Cherry

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 them 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 them 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.

Of course he did.

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.

Afterward, he 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 women 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. Then 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 her 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.”

His breath hitched.

“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.”

Then your balance tipped. Too far.

Robby moved. No calculation. No careful step. No safe distance. He lunged across the railing, one arm hooking hard around your waist, the other catching the back of your scrub top as your body pitched forward.

For half a second, there was nothing under you. 

Nothing.

Your shoes kicked empty air. A scream tore out of you.

Robby made a sound like an animal. He hauled you back with everything he had.

Your hip struck the ledge, pain flashing white-hot through the numbness. Your hands clawed at his sleeve, his wrist, the front of his shirt, anything.

“I’ve got you,” he choked. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you—”

He pulled you fully onto the roof. Not gracefully. Not cleanly. Momentum took both of you down hard. His back hit first. You landed against him, half on his chest, half on the concrete, breath knocked loose in a broken gasp.

For one second, there was no sound. 

No city. No hospital. No fireworks. Just the brutal, animal silence after almost.

Robby’s arms closed around you so tightly you couldn’t move. Not enough to hurt. Enough to anchor. Enough to make sure every part of you was on the roof with him.

His hand pressed against the back of your head, fingers trembling in your hair. His other arm stayed locked around your ribs, holding you against him like the ledge was still trying to pull you away.

Your face was crushed against his chest. You could feel his heartbeat through his scrub top. Fast. Violent. Terrified. Alive. Then his breath broke. Once. Twice.

A rough, strangled sound that didn’t belong to him. Not Robby. Not the man who ran codes with steady hands and cut through chaos like fear was something that happened to other people.

This sound was wrecked. Human. Small. His fingers curled tighter at the back of your head.

“I’m sorry,” he choked.

You froze.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked on it. Then again.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The words hit harder than the fall. Because he wasn’t saying them like a man trying to be forgiven.

He was saying them like he had finally seen the edge he’d walked you toward and couldn’t survive the sight of it. 

You felt his body shake beneath yours. Not from effort. Not anymore. From sobs he was trying and failing to swallow.

“Robby,” you tried, but your voice came out broken beyond use.

He shook his head against the roof, eyes squeezed shut, one tear slipping sideways into his hairline.

“No. No, I did this. I did this.”

His arms tightened again, and his breath hitched like the words hurt coming out.

“I pushed you away. I saw you getting smaller and I told myself it was training. I told myself you were becoming stronger. I told myself if you hated me, maybe you’d leave before this place ate you alive.”

A sob tore through him.

“And then you almost—”

He couldn’t finish it. His whole chest caved beneath your cheek.

You started crying then. Not the quiet tears from the ledge. Not the numb, distant kind. This was ugly. Panicked.

A sound ripped out of you because your body had finally caught up with what had almost happened.

You had almost fallen. You had almost let yourself.

Robby’s hand moved from the back of your head to the side of it, pressing you closer while his thumb shook against your temple.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, shredded and breathless. “I’m sorry, kid. I’m so sorry. I never should’ve said it. I never should’ve touched that part of you. I knew better. I knew better.”

You clutched his scrub top in both fists. The fabric twisted in your hands.

“I thought I was going to fall,” you sobbed.

His breath collapsed above you.

“I know.”

“I thought I was going to do it.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t want to want it.”

“I know.” His voice broke completely. “God, I know.”

He bent over you as much as he could from where he lay, forehead pressing into your hair. And then Robby cried. Really cried. Not one controlled tear. Not a rough breath he could pass off as exhaustion.

He cried into your hair with his arms around you and his shoulders shaking, the sound muffled and helpless and devastatingly unlike him.

“I almost lost you,” he said, barely understandable. “I almost lost you because I was too proud to admit I was wrong.”

You cried harder.

He pulled in a ruined breath.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Over and over. Like repetition could build a wall between you and the ledge. Like if he said it enough, he could go back ten months and stay.

You pressed your face harder into his chest, your body trembling violently now.

“I’m scared,” you whispered.

Robby’s arms tightened.

“I know.”

“No, I’m scared,” you sobbed. “I’m scared because I wanted it to stop. I’m scared because it felt quiet. I’m scared because I don’t know what happens when I stand up.”

His breath shuddered against your hair.

“Then we don’t stand up yet.”

“I can’t go back down there.”

“Then we don’t go yet.”

“I can’t see everyone.”

“You don’t have to. Not all at once.”

“I can’t be alone.”

That one broke him all over again. He pressed his face into your hair, voice muffled and wrecked.

“You won’t be. Not tonight. Not after this. I swear to you.”

“You’re leaving.”

“I’m not.”

“You were.”

His breathing hitched.

“I was.”

You went still against him. Robby swallowed hard, and when he spoke again, his voice was raw enough to bleed.

“I was leaving wrong.”

The words sat between you. Heavy. Terrible. True.

“I thought disappearing would be cleaner,” he said. “I thought if I made everyone angry enough, disappointed enough, you’d all let me go easier.”

His hand shook against your shoulder.

“I thought grief was something I could manage for people if I made sure they hated me first.”

Your throat closed.

“That’s horrible.”

“I know.”

“That’s stupid.”

A wet, broken sound left him. Almost a laugh. Almost a sob.

“Yeah,” he whispered. “It’s very stupid.”

You cried again, softer this time, but still shaking.

His palm moved slowly over your back, not soothing exactly. More like checking.

There. There. There.

Like he needed to prove to himself you were still under his hand.

“I’m sorry,” he said again.

Quieter now. More exhausted.

“I should’ve protected you from me.”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

The roof was cold beneath your leg. His scrub top was damp under your cheek. Your knee throbbed. Your hands ached from how hard you’d grabbed him.

Below, the hospital kept moving.

Somewhere under you, monitors still beeped. Someone still needed discharge paperwork. Someone still wanted coffee. Someone was probably complaining about the wait.

Life continued.

But here, on the roof, Robby held you like the whole world had narrowed down to one impossible fact.

You were still breathing.

He pressed his cheek to the top of your head.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered.

His voice broke again.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

For the first time all night, you believed him. 

Not about everything. Not about tomorrow. Not about yourself.

But about this.

About his arms around you. About the concrete under your body. About the terrible, shaking relief in his chest.

You were on the safe side of the ledge. 

You were crying.

Robby was crying.

He reads one page, then another, and then all of them. Through the night, until dawn. He reads about stairwells and panic attacks. About wanting him and pretending not to. Watching him unravel and loving him anyway. His laugh and his hands. His damage and his cruelty to himself, and his goodness.

There are pages where he is barely discussed and pages where he is the whole subject. Entire entries written after shifts he barely remembers—and you remembered all of it. He finds lines underlined so hard they nearly tore paper.

I am more afraid of losing him for the rest of my life than losing his affection.

It may seem desperate and pathetic, but this is love, too.

Another, in your writing, “He keeps trying to save everyone but himself.”

He stops reading, stands up, and walks to the cabin sink to stare at himself. He laughs once in disbelief, before he cries, truly cries. Because—holy shit.

He was on every page, as he had been living inside your heart and never really knew. All those glances and almosts. Moments he thought he imagined are real. He goes back and reads every word… twice.

At some point, whispers to the empty cabin, “Jesus Christ, Ducky.” As it were, hymns or grief or wonder. Like regret arrived all at once, and when he reached the pages about the last few weeks of June, early July, and New York. About the thoughts of leaving and the offers you’ve received… and his stomach drops.

No. No no. He grabs his phone. Calls immediately, and it went straight to voicemail. Again. Voicemail. Again.

The number you have dialed is not in service…

He hangs up. Redials, again, and again, then every day after that. Ports. Airports. Hotel rooms. Layovers. Morning. Night. Always, voicemail, or disconnected silence.

He leaves messages anyway. At first, it’s awkward. “Hey… it’s me.” Then, desperate and raw. “Please, pick up. I read it.” His voice shaking, “I should’ve known.”

Then the one he says with tears on a hotel balcony in Barcelona: “I love you.”

Words he has never said to you, not once. Spoken to a machine, and still no answer.

He starts carrying both journals together. Yours and his, bound by a rubber band. Presumably, if it were something sacred, and entirely unfinished. For the first time in years, Robby doesn’t want to run. He wants one thing… one person. To get back and find you. Ask around where you are, if you’ve left. To tell you, he read every word. Admit it to you, he has been in love with you, too—terribly. For longer than he understood.

Somewhere over open water, holding your journal against his chest, he realizes with a kind of awe that terrifies him—the trip did not save him.

You did, and now you are gone.

DANA’S HOUSE — DAY

November comes to Pittsburgh in shades of smoke and rust. The trees have changed color, leaves skitter across sidewalks in little dry spirals, gathering in gutters and along curb lines. Tiny ghosts appear in between words when people talk outside.

After four months away—after sea salt, foreign ports, therapy sessions whispered over unstable Wi-Fi, after sleepless nights rereading your journals until the spine softened from use—Robby comes home.

He comes back firmer, a little darker from the sun, and less haunted in some places. The tan does something unfair to him, makes him look healthier than he feels. But the exhaustion sits too deep in his face to hide.

The first thing he does—before going home and unpacking. Before even stepping foot in the hospital, is for him to drive to Dana’s. Because if anyone knows where you are, it’s her.

Inside, a kettle whistles, and a sitcom plays low in another room. The house smells faintly of coffee and toast with cinnamon. Domestic and warm. The sort of warmth Robby has spent years orbiting but never quite entering.

Dana is in the kitchen when the knock comes, and Benji looks up from the paper. “I’ll get it,” she says. Wiping her hands on a dish towel as she goes. She opens the door—and just stares.

Because there he is, on her porch. Duffel slung over one shoulder. Hair a little longer, bearded, still graying. Windblown, and eyes hollowed out with something close to panic. And before she can even smile, he says, “Where’d she transfer to?”

Zero preamble, just straight to the point. 

Dana blinks, then folds her arms. “Well, good morning to you, too, Robinavitch.” A beat passed before she added, “Welcome back. How was your sabbatical?”

His jaw works, impatience barely leashed. “Wonderful.” He thrusts a paper bag at her. “Here. Souvenirs. For your family.”

She takes it, peeks in, and there are little trinkets and magnets. A toy for Benji’s niece. Very him, somehow, and very not him, too.

And before she can thank him—

“Where’s Ducky?”

The words come out rough, as though he’s been holding them through the whole drive. Dana stares at him, sees too much at once, the desperation, the sleeplessness. The man who has clearly come straight here because he couldn’t bear one more minute not knowing.

Because she’s Dana, tenderness usually arrives in sarcasm first—she steps aside and says, “Come in before the neighbors call the cops.”

He obeys automatically, as if being ordered into an exam room. Inside, he hovers in the entryway instead of sitting. Still wearing his jacket, ready to leave whenever.

Dana shuts the door and turns, studies him, “You check her apartment?”

He laughs once, humorless. “Locked. No answer, and her mailbox stuffed.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I called every day.” His voice cracks around every.

Dana’s expression shifts and softens despite herself while Benji pokes his head in from the kitchen. “Well, I’ll be damned.” He grins. “The ER cowboy returns.”

Robby barely manages a nod, distracted, his eyes already back on Dana. “Dana.” That tone. Please. She hears it and feels it. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out the leather journal. It’s yours. Then, he sets it on the hall table like evidence. “I found this.”

Dana looks at it, then at him. Oh. Oh. Now she understands. “You read it.”

His laugh this time is broken. “I read all of it.” A pause, quieter, “She wrote about me on every damn page.”

Dana exhales through her nose, almost smiles. “Well. About time you caught up.” He ignores that, or can’t process it, while his voice drops, raw. “Did she transfer?”

Dana leans against the wall and lets him squirm for a second. Maybe because he deserves it, and because she’s enjoying this slightly, she needs to see how much this matters.

He steps closer. “Dana.” For once, not attending to charge nurse. Not friend to friend. Simply, a man begging. “Where is she?”

The room goes still, and even Benji quietly retreats, sensing this is sacred territory. Dana looks at him for a long time. At the journals he has now tucked under his arm and at the panic in his face. At the love, he somehow managed to miss until it nearly left him.

She says carefully, “What exactly are you planning to do when you find her?”

Robby stares, as if the answer should be obvious. “I don’t know. I just…” He stops, and swallows, then starts over. “I need to see her.”

Dana catches it, and she raises a brow. “Why?” And this—this is the test. He could joke, deflect, or run. Well, the old Robby would. Instead, he looks wrecked enough to confess, because he is.

“Because I think I made the biggest mistake of my life.”

Silence. Then—so quietly it nearly disappears, “I think I’m in love with her.”

Dana’s mouth opens, then shuts. Because after years of wanting to shake both of you, there it is.

Fuckin’ finally.

She mutters toward the ceiling, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.” Then points a finger at him. “You listen to me… You do not get to show up after a sabbatical tan and emotional breakthrough just to screw this up.”

He almost looks offended. “I’m trying not to.”

She squints, and then, finally, mercifully smiles. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out her phone. Starts dialing, and Robby frowns, confused. “Who are you—”

Without looking up, “Shut up, Robinavitch.” And somehow he does, which makes Dana snort. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Then—pickup.

Dana lifts it to her ear, “Hey.” A second ticked by, then, casually, like she isn’t detonating his entire nervous system, “Robby’s here at my place.” His head snaps toward her. “What—”

She lifts a finger at him. After a moment, there’s a burst of voice from the other end, too fast to catch, and Dana’s grin widens, then she taps the speaker, and suddenly, a familiar voice fills the kitchen: your sister, your terrifying older sister.

“Spit it out, Robinavitch.”

Robby freezes. “Oh shit.”

Dana folds her arms, far too pleased. Benji peeks from the kitchen, sensing blood in the water. Robby straightens unconsciously, like he’s been called into an attending review. Because your sister has always somehow had that effect. The woman once threatened to break his fingers when you pulled three doubles in a row, and he forgot to make sure you ate.

He clears his throat. “Hi.” Dead silence… before your sister exclaims, “That’s what you got?” 

Dana nearly chokes laughing while Robby rubs his face. “I’m trying to find her.”

“Yeah, no shit.”

He shoots Dana a look begging for backup. She gives him none; it’s sink or swim. Your sister keeps going. “You disappear for four months, come back looking like some emotionally improved pirate, and now suddenly you’re here asking about my sister?”

Robby blinks. “…That sounds worse when you say it.”

“It is worse.”

Even Benji laughs; there is no surviving this. Then, he just says it, because apparently, there’s no dignity left to preserve. “I love her.”

Everything stills, and Dana goes silent, even your sister, because he decides to say it plainly. After a long beat, “…You better.” Then she pivots. “She’s at my apartment in Murray Hill, Manhattan.”

His whole body stills. “She is?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” She continues. “My boyfriend and I are in Vermont for a wedding. She’s dog sitting.”

You were dog sitting… didn’t transfer or leave. Relief hits him so hard he has to brace a hand on the wall as your sister keeps talking. “I’ll text you the address.” Then her voice drops. “And Robby?”

He goes still. “Yes?”

“If you fly your ass to New York and hurt her again…” Dana mouths oh boy. “—I will literally find a way to murder you and get away with it.”

Silence. He answers, dead serious, “That’s… fair.”

Dana barks out a laugh, and Benji has to look away, but your sister isn’t finished. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“She cries over you, I bury you.”

He nods before realizing she can’t see. “Understood.”

“And don’t make me regret giving you my sister.”

His voice roughens. “I won’t.” A pause. Then unexpectedly, she adds, “She loves you, you know.” His eyes close, and hearing it hurts. Like he has wanted and feared those words in equal measure. “I know.”

Maybe he didn’t, not fully. Not until missing you hollowed him out. But now—he knows. His phone buzzes. The address, and he stares at it as if it might vanish. Dana leans in. “Well?”

He’s already moving, but Dana catches his sleeve before he bolts. He turns, and she fixes his collar like he’s sixteen, or heading into battle. “Don’t say anything stupid.”

He looks wounded, “That narrows my options considerably.” She smacks his arm. Then softer, “Go get my girl.”

A part of him in his expression breaks. He feels open, young, terrified, and… in love. He turns for the door… but stops, looks back at Dana. “Thank you.”

She waves it off before she gets emotional. “Go.”

Cold November air rushes in when he opens the door, sharp and alive. He steps onto the porch. Heart pounding like a trauma alarm. Already halfway to LaGuardia in his mind. Behind him, through the speaker, your sister calls out one last time. “Robinavitch?”

He pauses. “Yeah?”

“If you make me come home early to kill you—”

He laughs, pure actual laughter. “I won’t.” 

He runs down the steps. Into the cold, toward you, who’s in Manhattan, somewhere above the city lights, probably walking a spoiled dog, completely unaware the man you love is coming.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — NIGHT

It had been one of those strange New York nights where the weather seemed to lose its mind. One minute, the city had been holding itself together in damp November cold—taxi lights smeared gold against wet pavement, the distant hum of traffic drifting up through Murray Hill.

Next, it rains biblically hard. Rattling against the tall windows of your sister’s apartment in sheets. The kind of rain that made the city feel submerged.

Inside, soft music played from your phone on the counter, it’s low and aching and warm. The apartment lamps were dimmed. The dog—Bowie, spoiled rotten and aware of it—was sprawled across your feet while you folded laundry in sleep shorts and an old, oversized shirt. Devoted and quiet, the sort of peace you only ever borrowed. 

Then—a knock. You freeze. At this hour? Another knock, then Bowie lifts his head and barks. “What the hell?”

You shuffle to the door in your house slippers, confusion knitting your brow, one hand still absentmindedly rubbing sleep from your eyes as Bowie trails after you, toenails clicking over hardwood. You unlatch the door and pull it open, and the breath leaves you.

Robby stands in the hallway, soaked to the skin, rainwater running from his hair in slow rivulets down his temples, dripping off his jaw, his jacket and backpack blackened and heavy with storm. His chest rises too fast, too hard, as if he ran all the way through Manhattan just to get here before he lost his nerve.

For a second, you only stare because your mind cannot make sense of him standing on the other side of your sister’s door like something pulled from longing. As if misery hallucinated a man.

His eyes move over you just as stunned, and stop. Not at your face first, but your arms. The half-healed scabs near your wrist, and the angry little crescents where nails had broken skin, faded silver scars older than tonight. Evidence of all the anxious picking and scratching you never managed to hide from him, though you always tried.

Something fractures in his demeanor as it changes shape.

It’s not pity, but recognition. He sees every quiet war you fought while he was gone, and he hates that he wasn’t here for any of it. His gaze lingers a fraction too long on the marks before lifting back to your face, and there is something almost devastated in his eyes.

That undoes you more than if he’d touched you. Your heart knows him before your thoughts can catch up, and then it comes out of you in a breathless rush, “Are you insane?”

It comes out half laugh, half gasp. 

He looks wrecked, beautifully wrecked. Water pooling at his boots and somehow—hopeful. “How did you even get in here? There’s a doorman.”

His mouth twitches. “Your sister called ahead.”

Of course she did. Traitor.

His voice goes rough. “Please come back.”

The words hit you square in the ribs. Too raw, and because crying at the door feels risky, you grab his wrist and yank him inside. “Can you get inside first, Jesus fucking Christ.”

The door shuts behind him, the storm mutes, only rain on glass now, and both of you breathing. Bowie circles him immediately, tail wagging hard enough to take out furniture.

Robby crouches automatically, wet and smiling for the first time. “Well, hello.”

The dog all but climbs into his lap, and you cross your arms. “Unbelievable.” Robby glances up. “What?”

“Even the dog likes you.”

He rises slowly. And for one suspended moment—you’re just looking at each other. Months of distance in one silence, and then practicality saves you. “You’re freezing.”

You move first, pull towels from a closet, and push one into his hands. “Take a warm shower.”

You disappear toward the guest room, rummage through drawers, and return with sweatpants and a cotton shirt. Holding them out, you clear your throat. “My sister’s boyfriend is… a bit shorter than you.” Your eyes do an up and down. “A lot shorter.”

His smile deepens. “I’ll make it work.”

You gesture toward the bathroom. “There are toiletries in there. Toothbrush under the sink.” You add, softer, “Ignore the mess in the room. I’ve been sleeping in there.”

You turn before he can answer. Because being looked at by him right now makes you feel vulnerable. The dog follows you back into the kitchen.

Robby lingers a second.

Watching.

You're wearing slippers over hardwood, and talking to Bowie under your breath. Living in a space that somehow already feels like you. Warm, cluttered, and tender.

He steps into the guest room and sees your half-unpacked suitcase. A pile of sweaters. Books are stacked on the floor. Your new journal on the nightstand. A cardigan draped over a chair. Evidence of you everywhere, and something in him wrinkles. Because even your mess looks gentle, as if being let into a life.

He showers, the steam, and silence calm his racing thoughts. Trying to slow a heart that has not been steady since he left Pittsburgh.

When he emerges clean, hair damp, borrowed shirt a little too small—you nearly short-circuit. He looks… dangerously domestic. Seemingly belonging here, which feels somehow more intimate than seeing him half-undressed ever could.

You busy your hands at the stove, heating leftovers, and Bowie sits begging shamelessly. You tear off a little piece of beef and feed him. “Your mom is going to murder me if you gain any more weight, buddy.”

Robby watches you with something almost helpless in his expression. Yeah. That makes sense.

You glance up and try not to stare. Obviously, you fail. “I bet you’re hungry.” You nod toward the food. “They’re leftovers but they’re good.” A pause. “Do you eat rice?”

He almost laughs, “I’ll eat whatever you’ll give me. Your cooking’s the best.” You shrug, trying to hide how much that warms your heart. “Eh. It’s okay.”

He eats, like actually eats, as if he hasn’t in days, all while you sit opposite him at the table. Rain against the windows and the music low with the dog asleep at your feet. It all feels so heartbreakingly ordinary.

Eventually, your curiosity gets the better of you, and you ask, “How did you find me?”

He wipes his mouth. “I went to Dana’s.” A beat. “She called your sister.”

You shut your eyes. Of course.

“That bitch.” There’s no venom in the way you said it, only affection. He smiles into it as he finishes eating. 

You reach for his plate, but he catches your wrist lightly, declares, “No, I’ll wash.” But you shake your head, replying, “Not a chance.”

“I’ll wash, you dry?”

You arch a brow. “Are you even in a position to negotiate?” He looks up at you—those impossible brown eyes gone soft. “Please.”

And damn him, you melt.

“Okay.”

So you stand side by side at the sink as he washes and you dry. Passing plates back and forth. Shoulders brushing. Tiny accidental touches that are electric every time. Neither of you speaking.

Because the silence is saying too much already. Water runs, and rain falls. The dog snores. And in the small domestic hush—with dish soap on his hands and your fingers warm around a towel—it feels almost impossible that two people who nearly lost each other can stand here now arguing quietly over plates like this was always where they were meant to end up.

Robby breaks the silence first, barely above a whisper. “I read the letter… and your journal.”

Your hands stop, and the plate in your grip goes still, damp dish towel forgotten between your fingers.

The room somehow grows quieter than silence. Outside, thunder rolls over Manhattan, low and distant. Inside, your heart does the same. A storm answering a storm.

You don’t turn around right away. Because you knew this moment would come the second you hid that false bottom in the box. Still, knowing doesn’t make being seen any less terrifying.

“I know,” you say after a beat, too casually. A small shrug. “Well… I figured.”

His breath catches like he wants to say ten things at once. “I—”

You cut him off too quickly. Coward, or self-preservation. Maybe both. “How do you feel about hot chocolate?”

It startles him enough that he blinks. As if you’ve changed the subject so violently he can’t find the road back. “…I’d like that.”

You nod once, grateful for something ordinary and something safe. “Go wait for me in the living room.” You force a small smile. “I’ll make us some.”

He obeys. Because of course he does. And maybe because he senses you’re buying time. Maybe because he needs it too.

Eventually, you’re both sunk into opposite ends of the couch, mugs warming your hands. Rain threads down the windows, the dog sleeps with his chin on your foot and the apartment hums softly around you.

It feels almost too intimate.

Steam curls from your cocoa, and you stare into it as if answers might rise there. You clear your throat as you say, “I didn’t transfer.” 

The words sit between you, while Robby goes still. “What?” He turns fully toward you. “But I thought—”

“No.” You shake your head. “I got offers… and I came close… really close.” Your thumb traces the ceramic rim. “Especially after the Fourth of July shift. I thought maybe leaving would fix something.”

You give a crooked little laugh. “Go to NewYork-Presbyterian Hospital. Start over.” Then softer,  “But I couldn’t.”

He watches you like moving would break the moment.

“I liked the Pitt too much.” A sad smile. “As fucked up as that is.”

You huff out, “There is definitely something wrong with me.”

That finally pulls a smile from him.

You continue. “I like the people there.” A beat. “I…” Your throat tightens. “I liked having somewhere I belonged.” His expression changes at that, into something wounded. Because he knows exactly what you mean. 

You take another sip. “I just took leave. Needed it anyway.” You look toward the rain-smeared windows. “It’s nice coming back here. During November, the Fall… Y’know, with everything changing. It’s nice.”

Robby opens his mouth. “I just thought I—”

You shake your head gently. Don’t let him say whatever apology he’s building. Not tonight. “I don’t think we should be having this conversation right now.”

He looks almost startled.

You stand, mug in hand. “You’re exhausted. Probably crashing from enough adrenaline to kill a horse.” A small attempt at humor.

You fail to hide concern. “We can talk about the letter. And the journal. And… everything else. Tomorrow.” Your words feels kind, merciful.

He studies you, as if trying to decide whether you’re sparing him—or yourself. You clear your throat. “I can change the sheets in the guest room.”

