t, so there’s no point in even finishing this conversation.” Before you could say anything else the elevator finally halted and you walked off as quickly as possible still hearing his footsteps as he tried his best to catch up to you and like some miracle he was stopped by some other doctor who needed his assistance 

**************************************************************************

You were about to make your way out when you bumped into someone and crashed chest first into them, “Oh god I’m so sorry, you okay ? Oh god Jack I’m sorry, I spilled your coffee mug all over your shirt” “All good” he grinned “Coffee here sucks anyways, I was about to head to the shop next block and grab some before I head home. You wanna join ?” “Oh…um…I don’t think I should” you admitted

“You’re a big girl” he chuckled “We’re two adults, practically coworkers since you’re here so much, your dad won’t say a thing trust me” “Okay fine” you nodded, following him out “How’s nightshift treating you ?” “It’s been going” Jack grinned “Ever think of joining us ?” “I’m not a doctor or a nurse” you shook your head “I barely got through college as is, I have a degree in fashion and design nothing educational or even medical.” He shook his head “That’s not true, hey maybe you can design hospital gowns ?” “That’s not funny” you muttered suddenly embarrassed “I already hear it from my parents okay ? I get it, I’m not Victoria Javadi who went to college when she was like 10 and now she’s a doctor working alongside her parents at the hospital. I should’ve majored in something more practical, I get it.” “Hey” Jack put a hand on your shoulder “I wasn’t teasing you, I was being honest” “I need to go home” you shook your head “We can have coffee another day, see you” He didn’t move as he kept his hand on your shoulder and shook his head “You’re right, we can have coffee another day because right now we’re gonna head to that diner in the street corner and eat some food while you tell me what’s bothering you” You shook your head “I’m fine really plus you just worked 14 hours, you need to rest” “No you’re not” Jack said softly “Come on let’s go, I can sleep when I’m dead”

An hour later you were sitting across from him in a booth in the corner of the diner eating your feelings away with him with nothing but the sound of forks and spoons clinking against your plates “I’m gonna assume this is male related because you just downed yours and my plate of french toast along with my bacon without a word being said. That or….you know female stuff” he made a face “No offense of course” You couldn’t help but laugh “Wow, Marisol really gave you the 411 didn’t she ?” Jack smiled softly at the mention of his wife who had passed “You know her, she loved telling me everything” “She was the sweetest” you said softly “She liked you a lot” he mentioned “She always said she thought you were made of sunshine because she never ever saw you sad…she’d hate to see you like this you know” You trusted Jack, he was a good person and someone you knew wouldn’t judge you. His wife, Marisol, had passed a few years ago and you knew how hard it was on him. She was a doctor for another hospital and her passing had been rather sudden but even with the short time of knowing her she had always been kind to you “Jack…are you using Marisol to get information ?” “She’d want the gossip…or chisme as she liked to call it” he teased with a grin “So for her sake, I think you should tell me what’s bothering you, maybe I can help ?” “Jack, I had a thing with Robby” you confessed “It was only for like maybe 2 months but it ended badly and I think, well I know….I like him. I like Robby and I like him more than he likes me and oh my god this is bad…this is so fucking bad” you whispered covering your mouth “Oh my god” “You’re the one he’s messing with after his shifts” his eyes widened “No that’s Noelle Hastings” you said quietly “Wait, what the fuck ?” he leaned forward “He was two timing you ?” Suddenly you wished the ground could swallow you up, you were sure your face was so damn hot you could probably fry an egg on it. Jack was staring at you wide eyed in shock and you could see him trying his best to make sense of everything “He wasn’t two timing me because we-we weren’t dating, we were just hooking up” you revealed quietly “No harm was done from his side, I just…I just got a different idea in my head and it got messy” “Well don’t think I’m gonna take his side just because he’s my friend because I won’t” he shook his head “But I will say, he’s not in good headspace” “I’m well aware” you nodded “But does being in a bad headspace excuse these kinds of actions by a grown man ?” “No” Jack answered almost immediately “He’s free to do what he pleases and truth be told it’s on me, I should’ve never ever gotten involved with him” you said quietly “It was wrong.” He sighed and put his coffee mug down “No it wasn’t, he’s the wrong one not you. He’s well aware he’s struggling and he’s choosing to get into relationships knowing he’s gonna sever them because he can’t handle the emotional commitment. The whole it’s not me it’s you thing he does, he’s right it is him and I love the guy but I can’t defend him here” “I’m worried about him” you admitted “I don’t think he’s okay” “He’s not” Jack answered gently “I’ve talked to him, Dana’s talked to him, we’ve tried but he’s dead set on going on this sabbatical for a few months. He’s claiming it’s gonna help clear his mind and while I don’t believe it at all he’s a grown man who makes his own choices.” His statement didn’t help you one bit if anything it made you a little more on edge. There was nothing to help Robby when his mind was made up. Often whenever he was so in the moment he’d do things without thinking of consequences and now you knew the reason why “But enough about him, let’s focus on you” Jack grinned “I wasn’t kidding about the hospital gown thing. You know we get kids in the ER a lot and sometimes they get scared seeing everything look so big and dark. Maybe you can design some kid ones ? It would help distract them a bit and make it fun. You should talk to board of directors” “You make it sound so easy” you chuckled

“Don’t take this the wrong way” he said rubbing his chin “But maybe it’s time you use those connections your dad has, you already use his money. Does he know you like to pay unpaid medical bills with his card ?” 

“I-”

“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing” Jack grinned “That’s really nice of you to do and I know Dr. Jon approves because he’s the first one willing to argue with insurance on the phone over patients. But maybe give it a shot, it’d be worth it” “I guess you’re right” you nodded “I should go, you need rest” “I’ll see you friday night” he said softly “You never attend the hospital gala event” you said back “You really going ?” Jack nodded “Couple of buddies are getting recognized for their help at Pittfest, I wanna be there for them so if I see you there is it cool if we sit together ?” “Fine by me” you grinned “My dad will be sitting with my mom with the rest of neuro so I’ll be all alone” “See you Friday then kid” Jack winked as he paid the bill

**************************************************************************

The annual hospital foundation gala was always the biggest event of the year. Sure it was a little snobby but it was for a good cause. Doctors and nurses deserved recognition though you remembered what Robby had told you a few months back about how they’d prefer better pay and more safety precautions. These events meant nothing to him, he hated them but you knew he’d be there that night and that made it all the much worse

The night was full of everyone you knew in suits and dresses, you watched as department heads tried to pretend they enjoyed making small talk outside the hospital. The event was held at the Omni William Penn hotel in downtown and it was gorgeous. Crystal chandeliers reflected off polished marble floors while a string quartet played somewhere near the grand staircase.

You honestly almost hadn't come, you wanted to back out badly but your father had insisted

It's important for the department. Besides, they're recognizing the new neuroscience wing. I'd like you there.

So there you were, alone. You adjusted the navy dress you had spent an hour convincing yourself looked appropriate and accepted a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter. Your eyes wandered around the ballroom seeing every department. Emergency Medicine, trauma, cardiology, orthopedics and then…him. 

Robby looked every bit the accomplished attending in his tuxedo, one hand tucked in his pocket and standing beside him was none other than Noelle. She looked beautiful and elegant as she laughed at something he quietly said before slipping her arm through his.

Your stomach twisted and you immediately looked away.

"Bad idea coming ?"

The familiar voice pulled you back and you turned to find Jack standing beside you, already holding two champagne flutes and offering you one of the glasses "I figured if I was getting dragged to a fundraiser, I'd at least make sure my favorite company wasn't standing alone…told you I’d be here"

You laughed softly "I’m your favorite company ?"

Jack shrugged with a crooked grin "I have surprisingly high standards."

You rolled your eyes, but accepted the drink, sipping as his expression softened as he looked at you "You okay ?"