“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “I can tell you’re exhausted.”

“Are you sure?”

He nods, because he’s very sure. What he doesn’t say is that those sheets smell like you. Laundry soap, skin, everything that makes you home. You don’t know that, or maybe some part of you does. “Okay…”

You glance around, “I need to find another pillow for you. One sec.” And you disappear down the hall, leaving him alone in the living room.

He looks around at the life around him, and all the places you exist. Little trinkets on shelves, ceramic birds, books with your dog-eared tabs, and a candle burned halfway down.

Somehow—even in your sister’s apartment—he can tell where your hands have been. You are all over this place. There’s a framed photo of you and your sister at a beach. Younger, with wind-tangled hair and salt-happy. Laughing so hard the camera caught you mid-collapse.

He stares too long, and there’s another—you grinning beside an alpaca at some animal sanctuary, with your arms wrapped around its neck. Ridiculous joy.

He laughs softly under his breath. Of course. There are photos of you with dogs. One kissing your cheek and one asleep in your lap.

He feels something ache open in him. Then, paintings on the walls. He knows your signature, recognizes the small mark in the corner. Your hand in every brushstroke. And scattered among them are photos of your sister in foreign cities.

There are award ceremonies, mountain ranges, conference stages. A whole life. Big, brilliant, and threaded through all of it—you.

Loved and included, completely held.

He sees it instantly, that your sister loves you fiercely, as fiercely as you love her. And for some reason that undoes him. Because he had spent so long imagining you alone. Waiting. And instead he sees something far more precarious. A life full enough without him; a life he may have to ask permission to enter, and he wants to.

God.

He wants to.

You come back carrying a pillow and catch him staring at the beach photo. “That was Cape May.”

He looks up, saying, “You look happy.”

You pause, then smile, “I was.”

The words come soft, almost shy, and linger in the room longer than they should. Robby keeps looking at you. Not at the photograph anymore, but at you. As if he’s trying to memorize the version of you standing here now against lamplight and rain.

You hand him the pillow, and your fingers brush his. A small thing, but not small at all.

You clear your throat, suddenly awkward in a way you haven’t been around him in years. “Um…” You gesture vaguely toward the hallway. “I’m gonna sleep in my sister’s room, so—”

You mean to say goodnight, you really do mean to keep this simple. But his voice stops you. It’s tentative, almost boyish, and fragile in a way you’ve never heard from him.

“Can I…” He swallows, and looks almost embarrassed asking. “Can we… hug?”

The question lands so gently it nearly breaks you. Not may I hold you. Not even I need you. But… Can we.

As if it belongs to both of you and he’s asking permission to need comfort.

Your throat tightens, and you nod before you can trust words. Then manage, barely above a whisper, “I’d like that.”

For a second neither of you moves. Then he does, slowly. As if approaching something sacred, and then his arms are around you, and yours are around him.

Full body, no polite half-embrace or brief goodbye squeeze. A real one. The kind people fall into when they’ve been starving. His chest against yours and your cheek at his shoulder.

His arms wrapping so fully around you it feels less like being held and more like being gathered up and kept. His hand presses between your shoulder blades, and the other at your waist, secure, and protective. As if he’s afraid if he loosens his grip even slightly you’ll disappear again.

You feel his breath leave him against your hair, shaky, relief hurts. And God—he smells like soap and rain and borrowed cotton. You clutch the back of his shirt, and fist the fabric, without meaning to or pretending anymore.

Neither of you lets go as seconds stretch, then keep stretching. Until time feels embarrassed to intrude. And somewhere in it—you realize neither of you is comforting the other. It’s that you’re both being saved a little.

His chin brushes your temple, you feel it when he exhales. Feel his body soften into yours. As if this simple human closeness has taken some unbearable weight off his spine.

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe neither, and the hug just slowly becomes less desperate. Less clinging, though not by much.

When you finally pull apart, it feels wrong. Like surfacing too soon. Your hands linger at his arms, while his stay at your waist a second longer than they should. Eyes meeting, with too much in them and a lot unsaid.

You manage a smile, small and tender, as you say, “Goodnight, Robby.”

His answer comes roughened, he knows sleep won’t touch him for hours. “Goodnight, Ducky.”

You turn before staying becomes all too much. You walk down the hall, and don’t look back. Because if you do, you might crawl into bed beside him and never recover.

The bedroom door closes softly behind you, and he stands there alone in the living room for a long moment. Touching the place on his chest where you had been. As if checking it happened.

Then he moves to the guest room, well your room, tonight.

He shuts the door, dim lamp, and rain still tapping glass. He sits on the edge of the bed. Exhaustion crashes over him all at once, but he doesn’t lie down immediately. Instead looks at the traces of you everywhere, it feels impossibly intimate, as if being let into worship.

He finally lies back. And the pillow—fuck. The pillow smells like you, not perfume exactly. Something softer, skin, laundry soap, your shampoo, warmth, it’s all… you.

It undoes him, actually undoes him. He turns into it before he can stop himself. Presses his face into the pillow like a man half feral with relief. A little pathetic. He’d be embarrassed if anyone saw.

Instead he rubs his cheek there, eyes shut, breathing you in as though scent could anchor him. As if he were some lovesick dog, and maybe he almost laughs at himself. But then his chest tightens, because for the first time in months, even maybe years—he doesn’t feel like running.

Tomorrow exists, and that tomorrow has your face in it. Your voice. Coffee maybe along with hard conversations. Possible forgiveness, and maybe even something more sincere.

Hope.

He lies there in your scent and lets that thought settle over him, not as fantasy, but as possibility. 

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT, NEW YORK — DAY

Morning arrives quietly, not with alarms or trauma pagers or overhead codes. But with light. Thin gold November light spilling through linen curtains, the kind that makes dust look holy.

You wake slowly, tangled in blankets, confused for one suspended second by the unfamiliar softness of the bed—then remember.

Robby.

Your chest gives a startled little thud, memory returns in fragments. His rain soaked jacket, his face in the doorway, and the hug.

The way he asked Can we hug? like asking for mercy.

You stare at the ceiling a moment, almost afraid last night was grief dreaming. Then you smell coffee, and something buttery.

Your brows knit.

What—

You drag yourself up, hair a mess, sleep shirt wrinkled, shuffling half-awake down the hall with the peculiar little waddle of someone not yet fully vertical. Mentally you’re already cataloguing the morning.

Feed Bowie, then take Bowie out and figure out breakfast later.

Pretend not to be catastrophically aware there is a man you love sleeping under your sister’s roof. You round the kitchen corner—and stop.

Robby is already up, at the stove in a gray borrowed shirt with sleeves pushed up. Making breakfast, actually making breakfast. Eggs, toast, and there’s coffee poured. Your coffee, with exactly the amount of cream you take.

How—

He glances over his shoulder, and smiles softly, “Morning.” You blink at him, because your brain needs evidence. “…You can cook?”

He gives you a look, deadpan. “I live alone.” A short pause. “Of course I can cook.”

You stare harder, skeptical and a little suspicious. Almost offended by how domestic he looks. Who is this man and what has he done with Robby?

“You’re messing with me.”

He snorts. “Nope.”

There is something so unfamiliar about this version of him—gentle. Rested, almost playful—that it leaves you slightly disoriented. Similar to handling a creature you thought was wild only to find it purrs.

You move to the pantry in a daze, scoop kibble for Bowie, and the dog circles your legs, ecstatic.

While you’re pouring food, you ask a little too casually, “Do you have a flight back or…”

Robby flips something in the pan. “It’s next week.” You pause and turn. “What? You just got back. How’d you get time off so soon?”

He shrugs like it’s obvious, “Chief emergency physician attending perks.” Then, with a crooked smile, “Besides, Jack said he’d cover for a little bit.”

You stare, “He knows you’re here?”

Robby grins. “Yep.” A beat. “Pretty sure everyone in the ED knows by now.”

You close your eyes, “Jesus.”

Of course they fucking do.

You move instinctively toward the stove, “I can help—” He points with the spatula. “Go sit.”

You laugh. “Are you sure?”

“I can—”

He cuts you off. “Go sit there…” His eyes flick over you. A dangerous little pause. “…and look pretty.”

Your whole face goes violently hot at that as you just stand there. Broken, because what the hell is that. 

He smirks, knows exactly what he did. And you—who have stared down crashing patients and violent psych holds—cannot survive one flirtation over scrambled eggs.

So yes, you obey.

Mostly because your knees forgot how to work.

You sit at the table and watch him, which somehow feels even more intimate. His shoulders move as he cooks, the ease in his body. The ordinary miracle of a man you almost lost making you breakfast barefoot in a Manhattan kitchen.

You could cry over it, but instead, Robby plates everything and says, quieter, “I have a question.”

You look up. “Mm?”

He hesitates before asking,  “Why weren’t you answering your phone?” A pause. “I tried calling but…”

Your stomach drops. “Oh.” And you look down, embarrassed. “My phone got stolen a few weeks ago.”

His face changes, almost offended on your behalf. “What?”

You nod. “Yeah. All my stuff wasn’t backed up.” You grimace before your voice softens. “And I… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

That last part hangs there because it reveals too much. That you knew he’d worry and maybe some part of you hoped he would. He says nothing for a moment, only looks at you, and he quietly adds, “I did.”

Two small words, but they’re huge. You look away first, because your heart cannot be trusted.

You eat, and the food is actually good, annoyingly, and you point with your fork. “This is suspiciously decent.”

He looks offended. “Suspiciously?”

“Very.”

He laughs, and the sound settles into the kitchen like sunlight. 

Bowie barks, demanding his walk, and you glance down. “Well.” You stand and you clip the leash, and look up at Robby, trying to sound casual but failing. “Wanna go for a walk with me?”

He doesn’t even pretend to consider. “Yes.”

You smile before you can stop it, and he catches it. You reach for your coat, but he reaches for yours first and holds it open for you.

You freeze, again. Fuck, this man is a serious risk.

You slip into it mutely, and he helps adjust the collar, his knuckles brushing your neck. A tiny touch with catastrophic consequences. You lend Robby a coat, and he laces up his shoes while Bowie whines impatiently.

Eventually, Robby hands you the leash, “You ready?”

You look at him, morning light in his hair and Coffee still warm on the table. Your whole life somehow suddenly feels… movable, and you answer softly, “Yeah.”

For the walk… and for him. Maybe for something else too. Outside, New York hums awake, and for the first time in a long time—neither of you is running.

PETER DETMOLD PARK — MORNING

The East River glints silver beyond the railing, restless and bright under weak November sun. Wet paths shine beneath your sneakers. Leaves skitter over the promenade in little bursts whenever the wind rushes through. Somewhere, a ferry horn moans low over the water.

Bowie pulls ahead on the leash like his life depends on reaching every smell before another dog can.

You and Robby walk side by side through the quiet of the morning, not speaking much. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much. The kind of silence that breathes.

Your shoulders brush now and then, while his hand swings close enough that once, his knuckles graze yours. An accidental touch, too brief and electric. He pulls his hand back almost immediately. As if he touched something sacred he hadn’t earned.

You notice, and you notice too, the way, a few minutes later, his hand drifts close again before he deliberately hooks his thumb into his coat pocket instead. Restraining himself, because he’s trying to do this right, and that softens something in you.

At one point, Bowie attempts to drag you toward a man eating a bagel. “Absolutely not,” you scold.

Robby laughs. “He has criminal impulses.”

“He gets that from me.”

He looks at you sideways, “That worries me.” You smile before you can stop yourself, and walking beside him begins to feel terrifyingly natural. Maybe you’d once imagined this and forgot.

Then the dog run appears, chain-link fencing. It’s complete chaos, along with happy barking and tennis balls flying. The familiar corner of Peter Detmold Park Dog Run buzzing with neighborhood regulars.

You unclasp Bowie’s leash, and he launches into the pack like a torpedo. Immediately making reckless social choices.

You and Robby move off to the side by the fence, watching. His shoulder almost touching yours. Then, you hear your real name get called. You turn and Mia waves with Evie beside her, both with their dogs.

You brighten, and pull them into quick hugs. Dog chatter along with morning gossip. Evie’s eyes flick immediately to Robby, then to you and then back. A knowing smile.

“Well,” she says. “This is interesting.”

You mutter, “Don’t start.”

Too late.

Connor arrives with Paris, a giant golden retriever who crashes into Bowie like a linebacker, and then Alex enters in with Fern.

Alex with his rolled sleeves and easy smile and vaguely insufferable handsome-neighbor energy. He spots you and lights up. “There she is.”

Robby goes quiet beside you, very quiet as Alex strolls over, ablivious. “Thought you abandoned us.”

You laugh. “Temporary exile.”

He leans casually near you. “So… you owe me coffee for disappearing.”

Mia nearly bites through her lip, and Connor looks ready to explode but Alex keeps going. “I was actually gonna ask if you wanted to grab some this week.”

And Robby—who has clearly reached some invisible threshold—thinks: absolutely the fuck not.

One smooth motion, his arm comes around your waist. It’s every bit warm and certain. Not tentative or friendly. Possessive enough to announce itself, as his hand settles at your side as though it belongs there. As though it has always belonged there.

You forget how breathing works and Alex finally notices. “Oh.”

Robby nods politely, “We’re catching up.”

We.

Your stomach flips, but Alex recovers admirably. “Well. Good for you.” Then to you, with a small smile, “Coffee offer stands.”

Before you can answer, Robby says mildly, “She’s pretty booked.”

Connor chokes laughing, while Evie literally turns away, and Mia looks heavenward.

Alex grins, message received. “Got it.” He backs off with Fern trotting behind him. The second he’s gone, you hiss, “What was that?”

Robby blinks. “What?”

“You just claimed me like a Victorian duke.”

He looks almost offended. “He was flirting.”

“Yes.” A second ticked by. “And?”

He looks down at you, very serious. “I didn’t care for it.”

God help you—you laugh, can’t help it. And because you lean into him laughing—his arm tightens. Just slightly, as if it were instinct.

Connor calls across the run, “Doc got jealous!”

Robby without missing a beat replies with a flat,  “Yep.”

Everyone erupts, even you. When the teasing fades, the dogs resume their chase. The river moves beyond the fence, and the world narrows strangely. Just the two of you. His hand still warm through your coat.

You murmur, almost teasing, “You jealous?” He leans close, mouth near your ear and voice low enough only you hear. “Yes.”

You turn your head, meet his eyes. Brown gone almost gold in winter sun. Too open and soft. And for one suspended second—everything pauses.

Then Bowie slams muddy paws into both of you, breaking it… well, sort of. And Robby laughs. Real laughter, his head tipped back. And you think—you could get addicted to making him sound like that.

Beside the East River, dogs barking, cold wind cutting through the morning—his arm still around your waist—it feels absurdly, terrifyingly like the beginning of something.

EAST RIVER ESPLANADE — DAY

Eventually, the dog run empties around you. Mia and Evie head off. Connor leaves with Paris, dragging him like a hostage. Even Alex disappears with Fern, though not before giving Robby a long, amused look that makes you want to evaporate.

Bowie, gloriously mud-streaked and smug, is leashed again, and somehow the morning keeps unfolding. As if neither of you wants to be the first to say it should end.

So you walk down toward the river. Past iron railings and benches slick from last night’s rain. The East River churns beside you in gray-blue ribbons, sunlight breaking over the water in shards. Across it, Queens hums, behind you, Manhattan clatters on, indifferent.

Ahead—a bench. Half in the sun. Half in shade. You sit with Robby beside you, close enough that your knees nearly touch. Bowie settles at your feet, apparently committed to people-watching as a spiritual practice.

For a while—nothing. Only gulls, wind, and a cyclist passing, along with the city breathing. You look out at the skyline. Glass towers rising, steam drifting from rooftops. November light is soft over everything.

Robby is looking at you. Not the skyline. You. You feel it before you turn, and when you do, he says quietly, “I’m sorry.”

It isn’t rushed or defensive. Not one of those apologies meant to end discomfort. A real one. Heavy and earned. You hold his gaze and somehow smile. “I know.”

His mouth twitches, as if he expected punishment, but you decide to give him mercy instead. After a beat, you ask, “How was your sabbatical?”

He leans back, looks out at the water. “Good.” A breath. “Saw a lot of places. Took a cruise.”

You grin, “As Jack suggested.” 

He huffs as he clarifies your statement, “As Jack aggressively insisted.” You look him over, the sun-browned skin, the softer edges in his face, the rest in him. “Good. I’m glad.” And you add quietly, “Nice tan, by the way.”

That gets a laugh.

“You seem like you got some rest.”

He studies you. Maybe hearing more in that than you meant. Then you ask, a bit too casually, “Did you meet anyone special while you were off sailing the world?”

A jealous question wearing a joke’s coat, and he hears it exactly as intended. His mouth softens, and he shakes his head. “No.”

Instead, unexpectedly, he shares, “I met a couple of Filipino families.”

You blink. “What?”

He smiles, “On the ship. One big extended family. Loud and really friendly.”

You laugh, “Oh no.” He nods solemnly. “They basically told me to get my head out of my ass. In a very loving way.”

You laugh harder, “Sounds right.”

“They fed me, scolded me, and then one Lola threatened to haunt me if I let you go.”

Your hand flies to your mouth. “No.”

“Yes.” He looks down, almost embarrassed. “I kept talking to strangers about you.” The wind seems to pause, as he says, “And then I read your letter.”

Your throat tightens. “You don’t have to—”

“And then I read the journal.”

His voice roughens. You glance from the corner of your eye—and realize he has fully turned toward you. Body and soul, facing you. And before you can think, his hand lifts. Touches your face, cups your cheek, warm palm, rough thumb, gentle enough to ruin you.

You lean into it before pride can intervene. Instinct that something in you has waited years. His thumb brushes your cheekbone, and his voice lowers. “I was too afraid to tell you what I wanted.” He swallows, as he admits, “Because you deserve so much better than me.”

You shake your head already, but he keeps going. “Someone without all this fucking baggage. Someone younger and less broken.” His mouth twists. “You deserve more than some worn-out old man.”

Suddenly, your eyes burn because he believes this, still, even now. Then his voice breaks.  Because some part of you has been braced for years against never hearing those words, and now they’re here.

Your mouth parts before you know what you mean to say. “I…” Your voice shakes, then you laugh once, helplessly, through tears. “I kept telling myself maybe I deserved someone else.”

A pause. “But…” You look at him fully then, no hiding and no more cowardice. “I always wanted you.”

You watch it happen as his whole face changes. He looks almost shocked. Breathless. As if he has spent so long preparing for rejection he has no idea what to do with being chosen.

A small, aching smile trembles at his mouth. It's lovely enough to cause pain and sad enough to destroy you. And then—God—his eyes fill. He laughs once under his breath like he can’t believe what he just heard. “You…” He shakes his head. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You’re trembling, and he is too. His forehead nearly touches yours, close enough that your breaths keep tangling.

“There’s… something I need to show you.” His hand slips from your cheek but lingers at your jaw, unwilling to leave. He looks suddenly nervous. “In the apartment. I brought something for you.” A crooked little smile, self-conscious. “Before you decide I’m too old and damaged and emotionally catastrophic to keep around.”

You let out a wet laugh, and he almost smiles wider. Then, quieter, he adds, “Before you decide what to do with me…” His voice nearly breaks there. “…I want you to read what I wrote.”

He looks down for a second, then back up. “I need you to know who I became when I was away from you.”

His thumb brushes once under your eye, catching a tear. And in a whisper that sounds almost ashamed to want this much, “I came all this way to ask if there’s still a place for me with you.” Your chest throbs so hard, you can barely speak. And all you manage is, “Show me.”

And the way he looks at you then, like a condemned man offered pardon, makes your knees weak.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY

The apartment is quiet when you come back. Afternoon light spills across the hardwood in long gold bands, warming the rugs, catching on dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Somewhere outside, the muffled pulse of Manhattan carries on—horns far below, a siren in the distance, somebody laughing on the sidewalk.

Inside, it feels suspended. Bowie is asleep in a patch of sun, twitching through some dream, and Robby stands near the dining table with that look he gets when he is about to do something emotionally reckless and medically unadvised.

He disappears briefly into the guest room, and when he returns, he is carrying the journal you gave him before he left. Only now it hardly looks like a journal anymore. It looks lived in.

Its leather cover is softened and worn, swollen with tucked papers, postcards, folded notes, and photographs jutting from the edges. The spine bows from overuse. It looks like something carried close to the body.

But that isn’t all.

In his other hand is a small wooden chest—weathered, carved, no bigger than a shoebox. Something old-fashioned and improbable, like it belongs in an attic or a ship’s cabin.

He sets that down first, almost shy. “I, uh… this too.”

You look at him, confused, and lift the lid. Inside, you find a life gathered in fragments. A pressed flower bookmark from Lisbon, still holding the faint ghost of summer. Sea glass earrings from Santorini, pale blue and green, catching the light. A tiny hand-painted saint medal from Naples. Ridiculous fridge magnets—a goat from Crete, a crooked lighthouse, and one that simply says Wish You Were Here.

A fountain pen from Marseille, heavy in the hand, because once during a night shift, you’d cursed hospital pens as instigators of pain, and he remembered.

A little tin of tea. Foreign coins. Shells. A folded map with certain ports circled. Polaroids banded together with twine, and tucked at the bottom, a few postcards unsent.

All of it collected for you. Not random souvenirs, but offerings. Proof he had been thinking of you in every strange corner of the world.

Your chest tightens so suddenly it hurts. “Oh my God,” you whisper. His mouth twitches. “I might have overdid it.”

You laugh through the twinge rising in your throat. “You think?”

But then he lifts the journal, and that changes the air. He holds it almost reverently, as if it’s something alive and afraid to hand over. “I… wrote in it.” His voice is quieter now, barely above a whisper.

He offers it to you. “You don’t have to read it now.” A beat. “Or at all, really.” His eyes drop. After everything I did. After what I put you through. He doesn’t say it outright, but it lingers there.

He forces himself through it anyway. “I just…” An exhale. “I hope you do.”

You take it with your hands that are shaking, and then you sit. Open the first page, and the breath leaves your body. Because there—written across the top—is your name. Not Ducky or a shorthand of some nickname to soften the feeling.

Your real name, written slowly and carefully, as if he was afraid of getting it wrong. And beneath it are polaroids, a sunrise at sea. A crooked Lisbon street drenched in gold. A ferry ticket pressed flat. Foreign stamps. Postcards. Receipts. Small scraps of living.

And every page—you. Mentions of you. Thoughts of you. Things he wished he could text. Observations, memories… and confessions.

There are entries from good days to bad days. Days he almost turned around and came home early. Pages where the handwriting goes jagged with grief. Pressed too hard into paper, ink blotting where he must have stopped.

Other pages lighter… looser and healing. And through all of it—you. Intertwined through everything.

You, a compass point. His north star.

Your vision blurs, and tears spill before you can stop them.

One page reads:

“Today I heard a woman laugh in Naples and thought of the way she snorts when she laughs too hard.”

Another:

“Bought a postcard she would’ve liked. Kept it because I didn’t know if I’d be brave enough to give it to her.”

Another:

I am beginning to suspect loving her has been the healthiest instinct I have.

Your mouth trembles, and you crumble. Silently crying over pages and over ink. The unbearable intimacy of being loved in handwriting, of being studied this closely. Remembered this faithfully.

Robby does not interrupt or explain. He leans against the kitchen counter across the room, arms folded loosely, watching. Waiting. Because he understands this moment belongs to you now. To both of you.

There is something almost unbearably vulnerable in how he stands there letting himself be read. As if he has taken his ribcage apart and handed it over. This is bigger than apology, and larger than romance.

This is witness, repair, and devotion in paper form. 

You turn another page.

One entry is after therapy. “Today I admitted I love her.”

Your breath catches, you go completely still. Another page writes, “I thought distance might make me less ruined for her. Instead it taught me every beautiful thing I see turns into wanting to show her.”

Another says, “Bought sea glass earrings because she would call them mermaid trash and then wear them anyway.”

A wet laugh escapes you. Then, on another page, tucked there is a tiny pressed bougainvillea bloom. Below it says, “There are women I have admired. Women I have wanted. There has only ever been one I have wanted to come home to.”

You cover your mouth, sobbing now, and yet you still keep reading. Because now you can’t stop. Pages on therapy. On grief. On the things he has never told anyone. His mother leaving. His shame, fear, and loneliness.

Then it’s you again… everywhere. 

“She makes bright hospital lighting look merciful.”

“She scratches at her arm when anxious and I keep wanting to catch her hand.”

“I think she sees every broken thing in me and stays anyway.”

Your tears fall onto the paper, and you don’t wipe them. Let them stain the ink, and somewhere across the room, his voice comes quietly, almost afraid.

“I thought if I wrote it down…” He stops, swallows. “…I might finally deserve to say it out loud.”

In every page that fate has ever penned, it's you—it's always you again. The chapter he keeps returning to, on and on.

You lift your eyes to him, through tears, and he looks almost undone by being seen. Suddenly, you understand—he didn’t bring you back a travel journal. He brought you the record of becoming a man brave enough to return to you.

How do you sit still after that? How do you keep reading when the person who wrote every trembling word is standing only feet away, breathing like he’s waiting to be sentenced?

You can’t.

Your hands close the journal gently as you set it down. And before you can think better of it—you’re moving. Crossing the room, as if you two were magnets.

Robby barely has time to straighten before you are in front of him, and then your arms are around him. A full-body collision of longing.

You throw yourself against him, and he catches you with a sound that almost isn’t a sound at all—something punched out of him. His arms come around you hard, as if he’s afraid that if he loosens his hold, you’ll disappear again.

And then he actually folds into you. His face presses into your shoulder, your cheek against his neck. His hands spread over your back, trembling.

You can feel the shake in him, the breath hitching. The way he’s trying and failing not to cry. And then you realize—you are both crying. The kind of crying that comes from surviving too much, and that wrings a person out.

His chest heaves against yours, and warm tears slip into the collar of your shirt. You feel them, and somehow that undoes you more.

Because this man—this stubborn, impossible, guarded man—is letting himself break in your arms. Your fingers clutch the back of his shirt, holding on. As though you are trying to keep every fractured piece of him together with your hands.

His voice comes rough against your shoulder. “I thought I lost you.” The words are so small. Nothing like the man who runs trauma rooms.

You pull back just enough to look at him; his face is wet, eyes red, nonetheless beautiful and wrecked.

You cup his face with both hands, your thumbs catching tears. “You found me.”

That almost makes him cry harder. He gives this breathless, disbelieving laugh through tears. His forehead drops against yours. And for a while—that’s all there is.

Foreheads touching, shared breath along with the city humming beyond the windows. The dog lifting his head from the rug and settling again. The soft clink of a radiator. And two people who have wanted this for too long finally no longer pretending otherwise.

His hands slide up your back, gentler now, one settling at the nape of your neck. Seemingly, he still needs proof you’re real.

He whispers, voice cracking, “I wrote all that because I didn’t know how else to tell you.”

You shake your head, crying again. “You told me.”

A pause. Then, so honest it hurts, “I felt every page.”

His mouth trembles, and he presses his face briefly into your hair. Breathes you in, similar to relief or prayer.

This is not one of those dramatic reunions that people write about, you know, now. This is more subdued, even more destructive. Because it feels like coming home after assuming home was gone. He holds you as though grief itself might steal you if he lets go. And you let him.

You see, true love might occasionally look just like this. Standing barefoot on wooden floors, two weary individuals sobbed in each other's arms because one of them had returned.

Once it is spoken—or maybe not even spoken so much as finally allowed—everything changes with a softness neither of you had expected. The aftermath is the strange, almost miraculous easing of something that had been tight for too long. It’s two people setting down heavy things at the same time.

After years of orbiting each other in careful ellipses—glances held too long, feelings swallowed at the nurses’ station, almosts stacked atop almosts—there is suddenly no need for tiptoeing.

No more pretending not to reach or disguising tenderness as banter. No more acting like longing is a private wound. It is out in the open now, and because of that, bravery starts looking ordinary. The kind that sneaks in quietly and makes the little things feel enormous.

YOUR SISTER’S APARTMENT — DAY

By the second morning, the apartment has taken on that lazy, lived-in softness that only comes when people have stopped performing around each other. Coffee gone half-cold on the counter, a dish towel over your shoulder, and Bowie asleep in a stripe of sunlight.

Robby is standing in your sister’s kitchen in an old, faded T-shirt that fits him just a little too snug across the shoulders, sleeves pushed up, looking absurdly serious over a cutting board.

A trauma attending preparing for an onion-related catastrophe. You hand him garlic cloves and point the wooden spoon at him. “Okay. Rule number one.” He glances up. “There are rules?”

“There are many rules.”

He braces himself.

You narrow your eyes.

“Don’t disrespect the garlic.”

He stares.

Then deadpan—

“I didn’t know garlic had civil rights.”

You choke out a laugh. “It does in Filipino households.”

“Noted.”

“It can tell when you’re lazy.”

“That sounds made up.”

“It absolutely isn’t.” You bump his hip as you move past him for soy sauce. “We excommunicate people over bad adobo.” He lifts a brow. “That feels extreme.”

“That’s because you’re white.”

That gets an honest laugh out of him—warm, startled, unguarded enough that it makes something in your chest loosen. God. You love that sound. It’s not the dry, tired huff he gives coworkers over bad jokes in the ED or the sharp, amused exhale he gives when Jack says something ridiculous. A real laugh, full-bodied and alive. It makes the whole kitchen feel brighter.

You’re making chicken adobo because the day before he had looked genuinely scandalized—personally offended, even—when he realized he had known you this long and never learned how to make a single Filipino dish.

As if this were some ethical failure on his part.

“I can’t believe,” he had said, hand to chest in mock injury, “I’ve gone this many years without adobo.”

Now he is here, sleeves rolled up, pretending to be sous-chef while mostly getting in your way. The chicken simmers low. Soy, vinegar, garlic, bay leaves deepening into something dark and glossy. Steam curls up into the warm kitchen air as the scent wraps around both of you.

It’s savory, sharp, and every bit comforting like a memory. As if somebody’s grandmother should be here… and maybe that’s what moves you a little. How food can cross oceans, or care can take shape in different forms.

You may not always come from the same language. But warmth—sweetness—the instinct to feed someone you love—that has always been universal.

You scoop a little sauce over a piece of chicken, blow on it once, then turn toward him. “Taste.”

He leans obediently toward the spoon, then pauses, raises an eyebrow. “You feeding me?”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m definitely making it weird.”

“Robby.”

But he opens his mouth anyway. Takes the bite and freezes, while his whole face changes. Brows lifting, eyes widening, as he chews slowly. Like processing revelation. Then a gasp, “Oh.”

You blink. “What?”

He points at the pot. “That.” A brief pause. “That is outrageous.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s adobo.”

“No,” he says, shaking his head like you’re underselling a miracle. “That is a religious experience.” 

You laugh. “There he goes.” He reaches for another bite before you can pull the spoon away. You smack his wrist lightly, chastising, “Patience.” 

He looks wounded. “I’m in love.”

“With the food.” You say, but he looks at you, very deliberately. “Didn’t specify.”

Your face heats instantly, and you busy yourself stirring. But too late, he saw. You hand him another taste just to survive the moment. He takes it and closes his eyes. “Oh, I’m ruined.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“This is what people write poetry over.”

You snort at that, and he opens his eyes, and there is that look again. That soft wrecked one. You try to roll your eyes and fail.

And before you can turn back to the stove, he steps in, very gently, and touches your wrist, waits, as if asking. Then leans down and kisses the tip of your nose. Barely there, light as breath.

A stupidly tender little kiss.

You freeze entirely, brain gone. He pulls back just enough to see your face, and the smile he gets—God. You melt so fast it should be medically concerning.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Because nothing useful comes out. He looks entirely too pleased. “What was that for?”

He shrugs. “Chef’s kiss.”

You cover your face. “Oh, my fucking God.”

He laughs.

You’re completely doomed. And later, while you plate adobo over garlic rice and eat with your knees bumping under the table, you realize something almost frightening in its sweetness—this is how people fall in love in kitchens. In spoonfuls held to lips, teasing, feeding each other, and maybe a nose kiss that nearly stops your heart.

BATHROOM — NIGHT

By evening, Bowie needs a bath. Or rather—you decide Bowie needs a bath.

Bowie, however, clearly believes this is a state-sponsored betrayal. The moment you so much as turn on the tub, he knows. His ears flatten, and he backs away. Suspicious, offended, and a little traumatized.

Robby folds his arms and watches this mutiny unfold. “I just want the record to show,” he says gravely, “I opposed this operation from the start.”

You point at him. “You literally offered to help.”

“I was misled.”

“You volunteered.”

“I was coerced.”

Bowie makes a break for it, and Robby barely intercepts him.  Holding a forty-pound wriggling dog like unstable trauma equipment. “Oh my God,” he grunts. “Why is he so strong?”

“Because he senses fear.”

“I sense fear.”

You are laughing before this has even begun, and somehow that only gets worse. Because once Bowie is in the tub, everything devolves immediately.

There’s soap everywhere, water on the floor, and your shirt sleeves were drenched. Robby is on his knees beside the tub, trying to rinse shampoo while Bowie acts as though he’s being waterboarded.

“This was your idea,” Robby mutters.

“It was our idea.”

“No.” He points. “This was all on you.”

You snort, and he looks at Bowie. “I trusted you.”

Bowie shakes violently, and it’s a tidal wave that both of you take full force. Robby gets blasted in the face. His hair drenched and shirt soaked through. You laugh so hard you have to grab the tub, as he wipes water from his eyes. “You are enjoying this way too much.”

“You look like you lost a fight with a car wash.”

He narrows his eyes. “This is how you treat a man trying to win you back?”

“Oh, you have so much more groveling to do.”

He looks at you, actually considers it. Then, dead serious, “Okay.”

And before you can process that, he leans down and starts kissing an apology into Bowie’s wet forehead. “I’m sorry they did this to you.”

You wheeze laughing. “They?”

He nods solemnly. “You’re management.”

Then Bowie escapes, a wet missile, launching out of the tub, and bolting down the hall.

“No no no—”

“Oh my God, grab him!”

Bare feet slap hardwood as you and Robby chase a flying, dripping dog through the apartment, laughing so hard neither of you can breathe.

Robby almost eats shit turning the corner while you’re bent double. Bowie circles the coffee table. Slides and you lunge, only to miss. At one point, Robby catches Bowie, loses Bowie, and mutters, “I’ve had easier trauma codes.”

Then Bowie darts between your legs, and you stumble backward, straight into Robby. His arms catch you, hard and instant, with your back against his chest, with his hands at your waist.

Water dripping, both of you breathless and panting. Laughing, fading into something else. Everything slows with his mouth near your ear, warm, close enough to ruin you. “You okay?”

Your voice comes out smaller than intended. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves immediately, and then, very quietly, Robby says, “I’m really sorry.”

It takes a second to realize he doesn’t mean the dog.

You turn slightly. “What?”

His arms don’t leave your waist. “For hurting you.”

The room goes still, even wet dog chaos recedes.

“I know I’m joking around and trying to be charming and—” He exhales. “But I am sorry. Every hour.”

Your chest tightens, but before you can answer—Bowie barks, loud and indignant. Spell broken, and you both dissolve into helpless laughter again.

Later, Robby insists on blow-drying Bowie, horribly. Like a man operating unfamiliar machinery. “You’re fluffing him wrong.”

“There’s a wrong way to fluff a dog?”

“There absolutely is.”

“You are ruthless.”

“You’re welcome.”

And he just looks at you, so openly adoring—you have to turn away. Because otherwise you might kiss him.

LIVING ROOM — NIGHT

Eventually, Bowie is dry, overfed with apology treats, and asleep like a prince between you on the couch.

A movie plays that neither of you is watching. You’ve curled against Robby almost without noticing, with his arm around you as naturally as breathing. His thumb traces absent little patterns over your shoulder repeatedly. Enough to make your eyelids heavy, your body soft, sleepy, and safe. He notices before you do, how your head keeps tipping and your blinks grow slow.

He reaches for the remote and clicks off the TV quietly. Darkness settles except for the city light through the curtains.

Bowie hops down to his bed, circles twice, and drops.

Robby doesn’t move or want to disturb you. Because you look so peaceful, and he isn’t used to seeing you at peace. His eyes drift to your forearm, where faint old scars and fresh healing scabs mark where you’ve scratched yourself raw. His fingers hover, then very carefully trace near one faded line. It’s not intrusive, but almost reverent, a question he doesn’t yet ask.

Something in him stings because he can’t stand imagining you hurting where he wasn’t there. His mouth brushes your temple, as a thought, barely spoken, “What happened to you, sweetheart?”

You murmur something half asleep, and nestle closer, and his heart nearly gives out. He pulls the throw blanket over both of you and tucks it around your legs, letting you fold into him. Eventually sleep takes him too, curled around you on the couch.

You wake tangled together, morning light gold across the room, with your cheek against his chest. His arm heavy over your waist, and one of your legs thrown over his.

For one blissful second, you don’t move, because neither does he. “I’m awake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. 

You smile against his shirt. “So am I.”

“I’m sorry.”

You lift your head, snorting, “Jesus.” He looks sheepish. “What?”

“You apologize in your sleep, too?”

He laughs, but is serious again, “I mean it.” His hand moves to your hair as he says. “I’m gonna spend a long time making up for what I did.”

You squint. “That a threat?”

“Promise.” He kisses your forehead. You realize that he is groveling, in the way grown men do. Consistency, tenderness, and showing up for someone.

So, when he disappears later and returns from the corner bodega carrying coffee and flowers, you nearly choke. There he is with a messy bouquet, it has peonies and whatever else the guy sold him. Held awkwardly in one hand, as if he’s sixteen. “These are for you.”

You stare. “You bought me flowers?”

He clears his throat, nervous. “Yeah.” Then, almost formal, “Would you let me take you on a date?”

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish's. He rushes out, “A real date, dinner. Where I wear a clean shirt.”

You are smiling so hard it hurts. He looks terrified. “Ducky…” He steps closer, with flowers between you. “Let me do this right.”

Somehow, that wrecks you more than every confession. Because this brilliant broken man is asking, not assuming. You take the flowers and smell them before looking up, “Yes.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He exhales like he’d been holding his breath for months, and grins devastatingly, “Tomorrow?”

You tuck your face into the flowers, trying not to melt, agreeing. “Tomorrow.”

End Notes:

Why did it take Robby finishing the journal for all of this to happen? Why didn't Ducky just tell him that she loves him at the end of S2?

Because as much as love can be used as a tool to help someone, it can also be weaponized. She didn't want him to get better just for her. She wanted him for himself; to want to get better. Put in the work without her. To figure himself out. Literally want to live and to love. Want to be open to new experiences. Good and bad. (And that's still in progress every day.)

Because Robby finished the journal, it means he did it for himself. You help nudged him in that direction, but he wrote in that thing, not really knowing what your letter would be.

We cannot fix him. God knows we tried. Love cannot save you, but it will hold on and cling for dear life as you save yourself.

Lelele, why so slow burn? Cause mental illness does that to ppl… well for me personally anyways. I genuinely felt insane at one point in my life and felt so unlovable. It took me 6 years to finally feel okay and not hate myself. :D So four months is like spare change lol

We are not thinking machines that feel, we are feeling machines that think.

Robby has given his life to try to save people when no one was able to save him. :,)

Lowkey… this chapter was horrifying to publish. I didn’t want it to seem like Ducky forgave him right away, but I also wanted to show that you are capable of compassion and understanding. That you are willing to see the work Robby has done and will continue to do.

But for those who want more groveling etc… don’t worry, we still have HR to deal with lol

Taglist: @orodaeh @karleyyjaee @allenajade-ite @glitterspark @bumbl3-b33z @sarahhxx03 @mirandarockin @sourmooonlight @sunflower911 @tedmustache @wastingspaces @princessesareforsuckers @anykent-grayson @brucewaynegfreal @katethedilfhunter @barnes70stark @kneelforloki @imonmykneessir @emneedshelp @darlingimafangirl @silas-aeiou @rei-scorpio @redhooduwu @thesnugglingduck @blondedlvfe @blackwidownat2814 @pagesaftermidnight @soyelfleureon @battyvonkreep @mscreativity @ravyn94 @jeshomie @follows-the-life-ahead @sommywithluv @whatupbuttercup2019 @calytrixsworld @twizzlelutz @mikariell95 @lilykillco

Another turning point, a fork stuck in the road

Time grabs you by the wrist, directs you where to go

So make the best of this test, and don't ask why

It's not a question, but a lesson learned in time

It's something unpredictable

But in the end, it's right

I hope you had the time of your life

-

“What are you doing?” Robby’s voice echoes behind you.

It’s a sunny, crisp day, one of those that makes you want to be anywhere but inside the ER and so, despite that endless shift, you’ve managed to carve out ten minutes of air in the ambulance bay, eating something while sitting on the ground with your back against a planter.

“Lunch,” you answer, lifting your face to look at him, flashing an amused smile.

“With a bag of M&M’s?” he laughs.

“I needed sugar, you know this morning I had no chocolate cookies left at home, I wonder why…” you comment playfully while he rolls his eyes and sits down next to you.

“How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks quietly.

“Until you buy me about ten packs, Dr. Robinavitch,” you reply, offering him the bag of M&M’s, and he laughs, taking a handful.

“This is the worst meal in history,” he jokes, eating a couple.

“I don’t know, we could still be invited to Abbot’s place to eat his pasta,” you reply, amused, making him laugh.

“It’s a shitty shift and somehow you manage to…” he starts, gesturing, his gaze shifting toward you.

“…make a meal made of M&M’s look decent?” you smile.

“…make everything feel bearable,” he finishes. “And I don’t know how you do it.”

“It’s a Boston thing,” you reply with a smile, “the ability to keep remembering that there’s a life outside the hospital, which is something you seemed to have forgotten,” you continue, leaning your back against the huge terracotta planter behind you.

He shakes his head, with a smile you can’t quite read, then leans back like you did, looking at the road, maybe hoping no ambulances will immediately arrive to ruin that small, tiny moment of quiet.

You arrived in Pittsburgh six months ago after ten years spent in Boston.

After a marriage that ended.

After a life left in pieces.

With the need to start over and get back on your feet, pick up the threads of your life and understand what really waits for you in the future.

You were looking for a new hospital where you could start again, a new place, a new beginning, and the open position at the Trauma Medical Center in Pittsburgh appeared, almost like magic, one afternoon during your search.

Then one colleague mentioned it, then another… and you sent your application.

Two interviews, one with management and one with the man who is now sitting on the concrete next to you.

You didn’t win him over right away, you understood immediately that Robby was the kind of person who was wary of new things, of someone unexpected ready to slip into his certainties, but the ER was clearly understaffed and you had references that would make anyone jealous and more than ten years of experience in emergency medicine.

Letting you go would have been madness, the hospital would never have allowed it and, he later admitted, he had never really considered not hiring you, even though from the very first moment he had thought you talked a bit too much for his taste and that you were inclined to get too familiar with a stranger.

And so, one month later, loaded with suitcases, boxes, packages, driving for thirteen hours a truck that carried that part of your life you had decided not to leave behind, you arrived in Pittsburgh, in a house with windows that were too big and a kitchen that was too small.

On the first evening you ate on the couch, a pizza that tasted like beginnings and freedom, on the second day, at exactly six a.m., you were already in the ER, ready to dive in, to learn, to understand.

Fitting into an established team is never easy, but everyone had shown surprising openness with you, except him.

Robby was an excellent teacher, one of those who pushes you, who guides you, who puts you in difficulty when needed just to see how far you can go, but he was an unknown, that you had understood immediately.

In the first two months you had learned little to nothing about him, a few jokes over coffee, a few conversations in the very rare free moments.

With the others there had been a few beers, a karaoke night, a dinner at that Indian place nearby that had ended far too late and more than a few basketball games.

With him, no.

He was that ghost who observed everyone and kept himself above everyone, maybe because he was the boss, maybe because he didn’t want anyone to really get into his life enough to understand who Michael Robinavitch was.

Then one afternoon on a day off you were walking by the river and you saw him, sitting at a table outside a café that had seen better days and, instead of continuing on your way, you stopped, stepping into that private space he was defending at work with teeth and claws.

-

Three months earlier

“So you do have a life outside the ER,” you smile, stopping in front of him with your arms crossed.

Robbie lifts his head from his book, surprised and caught off guard by that intrusion.

“Something like that…” he replies with a smile and an irony you hadn’t heard from him very often.

“Can I get a coffee out of you, boss, or do you absolutely want to stay alone on your only day off?” you ask, tilting your head, and he laughs, gesturing for you to sit.

Robby is about ten years older than you, give or take, with the face of someone who is permanently tired and who would need to take a break much more than he usually does.

“Gruesome reading,” you say, pointing at the book he’s reading. “Good, but the first one was better,” you smile.

He looks at you, surprised, maybe not expecting you to read stories that gruesome, about terrible serial killers and brutal deaths.

“It’s not bad but… it’s missing something compared to the first one,” he comments, closing the book before gesturing to the waiter and ordering two more coffees, and then you start talking about literature, cinema, places in Pittsburgh that are unmissable even if forgotten by God.

It’s past four when the sun starts to set and the cold begins to seep into your bones. “I’m used to Boston but… I need to get up from here if I don’t want to freeze,” you smile, and you both stand, he pays for the coffee and what has by then turned into lunch, and you start walking along the river while the streetlights turn on one by one.

“You seemed just like someone who talked too much during the interview,” he says at one point, bluntly, and you burst out laughing.

“And now?” you ask, amused.

“You talk too much, but not only that, luckily,” he jokes, turning his face with a satisfied expression.

-

After that day there had been quite a few more coffees, a lunch and eventually a dinner at your place.

And after dinner he had tried to leave, saying that you were colleagues, that it wasn’t appropriate for him to be there.

And then he had stayed.

And he had stayed the following evening too.

And the weekend after that, when you both had Saturday morning off.

He still thought you talked too much but, deep down, maybe he didn’t mind it all that much.

“Do you think we’ll get out at some ridiculous hour again today?” you ask, eating another two or three M&M’s. “…it doesn’t look like that kind of day…”

“Don’t say it,” he cuts in immediately. “Please don’t say it because at the very least a bomb will go off somewhere.”

You burst out laughing without daring to finish the sentence. “Okay… it’s just that the more chocolate I eat the more I crave a real dinner…” you admit, “…and I wanted to book that place you told me about, but if I do something will definitely happen and we’ll have to cancel.”

He laughs. “You really want to take me out, huh?”

“Yes,” you say. “You need to get over this terrible fear you have of being seen somewhere with me…”

“…I’m not afraid…” he objects, “…but everyone in there is a gossip.”

“You talk like they have a betting pool on your private life,” you comment, resting your head on your hand, your elbow on your knee, and he stares at you.

“They don’t, right?” he asks, half serious, half amused.

“Who knows, Dr. Robby…” you reply, deliberately vague.

“You’re joking… right?”

“Oh come on, Michael!” you laugh. “Why do you even care if they know you sleep at my place?”

“I’m the boss,” he objects.

“Right, and bosses don’t have sex, got it,” you comment, shaking your head, and he sighs.

“You’re exhausting,” he says quietly.

“A little…” you admit with a smile, before the flash of an ambulance lights up right in front of you. “Come on, boss, this one’s ours,” you exclaim, getting up and tossing the half-empty bag of M&M’s into the bin before holding out your hands to help him up.

“If we get out of this alive, I’ll take you to dinner,” he says quietly.

“I’ll believe it when I see you sitting at that table,” you reply, already walking toward the ambulance.

-

Six hours later you’re sitting on a bed in the suturing room, a cut above your eyebrow and Mel stitching you up after a drunk patient slammed you into a cart.

“I’m almost done, it shouldn’t leave a scar,” she tells you, focused as always.

“Thanks, Mel, don’t worry, it wouldn’t be the first,” you reply with a smile.

The door opens suddenly and Robby walks in, tossing his sterile gloves into the bin. “Hey…” he says immediately, walking over. “…what the hell happened?” he asks, looking at the stitches.

“Ninety-kilo drunk versus seventy-kilo doctor,” you reply as Mel finishes and cuts the thread.

“I’ve got this,” Robby says to her. “Langdon needs you, thanks Mel,” he adds, and she smiles and leaves.

“I was in Trauma 1, just got out,” he says, cupping your face with his hand to examine the wound.

“I’m fine,” you say.

“Did you hit your head? You need a CT,” he says, and he probably hasn’t even heard you.

“I’m fine,” you repeat.

“You’ve got a bruise on your cheek and…”

“Robby,” you say louder, finally catching his attention. “I’m fine, I hit the edge and cut myself, I’m fine,” you repeat, looking at him while his hand is still on your cheek.

He reaches behind you, pulls the curtain closed, and then leans in and kisses you, completely unexpectedly.

He’s not someone for grand gestures, not someone who seeks out contact easily, not someone who, during the day, finds time for anything more than a quick remark.

So that gesture, so brief and unexpected, means even more.

“Do you do that with all your patients?” you ask without even pulling away, and he laughs, shaking his head.

“You’re impossible, doctor,” he says, before straightening up and grabbing a bandage to place over the stitches. “Go home, okay?”

“I can finish my shift, it’s nothing, we’re swamped and otherwise we’ll never get through it,” you say, standing up. “You know I do whatever I want anyway, right?” you smile, stepping a little too close. “I’d postpone dinner though, if you’re okay with that, you’re safe tonight, I really need a shower,” you add, smiling as his hands settle on your waist for a hug that lasts far too little.

“Come to my place?” he asks, and you nod, then pull away abruptly when you hear the door open and, a second later, the curtain being drawn.

Dana looks at you. “They’re looking for you, both of you,” she says, with that knowing expression she always has.

“I’m going,” he says, clearing his throat, tossing away a piece of gauze and disappearing into the corridor.

“You okay?” the head nurse asks you, and you nod while she keeps watching you. “You’re the closest thing to normal that man has had in years,” she adds, amused.

“Imagine how bad things must be for him then…” you comment, making her laugh. “He says I talk too much and that I’m annoying,” you add jokingly.

“Thank God!” she blurts out. “At least you make him talk, sometimes,” she laughs as you both walk out, ready to be swallowed again by the rhythm of the ER.

-

“I feel like watching a basketball game,” you mumble, adjusting your head on his legs.

You’re at his place, it’s almost eleven, the shift ended at a decent hour, you had dinner with a sandwich after that long-awaited shower, and now you’re lying on his couch watching Running Point, the show you forced him to watch without giving him any right to object.

“I have a friend who can get me playoff tickets if you want,” Robby says casually.

“And you just tell me like that?” you laugh, lifting your face to look at him. “Come on, call him,” you laugh. “But it’s risky if you come with me, if they put you on camera you’re done,” you joke, settling back under the blanket.

“I might take the risk,” he says, leaning his head back into one of the cushions.

“Dana says I’m good for you,” you say without looking at him. “That I’m the most normal thing in your life…”

He laughs. “Maybe Dana’s right, you know?” he replies, running a hand along your back. “Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks quietly.