You glanced toward Robby before catching yourself and of course Jack noticed, "Come on. Your dad's speech starts in five minutes." he pointed out 

"So ?" you asked

"So you're not sitting by yourself." he nodded and before you could protest, Jack gently rested a hand against the middle of your back, guiding you toward one of the tables near the front

Across the ballroom Robby had been half listening to Noelle explain a recent vacation when movement caught his eye. He looked over and saw Jack walking beside you. His hand lingering briefly against your back before pulling out a chair for you

Robby watched as Jack leaned down to say something and you smiled and he smiled back. He hated the feeling he got in his gut but said nothing though his expression was more than obvious to Noelle who followed his gaze

"What're you looking at ?”

He blinked and shook his head,  "Nothing important." he replied but his eyes drifted back anyway

Back on the other side Jack settled into the chair beside yours "You know," he said quietly, "I've always hated these things."

“Me too” you admitted “It’s nice to be recognized I’m sure but there’s other stuff they could do” “Agreed” he nodded

He looked toward the podium where guests were beginning to take their seats “I’m glad I’m here with you” he murmured softly

You looked at him after reapplying your lipgloss "What was that ?"

He smiled "I said the food's usually better than people expect."

"You absolutely did not but whatever, lie to me Abbott” you chuckled

At another table, Noelle leaned closer to Robby "You seem distracted tonight."

"I'm fine." he answered 

"You've said three words in the last ten minutes." she pointed out

Robby looked at her apologetically "I’m sorry, it’s just these events are a lot and I’m just a little tired is all”

She followed his line of sight again and sighed softly when she realized he was looking at you and Jack and looked back at him "You know her ?"

Robby hesitated but nodded "Pretty sure everyone here does, she’s Dr.Jon’s kid."

“Not what I meant” she said back quietly

It was finally time for speeches after everyone had settled in and you put your glass down as the lights dimmed and the hospital CEO approached the stage

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Chief of Neurosurgery”,  applause filled the ballroom as your father walked onto the stage and you immediately sat a little straighter

Jack smiled "You've got the same determined look he gets."

"I do not." you whispered 

"You do." he smirked "You absolutely do."

You nudged him with your elbow and he laughed quietly, "There's the fight I was hoping for."

Onstage, your father thanked donors, administrators, physicians, nurses, residents, technicians, environmental services and everyone who made the hospital what it was. He introduced patients who had helped and survived during Pittfest and presented them each with an award and a check for their efforts 

As he spoke, Jack found himself watching you more than the stage. The way you looked at your father with quiet pride, the way you applauded the nursing staff louder than anyone else, the way you absentmindedly tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. He caught himself smiling as he watched you

"You know," Jack murmured

"Hm ?"

"Your dad still introduces you as his little peanut” he said softly “Kinda cute”

You groaned softly "Please don't remind me."

"I think it's sweet." he admitted while looking at you with a small grin 

“Thanks” you grinned back

Across the room, Robby couldn't hear what Jack had said but he had seen your reaction. He saw you laughing and the sudden ease between you. He saw Jack looking at you with an expression he recognized immediately.

Interest, not casual friendliness. Something that was becoming difficult to hide. Jack was looking at you like your company was exactly where he wanted to be, something Robby had failed to do. His fingers tightened around the stem of his glass and Noelle noticed

"You really are somewhere else tonight." she mentioned

He pulled his eyes away from your table "I’m sorry, I mean that. As soon as this is done we can head back to mine."

Robby forced himself to accept her touch on his thigh and looked toward the stage instead but despite every effort his attention kept drifting back to where you sat beside Jack, laughing softly at something only the two of you could hear

The applause faded as your father's speech came to an end and guests rose from their tables, drifting back into conversations over champagne and shitty hors d'oeuvres. Members of the hospital board gathered near a display showcasing plans for the new pediatric expansion you had heard rumblings about

Jack looked toward the crowd then back at you "There are a few people I want you to meet"

You looked at him skeptically, "Uh who ?" but before you could object again, he lightly touched your elbow 

“Just come on” he grinned. Jack lead you toward a cluster of well dressed men and women wearing foundation badges, you immediately recognized them as the head of the board and slightly froze

One of them noticed and turned to Jack, smiling “Well if it isn’t Dr.Abbott, lovely seeing you here this evening”

"Nice to see you guys too” he shook their hands before stepping aside “I’m sure you all know Dr.Jon from neuro, this is his daughter and she was just telling me about this really good idea I think you guys might be into”

One of the women tilted her head and grinned "What kind of idea ? We’re always looking for ways to improve"

You cleared your throat before beginning and look them all in the eye “I have a degree in fashion and design…I know, not exactly what my parents wanted” you chuckled “But I’ve always thought about how children spend enough time scared in hospitals. So I started sketching hospital gowns that don't look like hospital gowns. They’re fun, they’re different like princesses or superheroes, dinosaurs, farm animals, mermaids, astronauts. Just fun characters so instead of feeling like patients in scary moments they can feel like children” “Oh I love that, that’s wonderful” she grinned at you

“It would make admissions less frightening because sometimes kids are scared to change into gowns, it can make them feel more at ease” you nodded 

“And before anyone here claims how it’ll cost, I know for a fact some of those donors drinking wine over there wouldn’t find having their name behind this kind of thing” Jack nodded “Good promo, looks great for them and you guys too”

A director turned towards you and smiled “You know this is actually quite genius, it works out for everyone involved and gives a little light on something that’s usually rather sad. Have you sketched any ?” “I-I have” you said softly “I can email them if you’d wish as soon as possible” "I think our pediatric foundation committee would love to hear this idea and see them, we should schedule a meeting." he nodded taking out his phone 

"Really ?" you smiled 

"Absolutely, this is something new that we could get started”

Jack looked at you and shrugged "I told you it was worth talking about."

Not so far away in the corner of the ballroom Robby hadn't realized he'd stopped listening to the conversation around him. He could hear enough now and his chest tightened at it all as another familiar conversation came back into his head, one from months ago

“Fashion ? You really wanna be a designer ? Like a clothing designer ?” Robby furrowed his brow “That’s what you went to college for ?”

“What ? It’s cool,  I like the fun of it” you showed him your sketch book “I drew all of these”

“I’m just saying if I had the financial privilege and opportunity of having a father in the medical field I’d do something that’s worth it” he said without even looking through it as he set it on his coffee table

“Fashion is worth it, it’s freedom of expression” you picked it back up quickly and put it in your purse “It’s just as important as something medical”

“Most privileged take I’ve ever heard, if only some of us could go to school to draw clothes and not even have to pay for it” he chuckled 

He had also heard you arguing one day with your mother outside your fathers office but he had kept that to himself only remembering the part where she had told you she wanted more for you because she cared

Now Robby stood just a few feet away listening to board members ask you questions as you answered them with ease, clearly knowing what you were talking about. From describing fabrics that were soft enough for sensitive skin or patterns that wouldn't interfere with examinations and openings that preserved children's dignity while still giving doctors the access they needed.

You knew exactly what you were talking about as Jack stood beside you, nodding along, “Remember the neurodivergent kids” he whispered lowly enough for you to hear 

"I'd also want options for children with autism or sensory sensitivities..." you looked back at the board “Maybe softer fabrics or heavier ones for those that have those needs” "You know," one of them said "I think there's something very special here."

"I agree," another replied "We'd be foolish not to explore it. We’ll settle a meeting as soon as possible, most likely this coming week. Thank you again for this, it’s a lovely idea really” Jack smiled at you as they walked away “Told you, you did it” “I need a drink” you said letting out a deep sigh “Jesus christ that was mortifying” “I got you” he grinned

**************************************************************************

The ballroom had grown louder as the evening wore on, music drifted through the open doors leading to the terrace while clusters of doctors and donors laughed over another round of drinks.