“Perfectly,” you reply. “It scared me, but it’s part of the job.”

“It shouldn’t be, there shouldn’t be risks like that,” he says.

“But there are…” you answer.

“But it’s true…” he adds.

“What?” you ask, half-asleep, your eyes barely staying open.

“That you’re good for me,” he says. “That you make me want to find time for everything else too…”

“Don’t say that out loud,” you mumble, yawning. “You might start sounding like a normal person,” you add, hearing him laugh softly. “Let’s go to bed?” you ask with the last bit of energy you have left.

You get up, and five minutes later you’re in his bed, your eyes already closed, half curled up against him.

“Normal isn’t so bad, Dr. Robinavitch,” you murmur without moving.

“No… and neither is making time for a real life,” he admits, turning off the light.

-

It's something unpredictable

But in the end, it's right

You offer her a small smile. “You and me both, Lupe.”

“It’s good to see you. How can I help?”

“My mom came in by ambulance,” you say quickly. “She fell in the bathroom.” You give her your mother’s name, and Lupe nods, already pulling something up on the screen.

“Go on in,” she says gently. “A nurse will take you to her.”

“Thank you.” You hurry past the desk, catching Ahmad’s eye on the way. He looks surprised too, but offers a nod which you return.

It’s weird being back—or not really back. But walking down the same halls, seeing the same people, recognizing the layout that hasn’t changed… it’s almost like you never left. You’re almost thankful that the nurse who’s taking you to your mom is someone who doesn’t recognize you, then you see your mom laying on the bed with her eyes closed.

You immediately go in the room, not caring there are doctors still talking inside.

“Mom!” You go to her side, holding her hand.

“Um,” You hear a familiar voice and turn your head. Frank Langdon.

You and Langdon were in the same residency years. You’d spent years working together, learning from each other… until his abrupt leave. You didn’t see it coming—nobody did, but what’s weird was it started the crack in your relationship with Robby. He questioned you, was harder on you, it was like he couldn’t trust you. And you understood part of it. Robby was probably scared that you’d be like Langdon, but the distrust and his refusal to talk about it with you made the crack even bigger.

Langdon gives you a surprised look but understands it’s not the time. “Your mom’s doing fine. She hit her head pretty hard in the bathroom and suffered a few bruises, but nothing more. She just needs a CT to make sure everything is okay.”

You nod, straightening up. “Thanks, Frank—sorry. Doctor.” You correct yourself.

“Doctor’s overrated.” He mutters, hoping to lift your spirits just a bit with that. “I’ll give you a minute, and then we’ll talk. Oh, and I think your brother’s the one who called 911. He’s out getting a breather.”

You nod and thank him again before he leaves with the med students.

Robby doesn’t think he has anything funny on his face, but for some reason his residents and nurses are constantly looking at him like there is. He frowns when he sees Princess and Perlah talking, directly staring at him, before walking away to check on patients.

What is up with that?

“Is there a new hot topic I’m unaware of?” He asks, rubbing his hands with hand sanitizer as he approaches Dana.

Dana, who already went to see you and hug you, looks at him through the top of her glasses. “You don’t know?”

Robby cocks his head back, looking at her like asking am I supposed to?

“Go check on South 15.” And that’s the only thing Dana says.

He makes another round in the ER before going to South 15, his face falling when he sees a familiar face. Your face. Still as beautiful as the day you left him. And he remembers that day like it was yesterday.

--

“I’m not going.”

“Yes, you are.”

“Wha—” You scoff, “Robby, you can’t tell me what to do. I’m staying in Pittsburgh.”

Robby sighs, “It’s a great hospital. They want you there. You’ll learn a lot.”

“I know, but I can learn a lot here. You and Jack have been amazing mentors and—”

That’s when Robby snaps. “You weren’t offered a position here!”

Robby stated that as a fact, but it still hurts. You got the news a few weeks ago and it was a big disappointment, because that meant you can’t work with Robby anymore. He’d told you at the time that the silver lining is you’d be able to stay together without HR up your asses. Which is true. So why is he now trying to push you to take the offer you got in another state? Like he wants you so far away from him.

“Yeah, I didn’t get in PTMC, Robby, but I can still try to find other positions nearby!”

“Why??” He asks, confronting you.

You furrow your brows. “What do you mean, why? So we can still see each other, obviously. I’m not about to be in a long-distance relationship with you—”

“Well maybe we shouldn’t be.” He cuts your sentence, and you go quiet.

“…Shouldn’t be what?”

“In a relationship.” Robby sighs. “This is your future we’re talking about. You’re young, you’re about to be an attending, you shouldn’t be thinking about us playing house.”

You look at him in disbelief, “Playing house? Really? Is that what this is to you, Robby? We’re just playing house? Where the fuck is this coming from, huh?”

He sighs again, fingers interlaced behind his head.

“We were just talking about moving in together a month ago, for fuck’s sake!” You yell, “We go home together, we practically live together, fuck, we’ve been together for more than a year now! You think all this time I’ve only been fucking with you??!”

“Well maybe I have!” He roars, nose flaring and face burning red. “Maybe—Maybe I never meant for us to go this far. I like having you around. Sure, I love you, but maybe I never wanted all of this with you. I’m nearing fifty, goddammit. I’ve been on my own just fine and you want me to settle down now all of a sudden??”

Robby’s words pierce you like a thousand of the sharpest, thinnest knives in your chest. You don’t look at him anymore. You can’t. Tears have blurred your vision, and you quickly grab your bag, leaving his home.

“Fuck you, Robby.”

--

Those were the last words you said to him before you left.

He still remembers how you looked that night with tears streaming down your face. He blames himself and regrets saying those lies to you, but truth be told, he wouldn’t change a thing. He knew going out of state was the right move for you, and he knew you would never take it because you loved him too much to leave him. So, yeah, he made the decision for you. It was cruel and he could’ve done it better, but he believed it was for the best.

Robby’s never heard from you ever since. Never knew how you were doing unless it’s Mohan or Perlah talking about your recent Instagram story or post.

He’s been standing outside South 15 for a good minute now, and only when Langdon, who’s also in the room, catches his eye he pushes the door open, braving himself to meet you.

You’re holding your mom’s hand, rubbing soothing circles on the back of her palm while her head is tilted back, trying to will the dizziness away.

“—fell in the bathroom. History of hypotension. Vital signs are stable. And she’s in line for CT.”

“Concussion?”

You freeze at that voice. You hadn’t turned your head at who came into the room, but now you know.

Langdon confirms your mom probably has concussion and Robby nods.

“Oh, and this is her daughter,” The med-student mentions your name, and you want to curse at him. You know Robby already recognized you, that’s not the issue. The issue is that you have to acknowledge him now. So you turn your head, only sparing him a glance.

Your eyes meet briefly and he gives the med-student a tight lipped smile before leaving the room. “Let me know when she’s back from CT.”

The two boys follow him out and your mom mumbles, “was that your ex?”

“Mom!” You gasp, “you’ve been awake this whole time??”

“Stop yelling, my head hurts.” She groans, “And no, not the whole time. Only since that hottie with the sad-eyes walked in.”

“Mom!” You scold.

You step out of your mom’s room when she’s being taken for a CT. Your brother went to accompany her and you watch them go… when you suddenly feel a presence behind you. You don’t need to turn around to know who it is.

“We’re gonna take good care of her.”

You clench your fist. “I know.”

You take a step to walk away from him, but Robby calls you, so you stop.

“Can we talk?”

You know you shouldn’t. It’s probably a bad idea. What could he possibly want to talk about? Now, after two years? After breaking your heart? After pushing you away? What could he possibly want after all that?

But despite your better judgment… “Lead the way.”

Robby takes you to the cliché spot—the rooftop. You feel the cool breeze hit your skin, and a sigh of relief escapes you. You lean against the railing, eyes tracing the skyline like how you did years ago.

“How’ve you been?”

You frown at him. “Cut to the chase, Robby. What do you want?”

Oh, he misses how you say his name. Even when you’re mad. He bites his tongue and sighs. “Can’t I ask how you’re doing?”

“Why do you wanna know?”

“Haven’t heard from you for a while…”

“I think you lost that privilege a long time ago.”

He nods, understanding. He deserves this from you. “Well I’m glad you seem okay.”

You scoff at that, giving him a glance—which you immediately regret because the sight of him still manages to make you soft. Sighing, you answer. “I’m fine. Been working, that’s all.”

“Yeah?” Robby raises a brow, pleased that you’re willing to talk to him no matter how curt. “Which hospital?”

“Westbridge.”

“Hah.” He lets out a slightly amused laugh. “We had massive traumas that came in from Westbridge’s power outage last year.”

“Yeah,” You confirm, eyes dead-straight ahead. “I was there.”

That earned Robby’s interest. If you were there last year as an attending, that means that’s roughly about… “How long have you worked at Westbridge?”

“About a year. Maybe more.”

That’s definitely longer than he expected. “You never told me you were interested in Westbridge.”

“And why would I tell you, Robby?” You ask, exasperated. “Look,” You add, “Are we done with the small talk? You actually gonna tell me what you want or can I go?”

Robby stays quiet for longer than necessary and you shake your head, starting to walk away.

“I’m sorry.”

You pause at that, letting him continue.

“I was a jerk. I… I made a decision for you which I shouldn’t have. And I want you to know I never meant it. Any of the horrible things I said to you.”

You let that sink in before scoffing. “You really think I’d believe that?”

“Sweet—”

“Oh-ho, fuck no. Don’t you even dare call me that.” You warn. “You said you never wanted things to go that far with me. You were just fucking around.”

“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” Robby dares to approach you. “I’ve always wanted it all with you. You’re the light of my life. Still are—”

“NO!” You take a step back. “You think you can say sorry and poof all is forgiven?? You fucking broke my heart, Robby! You pushed me away when I needed you!”

“I never meant any of it! I—” He exhales, “I lied, okay? I made up all those things I said so you’d take the job out of state. I knew you wouldn’t so I… I pushed you to leave and take the job. Because I thought it’d be good for you.”

You scoff, not believing your ears. You can’t even fully process what he’s saying right now. Or why he’s saying it. So he wants you back? Just like that?

“I… I lied to you. I’m sorry I lied—”

“You think that makes it better?” You ask, rage building and your balled up fists shaking. “That saying that you lied to my fucking face is gonna change anything? What do you fucking want, Robby? You want me back? Is that it? Is that why you’re saying all this?”

Robby now has his arms crossed, because he doesn’t know where to put them. Yeah, he wants you back. He’d do anything to get you back. He’s spent the past years loving you even before you were together, and he hasn’t stopped now. He still has your things from when you left and never bothered to trash them—he couldn’t throw them away. He still has your photos in his phone, hell, his wallpaper is still a photo of your hand in his. He’s never moved on. And he knows it’s entirely his fault for your departure, but what else could he do but beg for your forgiveness now that he’s able to see you again?

“Yes.” He answers. Shamelessly.

And your hand comes flying to his cheek, leaving a red print. Well deserved.

Robby freezes in his place, though he did see that slap coming. You ball up your fist, hand burning from the contact with his skin.

“Go to hell.” You glower before really walking away this time.

Robby doesn’t try to stop you again, knowing full well he’s fucked up and he might not be able to recover from this. So he’ll live with the consequences—

“And for the record,” You add, looking at him one last time while you open the door. He can see the tears on your face again. “I never took the job out of state.”

He stares at you in surprise, his teary eyes mirroring yours.

Why?

Why did Robby say all of that? It’s been years. You’ve been doing fine the entire time. You’d built a life that worked, one that didn’t revolve around him. Sure, you’ve thought of him more times than you probably should have, and you’ve always wanted to ask Mohan or Dana on how he was doing, but you never brought yourself to do it.

The man fucking broke you, made you think you’re not worth something real, and now… now he’s telling you he never meant all of it. That he lied to… to what? Protect you?

Some white knight in fucking shining armor.

It’s selfish. That’s what it is.

Yes, Robby feels guilty. Of course he does. He said unforgivable things and made you walk away, then called it mercy. He became meaner, colder, harder to be around after that. He’d never admit it, but it was true.

And he didn’t apologize because he suddenly understood you. He apologized because he couldn’t live with it anymore. Because whatever coping mechanism he built his life around stopped working the moment he saw you again. He felt his resolve break. Seeing you again forced him to confront the fact that he hadn’t been noble or self-sacrificing—he’d just been afraid.

And the worst part? The realization that all this time, he could have had you.

So Robby has a new resolve. He’s going to make up for all the time lost and all the shitty things he said and did to you in the past, and he’s gonna win you back.

He has to.

Robby stares at you from the nurse’s station as you talk to your brother in your mom’s room. Your mom’s about to be discharged, and so he only has an hour left to retry his attempt. And when you eventually do step out, Robby’s made a beeline towards you.

“Oh you’ve got to be shitting me.” You curse under your breath. “Can’t you leave me alone, Robby?”

He shakes his head, following you out to the ambulance bay. So you needed a breather.

“Look, I,” He takes a breath, “I understand you’re angry at me and you hate me. As you should be. And I know I’m fucking selfish but I can’t…”

You sigh, knowing what he’s about to say.

“I can’t forget you. I don’t want to. And yeah, I want you back. You can slap me again if you want, I deserve it.” He says, “But I’m serious. I’m going to fight for you. I’ll regain your trust. I’ll do anything to be with you again.”

You grit your teeth. “Do you have any idea how much I cried myself to sleep after you broke up with me? How much I hated myself?”

Robby feels his heart sink.

“I needed you. I needed your support. I was getting rejected left and right and I needed you to tell me I could do it. That it’s okay. I know it fucking sucked that I didn’t match here but fuck, Robby…” you sigh, “I needed you to believe in me. And you made it very clear that you didn’t.”

You shake your head, the tears forming once again. “I can’t do this. I can’t go through that again.”

“You won’t, I promise—”

“You know damn well you can’t promise that.” You glare at him, “Stop making empty promises, Robby. Stop over-promising things. I can’t let you get my hopes up again and just… fucking leave me after I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“I know, I—” Robby takes a step closer, “Let me prove it to you. Please. I’ll show you how I’ve changed. I—I’m seeing a therapist now. I’m trying to be better. And I realized that… me pushing you away all those years ago… I didn’t want you to stay here because of me. I didn’t want you to regret that decision and hate me for it. But those were my fears. I shouldn’t have projected them onto you.”

That made you raise your brows in surprise.

“I thought that you were out of state,” He admits, “And I probably had no chance in meeting you again but… there you were the other day. All this time, you weren’t even 30 minutes away. So please,” He gulps, “Let me make it up to you.”

You’re not sure what to make of this. It’s been a long day and it’s a lot to process. A small part of you is glad that Robby’s seeing a therapist. Everyone knows he’s gone through a lot of shit and has always needed to talk to a professional, so you’re glad he’s finally acting on that, but you can’t help the twinge of anger still inside you because why couldn’t he have done this when you were still together?

Was it you? Were you part of the reason why Robby felt he couldn’t talk to anyone? Did you make it difficult for him?

You know the real answer to all of that is no, but your anxiety and self-doubt, mixed with anger is running point right now.

You finally just let out a sigh, a bitter smile on your lips. “Good luck with that.”

You walk away from him once again, and Robby can only watch you leave.

Good luck with that.

Would Robby be a jerk for thinking at least it’s not a no? Well, he figures he’s already one anyway. At least to you. To the one person that matters to him. You’ve been there for him in ways he didn’t realize, and maybe it didn’t even occur to you that you were looking out for him in the beginning.

The first time happened after PittFest. The shift was finally over, and everyone had gone home after enjoying a few beers at the park. Everyone except you and Robby. You sat quietly side by side, something about the way Robby kept fidgeting with his empty beer can told you he didn’t want to leave yet, and he didn’t want to be alone. So you stayed until he was ready.

At some point during the night, his shoulder leaned into yours, and you didn’t push him away. And sometime later… he invited you home. Not to fuck, but only to sleep. Literally. And after that, it became routine: You’d go back to his place, shower, eat, then sleep.

And then, one particularly brutal night where you also needed a shoulder to cry on, you cuddled. You curled into him, and he wrapped his arms around you without hesitation. So that was a new routine added to your roster.

Robby only realized he’d fallen for you the first night you weren’t there at home with him. You’d been scheduled for a night shift without him, and he lied awake in the dark, stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep at all. The bed felt wrong. It was too big, too cold without you. You’d snugged yourself into his heart, and he couldn’t be happier letting you stay there. That day when you came back after your night shift, he greeted you by the door with a searing kiss. One that you happily melted into.

Robby has made a lot of mistakes in his life. Some worse than others, but one that he always deeply regret was letting you go. So now, knowing you’re within reach, he’ll do just about anything for your forgiveness. And hopefully earn your trust and love once again.

Over the past week, Robby’s been delivering things to you. He doesn’t know your new address, so he sends them all to Westbridge’s ER, which means now everyone knows your business with PTMC’s Chief Attending. He’s sent flowers, lunch, coffee, and well, mainly flowers. One time, you didn’t get any delivery and you almost thought he’d given up, until you see the bouquet of flowers tucked in your car’s door handle with a note saying ‘sorry, ran a little late. hope you’re having a good day x’. The sight made you feel warmer than you’d like to admit.

“I got delivery for a Doctor—” You hear your name being called from the entrance of Westbridge’s ER.

You sigh, but there’s no real heat in it anymore. Not really. “That’s me.”

“Um…” He double checks the note on his phone, “Says it’s from Robby, with a note saying ‘your favorite’.”

You nod, grabbing the brown bag from his hand. “Thanks.”

“Just doin’ my job.” He nods back before leaving.

Your favorite. You re-read the note taped to the bag.

You scoff as you open it. It’s been two years. Robby couldn’t possibly still remember what your favorite food is. Plus, it’s probably changed by now— oh fuck. The smell of freshly baked cheesecake-brownie hits your nostrils and you have to close your eyes for a second.

Some may find it an odd combination, but the balance of richness from the brownies and the savory cheesecake tastes like heaven on earth. You’d first introduced the place that had the dessert to Robby, who appreciated it because it’s not too sweet, and now it’s reminding you of all the times you went to the cafe with him. Quiet rainy days, both nose-deep in your books with hot coffee and the shared cheesecake-brownie on the table.

You miss spending those quiet days with him. You miss coming home to his place, hopping in the shower together, the feeling of his gentle hands washing your hair. You miss hearing his voice whispering sweet nothings in your ear… you miss him. You miss Robby.

You let out a shaky breath, recognizing that painful twisting feeling inside you and close the brown bag, wrapping it up and going to the break room to stuff it in the fridge without a name. Meaning it’s up for grabs.

Robby wasn’t kidding when he said he’ll fight for you. Because as you’re leaving your shift, there he is by the exit, leaning against his car, looking like he just had a rough shift. Your eyes meet his, and though there’s a part of you that want to run into his arms, tell him it’s okay, tell him you still love him, wrap your arms around him… you stay rooted to where you are, keeping your distance. You’ve done a great job trying not to think about Robby for the rest of the day since he sent over the dessert. It helps that you no longer work in the same ER, but all of your feelings came crashing down the moment you see him there waiting for you.

Only this time, you’re not angry. Robby can tell from how your eyes are softer, looking like you want to say something but holding back.

“Rough shift?”

You hear him ask, and you press your lips together, shaking your head. “You?”

He exhales, the events of the day replaying in his head. “We lost a 5 year old boy today. Drowned in the pool while his dad was in the bathroom.”

You inhale a sharp breath, sharing the sentiment. “That’s always a rough one.”

“Yeah,” He agrees, “You look exhausted. You okay?”

You can’t possibly tell him the reason for your somber mood this evening is because of the cheesecake-brownie he sent over earlier today. You won’t show him any vulnerability.

“I’m fine.”

Robby’s lip twitches. “Where’s your car?”

“I didn’t drive today.” You say, “My brother has the car.”

He nods, “Let me drive you home.”

You hesitate.

Robby senses it. “I’ll even stop a block away if you don’t want me to know your address.”

You chuckle, “That’s not the problem.”

He pauses then, lips pressed together. “How about we don’t even have to talk? I’ll be your uber today.”

You know you shouldn’t. You know doing this would make you and Robby closer, and you know you’ll say things that’ll expose your vulnerability right now. But you can’t help but gravitate towards him. Your legs start moving yourself closer to him, and you open your mouth to speak; “one ride.”

Robby nods, a small smile on his face. “One ride.” He repeats.

You walk to the other side of the car and slide in wordlessly, Robby following on his side. With a content smile, he starts the car and drives off according to the address you gave him.

Turns out, you don’t live too far away from him. Which is also crazy because he’s never run into you anywhere. Before you broke up, you used to live a bit further away with your brother. Which was why you’d basically moved in with Robby after you two made the routine in your lives. And now? The fact that this entire time you’ve been just under his nose pierces him even further. He can’t believe he let you go just like that.

Robby knows sending you flowers and coffee won’t make you forgive him. No, he knows he has to grovel under your feet to earn it, and he will, but at least those will show you he’s trying. He’s going to show up for you in any way you’ll let him to make sure you know he’s being serious. And though you haven’t forgiven him yet, he thinks having you sit in his car, letting him drive you home is a huge win.

He takes a glance at you, noticing the redness and swelling around your eyes and his heart squeezes. He doesn’t want to pester you with questions, not when you’re not ready to share your thoughts with him yet, and he can’t just ignore that, but he also promised to keep quiet. His grip on the steering wheel tightens.

Thankfully, you break the ice first.

“…How’s Dana doing? And the rest of the crew?”

So much for no talking.

Robby feels warmth settle in him. “Dana’s doing good. Everyone’s doing good. Well, we’re all… surviving, but overall they’re okay.” He continues, “We have a new attending who joined us last year, and… yeah, it’s all good.”

You almost want to laugh at his response. Robby—like all men are generally—has always been bad with telling stories or giving updates about his life or the people around him. They’re always so vague and lacking with details, it’s easier for you to check their Instagrams and put the pieces together yourself. But you don’t. You just smile instead. “I heard Samira’s moving.”

“She considered it for her mother,” Robby explains a bit further. “But eventually didn’t. Some family matter happened and she didn’t need to move anymore.”

“She talks about you a lot.” He adds, clearing his throat.

You raise a brow. “Really?”

“Yeah.” He says, “She misses you. I—We all do.”

You try to ignore his slip up there.

“How’s Langdon?” You’re testing the waters with that one.

You knew Robby had a hard time handling Langdon’s addiction. Hell, you bore the brunt of it. Robby said he felt betrayed, that Langdon should’ve known better, should’ve been better. And you knew Robby’s disappointment all came from his fear of Langdon becoming just as fucked up as he is. After that, you finished R4 before Langdon came back and never heard from him ever since. Not that you made the effort to reach out either.

“He’s fine.” Robby almost answers too quickly. “He’s…” He sighs, “We talked. Last year. Before my sabbatical. I couldn’t hear him out then, still too stuck up in my own head and too fucking stubborn to listen to anyone… But then after that, I started talking to someone and… yeah, things are better now. I think.”

You just nod, acknowledging him.

“I’m sorry.” He adds, “I… I was unfair to you when I found out Frank was… you know. I took it out on you, and I was afraid that you’d betray me too that I pushed you away to prevent it. It was… stupid.”

You look down at your hands, having nothing to say and just nodding again.

“You took a sabbatical?” You ask. For someone who didn’t want to talk, you’re asking a lot of questions.

“Went to Alberta. Took a little motorcycle trip.” Robby flashes you a small smile.

And you chuckle with a shake of your head. “Motorcycle… Did you at least wear a helmet?”

The way Robby’s trying to suppress a grin is a telltale sign. “I was going through a rough patch.”

You snort, “Yeah, no kidding.”

The car slows to a stop outside your apartment complex, and you unbuckle your seatbelt. You meet Robby’s eyes, and you feel the lump in your throat again. You’re not sure if Robby knows what you’re thinking, but what he says next makes you feel grateful.

“You don’t have to say anything.” He says. “This is just a free uber ride.”

You give him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. There’s so much you want to say to him but don’t know how. You open the door and pause mid-way, looking at him one last time.

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Anytime.” Robby smiles before you close the door.

He waits until you reach the front door and enter before driving away with a sigh of relief.

When he arrives home, he’s surprised with a text from an unknown number. But he doesn’t need to ask to know who it’s from. You. It seems like you’ve finally unblocked his number.

>> And thanks for all the flowers. And coffee. And the others.

Robby bites back a smile as he texts back:

<< No thanks needed. I wanted to.

>> …You don’t have do all of that, you know.

<< Like I said, I want to

>> Ok well

>> Goodnight, Robby

Robby texts back a goodnight and locks his phone, letting it rest on his chest as he sighs in relief, replays of today’s events with you playing in his head.

Progress.

The next time Robby meets you is on his day off, which is coincidentally also yours. You’re spending it in the old cafe you used to frequent, the one that made heavenly cheesecake-brownies, only this time you’re trying a new dessert. You don’t want to admit that the reason why you chose this spot is because it reminds you of Robby. You’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. He’s been texting you since the day you unblocked his number and sent him a thank you. You don’t really text that much, but you can feel your walls crumbling and it terrifies you.

“This seat taken?”

You look up at the familiar voice and chuckle. “What, are you following me around now?”

“Believe it or not, I come here pretty often.”

Just then, the barista calls him over. “Hey, Rob, here’s your drink.”

“Thanks, Matt.”

They’re even on a first name basis. “So what’re you doing here today?” You ask.

“Isn’t that my question?” Robby bites back, a playful smile on his lips. “I’m a regular here, I come here almost every Saturday. What are you doing here?”

He got you there.

Your mouth opens to lie, but closes again. “Reminiscing.” You finally say.

Robby’s lip quirks. He gets comfortable in the chair opposite you, sipping his coffee, and then digging out his book. “Well in that case... Mind if I read with you?”

When Breath Becomes Air. You read the title of his book. “Thinking about the purpose of life?”

“Mid-life crisis stuff. You’ll get there soon.” Robby jokes. “What’re you reading?”

You purse your lips, lifting your book for him to see. Normal People.

He furrows his brows. “Haven’t you read that one before?”

“Like I said, reminiscing.”

Robby doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers on you for a second too long, and your eyes lock. And you both let out a small chuckle, almost laughing at the irony; he’s reading about meaning, about life and death and purpose. You’re reading about two people who never quite get it right.

For the first time, Robby sees your genuine smile again and he feels something in him bloom. The warmth seeping into his heart and relaxing every worry he’s had over the past years.

He wants to see it again. Wants to be the reason you smile again.

But Robby doesn’t say anything. He just smiles back and picks up his book, letting the silence take over while you do the same.

To be completely honest, Robby started coming here after the breakup on the off chance he'd bump into you. He'd thought you were out of state, so he figured that if you ever came back, you might gravitate toward your favorite spot. But when that never happened… it became habit. He kept coming anyway, and somewhere along the way he befriended the barista instead.

Robby glances over at you every now and then. He notices some differences but all in all, you're still you. Still the woman he loves, no matter what's changed.

You try not to notice the way he glances over every now and then. You try not to notice how his knee is almost touching yours. And you try — desperately — to focus on the page in front of you, but it's hard when all you want to do is cry and throw yourself into his arms.

You want him to tell you everything's going to be okay. That he still loves you just as much. That he's sorry. But you know that no matter how much reassurance Robby gives you, you're still hurting. Still unsure. This is something you have to work through on your own.

Are you ready to forgive him? Do you even want to go back to him?

Both of you are so lost in your own thoughts no one turned a single page.

And then, at some point, you unconsciously look up — and lock eyes with Robby just as he's glancing over. Neither of you can look away. Robby looks… wrecked, yet hopeful. You're not sure what he sees when he looks at you, but whatever it is, it's enough for him to set his book down and ask, “Wanna take a walk with me?”

You’re not sure what prompted you to say yes, either.

Before you know it, you’re already out the door with your bags. It’s quiet by the riverside. You and Robby manage to talk about work, about your current hobbies, about what’s different between Westbridge and PTMC, and… it’s nice. Talking to him like this again.

But as the quiet seeps back in, you feel that tug in your chest again. And you shiver, both from the feeling and from the cold wind.

“Here,” Robby drapes his jacket over your shoulders and you tense.

It smells like him.

After the breakup, you packed everything of Robby's into a box and hid it somewhere you hoped you'd eventually forget — his shirts you'd stolen, his toothbrush, his spare cologne, his coffee. You told yourself it was closure.

But you never got over it.

Time and time again, you found yourself digging the box back out, spritzing his cologne into the air just to remember how he smelled — pathetic as it sounds — and then crying yourself to sleep after.

And now he's standing right in front of you. The man you never really forgot. The man you're still in love with. Asking you for a second chance.

What do you do?

“Hey,” Robby gently touches your arm to catch your attention. “You okay?”

He doesn't get a warning. You just look up at him — and the tears are already running down your face. His brows lift slowly in surprise.

“Wh—”

“You’re fucking me up, Robby.” You sniffle, “I thought I could be happy without you. Not seeing you, and now you — you just—”

You dissolve into sobs, words falling apart before you can finish them.

“Sweetheart—”

“No, I’m not done!” You press on, “You can't just — just walk back into my life like this and make me feel like — it's not fair!”

Robby lets you go on for a bit. He listens. But you're unraveling and he knows what you're trying to get out between the sobs. So he steps closer and cups your face in both hands.

“I’m sorry,” He says earnestly. “I know I'm out of line for asking you for a second chance. But I'm not going to give up easily, because I still love you.” He holds your gaze. “But if I'm hurting you… if you don't want this… tell me to stop. Tell me to leave." Robby swallows hard, his own voice breaking. "And I promise… I promise you won't ever have to see me again.”

Robby’s met with silence, and he feels his heart sink. He moves to remove his hands from your face — and then you grab him.

You pull him in and kiss him. And he doesn't waste a single second longer. His arms come around you immediately, holding you like he's terrified you'll change your mind.

It's not a gentle kiss. It's two years of missing each other, of not feeling his lips on yours, of not feeling his beard scratching against your face, of not feeling his hands on your waist, of not remembering just how easily he towers over you, and how you fit right into his arms. It's desperate and a little clumsy and so, so long overdue.

When you finally break apart, it's only barely. Your foreheads touch. Both of you catching your breath.

“I’m scared.” You admit, eyes still closed.

Robby pulls back just enough to look at you, and you look back at him. His thumb brushes your cheek.

“Me too.” He says, “But I want to do right by you this time. And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you. I’m never letting you go again.”

Your lip trembles, and —maybe stupidly, maybe not— you believe him. You nod and let him take your hand in his.

It's not perfect. You're still scared. There's still a lot you'll have to figure out, and that'll take time, but with his arms wrapped around you and his warmth enveloping you, you feel more settled. And you think it's going to be okay. You really do.

“Take me home, Robby.”

-end.

  “Fucking– deep breaths, deep breaths, Mama,” you squeeze your eyes shut, counting from one to four to inhale, hold for seven and exhale for eight, “He better be fixing the faucet…”

  You march toward the staircase, praying to the skies for Robby to be busy doing something because you told him thag you needed the break after his three month sabbatical. You need to have the silence, the quiet of your home and spend it by getting wine drunk while knowing your daughter is with her dad in the saftey of his place. Vian has her father with him, she should not be needing you now. 

  You love your daughter with every cell — no, scratch that  with every atom — in your body. She wasn’t planned, but not an accident either. She was the most pleasant surprise of your life, a gift when you and Robby needed a glue to your marriage, but even her sweet smiles and babbles couldn’t hold you together for long.

  She is your light, your source of energy, your reason to keep going. She is your entire life, and now, you need Robby to step in and do his fatherly duties.

  You knock on the bathroom door, slowly pushing it open, thinking you’ll find Robby crouched down next to the tub, not inside it, naked with his boxers on and chuckling when Vivin she splashes water on his face.

  “What are you two doing?” You look at them with a shocked look, trying to mask the gentle warmth that spreads through you with an annoyed frown, but when Vivin turns around at the sound of your voice, you grin at her, “Heyyy, what’s up, baby?”

  “Mama, play wit daddy!” She slams her palms on the edge of the water, laughing when water hits Robby’s face and he shakes his head vigorously to splash the water back on her, making her squeal and kick her feet in excitement.

  “Yeah, you’re playing with daddy, baby,” you kneel next to the pile of clothes, pinching her chubby cheek when she turns around to look at you, “You like the water? Maybe we should sign you up for swimming classes.”

  “She’s 2, sweetheart,” you pin him with a glare at the pet name before diverting your attention to your daughter, running your fingers over her small back, pouring water with your palm over her shoulders. Robby swallows hard, holding your daughter up by her armpits before turning her around so she is leaning back on his chest, “Maybe when she’s 3…?”

  “Yeah, we’ll talk about it,” you say dismissively, cooing when Vian picks up her duck toy and starts dipping her into the water, letting it spring back up to the surface with a delightful giggle, craning her small neck to look at Robby, making sure he’s seen her magic too.

  They look the carbon copy of each other. She is his daughter through and through; brunette hair, big bobba irises with the same gleam in their eyes. You fell in love with one pair once, and now you have another with sprinkles of your own beauty.

  If only Robby didn’t pull away, if only he could see you as someone he trusted…

  “How did she convince you to get in with her?” You rest the side of your face on your arm on the edge of the tub, not bothering to even look at Robby, “That’s her trick, you know? She tries her hardest to get me in with her every time.”

  “I… caved really fast,” he smiles shyly, trying to catch your gaze and when he does, the breath is knocked out of your lungs and you are reminded of how much you loved this man. You still do, but the pain he caused you and the regular fights you had the last few months of your marriage weree too hurtful to brush under the rug. 

  “She has a way of persuading people,” you smile when she stands on her feet slowly, Robby holding her by the waist and help her stumble closer to you, “Prettiest girl in the world,” she leans down to rub her nose against yours, a habit you both have when you wanna show affection — somethimg you used to do with Robby too when he was having a tough day.

  “Her mother’s daughter, I don’t even stand a chance,” he leans forward to kiss the back of her head, “Think we should get out, sweetpea. The water’s getting cold.”

  “Yeah, let me get her towel.”

  “Out?” She turns around to look at Robby, a pout forming on her flushed chubby cheeks, shaking her head side to side, “No, Vivi don’t want out!”

  “You’ll catch a cold if you don’t get out, baby bear,” you wait with open arms on the floor, watching as Robby kiss Vian’s face softly before lowering her in front of you, and you have the chance to wrap the towel around her and blow raspberries on her stomach to prevent a crying session.

  She doesn’t cry often, and even when she does, she is so quiet. She pouts a lot, cries softly, sobs on occasion but never a full breakdown. Except for one time you and Robby were having a screaming match and were reminded that you were responsible for a little human being and you had to watcg yourself.

  “I love you so much,” you mumble into her hair, drying her arms and holding her close as you stand up and put her on the sink, “Look at my clean girl! Gorgeous, gorgeous, gorgeous.”

  “Lobe you!” She yells, kicking her legs happily as she allows you to wipe her face with the towel, “Lobe you, Mama!”

  “What about me?” You both look at Robby stepping out of the tub, his chest dripping with water as he shyly rubs the back of his neck, his cheeks and neck flushing under your watchful eyes.

  “Lobe you, daddy! Lobe you, lobe you, lobe you!” She makes grabby hands at him, and he leans forward to kiss both of her fists before straightening his back so he doesn’t get her wet again, “Huggies?”

  “Huggies later, baby bear, let’s get you clothed first,” you pull the towel’s hat over her head and and pick her up, kissing her cheek while you turn your back to Robby, letting her wave and give him a quick kiss. You glance over your shoulder at him, “Y’know where the towels are, right?”

  “Yes, I do,” he replies quickly, waiting for you to get out of the bathroom to get rid of his boxers and dry his body, “Same cabinet?”

  “Yup,” you close the door behind you, making a beViane for Vian’s room, holding her closer when you feel her shiver in your arms, “Let’s put on something warm before you leave with daddy, little bear.”

  “I go wit daddy?” She asks quietly, patiently waiting for you to come back when you lay her down on her changing sheets and hand out her favorite toy — ironically, Robby’s childhood teddy bear — as you pull out a diaper and long sleeve onesie with a pretty pair of pants that go with the color of her top. 

  “Yes, baby. Daddy’s taking you home with him tonight and you get to spend it together! I’m sure you miss Jerry and Sully!” You say enthusiastically, desperately trying not to show how you won’t come back for the night to pick her up. “I’m sure you’ll have so much fun.”

  “You come too?” Oh no. “Daddy, Vivi, Mama, sleepoer!”

  “I have work to do, baby,” you dress her quickly, let out a soft gasp when her face twists and she sneezes loudly, her small body shaking for a second. You chuckle a little and kiss her forehead, standing her up on her feet to pull her pants up, “Bless you!”

  “Tank you!” She holds your shoulders, swaying back and forth with her teddy tucked under her arm, “Mama, daddy’s friend be there?”

  “Daddy’s friend? You mean uncle Jack, baby?” You pick her up, putting her on your hip as you walk to her drawer to pull out a strawberry hairclip and her small hair dryer because she despises yours, sitting with her in your lap in front of the mirror, “Jack and Dana might be there, but you have to ask daddy.”

  “No, Null!” She frowns, pushing her bottom lip out a little and that makes you stop. She kicks her leg patiently as you dry her hair, deep in thoughts as you untangle her soft strands slowly with her small brush, breathing her scent so deeply you’re sure you’ve carved the smell of heaven deep in your Limbic system. 

  “Null? Who’s Null, baby?” You turn off the dryer and pull it out of the plug, clipping her small bangs with lots of small kisses to the crown of her head, and suddenly, it dawns on you who she is talking about.Noelle. Noelle Hastings. The Noell Hastings you’ve had buttheads with over cases, the beautiful gorgeous tantalizing Noelle Hastings, the one who’d always flirted with your husband, the same fucking one he was seeing before he left for his sabbatical. And you had no idea your daughter had met her. “You mean Noelle, sweetling?”

  “Yup, yup,” she slowly wiggles her way out of your arms and on the floor, urging you to get up and hold her hand as to keep her from bolting downstairs, her small hand fits perfectly in yours and she seems very pleased by the safety your fingers bring her, “Null. She at daddy house! I saw her, Mama!”

  “I believe you, baby bear,” you nod and grin at her, smoothing your free hand over the small frown on her face before you lead her out of the room — or she does with how hard she is pulling on your hand — and downstairs to where Robby probably is waiting. “Do you want to watch Frozen again?”

  “Really?” Her eyes light up, a huge smile covering her face, “Please, please! Ice cream too?”

  “You just got out of the shower, baby bear! I tell daddy, see if he has some at his place,” you haul her up by one hand on the last stair, making her squeal and laugh in delight by the short adrenaline rush in her small body, “Do you need help with the tv or–”

  “No help! Vivi know how to put favorite!” 

  “Of course you do,” you shake your head affectionately, walking through the living room as you watch her bolt for the remote. You make sure she is sitting with her teddy bear before turning around to make your way to the kitchen, finding Robby leaning on the counter with his eyes on his daughter, “We need to talk.”

  “Sure, is it about–”

  “Listen, Robby,” you stand closer, squeezing your eyes shut as you breathe in the cleanness and warmth of his body, looking down at your toes to regulate your thoughts. He shouldn’t have this effect on you anymore. But he does. Oh, he does. He is still so beautiful, and so overwhelmingly secure as he stands in front of you. “you are free to do as you please, okay? I don’t mean…”

  “I’m not sure I follow, sweetheart–”

  “Stop, stop,” you groan, stroking your neck in anxiety, “Look, I don’t care who you bring home, or spend your time with, or who you fuck,” oh, but you do, “What I care about is you keep my daughter away from them until you are in a serious relationship then we will talk. But ‘till then, Robby, keep your flings away from Vivi.”

  “I have never brought anyone near our daughter,” he catches your gaze by lowering his head until you are eye to eye, and you can see the fire in his irises, “I haven’t even had sex since I left for Alberta, and that’s a good four months ago. I’m not seeing anyone, not that I need to explain anything to you–”

  “Bravo! Thank you for keeping your dick in your pants, but I have a question though, pray tell, how the fuck does she know Noelle fucking Hastings?” You cock your head to the side, glaring at him with all the fire in your eyes, “Because she frowned when she found out she was gonna come to your place. She asked if she’d be there. I swear, Robby, if she has met my daughter and you haven’t told me, I’ll skin you alive myself.”

  “I have nev– oh.”

  “Yeah, oh is fucking right,” you roll your eyes so hard you are relieved you don’t get a headache immediately, “Talk and I mean actually say everything that happened.”

  “It wasn’t that they met,” he sighs, resting his palm on the countertop while the other goes to his hip, his eyes dashing toward Vian who sings happily with Elsa and runs ariund the living room, smiling at the sight of her before he turns back to you, “It was a night when she was staying with me before July. I forgot to tell Noelle that our plans were cancelled, and she accidentally drove to my place. I couldn’t really send her away like that so she came inside, and they saw each other very briefly–”

  “I don’t want any woman around my daughter unless you are serious about her,” you try to sound stern but Robby’s expression is so attentive you want to scream, “I don’t like Hastings but that’s because of our jobs,” No, you also don’t like her because you’re jealous. She is very beautiful and not a mother, but he doesn’t need to know that, “If you want her to be a permanent presence in your life–”

  “We stopped talking after I left Pittsburgh,” he is so subtle with the way he shifts until he has your back pressed againstthe counter and his hands are on both sides, caging you against his body, “It was just a fling, nothing serious, nothing worth fighting over.”

  “I don’t care,” you whisper, a little breathless, a little angry at him for knowing how to make you cave, “I only care when it affects my daughter.”

  “Good to know,” he laughs a little, and for a second you think he might turn this into a crazy minute of self hatred towards himself like he used to back when you were married, ‘You’re telling me I don’t care about my daughter?’ Would probably be the first line and followed by a ‘You think I’m incable of caring about her’, and that’d end up in a screaming match.

  But now, he is just smiling sadly, and you can feel how his hands are itching to hold onto your waist, his face mere inches away from yours as he leans down a little to press a kiss to your forehead. 

  Your breath hitches, chest aching with so much unresolved tension and feViangs for the man in front of you. You try not to close your eyes and give into the strong urges that are screaming inside your head to let go and enjoy. 

  “I won’t jeopardize our family over a hookup, sweetheart.”

  “Stop,” you hiss, pushing him away by your hands on his chest, ignoring the pained look he gives you. “Stop doing whatever you’re doing right now. I can’t handle you being like- like this!”

  “Like what?” He whispers, hands coming up to hold you by the wrists, making sure he is looking straight into your eyes, “I want to mend what I’ve broken–”

  “We are divorced–”

  “I want our family to get back together. I want to try and be better for Vivi, for you, for myself. I need this to happen or I’ll lose my mind–”

  “You will lose your mind?” You let out a quick hysterical laugh, pushing him away completely, freeing your hands from his grasp, “I have been losing my mind for months! You think it’s easy to just go to work and be met with awful stares when I have to come down to your ED? Mending what’s broken doesn’t happen over a single night. I don’t fucking trust you, you broke my heart, Robby. I loved you but you broke my fucking heart.”

  “I–”

  “Mama! Daddy!” Vian runs to the two of you, and you have to look up at the ceiling to dry your tears. She doesn’t like it when either of you are crying. Robby is quicker to get himself together, smiling broadly and kneViang down to her height. She wraps her arms around her neck and crawls onto his lap, “Olaf here! Watch wit me!”

  “Let’s go,” he picks her up, looking at you when Vian reaches for your hand to get your attention, “You coming?”

  “Of course! I can never miss my favorite movie,” you follow them through the living room, waiting for Robby to sit down first and place Vivi next to him. You sit down and she immediately starts snuggling into your side, her small hand wrapped tightly around two of his fingers.

  “Jack’s gonna drop Samira here, you wanna go with him to his place?” You ask Robby, your hand moving up and down Vivi’s back, your chin resting on the top of her head as uou look at your ex husband softly, “Or you both could stay for dinner–”

  “No, no,” he shakes his head, his eyes not leaving the TV as he plays with his daughter’s fingers absentmindedly, “I talked to him a few hours ago, we’ll go to my place. You need a break and definitely a girl’s night with Samira.”

  “You’re right for the first time in a very long time,” you huff out a smal laugh when Robby snorts and shakes his head, “I need to get wine drunk.”

  “Absolutely, and me and this little girl,” he leans down to bury his face into Vian’s neck to tickle her, enjoying how she tries to push him away with a shriek, “Will have an amazing sleepover with Uncle Jack.”

  “Unce Jack?” Her ears perk up at the sound, eyes wide and glimmering with hope and excitement, “He coming too?”

  “Of course, baby bear,” he chuckles when he sees her grinning and clutching her teddy in her hands, snuggling closer to your side in contentment, “He’s gonna stay for dinner too.”

  “Happy meal?” She crawls into his lap this time, whispering to him with a quiet giggle, “with strawberry milkshake?”

  “Shhh, don’t let Mama hear you,” he whispers, loud enough for you to actually hear, and you shake your head and look at the tv with a grin on your face. Hell, you fucking love Vian. “But yeah, whatever you want, we’ll get it with uncle Jack.”

  “Yeeeees,” she holds her fist up, and Robby throws his head back and laughs loudly, bringing his own fist up to slowly bump it into hers.

  “How did you learn that, sweetpea?”

  “You and unce Jack do,” she shrugs and turns around, her back to his chest as she resumes watching her cartoon.

  You cackle at the thought of her observing her favorite people so closely to the point of learning their habits. She has a tendency of watching, listening, noticing small details that no one else does. It’s cute, and it’s very Robby — minus the listening because he did not listen when you wanted him to.

  ****

  None of you notice how the time passes, but Robby does. He notices the warmth that radiates from your arm as you and Vian somehow end up cuddling him on the couch. He notices the scrunch of your nose in affection when Vivi laughs. He notices the small stain on the collar of your shirt from your daughter’s snack. He also notices the not so subtle sneezes that come from his little girl, but he keeps his mouth shut because he is not going to ruin your night.

  He notices everything about his girls.

  His eyes are wandering all over your face, taking in the slight twitch of your eyes when Anna stars freezing and so does your daughter, clutching her teddy furiously in her small fists.

  And then your eyes… your lashes kiss your under eye everytime you blink, they keep your gorgeous irises safe from the world, and now, you are gazing up at him and he needs to pull his head out of his ass and fucking focus.

  “You okay?” You ask, straightening your back, “You’re not watching.”

  “Yeah, no–”

  Ding. Ding.

  “I’ll get it,” you kiss the top of Vivi’s head before walking towards the door, sighing in relief when Samira and Jack come into view, Samira holding a large tote bag with two wine bottles and lots of snacks inside. “It’s so fucking good to see you.”

  “Hey, lovey,” she hugs you after she hands the bag to Jack, engulfing you in a tight hug, humming when she feels your arms tightening around her, “Missed you so much.”

  “Hey, what ‘bout me?” Jack scoffs playfully, but his voice is enough to alert someone from the couch.

  “UNCE JACK!”

  She is fierce with how she jumps out of Robby’s arms and bolts to the door. You have approximately thirteen seconds to pull Samira out of the way and watch as she throws herself into Jack’s arms, who easily catches her with one arm.

  “Heey,” Jack chuckles and picks her up effortlessly, “‘sup soldier?”

  “‘Sup captain?” She gives a military salute, giggling when he kisses her cheek, “You come wit us?”

  “Absolutely, I bought your dog and cat food, too. Heard we also gonna get some happy meal for ourselves, yeah?” She nods happily, kicking her feet and wrapping her free arm around his neck.

  “Are you ignoring me?” Samira pokes her head between their bodies to get Vian’s attention, and when she does, now she is the one who is holding Vivi in her arms. She is way too quick to jump from one hug to another, and she loves it.

  “Mira!”

  “Auntie ‘Mira, baby.” You stand back and let her marvel in their attention before she has to go, enjoying the kisses and giggles she lets out while they hold her.

  “Hey, brother,” Robby makes his way toward the group, Vivi’s coat and bag on his shoulder as they clap and give each other a side hug before he looks at Samira, “Hey, how are you?”

  “Fine,” she nods, bouncing Vivi in her arms before she puts her down, kissing her head and getting her bag back, “Have a great night, guys. Now, shoo shoo, we have work to do.”

  “Mamaaaaaaa I miss you,” you kneel down to meet her bear hug, holding her close and tightly, pressing kiss after kiss to her soft hair, “I lobe you.”

  “I love you, too, baby bear.” You pull back a little to look in her eyes, cupping her face in your hands, rubbing your nose along hers, “I’m gonna miss you so much, but you are with daddy and he takes such a good care of you! Listen to him just as you always do and send me pictures!”

  “Okay,” she hugs you one last time before giving Samira a kiss and skip to where Jack is standing, holding his hand as he helps her put her shoes on.

  “I’m only a call away, Robby–”

  “I know–”

  “If anything happens, just call me, I’ll be there under ten minutes–”

  “It’s a twenty minutes drive, please, sweetheart,” he grabs your arms, forcing you to breathe for a second befote he kisses your forehead gently, “I’m her dad, I know what I’m doing. Please, enjoy your night. Samira,” she looks at the woman standing behind you, “Please, keep her occupied. Thank you.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  “Take care of yourself, get drunk, and don’t do anything stupid,” he squeezes your arms again then follows Jack and Vivi out of the house, “Have a great night, ladies!”

  ****

  “She’s been sneezing.”

  “I know.”

  “Coughing too.”

  “I know.”

  “She’s also a bit warm—”

  “Jesus fucking Christ, I know!”

  “Bad word!” Vian stabs Robby with a fry before pushing the entire thing into her mouth and Jerry — Robby’s German Shepherd resting under her feet — makes a grumbling noise that makes her smile for a second, “Why fighting?”

  “We’re not fighting, baby bear. We’re diagnosing,” He nods at her, eating his own meal as his watchful eyes stare at her with such an intensity, “How are you feeling?”

  “Tired,” she replies quietly, her usual cheery expression by a shadow Robby knows so well. She is sick and he hates it. “Vivi don’t want milkshake.”

  “Why not, sweet girl?” Jack runs his hand over her head, shaking his head as he feels the warmth of her skin, “Do you want some water?”

  “Vivi don’t feel good, daddy,” she pouts, crawling into his lap and ignoring her meal and Uncle Jack. It must be that bad to not care about her favorite non parent person. She clucthes Robby’s shirt and her teddy tightly, sniffing a little, “Want Mama.”

  “Mama’s busy, let’s eat something while uncle Jack brings us some medicine, okay?” Jack is already in the kitchen, rummaging through Robby’s cabinet until he finds the pills and whatever his friend owns. “Another nugget?”

  “No,” she shakes her head, forehead slumping against Robby’s solid chest, trying to make herelf as small as possible and Robby wraps his arms around her, “Want huggies.”

  “I’m giving you huggies, little bear. Let’s go wash your face and feet and get in bed together until uncle Jack brings your favorite medicine, okay?”