You slipped away, needing 5 minutes where no one expected you to smile for more pictures or your mother continuously asking you meet so and so’s son who was head of who knows what in some other hospital

Outside, the summer air was cool and refreshing. The city lights shimmered below the hotel's rooftop terrace and for the first time all evening, the noise faded into a comfortable silence

"You hiding too ?"

You turned and Jack stepped through the doors, loosening his bow tie as he walked over “I don’t blame you after you left to sit with your parents for dessert I had to take a breather too”

He leaned against the railing beside you, looking out over the skyline and reached into the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes

Your eyebrows shot up immediately "You smoke ?"

Jack chuckled "I almost never do actually", he tapped one loose from the pack before holding it between his fingers “When I feel a little out of my own control I usually smoke one…I know it doesn't make any sense."

You studied him for a moment and shrugged "You don't look like a smoker."

He shrugged and smiled ruefully as he lit and inhaled, blowing out the smoke in a shallow breath "I think somewhere along the way my brain decided that meant cigarettes equaled... taking a minute. I don't even usually finish one."

He looked almost embarrassed admitting it so you reached over and gently took the cigarette from his fingers and surprisingly he let you. You dropped it onto the floor and stepped on it with your heel "I think you're allowed to take five minutes without this."

Jack looked at the floor then at you "I suppose I am.", he looked at you for a long moment. Long enough that your smile slowly faded beneath the weight of his gaze "You know..." he said quietly

"What ?"

"I meant what I said the other day"

You tilted your head "About what ?"

"That none of what happened with Robby had anything to do with your worth." he said softly “He’s got all these issues and he chose to lash out rather than communicate. Stop letting it take over, you got other stuff to look forward to”

"There isn't anything wrong with you." his eyes searched yours "You're kind, you got a good heart. You somehow convinced an entire hospital board that hospital gowns can be magical." he hesitated for a bit and perhaps the first time all evening, he seemed unsure of himself “You know I haven’t had a nice night like this since….since I was with Marisol and being with you just…it feels real nice” Jack lifted a hand slowly, giving you every opportunity to pull away, his fingertips brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear and only when you didn't move did he lean in slowly. As if giving you plenty of time to change your mind

Instead, you closed the remaining distance and his lips met yours in a gentle kiss. You pressed a hand to his chest and one of his went to your waist, holding you carefully as the both of you stood together 

The terrace doors opened again and Robby stepped outside, intending to escape the noise for a moment. He stopped after only two steps when he saw the two of you, Jack's hand rested lightly against your cheek and the two of you had just separated from the kiss

Robby remained still, he looked at Jack who looked back at him and sighed. He looked at you and you were too shocked to utter a word “Sorry for interrupting” he nodded as he turned around “Enjoy your night”

The waiting room looks like hell.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Too bright. Too loud. Too many people packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath fluorescent lights that wash everyone the same sick shade of exhausted gray. A toddler screams somewhere near triage. Somebody vomits into a plastic bag near the reception desk. EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors every six minutes carrying fresh disasters like offerings.

And over all of it: the constant overhead paging.

The ER never really sleeps. It just bleeds into the next catastrophe.

“You got a room for a possible bowel perf?” a paramedic barks, already wheeling the patient forward.

“Trauma Two,” You answer automatically without looking up from your chart.

“Trauma Two’s occupied.”

“Then hallway bed six.”

“That guy’s psych hold.”

“Then put him literally anywhere with oxygen and a pulse ox.” The paramedic grins tiredly.

“That’s why I like you.”

“Yeah, well, poor judgment’s a recurring theme around here.”Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the noise immediately.

“She flirts with everybody before midnight. Don’t take it personal.”

You don't have to turn around to know it’s Dr. Robby. Still, your stomach betrays you anyway.

Stupid thing.

The paramedic laughs.

“Damn, Robby. Possessive tonight.”

“That’s not what this is,” Robby mutters immediately.

You finally glance up. Big mistake. He looks exhausted. Not regular exhausted. Hospital exhausted. The kind that settles into the bones after too many double shifts and too many people dying under your hands no matter how fast you work. His dark curls are damp at the temples from hours under harsh ER heat, scrub top wrinkled, stethoscope hanging crooked around his neck. And still— still unfairly handsome. You hate that about him.

Hatesthat after fourteen hours on shift he can still look across a trauma bay and make your brain briefly stop functioning like a licensed medical professional. The paramedic wheels off laughing. Robby steps into the space beside you immediately, eyes dropping to the chart in your hands.

“You re-order the labs on Bed Nine?”

“Mmhm.”

“He needs another lactate.”

“Already done." Robby’s mouth twitches faintly.

Of course it is.

Working with him became dangerous months ago.

Not because he’s difficult. The opposite.

Because somewhere along the line the two of you became… this.

Too synced up. Too aware of each other. Too comfortable.

You know how he takes his coffee. He knows when your migraines start before you say anything. You hand him instruments before he asks during procedures. He automatically moves people out of your path during traumas without even looking.

Nobody misses it. Especially not Dana.

“You two are way past appropriate,” she muttered three shifts ago while watching you two argue over a chest tube placement like a divorced couple.

You laughed.

Robby didn't.

Now he leans slightly over your shoulder, scanning the chart.

“You eat yet?” There it is. Every damn shift. You keep your eyes on the paperwork.

“I had coffee.”

“That ain’t food.”

“It has nutritional value emotionally.”

“Cute.” His tone flattens immediately. “Eat somethin’.” You scribble another note onto the chart.

“Yes, dad.” Robby sighs through his nose. Not annoyed. Worse. Concerned.

“Seriously.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that six hours ago.”

“And look.” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Still vertical.” His eyes flick over your face briefly. Too briefly for anybody else to notice. Long enough for you to feel it anyway.

“You got that headache again?” he asks quietly. You blink.

“How the hell do you always know that?”

“Because you rub your temple every thirty seconds when it starts.” your hand drops immediately away from your face. Robby’s expression shifts just slightly.

Victory.

Tiny.

Private.

Dangerous.

Before either of you can say another word, the overhead speakers crackle violently:

“CODE TRAUMA. MULTIPLE GSWs EN ROUTE. ETA THREE MINUTES.”

The entire ER changes shape instantly. Everybody moves. Nurses sprint toward trauma bays. Stretchers reposition. Gloves snap on. The easy rhythm of conversation disappears beneath adrenaline and practiced chaos. Robby is already moving.

“So much for food,” you mutter.

“You’re still eatin’ after this,” he throws over his shoulder.

“You can’t legally force me.”

“I know where your locker is.”

You snort despite yourself and follow him into Trauma One. Three minutes later the ambulance bay doors explode open. And suddenly nobody has time to breathe anymore. The first patient crashes before the second stretcher even clears the ambulance bay.

“Twenty-three-year-old male,” the paramedic shouts while helping transfer the body over. “Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen, lost pulse twice in transport—”

“We got him,” Robby cuts in immediately. And just like that, he changes. Not physically. Something else. The warmth disappears first. The dry humor. The tired little almost-smiles he only really gives staff he trusts. Everything narrows into sharp-edged focus so complete it almost feels frightening to witness up close.

“Tube him,” he orders. You’re already moving before he finishes speaking.

“On it." The room erupts into controlled chaos around you. Monitors screaming. Gloves snapping. Blood everywhere. The patient looks young. Too young. Baby-faced beneath the oxygen mask, skin already going gray around the lips. Robby climbs onto the side rail slightly to get better leverage while assessing the chest wounds.

“No breath sounds left side.”

“Tension pneumo?” you ask.

“Looks like it.” He points instantly. “Needle.” You slap the decompression needle into his waiting hand before the nurse beside you can even react. Robby doesn’t look at you when he takes it. Doesn’t need to. That’s the problem. You work together too well now. A hiss of trapped air escapes the patient’s chest.

“Pressure’s tanking,” Langdon says.

“How bad?”

“Seventy systolic.”

“Blood now.” You move automatically, cutting through clothing while Robby barks orders over the noise. Another stretcher bursts through the doors behind you.

Second GSW. Teenager this time. Jesus Christ.

“Trauma Two ready?” Dana yells.

“No,” you answer immediately. “Use Three.”

“We need you in there too.” You glance toward Robby instinctively. Big mistake. Because he’s already looking at you. Just for a second. Long enough for that familiar awareness to pass silently between you both beneath the chaos.

Go.

You peel away instantly toward the second trauma bay. The teenager is conscious at least. Barely. Crying. Blood soaking through both hands where he’s trying to hold pressure against his own stomach.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” you say firmly while climbing beside the stretcher. “Stay with me.”

“I don’t wanna die,” he chokes out immediately. God. You hate when they say that.

“You’re not gonna die.”

“You promise?” You don’t answer fast enough. Because nobody smart makes promises in an ER. Behind you, through the open trauma bay doors, you can still hear Robby running his room like a battlefield commander.

“Push epi.”

“Again.”

“Clear.” The defibrillator cracks loud enough to echo. Your own patient starts crashing ten minutes later. Then everything becomes movement again. Blood transfusions. Suction. Pressure. Yelling.

At some point somebody presses a protein bar into your scrub pocket without explanation. You already know it was Robby. You don’t even have to look. Two hours pass like that. Then three. The teenager survives surgery. The first patient doesn’t. You know the exact second Robby loses him because the entire energy of Trauma One changes. The noise drops. Voices lower. A silence settles that only really exists in hospitals after death. You finish dictating notes at the nurses’ station forty minutes later with aching shoulders and blood dried stiff across your scrub sleeves. The ER has calmed slightly. Not quiet. Never quiet. But survivable. You rub at your eyes tiredly while signing discharge paperwork.

“You didn’t eat that.” Your head lifts immediately. Robby stands beside the desk holding the untouched protein bar from your pocket. Shit.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot for three hours?”

“It was busy.”

“It’s always busy.” You sigh dramatically and reach for the bar. He doesn’t hand it over yet.

“Robby.”

“You get dizzy again?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“…maybe a little.” His jaw tightens. Not angry. Worried. Again. You hate how much that affects you.

“I’m fine,” you insist more quietly this time.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That phrase means absolutely nothin’ when it comes outta your mouth anymore.” Before you can answer, Dana walks past carrying charts and immediately stops dead seeing the two of you standing too close again.

“Oh my God,” she says flatly.

You blink. “What?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely between you both. “Whatever weird emotionally repressed slow-burn nonsense this is.” Robby pinches the bridge of his nose immediately.

“Dana—”

“No, seriously. It’s painful.” She points at you. “You look at him like he personally hung the moon.” Your entire soul leaves your body.

“Excuse me?”

“And Robby looks at her like somebody put a live grenade in his chest.”

“I’m literally standing right here,” Robby mutters.

“You two have been divorced-married for like six months.”

“We are not—”

“You shared fries yesterday.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You remembered her migraine medication before she did.” Robby opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. Dana looks vindicated immediately.

“Oh, my God.”

“Dana,” you warn weakly.

“No wonder the whole department thinks you’re sleeping together.” Silence. Complete silence. A nearby nurse actually turns around trying not to look interested. Robby stares at Dana like he’s reconsidering several HR policies simultaneously. You can physically feel heat crawling up your neck.

“We are not sleeping together,” you say tightly. Dana snorts.

“Honestly that’s worse. The tension in this department could power the city grid.” Then she walks away before either of you can recover. You stare at the floor. Robby stares somewhere over your shoulder. The protein bar gets silently placed into your hand at last. A wave of nausea fills you head to toe as your migrain pounds against your skull, and you wince and push away from the desk.

"Eat it." Robby pushes. You nod, turning away from him.

"Yeah, i will. Later-" You barely finish your sentence when your vision tunnels and you stumble. You sway a little in place before gravity does it's job and you go crashing for the floor.

"Shit !" Robby catches you before you have the chance to crack your skull open on the linoleum, fingers pressed to your neck to check your vitals. A stupid reflex. He looks up at Dana, who is walking away. "Dana ! A little help here !" He calls. Dana stops and spins around on high alert, and her eyes blow wide.

"Oh for pete's sake." She breathes, slinging her stethoscope off her neck as she runs forward. "What the hell happened ?" Robby shifts you in his arms, one hand supporting your limp neck.

"She's dehydrated. Only had coffee." He explains, his voice rough. Dana swears under breath and looks up.

"Perlah, get me some saline !" She shouts, "Santos, Whittaker, get me a bed !" Everything moves at once after that. The ER shifts shape around emergencies automatically, instinctively, like a living organism responding to injury. Nurses break into motion. A gurney appears from somewhere down the hall. Somebody lowers the volume on the television overhead. And through all of it, Robby doesn’t let go of you for even a second.

“She hit her head?” Dana asks quickly, already checking your pupils while Robby keeps you upright against his chest.

“No,” he answers immediately. “I caught her.” The speed of that answer makes Dana’s eyebrows climb. Interesting.

“BP?” she asks.

“Couldn’t get one yet.”

“She breathing okay?”

“Yes.”

“Pulse?”

“Fast.” His jaw tightens. “Too fast.” You lie limp against him completely unconscious, cheek pressed against the navy-blue fabric of his scrub top. One of your hands is curled loosely against his chest like your body just gave up trying to hold itself upright. And Jesus Christ— Robby looks terrified. Not visibly to most people. But everybody here knows him. They know the difference between Dr. Robby handling a crisis and Robby barely holding himself together through one. Langdon skids to a stop beside Mel and Samira, who have stopped in their tracks to stare at their friend passed out on the ground.

"Jesus, what happened ?" He asks, his tone wuipped.

Robby looks up, incredulous.

"The fuck does it look like Frank ? She's unconcsious !" He swears under his breath. "Whittaker ! Where the fuck is that bed ?"

“Coming through!” A stretcher rattles around the corner at full speed. Whittaker wheels a bed over fast while Santos helps clear space beside the nurses’ station.

“We got her,” Santos says carefully. Robby doesn’t move.

“Robby,” Dana says slower this time. Like she’s talking him down off something. His eyes flick up finally. For half a second he genuinely looks like he forgot anyone else was there. Then his face shutters immediately back into professional composure.

Right.

Doctor mode.

He carefully transfers you onto the bed, one hand still bracing the back of your head even after you’re safely down against the mattress.

“She’s burning up,” he mutters. Dana presses a thermometer against your forehead.

“Low-grade fever.” She frowns. “Probably running herself into the ground.”

“Shocking,” Santos mutters under his breath. Robby shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Santos immediately raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”

“Get fluids running,” Robby says flatly. Dana watches him for a second too long. Then:

“How long’s this been going on?” Robby doesn’t look away from you.

“What?”

“This martyr complex of hers.” Dana gestures vaguely toward your unconscious body. “She’s looked like hell all week.”

“She said she was fine.”

“Oh my God.” Dana actually laughs once. “And you believed that?” His expression darkens immediately because— No. He didn’t. That’s the problem. He knew. He knew you were overworking. Knew you were skipping meals. Knew the migraines were getting worse because he memorized your tells months ago without meaning to. And somehow he still let this happen. The guilt crawls visibly across his face. Dana sees it instantly.

“Hey,” she says, voice softening slightly. “This isn’t on you.” Robby exhales sharply through his nose.

“She passed out standing next to me.”

“Because she’s an idiot.” A beat. Then quieter: “And because this place eats people alive.” Nobody argues with that. Perlah arrives with saline while Princess hooks you up to monitors. Your pulse flashes too fast across the screen immediately. Robby stares at it like he personally offended the laws of medicine.