  “Strawberry?” She rests her head on his biceps as he picks her up, kissing her forehead as he gazes gently down at her. She is warm, and he hates it. He knows what it is, he knows it from her sluggish grasp, the smell of her breath, her sulken eyes and pale features. 

  “Yes, sweetpea, with water too. But we gotta get your temperature down a little first.” She groans a little before he sits her on the sink and turns on the faucet, wetting his hands with cool water before he gently rubs her feet, tickling under her toes until she lets out a tired giggle — it’s a giggle nonetheless. A win’s a win.

  Robby changes her clothes and when he enters his own room, Jack’s already waiting with the medicine. They gently coax her to swallow the bitter strawberry acetaminophen with her favorite water bottle and tuck her under the blanket. Sully — your cat who you’ve given her to Robby for a few days to take care of — sneaks under the blanket to snuggle Vian and her teddy.

  She’s out like a light.

  “You should call her.”

  “I can take care of my sick daughter, Jack.” Robby’s pinned to his spot with a glare from his friend. He shakes his head, stroking Vivi’s hair so softly it’s barely noticeable, “I don’t want to ruin her night.”

  “You won’t, but if you don’t tell her, she’ll be fucking furious,” Jack stands up, stretching his arms over his head, giving Robby a sympathetic yet pointed look, “Call her.”

  “She thinks I’m incapable of…” he inhales sharply, feViang the back of his throat stinging as he looks down at his daughter — her cheeks tainted red with her fever — and he reaches down to kiss her brows, “I don’t want her to think I’m a bad father.”

  “Vivi’s fighting a virus, she won’t think you’re anything other than a capable caring father. That’s it. She’d be angrier if she didn’t get a call from you now.”

  “I’ll call her when I think Vivi’s stable.”

  “Okay, well, I told you what you had to know,” Jack sighs, resting his hands on his hips as he shakes his head, “I’m gonna go pick Samira up. Call her, please.”

  ****

  “He is fucking with my head, Mira!” 

  “When is he not?” 

  “Ugh, I hate him but I also fucking love him,” your feign a cry, throwing your head back on the couch’s arm, tangling your legs with Samira’s as you both drink the one third of the second bottle, “He’s been so nice since he got back. He’s only sat behind the motorcycle once! He’s been sending gigantic amounts of money to Vian’s saving account, he’s also bought me a new car. But money can’t solve everything!”

  “Of course it can’t! But… I’m totally one hundred percent on your side, but we gotta give him credit, he’s not once skipped a therapy sessions in the past month.” Samira shrugs, squeezing your knee when you glare at her, “Look, he fucked up, like really fucking bad. He pulled away from you, he didn’t talk to you, he… said things that broke your heart real bad– I don’t know! It’s just… he’s be so oddly nice, even to me, and you know how he used to treat me.”

  “He was a dick, he is still a dick. Sometimes he forgets we’re not married anymore! He touches and kisses and waltz inside my house and fixes things and tries to talk to me about getting back together but—“ you take a deep breath, “Mira, did you know he was sleeping with Hastings?”

  “What?!”

  “Yeah, before he left for his spiritual trip in the open road,” you roll your eyes, drowning the rest of your wine before you sit up, “She is so hot and gorgeous, and I’m… I’m me, Mira! She doesn’t have stretch marks, a c-section scar, she is fit and flirtious and so dreamy! How am I ever gonna fill her shoes?”

  “Honey, you’re not gonna fill her shoes. It was her that tried to fill your shoes and failed. Look where Robby is now! You should try and put him in his place one way or another.”

  “Look at you, expert in relationships,” you cackle and shriek when she slaps your side, “Abbot is treating you so well, huh?”

  “You’re the expert in relationships! You’ve been married!” She tries to argue with you, but you can see the slights flustered look in her eyes. Oh, she is down baaad.

  “And fucking divorced too! No expert is divorced with a kid, Mira,” you sit up, pouring more wine into your glass, “It’s so bizarre, y’know? He is everywhere in this house; in my bedroom, in the kitchen, in Vivi’s room. He haunts this place when he isn’t around and when he is… Vivi’s so happy. She is smiling and laughing all the time and I hate myself for taking that away from her at such an early age.”

  “Babe, you did what was best at the time, okay? You were hurting and that was affecting your job as a doctor and as a mother. Robby wasn’t okay, he wasn’t capable of making a rational choice, you did what you had to.” She reaches to wipe your tears with a small ‘awe, lovey’, and kisses your shoulder before pulling you to her side, “You didn’t take anything from Vian. Maybe now… you can work on getting back together.”

  “Okay, first of all, no.” You point at her, shaking your head, eyes dazed and looking down at your glass, “I ain’t gonna just take him back like that. He hurt me, okay? Really fucking hurt me and I was so broken for months. You saw me, Mira, every time I came down for a consult I looked like shit. I don’t want that again, I need- need stability from him.”

  “Maybe he can offer stability this time,” her hands find your hair when you flop down on top of her, “Let me tell you something, I have an insane resource at home, and he may or may not have mentioned how much… Robby has missed you.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “That’s a terrible idea.”

  “No like literally, fuck him.”

  “I mean… maybe not so terrible if you can blow off some steam–”

  “Get the fuck out of my face,” you sit up and chuckle lightheartedly, “If I fuck him, then we’ll be both screwed. It’ll make things waaaay worse.”

  “Okay, yeah—”

  Ding. Ding.

  “Damn, you gotta go this soon?” You pout, engulfing her in a tight hug on the couch, not letting her get up, “Nooooo. I hate how your boyfriend’s getting more time with you than me. Is he your favorite attending now too?”

  “Absolutely fucking not! My favorite attending is the hot cardiologist upstairs who has the sweetest baby girl in the world,” she kisses your forehead and gently untangles herself from you, both of you making haste when you hear Jack knock on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” you squeeze her arm before going for the door, opening it and giving Jack a small smile, “Hey you.”

  “Hello,” Jack gives you a tired easy smile before pointing at Samira, “Came to steal this one from you.”

  “Very rude and unpleasant of you, we were having an amaaaazing time, weren’t we, Mira?” 

  “Of course, lovey,” she comes and embraces you tightly, holding you close and rocking you side to side gently, which makes Jack snort, showing how drunk the two of you really are. “See you soon?”

  “Yup, absolutely!”

  “Before we go…” Jack starts, looking straight into your eyes and holding Samira by the elbow as she tries to put her shoes on without wobbling, “There’s something I must tell you.”

  “I don’t like your tone,” you say, heart rate picking up in an instant, mind already wheViang around with ten thousand different scenarios. You try not to show it, try to shove the stress down, but you are already fidgeting with your fingers and shifting your weight from one foot fo another in less than thirty seconds over and over.

  “Yeah, you won’t like what I have to say,” Jack says, eyes darting from your face to your hands, but Samira beats it to him and reaches to hold you with steady fingers. He gazes at her with a grateful smile before he looks back at you, “Deep breaths, okay? Vivi’s sick–”

  “What the fuck?!” You sqreech like a hen, already reaching for your coat and you would have been successful if Samira didn’t grab you by your shoulders to stop you, “What do you mean she is sick?Was she vomiting? Did she had too much milkshake? I told him not to give her too much, but she is so fucking convincing–”

  “Hey, hey,” Jack grabs your shoulder over Samira’s hand, squeezing you gently to get your attention amidst your spiral, “She isn’t vomiting, she is stable, she didn’t have any milkshake, she could barely even eat her dinner–”

  “She didn’t eat?! What the fuck were you two doing? Did you even give her medicine? Can’t even give my daughter to fucking doctors–”

  “Okay, you’re reaching now.” Jack’s halfhearted glare is enough to pin you to your spot, but his expression softens immediately when he notices the tears coating your lashline, so does Samira, pulling you in a tight hug. Jack sighs, “Sober up, sleep a few hours, then go to Robby’s place. It’s just a cold, okay? She is fine.”

  “She clearly isn’t, she is sick! Why didn’t he call me?” You break away from them, running your hands down your face, tears falling from your eyes as you start pacing around, “She was sneezing today… fuck, I’m such an idiot, I should have noticed the signs. Why didn’t Robby say anything?”

  “Because he didn’t want you to think he isn’t capable of taking care of his daughter,” Jack sighs, and you stop dead in your tracks in front of him. “He said he’ll tell you when she slept it off for the night, he didn’t want to ruin your night. He said you deserved to have this, but I couldn’t keep this to myself.”

  You take a shaky breath, hands mindlessly reaching for Samira, and she silently grabs you, linking her fingers through yours as she waits for you to process everything. 

  Your baby is sick. She is sick and she is away from you. You wish you could have done something more, but alcohol is running in your system and it’s dulling your senses. All senses except the intense anxiety inside your core.

  Robby. Fuck, Robby… he thinks you find him incapable. And that couldn’t be any farther from the truth. You know he loves Vian to the point he’d do unspeakable things to keep her safe and sound. Hell, he’d even break his leg if it meant she’d laugh. Of course you think he can take care of her. He’s her father, and she is his everything. He’d bend mountains for her to heal her. She is in good hands, and it pains you to know he thinks that negatively.

  But you’re a mother, and mothers get anxious and antsy when their child is sick, right?

  “Listen, hun,” Samira’s gentle voice coaxes you out of your mind, grounding you until she is sure you are listening, “Drink a glass of water, pop an Advil and sleep. Vivi needs her mom focused and ready, you can’t do anything for her if you’re not well.”

  “Mira’s right,” Jack says, “Please, listen to her. Take care of yourself first, then you can go and tend to Vivi.”

  “My baby’s sick,” you pout, wiping your tears a bit too harshly, “Fuck, she’s sick! I didn’t even notice it!”

  “And that’s okay,” Samira replies gently, her hands stroking your arms, her eyes holding a gentle sympathetic swirl in them, “You’re allowed to miss a few signs.”

  “But I’m a doctor, if I miss something, I might kill my patient–”

  “Alright, that’s enough of you being awake. Let’s get you in bed,” Jack takes off his shoes quickly you don’t even get to notice him struggling with his right one, “You sleep, then you get to his place. You must listen to me, for Vivi’s sake.”

  With a sniffle, you nod.

  ****

  Four hours. That’s how much sleep you managed to get before you were sprinting up with heart palpitations. You had to get to Robby’s place immediately.

  You managed to grab everything you needed for a noodle soup from your fridge, Vivi’s medicine from your cabinet, filled another bag with her clothes and toys and her favorite blanket. 

  And as you said earlier evening; you managed to turn a twenty minute to a ten minute drive. Passing a few red lights carelessly and holding onto the wheel so tightly your knuckles begin to hurt. You are relentless with how you drive, going past the drive limit and bouncing your left knee when you had to stop.

  Soon, you are knocking on Robby’s door softly, not really wishing to wake your daughter up. You are shaking in your spot, fingers tightening and loosing around the bags you carry rapidly. You shift your weight, rapping your knuckles against the door again until you hear a soft padding inside, and the mere movement inside makes you sigh in relief.

  Robby opens the door, and your eyes are immediately drawn to the dark circles around his eyes and the sulken sick look on his face. You sigh sadly, biting your bottom lip as you gaze at him tenderly. 

  “You look like shit,” you say, walking inside the house after he pushes the door open fully. You drop the bags on the dining table gently, turning around to look at him with a small exhale.

  “Gee, thanks,” his own eyes widen in surprise at the hoarseness of his voice, clearing his throat to make it better only for his voice to not come out completely, “Fuck…”

  “How is she?” You cross the space between the two of you, reaching to grab his hand and not to your surprise, you find his skin warmer than usual — warmer than it is supposed to be — and you press your fingers over his Radial pulse, counting each beat under your skin.

  “Knocked out on acetaminophen, didn’t even need convincing to go to bed.” He explains, closing his eyes when your cool palm comes in contact with his cheek gently, then the back of your fingers on his forehead, “We gave her food and tried to tell her to finish her meal but… all in vain.”

  “It’s okay– oh, hey, baby,” Jerry pants at your feet, standing on his feet with his paws on your stomach as he stands up and waits for his ear scratches — no barking though, as if he knows someone is asleep upstairs. “I missed you so much.”

  “What did you bring?” Robby coughs, covering them with his elbow, and you kiss Jerry’s head before diverting your attention back to Robby, shaking your head in disapproval, and he rolls his eyes, “Don’t look at me like that.”

  “Like what?” You cross your arms over your chest, looking at him over the edge of your glasses.

  “Like I’m sick.”

  “Are you not?” You scoff and move to the kitchen, finding the medicine box already on the counter, grabbing the tablets and a glass of water before moving to where he is standing, “Have this and get in the bed.”

  “I’m not sick,” he stands his ground and you have to bite your tongue when you notice his nose scrunching before he is sneezing loudly into his shirt. He groans, his nose turning a bright shade of red and he looks so tired. “Maybe I am.”

  “That’s what I thought,” you hand him the water and pills, “Where is Vivi?”

  “My room,” he whispers, following you upstairs slowly, and you sigh in relief when you find your daughter sleeping quietly with her teddy and Sully in the middle of Robby’s bed, her cheeks flushed and lips parted, signaling her stuffed nose.

  “Oh, baby bear,” you pout, making a beeline to the side of the bed to sit next to her, slowly caressing the few strands that stick to her sweaty forehead, “She looks so small…”

  He doesn’t respond, just sighs and nods, standing in the doorframe with a soft smile on his lips. He is exhausted, but he wants to admire this view as long as he can.

  “Robby, get in the bed,” you say without taking your eyes off Vian, kissing her forehead and rubbing her back, smiling when Sully stirs awake and meows at you, stretching her paws over your hand when you reach to scratch her belly before she jumps out of the bed.

  Your baby looks so small and safe under Robby’s large duvet, tucked under it and breathing with her mouth open. The last time she was sick was also the first time you had to handle it without Robby being around all the time. Her first sickness after your divorce.

  You keep your nose buried in her head, wincing slightly and frowning when she coughs in her sleep, your hand moving to her chest to slowly rub over her shirt, warming up her skin as to soothe her. You can’t do anything besides physical touch for her and it burns you inside out.

  “I’ll take the couch–”

  “Get in the fucking bed,” you scold him gently, standing up to take off your coat and unbutton your jeans before making room in front your daughter on the bed and crawling under the duvet as well, “It’s big enough for all of us. You can’t rest on that damn leather couch.”

  “You still hate that couch, huh?” He smirks but it soon turns into a pained groan as he sits on the bed and crawls under the duvet lying on his side to look at ihis daughter, his dark eyes moving from her rising shoulders to your face, “I’m sorry.”

  “For what?” You whisper, finger caressing the slope of Vian’s nose slowly, smiling when you glance at Robby’s face, finding the same curve on his face as well.

  Robby’s hand finds Vivi’s small legs, slowly tracing gently up and down before his eyes begin to get drowsy, but before the medicine takes over his mind, putting him in a deep hazy state.

  “S’rry for ruinin’ your night…”

  Your heart breaks into a millions pieces the way he says it; so defeated, so fragile. You didn’t know he was beating himself up this bad. After your divorce, coparenting and cardio consultation were the only visible strings between you, but the invisible ones… the heartache, the longing, the missing hours on your cold beds. You knew Robby like the back of your hand, but after divorce, you had to be the one who pulled away and stopped giving him multiple chances just to keep him around.

  But this… this fear of upsetting you, this fear of how you perceive him after your divorce is new. 

  “Sleep well, bear,” you kiss your daughter’s head, eyes trained on Robby’s flushed cheeks and eyelashes kissing his cheeks. You have to fist the sheets in your hand in order to not reach and touch him, to soothe him when he is sick. 

  You glance between the two of them, wishing you had the power to protect them from everything and anything.

  ****

  “Thanks for coming down,” Robby nods, giving you his signature smile before looking you up and down, making heat rise to your cheeks, “Thought it’d be a good case for teaching.”

  “And you couldn’t do it by yourself, Doctor Robby?” You push your fists into the pockets of your white coat, nudging his elbow with yours, eliciting a shy shrug, “You want me to call her, don’t you?”

  “I mean if you want to–”

  “I always wanna talk to my daughter,” you roll your eyes at him, leaning on the work stations in the southern wing, “But y’know, you could call her yourself. The babysitter doesn’t bite.”

  “She’s young, she might get the wrong idea,” he shrugs like he didn’t just say the funniest thing possible. 

  You try to hold back your laugh, you really try, but it only comes out as a snort and then you are covering your face and laughing as quietly as possible. You missed hiw cockiness, truly, because it wasn’t like he would be outwardly confident about his looks and demeanor, only with you. It’s refreshing getting glimpses of your husband.

  “Not everyone wants to get into your pants, Dr. Robby,” you bite the inside of your cheek, shaking your head as his cheek turn into the nicest shade of red, “She has a boyfriend and she is way younger than you, even youngee than me. Cross my heart she won’t be interested in you other than your money.”

  “How’d you know she has a boyfriend?” He rests his palm on the table, leaning a little closer to you so he can whisper, “Has he hit on you? Do I need to make a move or something–”

  “Oh, please,” you scoff, glaring at him over the rim of your glasses even though you can’t see him clearly like this, “Firt of all, he hasn’t. Second, you’re my ex so technically you have no say in anything regarding my love life and third, we went out for ice cream with the babysitter and Vivi and he came to pick up his girlfriend.”

  “So he met Vivi too? How have I never been told about this–”

  “Jesus, Robby, get your shit together,” you shoulder past him, moving towards the central station with a smile when you notice Samira standing there with a tablet, Robby following you with a slight pout on his lips, “Hey!”

  “Hey, doc,” Samira hugs you, squeezing your arm before she hands you the tablet, “Need your eyes on this one. Robby’s been up my ass about this, ‘call her down call her down’ and when I didn’t he got mad and did it himself.”

  “You seriously bullied Mira to call me down? What are you so afraid of?” You huff out a laugh and look down at the screen, “What do you need me to do about it?”

  “Can you give him a bed upstairs?” He asks, looking at you over your shoulder, standing right behind you as he tries to be subtle about staring at you, “And I’m… afraid of you.”

  “Good, you should be terrified of me, I’m your ex wife, remember?” You give him a sarcastic smile before looking back at Samira, “I think I can find him a bed upstairs. You gotta let me check with my charge nurse first.”

  “Thank you, hun,” you hug her again before she moves to the other side of the room, leaving you and Robby alone again, and Robby takes his time grabbing the tablet from your hands and putting it on the rack next to the others.

  “So…”

  “So?”

  “There’s this thing happening in a few nights, charity for the hospital. Fundraisers, auctions, you name it and it’ll be there. I was told that every head of the department has to attend and I was wondering if you’d come.”

  “Y’know I’m not the head of the department, Dr. Robby. I wasn’t invited, really.” You shrug, turning around to look at him fully now, reaching in your pocket for the phone, “I’d love to spend time with my daughter though.”

  “So… would you like to, I don’t know, pay the babysitter a bit more so she comes on her night off? So you’re free to join me there?”

  “You’re asking me out?” You chuckle, shaking your head, thinking nothing of it because Robby’s your ex husband, you are divorced for a reason, he can’t actually mean it, “You’re funny, Robinavitch.”

  “I try,” he says, grabbing your elbow gently as he guides you to a less crowded hallway, still holding you close. His face is twisted in worry, the voice in his head is screaming at him for being a fucking idiot, but he has talked far too much so he can’t back out anymore, “And… not like that. Not as… lovers or whatever,” he tries to mask it with a quick chuckle, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his neck, “Just as friends. Because I need a plus one.”

  “So you’re not asking me out?” You can feel your heart bursting through your ribcage, and you hate it. He isn’t really asking you out, he is just doing it out of convenience, because why would he? You’re divorced, he has moved on, he wants to become a family because of your daughter but he doesn’t want you. Friends. Fuck friends. “I mean… okay, yeah, sure. I could do friends.”

  “Great! Uhhh… well, I–” he gives a sheepish smile, looking down at his shoes before he meets your eyes again.

  “You still wanna call her?” You roll your eyes at him affectionately, unlocking your phone to press face time over the babysitter’s number, angling the phone until your faces are in the screen, and you’re reminded by the first few days of you coming back to the hospital. You would call Vian to look at her small body move with each breath. Back then, you were fresh out of postpartum and during the last painful months of your marriage.

  “MAMA!” She is running in the living room, the phone rattling in her small hands before she crawls on top of the couch, lying on her stomach with the phone in her face, “Mama Vivi miss you.”

  “I miss you too, ba–”

  “DADDDYYYYYYYY!” You have to turn the volume down immediately, wincing but masking it with a smile, turning around to look at Robby who is grinning as wide as Vivi, waving at her enthusiastically before she starts sitting up, falling with her face on the phone first before she manges to rest her back on the cushions, “Miss you Daddy!”

  “I miss you too, baby bear. So so much,” he says, placing his chin on your shoulder to get a closer look at the screen, definitely not thinking twice before he does it. It catches you off guard, breath hitching and eyes widening at the warmth of him. You can smell his cologne; cool and sandalwood, somehow even sweet which you are sure comes from the conditioner he uses for his beard. 

  “Daddy, come tonight?” She asks, puffing out her cheeks before she brings her teddy bear into the screen, “Hi ted?”

  “Hey, ted!” You and Robby have to stop the small laugh that threatens to fall from your lips when she forces you to acknowledge the existence of her small teddy bear.

  “No, sweetpea, I can’t come tonight,” you keep quiet when he talks, because you know he is the only one who can stop her from getting upset about this. Your heart still breaks after so many nights of doing this to her, telling her her dad can’t be around. Although she puts up a brave face, you notice her pout small tears in her eyes every single time. 

  “But… maybe tomorrow? I can come pick you up in the morning!”

  “Really? Mama! You come too?” 

  “I, well…” you turn around, looking at Robby who is gazing at you with the softest most pleading look in his brown eyes, practically begging you to say yes without uttering a word. You are immediately met with Vian’s identical eyes to her father’s, both pouting and waiting for an answer they hope for. With a sigh, you rub your temple and nod, “Fine, okay, yeah.”

  “Bweakfast! Pancakes– LILY! I go out!” Then she is bolting towards her baby sitter, leaving the phone on the couch as she starts jumping up and down, letting you hang up with a quick ‘goodbye, baby bear’.

  “She’s excited,” he mumbles, pulling himself away from you, clearing his thorat as he purses his lips, looking around the hallway before his eyes fall on you again, “You don’t have to come, y’know? I can always–”

  “If I say I’ll do something, that means I will.” You give him a quick smile, pushing your phone back into your pocket before you walk away, glancing back at him quickly, noticing the way your heart beats faster amd faster when you catch him staring at you with a fond look. Friends. Divorced lovers but friends.

  ****

  “Mama, when daddy come?” She is swinging her feet on the counter as you feed her some apples so she doesn’t get hangry during the drive to her favorite coffee shop. You have her secured with your hands flat next to her small legs.

  “Soon, little bear,” you kiss her forehead, giving her another slice of apple and cinnamon which she takes eagerly, munchin and nodding happily, “What else do you wanna do today?”

  “Sleep wit Mama and daddy, in mama’s bed!”

  “You dream big, huh?” You chuckle, rubbing your palm over her back, wiping the cinnamon off her cheeks. Both of you turn to the sound of the doorbell and glance back at each other, and you have maximum ten seconds to grab Vivi when she launches herself at you, “Okay, okay, let me put you down first!”

  “Down down down,” and she is running for the door happily, waiting for you to unlock the door, rocking on her feet as you approach her and open ir for her. You pull the door and Robby peeks into the house, grinning when Vivi gasps at the bouquets in his hands, “Fowers! Mama, look!”

  “…I can see that,” you glance between the bouquets in his hands curiously, trying to act tough but when you see how happy Vivi is when Robby bends down to kiss her cheek and hands her bouquet to Vian.

  “So pretty! Mama, look!” She holds up her flowers for you to see, it’s almost as big as her body, and starts sniffing the scent of the lilies, “Nice!”

  “Yeah? You like ‘em, baby bear?” Robby stands up after he kisses the crown of her head, looking shyly between you and the bouquet he has brought for you. You stand with your arms crossed over your chest, biting your lip as you wait for him to do something, and when he extends the flowers to you with a soft smile, you sigh in relief, “I hope you like them too.”

  “Y’know I love Tulips,” you bury your nose in the petals, eyes never leaving Robby’s soft gaze, not even for a second, before you bring them down and smile at him brightly, “Thank you, I love them.”

  “Anything for you,” he smiles back, his eyes trailing over your face, falling on your lips before Vian tugs on his sleeves and he is leaning down to pick her up with a groan, holding her up on his forearms against his body, “Ready to go, sweetpea?”

  “Yuppie!” And suddenly she remembers what she is holding, gasping and turning back to you with her wide eyes full of worey, “Mama, fowers in water!” 

  “Of course, give it to me so I can put them in a vase, yeah? Go get your coat, it’s gonna be cold outside,” you take the flowers from her hands when she nods and asks Robby to put her down, and soon you are also wrapping your scarf around your neck while Robby makes sure Vivi is bundled up completely, not a silver of her skin exposed to the cold air. He is not going to risk another sickness.

  “Ready to head out, ladies?” 

  “Yes!” She grabs his hand and they walk outside a few steps before they wait for you to join them, wiggling her small fingers at you when you close and lock the door before lacing your fingers through hers, “Les go!”

  “Let’s go, little bear,” Robby guides you to the sidewalk, walking side by side toward the café, Vian swinging your arms as she jogs between the two of you, trying to reach your long strides, giggling when you and Robby picks her up when she wants to jump from a stair.

  You look at them; Vivi talks about Sully, telling Robby about the new words she has learned, about the night she helped you stir the soup, about the day they were both sick and they sneezed together one time that resulted in more spit and mucus falling from their noses when they laughed.