“She’s gonna wake up pissed we made a scene,” Dana says knowingly. That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. Instead he reaches down absentmindedly and brushes a strand of hair back away from your face. The entire room goes still for exactly one second. Because that— That was not a coworker gesture. Robby realizes it immediately after doing it. His hand stills. Dana’s eyes widen slowly like she just found proof of life on another planet.

“Oh,” she says very quietly. Robby straightens instantly. Professional again. Too late. Way too late. “You are so screwed,” Dana informs him with the calm certainty of someone announcing a weather forecast.

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“You’re in love with her.” Whittaker nearly chokes in the background. Robby’s face hardens immediately.

“Dana.”

“No, no, this is actually insane now.” She points between him and your unconscious form. “You looked two seconds away from coding yourself when she hit the floor.”

“She fainted.”

“And you caught her like a grieving Victorian widower.” Silence. Santos turns around entirely to hide his laughter. Mel and Samira pretend to be busy with a chart as Mckay walks by, her brows furrowed at the scene. Langdon whistles and turns around, walking off his his hands in his pockets. Robby rubs both hands down his face hard enough to leave red marks behind.

“This conversation is over.”

“Mhmm.” Dana crosses her arms. “You gonna tell her before or after the next time she collapses from neglecting basic human survival needs?” His eyes drift back toward you automatically. Unconscious. Pale. IV running steadily now. Something in his expression shifts again. Softer this time. More dangerous.

“Soon,” he says quietly before he can stop himself. Dana goes completely still. She sighs, and her face breaks into a grin.

"Great. Abbot owes me a hundred bucks." Robby goes still.

"What ?"

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

The world is bright.

God, it's so bright.

You crack your eyes open and immediately regret it, groaning as the bustling sounds of the ER flood back in.

"Ah. Rise and shine, sleepy-head." You tilt your head to the side. Langdon and Mckay are in your room, Mckay down by the computer, checking your chart while Langdon is sat by your bed, adjusting the drip flow in the IV.

Wait.

Why are you in a room ?

Your voice is rough with sleep when you speak.

“…what?” Langdon grins immediately.

“Oh, she’s alive. Shame. I was just about to steal your locker.” You blink at him slowly, brain still buffering.

“…why am i in a room?” You croak. "Why are you guys in a room.. with me ?"

“Visiting hours,” McKay says dryly without looking up from the chart. “We brought flowers.” You glance around blearily. No flowers.

“…you’re both assholes.”

“Correct,” Langdon says pleasantly. Then your brain catches up.

Room.

IV.

Monitor.

The realization hits all at once and you groan, dragging a hand over your face.

“Oh my God.”

“There it is,” McKay mutters. “The embarrassment. Nature is healing.”

“How long was I out?” Langdon checks the watch on his wrist dramatically.

“Long enough for Robby to threaten three residents, snap at a nurse, and hover outside this curtain like a divorced father at a middle school dance recital.” Your stomach drops instantly.

“…what?” McKay finally looks over at you then, expression dangerously entertained.

“Oh, yeah. It was bad.”

“He scared Santos so badly she almost started crying,” Langdon adds.

“That’s not true.”

“She absolutely thought she was getting fired.”

“I did not snap at Santos,” Robby’s voice cuts in sharply from outside the curtain. Both of them immediately grin like sharks scenting blood. And then Robby steps into the room carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and an electrolyte drink in the other. He stops the second he sees your eyes open. Every inch of tension in him visibly shifts. Not gone. Just redirected.

“Oh, there he is,” Langdon says smugly. “The grieving widow.”

“Frank,” Robby says flatly.

“You were pacing.”

“I was working.”

“You checked on her seventeen times.” McKay snorts into her coffee. Robby ignores both of them completely, eyes already on you instead.

“You with us?” You nod weakly.

“Unfortunately.”

“Any dizziness?”

“Yes.”

“Nausea?”

“A little.”

“Headache?” You just stare at him. He sighs. “Right. Stupid question.” Robby looks like he wants the earth to physically open beneath him.

“Okay,” he says tightly. “Everybody out.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Langdon says immediately.

“Frank.”

“Nope. This is the best day of my life.” Robby points toward the door with terrifying calm.

“Get out.” McKay is already cackling as Langdon lets himself be physically shoved toward the curtain. The curtain swings shut behind them amid open laughter from the hallway. Then it’s quiet again. Well. Quiet except for the distant ER chaos and your own heartbeat trying to escape your body. You stare determinedly at the blanket over your lap. Robby stares somewhere over your left shoulder. Neither of you speak for a full five seconds. He sighs, pinching his nose.

"We put you on IV Saline. You were dehydrated." He explains, walking over to the seat Langdon had previously occupied. You gulp, nodding.

"My bad." He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah, it is your bad. I can't have you collapsing like that in the middle of a shift." You groan, shaking your head.

"What, would you rather I do it before ? Or after ? I'm sorry, oh ER overlord, i'll try to control my unconscious state from now on." Robby lets out a short, incredulous breath through his nose.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not getting smart,” you say, already pushing the blanket off your legs. “I’m getting out of here.” His head snaps toward you instantly.

“…no, you’re not.” You pause mid-movement.

“Yes,” you say slowly, like he’s missed something obvious, “I am.” Robby stands up so fast the chair behind him scrapes the floor.

“You just passed out.”

“And I woke up.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s exactly how it works.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed anyway, ignoring the slight sway in your balance as you reach for your shoes on instinct. Robby’s voice drops.

“Stop.” You freeze for half a second. Not because he told you to. Because of how he said it. But then you shake it off and pull your shoe on anyway.

“I’m going back to work,” you repeat. Robby moves closer immediately.

“You’re not cleared.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” You glance up at him sharply.

“I didn’t ask for a second opinion.”

“And I’m not giving you one,” he snaps back. “I’m telling you, as the attending who just watched you hit the floor—”

“Because I forgot to eat,” you cut in. “Not because I’m dying.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” The words echo harder than either of you probably intend. Silence hits for a beat. Your fingers still on your shoe. Robby drags a hand down his face, breathing out through his nose like he’s trying not to explode.

“You don’t get to just—” He stops himself, jaw flexing. “You don’t get to walk back out there like nothing happened.” You stand up fully now. A little too fast. The room tilts slightly.

“I’ve got patients,” you say more quietly. Robby’s voice goes lower.

“So do I.” A beat. Then: “And as of right now, you are on of them. Now, I’m telling you to sit back down.” You stare at him. He stares right back. There’s no humor in it anymore. No teasing. No banter. Just that same pressure from earlier—too much concern packed into too little space. You exhale through your nose.

“…you don’t get to order me around.” Robby laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.

“Apparently I do, considering I just watched you hit the floor and scare half the department into thinking we were gonna lose you.” That lands. Harder than it should. You look away for a second. Then back at him.

“I’m not fragile,” you say again, quieter. Robby’s expression shifts instantly.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re acting like I am.”

“I’m acting like you’re someone who almost cracked their skull open because they refused to take a break.” That makes you go still. A beat passes. Then you grab your badge from the bedside table. Robby’s eyes widen slightly.

“…don’t.” You clip it onto your scrub top.

“I’m going back to work.”

“No,” he says again, sharper now. You step around him. He moves with you immediately, blocking the exit. You stop. Look up at him.

“…move.” Robby doesn’t. For the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely frustrated in a way that isn’t controlled anymore.

“You’re making a stupid call.”

“And you’re not my keeper.” That hits something in him. You see it. The flicker. The crack.

A pause. Then softer—but no less firm:

“I’m still not letting you walk out there like that.” You stare at him for a long second. Then, very deliberately, you step sideways. Not pushing past him. Not fighting. Just… going around. Robby turns instantly.