  Life is unfair, you have learned it the hard way. If it was just and comfortable, you would have Robby the way you used to, Vivi would have her father with her every moment she could. But you tried to give her that, you tried to work it out with Robby, yet none of the talks and counselings were enough to put him in a therapy room until he wanted to.

  You beat yourself up every day for taking this away from Vian, but maybe it was all for the best.

  The café isn’t as crowded as usual, it’s Tuesday and you assume it could be because of this. Luckily for you, your daughter’s favorite table near the window is empty and she makes a run for it, letting go of your hands to crawl on top of the seat.

  “Vivi hungry!”

  “I know, sweetheart,” Robby follows suit, sitting in front of her and hands her the menu. His eyes follow you fondly as you take the spot next to Vian and help her take her scarf and jacket off, “What do you wanna get?”

  “Pancakes! Wit whip cream!” 

  “And some fruit, right?” You wiggle your eyebrows at her, squeezing her cheek lovingly when she nods and gives you a toothy smile, “Good girl.”

  “What do you want, honey?”

  Robby asks, reading the menu without even looking at you, like this is normal, like you are still his wife, like this is the domesticity you have experienced many many times. You have, and that is why it hurts much more.

  “Sorry,” he shakes his head, his words finally dawning on him, “It just slipped out. Force of habit, I apologize.”

  “It’s alright, don’t worry about it,” you smile quickly, ducking your head down to appear busy with Vivi, as if he didn’t just make you weak in your knees without even meaning to, “I want… a large tea with vegetable omelet.”

  “Nice choice, I’ll get the same with coffee–”

  “Daddy, waffles?” Vivi drops the menu, resting her chin on her hands as she blinks at him with her doe eyes that Robby can never say no to, and you have to bite back a huge snort when Robby looks at you for help and when he receives none he sighs and nods.

  “Fine, but–”

  “Yay!” She lets out a quick cheer before Robby cuts her off with a stern look.

  “But… you have to have a little from it, okay? We can take the rest home.”

  “Jeeeesus, you’re weak.”

  “Why don’t you come and try?” He whines, reaching to ruffle her hair when she looks at the two of you with curiosity, “You’d fold ten times worse than me if she looks at you like that.”

  “You think I’m not getting tortured every hour I’m home?” You roll your eyes, leaning down to kiss the top of Vivi’s head before you notice the waitress coming your way and you look at Vivi, “Do you want to order for yourself?”

  “I can?” She asks, her eyes lighting up before her gaze fall on the waitress who smiles and greets the three of you, “Hi!”

  “Hi, honey! What can I get you?”

  “Whip cream wit pancakes!” She says, swinging her legs under the table, smiling broadly at the waitress before she gasps, “Orange juice!”

  “Got it, and what ‘bout you two?”

  Robby orders for both of you, nodding as th waitress reads the list to make sure she’s got everything before she walks away quickly.

  “About the party thing happening this week…” you start, handing Vivi her book you brought from the house for her to try and read while you wait for your breakfast before you look back at Robby, “Any hints on what color you gonna wear?”

  “I have only one good tux and it’s navy blue, you know that,” he spreads his arm over the back of the chairs, his eyes are heated as he gazes at you, “It’s nothing fancy, just a get together to show face.”

  “I know, someone else told me this too,” you say without a hint of humor, trying to act nonchalant and confident, but you want to see his reaction. No, you need it.

  “Oh? Who?” He leans forward now, bracing his weight on his forearms on the table, looking at you with raises eyebrows, his eyes holding a deep emotion that he has yet to let it resurface.

  “Park,” you name him, shrugging and keeping your gaze locked with his, “He told me about the event… he asked me to be his date.”

  “Ha!” He huffa out a sarcastic laugh, biting his bottom lip as he nods at your words, tongue picking out to lick the small shapes of his teeth over his lips, his eyes never leaving yours. He is pissed, you can tell that much, and boy, does it bring you joy to watch him lose his composure little by little, “He asked you out. Fucking Park…” he shakes his head and raises his hands when Vian whispers ‘bad word, daddy!’ and glare at him, “sorry, pumpkin.”

  “Yeah, he did,” you nod, like you didn’t just drop a fucking bomb on him, sighing in relief when the waitress comes with your breakfast and drinks, and you take the time to busy yourself with your tea, waiting for the girl to leave the two of you before you continue, “Can you imagine how awkward it was? And Ortho attending asking another attending’s ex wife out.”

  “And what did you say?” He sips on his black coffee, his knuckles white as he grips the handle of the mug tightly, “In case I need to break his nose.”

  “Oh my gosh, you’re so dramatic. Of course I said no,” you chuckle, placing Vivi on your lap as you pull her plate closer, tucking a few napkins in her collar so she doesn’t dirty her clothes, “Okay, baby bear, do you want any help?”

  “Nope!” She grins at the two of you before she frowns and grabs the fork, craning her neck to look at you, “Eat wit my hand?”

  “No, I taught you how to use your fork, remember? I can slice the pancakes for you and you can eat with your fork.” You explain, kissing her forehead when she scrunches her nose at you in concentration before nodding and turning her attention back to her pancakes, “Okay…”

  “Daddy?”

  “Yes, pumpkin?” Robby reaches to push her hair out of her face, smiling softly when she grabs his hand to look at his watch.

  “Why you have a house?” She asks, playing with Robby’s watch slowly while. You stiffen beneath her, hands stopping the movements as you listen to her sigh softly. You knew this conversation would come sooner than later, your girl is smart, she is very very intelligent, so it shouldn’t shock you as much as it does.

  “Because I need a place to live in,” Robby says with a short chuckle, tickling under her chin before he pulls his hand back and watches her grab her fork tightly, thanking you quickly and stuffing her mouth the pancake.

  “Why not live wit us?” She says with her full mouth, and you swallow the lump in your throat, eyes widening as you search Robby’s face for an answer. You are forzen, you shouldn’t be, but you are and you cannot do anything about it. You just hope Robby can pull the weight on behalf of both of you now.

  “Because…” he takes his time, taking a deep breath in before he takes a large sip from his coffee, his eyes falling to his fingers around the mug before he looks at Vian, “Mama and I decided to live in different houses.”

  “But I miss you when you not here,” she whispers softly, pouting a little before she takes another large piece in her mouth, chewing and leaning back against your chest.

  “You stay with me three nights every week, sweetheart,” he sighs sadly, biting his cheek before leaning forward and extending his hands for her to take, bringing her small knuckles to his lips when she places the fork on her plate, smiling when he kisses her small fingers, “I miss you too… every second you’re not with me. 

  “Mama,” she turns around immediately, her pout visibly getting larger by the ticking time, “Daddy come live wit us.”

  “Baby bear–”

  “Pumpkin, look at me,” Robby is quick to jump in and save you from your daughter noticing you falling apart, giving her one of his largest grins, “My work demands more time to stay at another place, okay? We decided to do this so when I’m off I can completely stay with you and Jerry, yeah?”

  “Let’s just focus on our breakfast, huh?” You kiss her head again, smiling and squeezing her a little in your arms before mouthing a quick thank you to Robby, “Besides, I have a surprise for you!”

  “What?”

“What?!”

  They both ask at the same time, and you have to hold back a soft laugh at how similar their expressions are.

  “Well, daddy and I are going out for a work event this week, and I talked to Auntie Samira about it,” you start, looking down at her, caressing her full cheek and leaning down to rub your nose along hers, earning a gleeful giggle, “You gonna have a sleepover with Jack and Mira at their hosue!”

  “Really?!”

  “Yes, baby bear.”

  Your eyes lock with Robby’s, and you notice the soft smile on his face as he looks at his girls. You want cry.

  ****

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you curse as you try to find the main hall, walking with the skirt of your dress in your hand, purse tightly clutched into another, begging for Robby to be here.

  It was a shitshow to get ready while getting Vian ready and drop her off at Jack’s house. She was crying and so were you while you poured coffee on the dress you had originally decided to wear, until you sat her down on the couch and started Frozen again while handing her a big bowl of ice cream.

  Anything to keep her busy and you free to put your makeup on before she decides to sulk again and give you a hard time.

  You are lucky you find the main hall quickly before the speeches begin, finding the open bar in a sweeping glance across the room. With a sigh, you put your purse on the bar’s counter, searching for Robby among the sea of bodies before the bartender approaches you with a smile.

  “What can I get you?” 

  “Dirty Martini, extra drirty, please,” Robby gives your order, his warm hand moving to your waist as he appears out of nowhere, “And Double Black neat for me.”

  “Comin’ right up,” the bartender winks at you before she moves to the other side to get what she needs for your drinks.

  “Hey,” you turn around with a grateful smile, breath hitching in your throat when you look him up and down, noticing the black shirt under his gorgeous navy blue tuxedo is unbuttoned on top. You meet his eyes bashfully, blood rushing to your cheeks and you have to make sure your gaze is steady enough so he doesn’t notice you checking him out.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” he squeezes your waist, leaning back against the bar counter and pulling you in gently when someone walks past you hurriedly, “How’s Vivi?”

  “You know, a ray of fucking sunshine when I’m in a hurry,” you roll your eyes playfully, looking anywhere but him, “I had to bribe her with ice cream and Frozen until she was calm enough for me to get ready.”

  “Sounds like a tough time, I wish I could help,” he sighs, running his hand through his hair, and you notice how his gaze fall upon your dress — an ankle height length maroon dress that is topped off with the Louboutin heels Robby bought you as your birth gift. “You look gorgeous.”

  “Thanks,” you say breathlessly, blinking at him through your lashes, looking at the band in the corner as they play a song you don’t know before you notice the bartender bringing your drinks for you, “Oh, lovely!”

  “Was she excited to go to Jack’s place? Samira said they wanted to bake together,” Robby says, trying to act nonchalant but his knuckles are moving up and down your back, sipping on his whiskey while his dark eyes sweep over you.

  “Sounds like hell of a plan,” you gulp your drink down, pulling the olive between your teeth while your eyes lock with his, dragging the toothpick down before biting the olive. You watch as he looks at the way your lips stretch around the small round thing — painted red and glittering with lipgloss — before you drop the toothpick and the rest of the olives in your glass, “You’re staring.”

  “Can you blame me?” He tilts his head to the side, his fingers skimming down your side to your hip, letting his pointer and middle fingertips press down on the flesh gently, watching closely as your chest begins to heave with each breath, “I’m contemplating my life choices right now. My ex-wife… even more beautiful than before.”

  “Wow, you’re such a sweet talker,” you huff out a small laugh, patting his chest before you turn around to look at Gloria making her way to the podium, and you are forces to press into Robby’s side as the hall begins to fill in, the space around the bar getting more crowded than before.

  “I’m a man on a mission,” he leans down to whisper in your ear, his free hand resting on your hip as he finishes his drink with the other, closing the distance between your bodies until your back is flushed to his front, “You like the sweet talk, don’t you?”

  “Don’t let it get to your head, I’d lose my mind over a compliment if it comes from Jack too.”

  “You don’t mean that,” he squeezes your flesh, his hot breath fanning over your neck as his hand comes up to play with the strap on your shoulder, leaning down to brush his lipa over you shoulder clavicle, “You’re not an easy woman, beautiful. No man can make you shy like I can.”

  “And how do you know that, hmm?” You let out a ragged sigh, leaning back into his warmth, clutching your glass in your hand while he toys with your sanity.

  “Because I was married to you.”

  “Ah, yes, our very beautiful loving marriage that ended,” you scoff, shaking your head as a round of applause fills the hall, “I wonder why– oh, wait, you weren’t sweet talking back then!”

  “That’s not true,” he lets out a laugh in disbelief, his chest rumbling against your back as his fingers tighten over your hip, “I used to do it all the time!”

  “Well, apparently it wasn’t enough,” you roll your eyes and push away from him, grabbing your purse from the countertop before sighing deeply, “Look, I’m just gonna go. I showed my face, you had your plus one and I need to get back into bed before I pick Vian up from Jack’s place in the morning. So–”

  “What? C’mon, the night’s just started–”

  “No, Robby, this was a bad idea. We can’t just have a night out like nothing’s wrong, we’re divorced for fuck sake!” You hiss the words out before walking away from him, knuckles hurting with how hard you’re clutching your purse.

  “Wait!” 

  You pick up your pace, gathering your dress into your hand before you hear him rush behind you, following you with his long strides.

  “Stop runnin’ away from me!”

  “I’m not running away!” You yell so he can hear your voice through the loud music that starts playing. You don’t even turn around to look at him, marching through the hallways and trying to find your way out before he catches up with you. You need an escape, this was a huge fucking mistake.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, will you please stop?!”

  He grabs you by the elbow, his long fucking legs helping him to reach you quite fast. He pulls on your arm to stop you, groaning when your purse hits him in the stomach but he recovers quickly and pins you to the spot easily.

  “What do you want? I came here for you, I wasn’t even invited! What could you possibly want more from me–”

  “I need you to tell me why you’re leaving!” 

  “Because!” You start, looking him dead in the eye, but the desperation in his gaze makes your words stick in your throat, “Because…”

  “Because what? You’re running away again when things are getting good–”

  “Oh, hell naw! That’s your specialty, Robby,” you try to wiggle your arm out of his grip but he is steadfast on holding you close, “You run away, I do control damage. I can’t let you get close to me again because you’ve already fucked up my life enough. You run away when things get hard, you run away when I got too close! Your own wife!”

  “You were pushing me! You were pushing me so fucking hard and I couldn’t handle it,” he replies, his voice raising a little to match your tone, “You wanted to know everything! I needed space, I needed to think, not to pour my fucking heart out!”

  “You needed space, that’s why you went to bed with Hastings a good few months after our divorce? You needed so much space that I had to find out you were leaving for your fucking sabbatical from Shen?! I was your wife, Robby. Your in sickness and health, until death do us part, remember? I vowed to stay by you, I promised to help and I wanted to help!”

  “You wanted to fix what wasn’t yours to fix!” 

  “I wanted to get close to you, I wanted to love you, Mike…” you finally manage to pull your arm out of his hold, desperately holding your tears back from spilling when you notice the way his eyelids have turned red from crying, “I wish… I wish you'd just let me love you the way you deserve to be loved."

  The silence between you is defeating as you just… stare at each other. You are panting, your lungs begging for more air, and Robby looks at you with so much unspoken sorrow, his face red and and eyes bloodshot. 

  “I’m gonna go,” you whisper, letting the tears fall freely on your cheeks before you turn around with a heavy heart and begin to walk away.

  “Let me drive you home,” he catches up with you after a beat or two, sighing when he walks next to you side by side, “Please…”

  “I can get an Uber–”

  “This is the least I can do for you,” He says, opening the door for you, looking down into your eyes softly, and the plea in his brown irises is enough to make you nod hesitantly, “A token of my appreciation for coming with me tonight.”

  ****

  The ride home is silent. Oddly silent. The bone crushing silence after arguing with a lover. But you weren’t lovers. You were divorced, exes in disguise, best sex partners, co-parents, and somewhere between the lines, you fell as companions.

  Maybe that is why this hurts more than any fight you’ve ever had. Because you were hurt by him more than you can imagine, and you have also hurt him more than anyone can count. You were stags fighting with horns in the evening and lovers by the dawn.

  Giving him another chance sounds so good, but you can’t.

  He drives into the parking space in front of your garage, running a hand down his face as he slows down the car, glancing at you occasionally. You can’t bring yourself to look at him, you can’t bring yourself to see the red vessels in his eyes. 

  “Thank you for driving me home,” you say quietly, opening the door as soon as he cuts the engine, undoing your seatbelt and hopping down from his car, not waiting for him to get out as well — he does it anyway.

  “Of course,” he tries to catch up with you but you are faster, hopping the few steps and getting to your door, keys shaking in your hand as you try to unlock it. “Can we talk–”

  “No, goodnight.” You slip inside before he gets the chance to stop you, slamming the door shut and leaning your back against it, chest rising and falling rapidly as you try to regukate your heartbeat.

  Purse is dropped on the counter, necklace unattached and shoes falling next to the door as you move through the house until you reach the kitchen. You press the glaas to the fridge, watching as the water pours with a loud rhythmic sound.

  The first sip takes the edge off, the second cools the burning of your throat and stops the stinging from pushing your sobs down for the entirety of the ride. You drown the rest, and you feel the uneasy sensation of your esophagus stretching.

  What happens next a mix of hesitation, longing, carelessness if anyone can believe. You don’t give it a second thought, you don’t have the time to as you run to the door and downstairs, finding Robby pacing with his hands locked around the back of his neck.

  Before you know it, your lips are crashing into his. 

  He doesn’t pull away, he doesn’t hesitate. He kisses back with a fever that has you clutching his shoulders. He bends you backward a little by the force of his kisses. His mouth doesn’t leave yours, he wants to eat you alive, he wants to devour you and he is doing it very good so far.

  His hand pulls you closer by your waist, the breeze outside making you shiver in his arms while your tongue dances with his in a rythmic tango. 

  “Let’s go inside.”

  You grab his hand and lead him to your open door, and he kicks his shoes off quickly before you are pressing him to the nearest wall, fisting his shirt and pulling him in for another deep kiss. 

  He pushes you inside the house with urgency, leading you towards the couch with his hand on your hip and the other grabbing the back of your neck to keep you tucked against his body.

  You end up with him on the couch and you mounting his lap, heels digging into his knees a little as you straddle him. Your arms are wrapped around his neck while your lips move together in sync, his beard is soft against your skin — he has conditioned it for the night.

  His fingers dig into your asscheeks as you grind down on the bulge in his pants, the straps of your dress falling off your shoulders. He groans into your mouth when you roll your hips in a way that puts direct pressure on the head of his cock.

  Your hands find his zipper when you rise on your knees on each side of his thighs, pushing his pants down enough alongside his boxers to bring out his hard cock quickly. Your patience is running very thin.

  “Let me prep you first–”

  “Michael, if you’re not inside me in the next three seconds, God fucking forbid I will enter a manic episode.”

  “Okay, okay,” he chuckles but soon he huffs out a grunt when you wrap your fingers around his length, stroking him with slow gentle movements, “Fuckin’ hell, baby.”

  “I can’t wait to feel you,” you whisper against his lips before he helps you push your dress up and holds it there for you as you use your free hand to push your panties to the side and line the angry red tip of his cock with your fluttering hole.

  You sink down slowly, hand flying to his shoulder as you take him inside you inch bt inch, eyes rolling to the back of your head at the delicious stretch. You missed having him like this; undone, captivated and already gone by the feel of you around him. You missed his voice when he would groan your name, when he would shush you gently and fuck you harder.

  He throws his head back, hips rolling up impatiently, and that is enough to make you drop the rest of the way down and that knock the breath out of you. You rest your forehead on his throat before you regain some ounce of your composure and lean back, reaching to unbutton the rest of his shirt, sucking in a sharp breath when the soft flushed skin of his chest and stomach comes into view.

  He melts under your dark gaze when you lick your lips and drag your fingertips across his chest, down his sternum and on his belly. He is hot under your touch, his muscles contract with each caress and stroke, and when you begin to move, he loses his mind. 

  He doesn’t know where to hold onto; your hips, your thighs, your waist, but it is to no use because he is getting dizzy with lust. He reaches to pull the top of your dress down enough for your breasts to pop out. And in a blink of an eye, he latching his mouth onto your nipples, sucking and groaning.

  “I missed these fucking tits,” he growls against your flesh before he looks up into your dazes eyes, “The best fucking tits… I remember when they were fucking hung with milk, God, You tasted so sweet then.”

  “You loved drinking our baby’s milk–”

  “These tits were mine before she got here,” he rolls his tongue over the tightened bud, enjoying the way you moan and begin to rock your hips faster, his cock nudging deeper inside you, “They’re still mine– fuck, baby, you get off on that, don’t ya? You want me to make them full again, hmm?”

  “Oh, fuck fuck fuck!”

  He starts snapping his hips up into yours, pulling you forward until you slump against his chest and cling to him while he fucks you hard, the filthy noises of your joined bodies filling the silence in the room along with your muffled cries and his huffs and groans.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know, baby,” his hand goes to your hair, grabbing the strands a little rough before he tugs on them until he exposes your throat to his hungry mouth, sucking on the skin while he thrusts his cock into you in a pace that has your eyes roll to the back of your head.

  When you come, it almost makes your heart stop with how fast it beats against your ribs. Your thighs shake around Robby’s hips and your toes curl in your heels as you bounce up and down his cock even through your orgasm until you are quivering and hiccuping his name, burying your face in his neck and grinding so hard against him it makes his vision go white for a second from pleasure.

  “I got you, shh, you’re okay,” he wraps his arms around you, one of his hands going to your hair to keep you safely tucked in his embrace as he helps you through the aftershocks of your high. “So pretty, baby. You look like a fucking goddess.”

  “Mike…” you whisper, turning your head and resting it against his shoulders, fingers moving up to caress his cheekbones as he gazes down at you, a stupid smile on his face as he holds you close. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Because I love you.” 

  There. Simple. Out in the open. He watches you closely, the way your lips part in surprise — a good kind of surprise because he has known you long enough to know your expressions — and your pupils take over your beautiful irises slowly.

  He brings your hand to his lips, kissing each of your fingers, moving to your knuckles and then your palm before he presses it to his cheek once more.

  You grin at him, straightening your back and cupping his other cheek as well, leaning down to peck him on the lips, gasping when his cock jumps inside you, reminding you of how he hasn’t come yet.

  “You didn’t finish…”

  “The night’s young,” he helps you off him and on your legs slowly, standing up to tower over you, “And I’m a very patient man.”

  “That,” you whisper, turning around when he guides you, kissing your bare shoulder as he reaches for the zipper of your dress, “Is very true.”

  “Did I tell you how beautiful you are tonight?” He keeps his lips locked on your neck and shoulder, his knuckles caressing your back as he lowers the zipper.

  “I don’t mind hearing you say it again,” you let the dress pool around your ankles, gasping when he leans over to kiss your neck, then each of your shoulders before he moves down a little, kissing the line of your spine until he reached your ass, letting his teeth graze the flesh before he helps you out of your heels one by one. 

  “You look so fucking beautiful,” he whispers against your ear, and you turn around to look at him, naked as the day you were born before you reach to unbutton his shirt slowly, running your hand over his pecs and down to his soft pudgy stomach. 

  You kiss his chest slowly, fingers caressing his shoulders as you finally drop the shirt on the ground, and it gives him enough time to push his pants and boxers down and get rid of his shoes as well.

  You take his hand when he is just as bare as you are, leading him upstairs to your room before your bodies begin to move together.

  He is all consuming with the way he moves inside you; it’s not rushed, but it is deep and meaningful. You both cling to each other, lips slotted together. Your bodies have missed each other, the familiarity, the way you fit like a piece of puzzle.

  Suddenly, he stops, tears streaming down his face as he deops his forehead on yours, his cock nestled deep inside you as he cries softly, his tears making your eyes sting too.

  “I’m sorry for ruining our marriage,” he confesses softly, his hand cupping your cheek, “I’m sorry for not fighing harder, I’m sorry for not getting better, for letting you both go. I’m so fucking sorry–”

  “I’m sorry too,” you kiss his cheek, wiping each tear with a small peck, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you keep him pressed to your body, “For not giving you space when you needed it, for not trying harder–”

  “Shhh,” he nudges his nose to yours gently, “I’m just glad I can touch… I can have you again.”

  ****

  You do not know why your heart starts beating faster at the sight of the empty spot on the bed. He is supposed to be next to you, cuddling you, holding you close and snore loudly in your ear but he is not. And that makes you nervous to the point your heart is giving out by how rapid it is pumping blood.

  He must have left, you think to yourself as you slowly peel the duvet off your body, bare legs swinging over the edge of the bed, sitting with a heavy sigh. Of course you didn’t have any expectations, it could have been just sex in his eyes. Maybe he said those words because he was feeling gooey and relaxed, but why would he say those things if he didn’t mean it?

  You fail to look at the clock or your phone or his phone in your charger before you grab a t-shirt from your drawer — his t-shirt that you’ve stolen from him years ago — and walk downstairs to see if any of his clothes are left, only to be met with them neatly folded on one of the loveseats.

  Your body relaxes a little until you hear a loud giggle from the kitchen. With a growing smile on your face, you turn around and find Robby and Vian bent over the counter as he helps her stir some type of batter.

  “Shh, don’t wake Mama up.”

  “I’m already up–”

  “AAAAAAAAA!”

  “What is wrong with you–”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you laugh loudly, throwing your head back as the two of them glare at you with their identical eyes, “I didn’t think anyone was here, I’m sorry, I had no idea.”

  “S’okay!” Vivi is quick to replace the glare with a grin of her own before she — with Robby’s help — slides down the counter and runs to you, crashing into your legs with a force that nearly knocks you on your back, but you’re pretty immune to her fierce love and grab her by her waist to pick her up. “I miss you Mama!”

  “Miss you too, baby bear!” You hold her close tightly, kissing her cheek, her nose, the little mole on her earlobe, her brown hair before tucking her head under your chin and you finally notice Robby standing there with his arms crossed and a dopey smile on his face.

  “You ruined our surprise,” he says quietly before he makes his way to the two of you, leaning down to peck your lips softly before he murmurs, “You didn’t brush your teeth.”

  “I know, sorry… I thought you left,” you confess, pouting a little at the thought before Vivi starts tugging at your shirt, “Yes, baby bear?”

  “Daddy got me from Unce Jack!”

  “Yeah? I’m so glad he did, now I can start my day with my favorite people.” She giggles when you tickle under her chin and settles back againstnyour shoulder, letting you go back to your conversation with her father.