“Hey—”

“I said I’m fine,” you cut in, already heading for the curtain.

“You’re not—”

“I am,” you repeat, not stopping. Robby follows you out into the corridor. Langdon and McKay are still visible down the hall, both of them immediately clocking what’s happening and exchanging a look.

“Oh no,” Langdon murmurs. “She’s upright.” McKay winces.

“That’s worse.” Robby catches up to you.

“Seriously—stop.” You don’t.

“I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“You don’t get to just leave.” You finally stop in the middle of the hallway. Turn back to him. People move around you. A stretcher rolls past. A monitor alarm bleats somewhere in the distance. Life keeps going. Even when you’re both frozen in it.

“I have a shift,” you say calmly. “You have patients. We are both adults.” Robby looks at you like he wants to argue and can’t find the right angle anymore.

“You’re still dizzy.”

“I’ll sit if I need to.”

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“And yet I am.” A beat. Langdon quietly mouths, this is insane, to McKay. Then you turn and keep walking. You wrap your arms around yourself, walking over to the nurse's station and picking up the chart you had left there. Your teenage patient. You sniffle and walk over to his room, pushing the curtain aside. Robby follows.

Of course he does.

You feel him before you even hear him—heavy footsteps that don’t belong to the usual ER rhythm, too deliberate, too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to close the distance in three strides and drag you back by force.He stops just outside the curtain.You don’t look at him. You can’t afford to. There’s a chart in your hands and a patient who actually needs you upright, even if your skull still feels like it’s full of cotton and static.

“Vitals stable,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

“You don’t get to just—”

“Robby,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. A warning. Or maybe a plea. “Not here.” Silence. Then, quieter, dangerously controlled:

“You think I care where it is?” That finally makes you look at him. He’s standing half in the curtain light, half in the hallway chaos, scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it too many times. He looks like he hasn’t stopped moving since you collapsed. His jaw is tight. Not angry anymore. Past angry.

“You passed out,” he says. “In my department. In my ER. In front of my staff. And you woke up and decided the appropriate response was to go back to work like nothing happened.”

“I am back to work.”

“No.” One step closer. “You are standing on adrenaline and spite and a saline bag that’s barely had time to do anything.” You let out a short breath, half laugh, half exhaustion.

“You always this dramatic with every patient, or am I special?” That lands. You see it hit him—right under the ribs. His expression shifts, like something in him finally snaps into place instead of being held together.

“No,” he says. Then he reaches for your wrist. Not hard. Not rough. But decisive.

“Hey—Robby—” He doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks you backward—not dragging, not forcing, but absolutely not giving you the option to argue your way out of it. You stumble once, annoyed, and he adjusts instantly without even looking, like he already knows exactly where your balance breaks.

“Seriously?” you hiss. “You’re doing this now?”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

“You can’t just abduct your attending in the middle of a shift.”

“I can when she’s about to drop again in front of Trauma One.”

“That is not—” He opens a door you didn’t even see him key into. On-call room. Small. Dim. Too quiet compared to the screaming outside. He guides you inside and shuts the door behind you. The click of the lock is loud. Final. He draws the curtains shut. For a second, neither of you moves. The room feels wrong in a different way—no monitors, no alarms, just the hum of the hospital through the walls and the two of you trapped in a space that suddenly feels way too intimate to be professional. You turn on him immediately.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.” You stare at him. He stares back. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours and finally gave up.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Sit,” he repeats, voice lower now. Not loud. Not angry. Final. Something in it makes your irritation falter for half a second.

“I don’t need—”

“You almost face-planted into a hallway cart,” he cuts in. “So forgive me if I don’t trust your assessment right now.” That stings. You hate that it stings.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“And I told you to stop saying that like it’s a magic spell that makes it true.” Silence snaps between you. You cross your arms. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down like he’s physically trying to keep himself from losing control again. Then, softer—dangerously honest: “Do you have any idea what it looked like?” Your voice drops a fraction.

“No worse than what we see every day.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” He looks at you. And whatever restraint he’s been clinging to finally slips just enough for you to see what’s underneath it.

“I thought I was going to lose you in my own department,” he says, quiet and raw. “While I was standing ten feet away.” That shuts you up. Not because you don’t have a response. Because suddenly you don’t trust your voice. Robby steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s approaching something that could still break.

“You don’t get to decide that it’s nothing,” he says. “You don’t get to walk it off because it’s convenient.” Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t trying to make it convenient.”

“Then what were you doing?” he asks immediately. A beat. Your answer comes out smaller than you want it to.

“Working.” He lets out a humorless breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what scares me.” You frown slightly.

“What?” He looks at you like he regrets the words the second they leave him—but not enough to take them back.

“That you’ll always pick the job over your own body,” he says. “Even when it’s failing you.” Something shifts in your chest. You don’t like how seen that feels. Then he steps right in front of you. Close enough that the air changes. A pause. The hospital noise outside feels miles away. You swallow.

“This is inappropriate,” you mutter automatically, because your brain is scrambling for something safe to hold onto. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “We passed that a while ago.” You scoff, backing away from him.

"God, Robby - Why do you care ? I'm an adult, i can handle myself-" He moves with you instantly. Not chasing. Not grabbing. Just… matching you step for step until your back meets the wall and there’s nowhere left for you to retreat without admitting you’re retreating.

“You call that handling yourself?” he asks quietly. Your jaw tightens.

“I didn’t ask for a performance review.”

“I’m not performing,” he says. “I’m telling you you scared the hell out of me.” That lands harder than anything else so far. Because it’s not clinical. It’s not Dr. Robby. It’s just him. You force a short laugh, brittle at the edges.

“You, scared?” you repeat. “You? You run trauma codes like it’s any other Tuesday and you’re telling me I scared you?” His eyes don’t move from yours.

“Yes.”Simple. Unapologetic. That shuts you up for half a second too long. Then anger finds its way back in—because it’s easier than whatever is sitting underneath it.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to pull me into a room, lock the door, and act like—like—”

“Like what?” he cuts in. You gesture vaguely between you.

“Like this matters more than everything else.” Robby goes still. That’s the wrong thing to say. You see it immediately.Something in his expression tightens, like he’s been holding something behind his teeth for too long and you just forced it open.

“It does,” he says. Quiet. Flat. Absolute. Your breath catches slightly.

“No, it doesn’t,” you say automatically, because that’s safer.

“It does to me.” Silence. You stare at him, trying to find the angle where this becomes a misunderstanding you can fix with sarcasm or distance or anything familiar. But there isn’t one. Robby exhales through his nose, frustrated now—not at you, but at himself.

“You really think I’d be doing this,” he gestures between you again, sharper this time, “if it didn’t matter?”

“You’re my attending,” you say quickly. He laughs once, humorless.

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s a boundary.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”Your pulse spikes.

“Excuse me?” Robby steps closer again, and this time you don’t move fast enough to stop it.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he asks. “You think I don’t know exactly how this looks? How long this has been going on?” Your throat goes tight.

“Robby—”

“I’ve been watching you almost pass out for weeks,” he snaps suddenly, voice rising. “I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground, and I keep telling myself it’s just work, it’s just stress, it’s just—”He stops. Jaw clenches. Then quieter, but sharper somehow: “And then you collapse in front of me and I realize I don’t care if it’s ‘appropriate’ anymore.”

Your breath stutters.

“Stop,” you whisper.

He shakes his head once.

“No.” A beat. Then it comes out—rough, unplanned, like it slips through a crack he didn’t know was there. “I can’t do this pretending I don’t—” he cuts off, swallows hard, eyes flicking down for half a second like he’s annoyed at himself for losing control. “I can’t stand there and watch you walk yourself into the ground and pretend it’s nothing to me.” Your voice barely works.

“Robby…” He looks back at you. And whatever restraint he had left finally breaks cleanly.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. No softness. No buildup. Just truth, thrown into the air like it’s been suffocating him. The room goes completely still. Even the hospital noise feels distant now, like it’s happening to someone else’s life. You don’t speak. Not because you don’t have words. Because you have too many and none of them fit right. Robby watches your face change like he’s bracing for impact. And then, almost immediately, regret floods in.

“Shit,” he says quietly. One step back. “No—forget I said that.” Your stomach drops. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to physically shove the words back into his chest.

“I shouldn’t have—” he starts again, voice rougher now. “That’s not—this isn’t—”

“Robby,” you say, finally. He stops. Doesn’t look at you immediately. That alone says everything.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he says, almost bitter now, like he’s punishing himself. “I just—”

'Robby."

Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through his frantic backpedaling like a scalpel. He finally stops, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He still won’t meet your eyes, staring at a point on the scuffed linoleum floor like it holds the secrets to avoiding this exact moment. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled with everything he just said and everything you haven’t.

“Robby,” you say again, softer this time. You take a half-step forward, closing the tiny gap he’d created. “Look at me.” He hesitates, a war playing out across his face. The urge to flee warring with the command in your voice. Finally, slowly, he lifts his gaze. The raw vulnerability in his eyes is a punch to the gut. It’s the same look he had when you were on the floor, but magnified, stripped of all clinical pretense. It’s just him. Scared. Exposed.

“I…” he starts, then stops, his throat working. “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It’s out of line. It’s—” You don’t let him finish. You surge forward, grabbing the front of his scrub top in both fists and yanking him down to you. The movement is clumsy, desperate. Your mouth crashes against his. It’s not a kiss of gentle revelation. It’s a kiss of frustration, of relief, of months of unspoken tension finally detonating. It’s all teeth and desperate pressure, a clash that’s been brewing for longer than either of you would admit. He makes a sound against your lips, a harsh, surprised groan, and for a second he’s frozen. Then his hands are on you, not gentle, not asking. One hand clamps onto the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place with a grip that’s just this side of painful. The other arm bands around your waist, lifting you slightly, pulling you flush against him until there’s no air, no space, just the frantic hammering of his heart against yours through the thin fabric of your scrubs. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all the fear from the hallway, all the annoyance at his overbearing concern, all the traitorous warmth that’s been pooling in your stomach every time he looks at you for months. You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans again, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming yours in a way that’s possessive and demanding and utterly, completely Robby. He walks you backward, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud that doesn’t break the kiss. He pins you there, his body a solid, warm weight, one of his thighs wedging itself between yours. The pressure is intoxicating, a dizzying contrast to the lightheadedness from before. This is a different kind of spinning out of control. One you don’t want to stop. His hand slides from your neck down your side, tracing the curve of your ribs before coming to rest on your hip, his thumb digging in, holding you captive. You can feel the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his breathing, a mirror to your own. He finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, chests heaving. The room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant, muffled hum of the hospital that feels worlds away.

“Christ,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. His eyes are still closed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a shiver runs through you. “You can’t… you can’t just do that.”

“You’re the one who said you were in love with me,” you manage to get out, your voice shaky. “And then tried to take it back.”

“I wasn’t taking it back,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and something else, something hungry. “I was trying not to fuck everything up.”

“Too late for that,” you breathe, and then you’re kissing him again. It’s just as rough as before, maybe rougher. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your back, your sides, gripping your ass and pulling you harder against him. The wall is hard and unyielding at your back, and he’s solid and unyielding at your front, and you’re trapped in the best possible way. He rolls his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a bolt of heat straight through you, and you gasp into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to kiss a trail down your jaw, his scruff scraping deliciously against your skin. He nips at your collarbone, his hand sliding up under your scrub top, his palm hot and firm against the bare skin of your stomach.

“Robby,” you pant, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth finds that spot on your neck that makes your knees weak. “We’re… we’re in the on-call room.”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Locked the door.” His thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, a low, smug sound that vibrates through you. “Someone could knock.”

“Don’t care,” you gasp, as his other hand tugs your scrub top out of your pants, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. “God, don’t stop.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a question there, a final check-in, but it’s buried under layers of raw want. You answer it by grabbing his hand and guiding it further down. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and then his mouth is on yours again. He tastes like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang of hospital air, but there’s something else, something bitter and sweet and rawly, desperately Robby that makes you want to climb inside his chest and break his ribs open from the inside. His hand is already down the front of your scrubs, palm hot against your hipbone, fingers trembling just enough to betray everything he won’t say aloud. You fumble at the drawstring on your own waistband, frustration clawing up your throat in a low, angry whine when the knot won’t loosen fast enough. You stare up at him—mess of dark hair, sweat on his brow, pupils wide enough to swallow the brown—and wonder absently if this is what it feels like to code. For a minute nobody says anything. You just breathe, harsh and hungry and desperate, noisy enough that if anybody is in the hallway they’d know exactly what was happening in here. It’s Robby that breaks first. He makes a strangled sound, forehead dropping to yours, so hard your noses smashed together. His voice comes out low and shredded and nearly begging.

“You gotta let me know if you want me to stop.”

You don’t.

Fuck, you don’t.

You want him to break you down to single-celled organisms. you turn your head and bite the meat of his bicep, just to feel him jerk.

“Shut up and do it, then,” You mutter. Your hands drop around his shoulders, pulling him down, and the next kiss is more teeth than lips. You don’t even notice his other hand has made it to your waistband until you feel the cool slide of his hand against your skin. You’re so far gone, you don’t even feel the fear or shame anyone normal would. Can’t bring yourself to care that you’re half-pinned to a drywall partition and the edge of a cot, moaning into your supervisor’s mouth like you’re both undergrad idiots caught in a blackout at frat formal. His hand is relentless, moving fast and clever, not even bothering to be delicate. You nearly lose your balance when he presses a thumb down just right over your scrubs, and your center of gravity hops about a foot left.

“Fuck—Robby, fuck—” You hiss it against his jawline, legs starting to shake. He gets a hand under your thigh, hefts it up, then hooks your knee on his belt so all you can do is hang there and let him wreck you. Somewhere in the back of your awareness you’re listing all the ways this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, but your body refuses to stop. He’s cursing too, breathing your name into your neck, voice so rough you can feel it vibrating in his chest. You want to put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet but you know if anyone comes in, you’re both dead anyway. He fumbles at the drawstring with clumsy, single-handed urgency, finally manages to get it untied. The relief when his fingers actually slide past the waistband is so intense your vision goes white at the edges. He doesn’t even tease—just buries his hand against you and makes a noise so dark and satisfied it spikes something hot and relentless at the base of your spine.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fucking soaked.” He says it like he means it as both a compliment and a diagnosis. Then he pushes his palm harder against you, finding every sensitive spot and working you with unerring, almost clinical precision, like he’s taking inventory of every way you can be taken apart. Your head thunks back against the wall with a little hollow sound. You want to tell him to stop, or slow down, or just breathe for maybe two seconds, but you don’t. You can’t. Instead you let yourself fall open and let him see it. The fact that you’re wrapped this tightly around him is not new information, but this—exposed, desperate—is a new evolutionary stage. He leans in, mouth back on yours, and you taste sweat, salt, and faint chemical hospital on his skin. The wall is cold at your back and his hand is molten at your front and your whole body is nothing but contrast and overload and hunger. You barely register your own hands, but they’re on him, pulling up the hem of his shirt, searching for bare skin, something to ground yourself. You feel the heat of him even through layers, alive and pulsing and real. He holds you still, fingers working in brutal, short pulses, driving you mercilessly toward the edge. It’s not careful. It’s not gentle. It’s like he’s making a point. Like he’s proving to you, to himself, to God, that you’re not going to scare him off, not ever.

You come like a detonation.

It rips through you so hard your vision whites out again and you clench around his hand. He groans, slowly slipping his fingers out of you before taking a step back away from your and pulling down your scrub pants. You gulp as you watch him undo the drawstring on his own pants, your mouth watering with need. The cold air against your exposed cunt is making you clench involuntarily, and the only thing you want right now is to have him inside of you. He pulls his pants down, only enough to free himself, and the air feels like it’s knocked out of your chest. His cock slaps up against his stomach, flushed dark, thick and heavy with blood, and the sight alone is enough to make you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, shivering even though the room is sweltering. He spits in his palm, slicks himself, then walks over to you. His hands hook beneath your thighs and you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you against the wall. He pushes your hair back from your face, kisses your nose. He doesn’t waste a second.

The first thrust is brutal, messy, all pent-up frustration and months of not acting on impulse. He’s thick—bigger than you’d let yourself admit in all those late-night, shamefaced fantasies—and the stretch steals the air from your lungs. Your jaw drops open, eyes rolling back as you lock on to the faces he’s making: mouth slack, eyebrows knit, a bead of sweat at his temple that you want to lick off more than you want to live. He’s got both hands under your ass, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, holding you up so all you can do is take it. And you do, with everything you have, bearing down on him so you can feel every inch, every twitch. He huffs a shaky, humorless laugh, the kind you only make when you’re so overwhelmed you can’t do anything else.

“You okay ?” He rasps, kissing his way up your neck. The sound that comes out of you isn’t even a word. He pounds into you with another deep, brutal stroke and your body locks up so tight you’re glad he’s the one holding you or you’d have fallen flat. Every thrust slams your spine into the drywall and it should hurt, it should, but all you can do is claw at his shirt, nails catching the rough cotton, dragging it up over his ribs so you can feel him—real, alive, so much hotter than any fever you’ve ever run in the hospital. The slap of skin, the hiss of your breathing, the mangled noises you’re making—all of it so loud, vulgar, so perfectly, awfully public even behind the locked door. He’s whispering shit into your neck. At first you think it’s curse words, but then you catch your own name buried in there, and then more, like instructions, like hymns.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, the words punching out of him like he’s angry about it. “God, you’re unreal.” His hips snap again, harder, and your shoulders knock back against the wall, sharp bite of drywall dust filling your nose. Each time he thrusts in, your vision smears around the edges, the pleasure so hot it borders on pain. It isn’t like you pictured, not really—it’s better. The angle, the rush, the way he bullies all the air out of your lungs with every movement. Your hands are in his hair, clawing tight, pulling him down so you can mouth at his neck, take the taste of him into yourself. He shoves your scrubs up higher, rough hands leaving trails of heat on cold skin, then fists one hand in the fabric at your shoulder, pinning you harder to the cinderblock. There is nothing gentle, nothing careful, nothing but his body taking yours apart, and yours letting him, wild for it. He keeps muttering, a string of filthy reverence against your ear:

“Can’t believe it’s you, can’t believe you let me—fuck, you’re so—Jesus, clench again, just like that—” The words run together, get lost under the wet slap of skin and the broken sounds you’re making. You can’t answer except to dig your heels into his lower back, desperate to keep him as close as possible, to force him deeper, to make certain it’s real. This has to be real. For months you both acted like this wasn’t going to happen, like you didn’t live your whole life in inches, waiting for the day the rules would break and you’d get to see what would actually happen if you let go. Now you’re against the wall, and he’s inside of you raw and fast and a little bit mean, and every expectation is dissolving in a haze of salt and friction and heat. You want to tell him he can do anything to you, that there is nothing off-limits, but all that comes out is a shattered little whine, just his name, again and again. He bites your collarbone, sucks a mark there, and the pain is almost enough to bring you back down, but you’re already spiraling. Robby’s voice is a chant in your ear, weirdly reverent, filthy and devotional all at once. He’s running hot, sweat trickling down his neck, the muscles in his forearms taut as bowed steel where he brackets your hips. Each thrust slams you against the wall hard enough to rattle the fluorescent hum down to your teeth. You know you’ll have drywall dust embedded under your nails, maybe even in your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your world is reduced to the vicious, deliberate drag of his cock inside you, the scratch of his stubble jaw against your cheek, the gasp-and-hitch cadence of your own lungs. His hand slips, finds your jaw, thumb prying your mouth open.

“Look at me,” he grates. It’s not a request. You do, eyelids dragging heavy, drool stringing from your lips. He shoves his thumb inside and you clamp down on it, tongue greedy, and watch his resolve ripple and snap at the edges. “Fuck, you love this,” he hisses. A hot, shameful thrill blooms in your gut. You can’t even nod; your brain’s gone chemical, all instinct and nerve and the urge to let him ruin you properly. He pulls his thumb free from your teeth, then brings his hand back to grip your jaw, rough, almost cruel.

“You gonna come for me like this?” His pelvis snaps up, grinding you against concrete. “You gonna soak me, right here, where anybody could walk in?” He means it as a threat, but the promise makes something deep in you uncurl and spiral tight. You dig your nails into his back and feel the give of his skin, the helpless rocking of your own hips. You’re close again—embarrassingly, stupidly fast—and he can tell, because he starts fucking you even meaner, chasing the edge with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

“Jesus,” he says, “you feel so good, I can’t—fuck. I can’t stop.” Like he’s ever going to. You snarl something incoherent, probably his name, and you feel the tension crest, shatter, and pour out in waves so intense you lose track of your own body. Robby keeps moving, not letting up for a second. Everything’s too much: the raw thud of your shoulderblades grinding cinderblock, the way your ankles have locked behind his back, the friction and heat and static spit-glue between your skin. You try to tell him you’re gonna lose it but only manage a wild, choked keening that doesn’t sound like it could belong to you. He drops his head to your shoulder, teeth scraping, and groans your name so low and honest it makes your toes curl. There is nothing in the world but this. Nothing but him pinning you, holding you, fucking you like he’s lost count of where the rest of the world even is. Your hands are in his hair, wrenching, and you yank his head up so you can bite at his bottom lip. He lets you, gives a little gasp, then locks eyes with you and pours all that manic, frantic reverence right into the next kiss, mouthing at your skin and then burying his face in your neck like he’s drowning. The pace gets relentless—body-shocking, staccato, sharp even through the haze of it. He fucks through your aftershocks as if it’s a challenge, like the goal is to keep your body from ever regaining equilibrium. When you come again it’s so loud you’re sure the ward must hear; he clamps his hand over your mouth, eyes blown so scared and wild, but the pulse of his cock inside you says he’s not really trying to stop you so much as channel every iota of your body back into his. His own rhythm gets jerky, sloppier, and his mouth drops open against your jaw as he pins you tight and starts to lose it.

“Fuck, oh fuck, gonna—” His body locks, hips jammed flush against you, and you feel him pulse hard, the warmth spilling inside you like he’s pumping more heat into an already-overloaded core. He’s breathless, shaking, still pressed in deep as if he can’t trust gravity to hold you together otherwise. You stay like that, tangled, your cunt still rippling around him, both gulping at the hot, sick air, until your numb legs make you both slide down the wall in a graceless heap.

You’re both wrecked. Sweaty and glassy-eyed, scrub shirts sweat-stuck to your ribs, bodies still twitching in the late echoes of what the fuck just happened. There’s a sheet of drywall dust on your back and your own fingernail crescented into his skin; he’s smiling, shit-eating, delirious, and you’d punch him if you weren’t still shaking like a defibrillator just went off under your sternum.

He leans in, a gentle press of lips to your forehead, and you want to tell yourself it’s just an autonomic reaction, that the only thing happening here is a literal pressure release after months of idiotic, unyielding need. But you know better. The way he holds your face, the way he says your name soft into your hair, the way he’s still—still—inside you, hips slotted to hips, like he can’t bear to break the circuit.