  “I’m not gonna leave like that again, sweetheart,” he leans back down to rest his forehead on yours, wrapping his arms around the two of you, engulfing you both in a giant warm hug, “I’m sorry I scared you, I swear I just went to pick her up so she can spend the day with us.”

  “I know, bear,” your arms tighten around Vivi who just blinks at the two of you, before her eyes start gleaming with mischief.

  “Now kiss!” She giggles, turning around in your arms until she can wrap both of her arms around your necks and pull you closer.

  Robby doesn’t let you duel on it much longer, he closes the distance plants a chaste kiss on your lips, then another when Vian doesn’t let the two of you get further apart.

  You kiss him back shyly, chuckling into his mouth when you feel your daughter starts playing with your hair, watching you with awe in her gaze.

  “I have morning breath…”

  “I’ll kiss you with any breath.”

  ****

  To say you are divorced is a bit of a lie. Legally, yes, you’re no longer Mrs. Robinavitch, but with the way you’re living, you are practically Robby’s wife through and through.

  There isn’t a thing called custody of Vian between you. Your days blended with his slowly; he’d spend your days at your place while you went to his place when he would have Vian. It was the better choice to ease him back into living at your place without confusing your daughter much more than she already is.

  You cook together, dance together when Robby’s knees feel good enough, take your daughter to different children classes, have sex after a certain mom flirts too much with Robby or when a dad thinks he has a shot. You kiss and hold each other like you used to, but this time, Robby is there, with you, in the present and without letting the ghosts of his past haunt him.

  But sometimes… sometimes it gets too much. 

  “Hey, I just got home, me and Vivi are making Ghorme Sabzi,” you answer his call in a heartbeat, helping Vian to wash the rice with her little hands. “It’ll be ready when you get home–”

  “DADDY! Vivi cooking!”

  “Hey girls!” He says with a smal chuckle, and you notice the restrain in his voice immediately, “Wow, good job, pumpkin! You help mama while I’m busy, yeah?”

  “Yup yup!” She watches with wide eyes as you help her rinse the dirty water, “Mama cook green food!”

  “I know, and we love it, don’t we?” He sighs when he hears her mindlessly talking to herself, “Honey, you there?”

  “Yes, Mikey, I’m here,” you take the call off the speaker and put your phone between your ear and shoulder, “What’s going on?”

  “I- look, I’m so sorry but, I… I’m gonna be late, I need an emergency therapy session–”

  “Oh, baby…” you lower Vivi on the ground when she tells you she wants to read her book, your chest hurting by the way he sounds on the other end of the line, “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “No, love, I just… I can’t come home like this, I’m a… I’m a fucking mess and I need to just…”

  “Michael, it’s okay,” you reassure him, smiling sadly, “We’ll be here for you when you come home. I’m glad you called me, I’m gonna wait for you till you come home, okay? I love you, please take care of yourself, bear.”

  “I love you too, honey–”

  “Daddy!” Vivi runs to you with Teddy in her hand, making grabby gestures with her fingers until you pass the phone to her, “I lobe you, Daddy!”

  “I love you too,” you don’t hear it, but there is a small sniffle at his end, “I love you so much. Help mama, okay? Save me some Tahdig, don’t eat it all!”

  “Okay,” she giggles, “Bye!”

  ****

  Robby sighs softly as he unlocks the door and kicks off his shoes, dropping his keys in the bowl next to yours as he slowly peels the day off him. Backpack next to the couch, jacket hanging off one shoulder while he walks upstairs with heavy quiet steps, as if he is chained anf they ate pulling his weight down.

  He opens Vivi’s door first, looking at her from the doorframe, tears filling his eyes as he watches her chest move up and down rhythmically. She is alive. She is fine. She is safe. He repeats these sentences to himself over and over, until he can breathe a little easier.

  She is okay, and that’s enough for him to relax even if it is for a second.

  He leaves the door slightly ajar before he walks to your room, walking inside without making a sound, finding you sleeping under the duvet and burying your face in his pillow. With a small smile, he starts to strip. The jacket comes first, then the scrub top and undershirt, followed by his belt and cargo pants.

  “Hey…” he hears you and turns around to look at your sleepy smily face, “How are you?”

  “Hey…” he doesn’t answer your question, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back halfway toward you before he turns around and reaches to push your hair out of your face, “Sorry I woke you up.”

  “Don’t w’rry about it,” you whisper, grabbing his hand softly before kissing his palm, “Do you wanna talk about today?”

  “No, not right now,” he shakes his head, crawling under the duvet, “can you please…”

  “C’mere,” you open your arms and grin when he lies on top of you, head buried in your neck as you hold him close, kissing the top of his head and enjoying how his weight is pinning you down, “I love you, Mike.”

  “Love you more, honey.” He whispers against your skin, taking in a deep breath before he starts talking, “Today… I had a kid, around Vian’s age, she… she had drowned in the pool trying to grab her toy. She… she didn’t make it and I couldn’t do anything to prevent that. And I thought what if one day, I’m too careless with Vivi and she ends up like her. What if I can’t save my own child–”

  “Bear, listen to me,” you kiss his head, tightening your arms around his shoulders, resting your cheek on his forehead, “You are probably the best doctor I’ve ever seen, okay? If anything happens to her, you’ll be the best person to save her. But, baby, she is safe, and she is sleeping soundly in her room. I’m not gonna say nothing can happen, because she is a child, but if something happens to her, you will take care of her, we will take care of her.”

  “I fear I’ll fail her,” he lets the tears fall finally, “One way or another. I fear I can’t be there for her when she needs me the most, I… I fear she’ll realize I’m too damaged and can’t take care of her.”

  “Baby, Vivi loves you so much she will believe if you tell her you’ve hung the moon,” you let him cry softly against your neck, wrapping your leg around his hips to keep him tucked against your body, “She’s been so much happier since we started living together. She looks for you in every room she walks inside. You’re her Daddy, and she trusts you.”

  “I don’t wanna fail her like I’ve failed you.”

  “We failed each other, and we’re working together to fix it. Be here for her, love her like you always do. You’re doing everything right, bear. We’re okay, she loves you, I love you.”

  “I love you too, both of you, so fucking much.” He clings to you harder, and you let him, holding him equally tight until he is snoring softly against your neck, his soft exhales easing you back to sleep quickly.

  ****

  “Mama…” Vivi tugs on your fingers, her whisper waking you up gently, “Mama, Vivi huggies?”

  “Hey, baby, why are you up?” You hold your hand for her to take and pull her up with a little struggle, given the big guys sleeping on your chest.

  You notice the soft rays of sunshine hitting your curtains, sighing softly you kiss Robby’s head and help Vian crawl next to you under the covers, and the small movement stirs Robby awake.

  “Morning,” he kisses your shoulder before he finds Vivi mimicking his pose, resting her head on your chest, her small hanf moving to pat his cheek lovingly, making you both chuckle, “Hey, pumpkin. What are you doin’ here?”

  “Morning huggies,” she frowns a little, acting like his question is so silly she just has to make a face, “Mama?”

  “Yes, little bear,” you kiss her head too, one of your hands moving up and down her small back, “Do you wanna sleep again?”

  “Mhm,” she nods, her eyelids already falling shut, her hand still resting on Robby’s cheek, and you notice how he is softly crying, his hand coming up to cover yours against Vivi’s back.

  “She is everything.” He whispers, his thumb caressing your wrist gently, “You are everything.”

The sabbatical was supposed to be three months, but somewhere around Bar Harbor Robby decided he needed more time. For what he wasn’t sure. But he knew he needed to stay far, far away from the Pitt for a little longer. With his position at the hospital safe, he stayed in New England through the end of the summer.

On his first day back, he’d been gone as long as the two of you were together. Six months. Six months without text messages or phone calls or, hell, postcards. Six months of feeling like Robby was a ghost in your life, something you had and lost that lingers around every corner. Six months of rebuilding your life after he disappeared from it.

You found out about Robby’s sabbatical the same way everyone else did, during one of his evening speeches exactly two weeks before he was scheduled to leave. Two weeks’ notice for a relationship you’d honestly believed was headed toward an engagement ring in a few months. He didn’t think to ask you, didn’t think to check in, didn’t even bother to tell you in the privacy of the home you’d basically moved into. Your life fell into brutal clarity in that moment: Robby was a huge part of your life, but you were a footnote in his.

He sent you a text five nights ago: Back in town. When can I see you?

You didn’t answer.

You don’t plan to.

The morning of September first, Jack hands off shift change seamlessly, like Robby had never left, and Robby finds his footing on the ED floor with a newness, a fluidity, a casual lightness on his shoulders that strikes everyone as foreign. A version of Robby with no tension in his shoulders and no sarcasm biting at his tongue might as well be a new doctor.

Once he has the ED machine churning on pace, Robby leans his elbows on the nurse’s station and scans the shift board. “And where’s my favorite nurse this morning? Night shift?”

Dana barely spares him a glance as she processes the last of a stack of paperwork. She’d always disapproved of Robby pursuing you, so she’s not exactly sympathetic when she tells him, “She transferred months ago. I’m sure the notice is in your email inbox if you ever get around to clearing that out.”

His mind spins at the idea of the Pitt without you – your steady hands, your shy smiles, your forgiving wit. “Transferred? Where? Why?”

“Not my business,” Dana replies with a shrug. She pushes a chart into his chest and says, “They need you in exam six.”

As Robby takes the chart and looks over it with blank eyes that don’t see a word, Princess stands up on her toes so she can meet Robby’s eyes. With a knowing but curious gaze, she tells him quietly, “She’s working at the hospital’s satellite methadone clinic up the street now. Rumor is that she had an ugly breakup with someone at the hospital and wanted to get some distance.”

Robby sucks in a sharp breath. Holds it. Lets it out slow. His eyes focus to actually look at the chart and he mutters out, “Thanks for the info.”

She adds, “Smart money’s on Frank, by the way, since they were always so close.”

Robby grits his teeth. “They weren’t that close.”

“Whatever you say, cap.”

The biggest thing Robby notices in his shift once he’s working closely with his doctors again is a change in the batch of residents he helped onboard last year. They’ve gained confidence during his absence, which he’d expected, but there’s something else. To put it briefly, there’s a lot of scowling and it’s definitely in his direction. Even Whitaker, who used to glance up for his praise like a puppy, is now averting his eyes and keeping his sentences short, professional, unsmiling. The newest batch of students and interns is all polite deference and eager introductions, but the ones he’d come to know and care for and consider friends are acting like he stinks of BO and betrayal.

In the locker room preparing for his lunch break, he approaches Dana, trying to be casual about his tone, and asks, “What’s wrong with the kids, by the way? I have a sign that says ‘ignore me’ on my back or something I didn’t notice?”

She snickers, “Maybe they’re just mad that daddy went to the gas station for milk and didn’t come back for six months.” She gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder and adds, “Give them some time; it’ll take a minute for people to find their rhythm around you again.”

He nods slowly and swallows, hoping that’s all this is. “Right, sure.”

The truth doesn’t even occur to him: You had been their favorite person around the hospital, his abandonment had made you leave, and they aren’t quite ready to forgive him for that.

—

It’s almost your lunch break when a whole flood of people arrives at once. You’re behind the check-in desk today and you can’t help groaning to yourself. You have to pee, your stomach has been growling non-stop for an hour, and you’re desperate to put your feet up.

You’re on autopilot as you check in patients, collect consent forms, and support doctors however you can without getting up from the desk. You’d started modified work duty this month and it’s driving you nuts not being able to do the hands-on clinical work you love. With your eyes on your monitor, the next patient enters your peripheral vision and you tell him, “I’ll be with you in just one moment.”

“No worries, gorgeous.”

Your focus snaps.

Anger rises up like bile in your throat. Part of you wants to cry, part wants to run, part wants to scream. Ultimately, with so many wars raging inside of your body, your expression goes flat as you meet Robby’s eyes. “You pick up an opioid habit while you were screwing your way up and down the eastern seaboard?”

Robby almost laughs. Almost. He hadn’t expected you to act so hostile – in his mind, you’re still the woman he loves, waiting patiently for his return home – and it pinches like frostbite. Voice soft and respectful, he offers, “I just wanted to stop by and see you.”

You set your jaw and cut back, “Well I didn’t want to see you, but I forgot that my opinion doesn’t affect your decisions.”

He sighs. “You’re still mad at me.”

You turn back to your computer and finish up the file you need to before lunch. “‘Still’ implies that eventually I’ll stop, which won’t be happening.”

“C’mon sweetheart, you can’t-”

“Don’t.” Your eyes flick up as you shake your head. “Just- just don’t.” After closing out your computer and sighing heavily, you tell him bluntly, “You’re officially eating into my lunch, so I’m gonna ask you to leave or I can get security. I’m happy either way.”

Robby presses, “Let me at least buy you lunch.”

You extend your hand and reply without emotion, “Sure, give me $20 and I’ll happily spend it.”

Robby grits his teeth and digs his heels in. “Please.”

Anxiety sparks in your chest as you realize he really isn’t going to leave without talking to you alone first. You’re going to have to stand up from behind the safety of the tall desk and half wall right in front of him. The moment was inevitable, but you’d hoped to at least be in control of it.

“Fine. Buy me lunch.” You’re almost laughing as you mutter, “Let’s see how this goes. Might as well do it in public.”

Then you get to your feet. You stretch your arms above your head, back tight from sitting all morning, and your navy scrub top rides up slightly.

Robby’s next words are breathless and desperate. “You’re pregnant.”

“Glad your eyes still work after six months of wind burn without your goddamn helmet.”

He swallows hard, barely hearing the malice in your voice now. “How- how far along?”

“Take a fucking guess, Doctor,” you huff, shouldering your bag and walking around the nurse’s station. He moves to follow you, but you point at the ‘only employees past this door’ sign and give him a mock pout. “Wait outside if you care so much.”

Robby debates for a second and says weakly, “It’s my lunch, too; I need to get back to the hospital.”

You give him a look that reeks of ‘that’s what I thought’ and say, “Then get back to the hospital. I’m immune to being left behind now.”

It’s not your hatred that hurts. It’s your apathy.

He sends you texts. You don’t reply.

He leaves you voicemails. You don’t listen.

After a few more days of silence, he’s got his head in his hands at the bar while Jack nurses a beer, pitying his sorry ass. He’s been silent for two straight beers, clearly gathering the courage to tell him the good news. It takes Jack reminding him that this is his only night off for Robby to choke out, “She’s pregnant. Very pregnant. Seven months, probably.”

“Ah.” Jack studies his best friend’s face for a long time before settling on a simple, succinct, thorough, “Fuck.”

Robby sucks in a long breath and lets it out slow. “Yeah. Fuck.”

“And she doesn’t want anything to do with you now.” It’s not a question. It’s the truth of the matter. Jack shakes his head and then gives Robby one of those pointed looks only a brother could get away with. “I don’t blame her.”

Robby balks, “You said I should go on the trip.”

“But I’m not your girlfriend.”

“And thank god for that.”

“You didn’t talk to her about leaving?”

“I didn’t realize I needed her permission.”

“You didn’t. But you should’ve wanted it.” Jack puts on that sage old friend voice and goes on, “You told me before you left that she’s the one. What the hell is wrong with you?”

“A lot. That’s why I had to go,” Robby replies, grappling with too much of himself. “Look, leaving was the right thing to do. I know that now more than ever. I figured a lot of shit out and I feel a hell of a lot better – about myself, my future, my life. But now? Now there’s going to be a baby. My baby. Our baby.” Robby gently thumps his forehead on the bartop and groans, “The whole time I was gone, I thought she’d be waiting for me when I came home. Every step of the way, I figured- I figured she’d still want me.”

“Delusions of grandeur,” Jack opines almost absently. Then he yanks Robby to sitting upright by the back of his hoodie. “She’s so far out of your league you’d have to get drafted first just to be her water boy. Why the hell would you think that?”

“Because she always waited for me,” Robby mutters, sounding so absolutely pathetic Jack debates recording it for blackmail down the road. “She- she was always there. She always stayed.”

“And you repaid her by leaving.”

Robby’s voice drops to an ashamed whisper. “I didn’t realize she loved me enough to care that I left.”

“But she did.”

“She did.” Robby stares straight ahead, through Jack and through the walls and through the world until his eyes settle back on his relationship with you – the one good part of his life that had spiraled squarely out of his control. “She was shining a light in my face, but I was too busy covering my own eyes to see her. Too deep in my own self-doubt and self-hatred to recognize what was right in front of me.”

“Alright, Socrates, pack it in.” Jack claps a hand on Robby’s back and summarizes, “You fucked it up and you need to fix it.”

“I fucked it up and I need to fix it,” Robby confirms. “But how do I even begin to say sorry for something like that?”

“She doesn’t want you to say sorry,” Jack replies. It’s effortless for him, this kind of thing. Robby is supremely jealous of how simple Jack makes it all sound. “She doesn’t want Robby the rich attractive attending anymore.”

“Flatterer.”

“Shut up. I’m saying she’s spent the last six months thinking you were gone. While you’re god knows where, she’s figuring out how to be a single mom on a nurse’s salary. So I know she doesn’t want what you used to be for her.”

Jack pauses for long enough that Robby has to sigh and prod, “You’re really gonna make me prompt you? Tell me what you think she wants.”

“She wants a dad for her kid. A real dad, not a sperm donor. She doesn’t want a boyfriend. She wants a husband. And a husband doesn’t have to run away to figure his shit out. Show up for the baby and you’re showing up for her.” Jack finishes off his beer, slaps down a handful of cash, and tells him, “Let’s get a cab. I think you need to cry yourself to sleep to figure out your next move.”

At nine a few nights later, after his shift, Robby knocks on the door of the new address he definitely didn’t steal from your personnel file. It’s a small townhouse in an okay part of town, better than your previous shoebox, but it’s still nothing compared to his spacious home further out of the city. The place he always imagined raising his family in. The place where you’d taken up half his closet, half his bathroom counterspace, half his life. Half his heart, undeniably.

When Trinity Santos answers the door, Robby nearly falls on his ass. With a green face mask cracking on her skin and her eyes burning with anger, he’s never seen her looking so full of wrath. Which is saying something. “What are you doing here, Dr. Robby?”

His brows furrow as he explains, “I was trying to see my girlfriend, but I guess I got the wrong address somehow.”

Santos scoffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “You girlfriend? Pretty sure you forfeited that title when you ditched her like she didn’t mean anything to you.”

“Woah, Jesus,” Robby chuckles, holding his hands up. “Is that the general consensus? Guess that explains all the hostility today.”

“Not hostile, just professional.”

“You were definitely hostile.”

Trinity glares. “File a complaint.”

She moves to shut the door, but he catches it with one large hand. “Is she here?”

Trinity continues to use her body to block him from entering. She knows he’d never do anything crazy like push her, but she wants to make her allegiance perfectly clear. “Yup.”

“She lives with you and Whitaker now?”

“Yup. Saving money until the last minute.”

“God.” Robby runs his hand over the back of his head. “Can I- Can I just come in and see her?”

Holding bitter eye contact, Trinity calls over her shoulder, “Do you want to see Robby?”

Your voice is immediate. There’s more hurt in it than he’d heard this morning, and something about that makes him feel hopeful. Like there might still be something for him to hold onto. “He’s here?”

“At the door.”

Robby listens as a chair squeaks across the floor and your footsteps recede toward a staircase. Away from him. Fainter now, you call, “Get rid of him.”

Trinity nods and turns back to her boss. “You heard the woman. Go home.”

“Fuck, fine. It’s getting late anyway; she should sleep.” With a rough sigh, he reaches into his inner jacket pocket and hands her an envelope. “Can you give this to her at least?”

Santos snatches it from his hand and demands, “What is it?”

“It’s ten thousand dollars.”

She rolls her eyes. “Fuck off, Robby.”

Without saying anything else, she slams the door in his face. Shaking her head, Trinity ascends the steps to the second floor, where all the bedrooms are, and knocks on your door. You answer with puffy, tear-swollen eyes. Right away, Trinity wraps you up in a hug and sighs, “He’s the worst. I’ll kill him at work tomorrow.”

You laugh, sniffle, and shake your head. “No need. I was going to have to deal with this eventually, right?”

“Yeah, but it should be your choice on your terms, not him showing up unannounced.” You nod and pull back from the hug, swiping your cheeks one more time. Trinity holds up the envelope and says, “Robby wants me to give this to you. I can rip it up or hold onto it or-”

“I’ll take it.” You smile softly at her and add, “Thanks, Trin. You shouldn’t have to deal with my drama.”

“You deal with my gay soap opera with Yo,” she points out with a conspiratorial grin.

Your reply is interrupted by the sound of Dennis emerging from his bedroom, rubbing sleep from his eyes. He’s been on the late-night shift the past couple weeks, slowly becoming nocturnal. “What’s going on?”

Trinity answers with malice lacing her tone, “Robby showed up.”

Dennis shakes his head. “Bastard.”

“You don’t have to say that,” you reply with a laugh. “I know you want to go back to being his personal assistant as soon as possible.”

“Trinity would kill me,” he mutters.

She punches him on the arm. “And I’d be right! We don’t defend shitty men who-”

“Robby’s not a shitty man; you know that,” he interrupts her. “He handled leaving in a shitty way; that doesn’t make him a shitty person.”

“You’re too forgiving, Nebraska.”

“And you’re not forgiving enough.”

You sigh sharply, “And I need to go to sleep.”

“At least open up the letter for us,” Trinity insists. “My nosiness is absolutely screaming for the intel. I won’t be able to sleep without it.”

Ripping open the envelope, you sigh, “I’m sure it’s just some stupid saccharine guilt bomb designed to make me-” Your voice falls to the ground and melts through the floorboards. There’s a folded-up note wrapped around something much more interesting. You hold it up to Trinity and Dennis and breathlessly announce, “It’s a check for ten thousand dollars.”

“Oh my god, I thought he was being a dick,” Trinity replies, her voice equally low and surprised, almost reverent – not for Robby but for the sheer amount of money. “Why the hell would he…?”

With shaking hands, you read the corresponding handwritten note to your roommates.

I don’t know whether or not when you’ll let me back into your life. That’s up to you. I accept it. I respect that it’s your choice. But I’m not going to be a deadbeat dad. You know I can’t do that. You know about my father. I’m never going to become him. I hope you believe that. So this isn’t a bribe to take me back. I promise it isn’t. It’s not an apology. I’m still working on that. It’s for our kid. For you as the mother of my child, not just the a woman I want need miss love care about. Nursery stuff, vitamins, doctor’s appointments, your favorite hot chocolate from Vino’s, anything you need until they’re born. I’m not going to let you want for anything. If money is all you’ll accept from me, then take every penny I have. Please. I promise I won’t abandon the baby. I promise I will do whatever you need from me and more. And I promise I love you. Both of you. I hope you’ll Please, let me prove it. Love, Sincerely, Yours, M.

All three of you hold your breath in the space that follows Robby’s painstakingly scrawled words.

Then Dennis takes a long breath and urges, “See? He’s good. He cares. He wants to take care of you and the baby. You could do a hell of a lot worse.”

Trinity shakes her head and swallows hard. “She could do a hell of a lot better, too. He still left.”

Dennis argues, “He didn’t know she was pregnant.”

You whisper, “Do I really want a man who would only stay because of a baby?”

Knowing far too much for his own good, Dennis touches your shoulder and presses, “Do you really want any man besides him?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose and try to breathe. “I need sleep. I’ll…Fuck. I’ll let you guys know whenever I figure out what the hell I’m doing with my life.”

Trinity brushes your cheek with her thumb. “Love you, sunshine. Goodnight.”

You wish her goodnight and Dennis a good shift before retreating into your bedroom. You change into your pajamas, ignoring the tee of Robby’s that still lives in your drawer, and curl up with your thoughts. In bed on your side, you rest your hand on your bump and wish the little life inside could tell you the right thing to do.

In his home across town, all Robby knows is that he’s never felt so much relief watching $10,000 leave his account.

In the morning, on your way out, the door thumps against something heavy on the stoop. A large plastic tote with a brown bag from your favorite cafe on top of it. You call over your shoulder for Trinity and she hauls the heavy box inside while you focus on the little bag of treats with a note card stapled to it. Inside the bag is your usual order that Robby always brought into the hospital for you in the mornings, the coffee replaced by a ginger tea but the bear claw looking as delectable as ever.

I figured you might want your things back from my place. I’m sorry for being gone longer than you expected for not giving you a key in the first place for unintentionally stealing your stuff for coming by last night. I don’t want to make anything worse. M.

Trinity reads the note over your shoulder and announces, “He’s groveling.”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should let him grovel.”

Biting the sweet fluffy pastry, you consider, “I don’t want to be cruel. I’m not going to keep his own baby from him.”

“Of course not. But that’s not what we’re talking about. Do you want him? Not just as your co-parent or sperm donor or whatever. A husband. A real man. Do you want to be Mrs. Robby someday soon?”

“Of course I do,” you sigh, “but I just…I don’t trust him anymore. How could I?”

“I’m just saying,” she reasons with a shrug, “if his baseline grovel is 10k, I for one would love to see where he goes from there. Maybe you’ll end up with a private plane or something.”

“Robby’s got money, but he doesn’t have that kind of money.”

“As far as we know,” she replies with a snicker. “Look, at the end of the day, you have to decide if you can trust him, so I say you tell him exactly what you need and see if he can hack it. Be blunt with him about your expectations. He can worship the ground you walk on from here on out or he can spend the rest of his life signing child support checks and seeing his kid every other weekend.”

You laugh and polish off the bear claw. “You’re a menace, Trinity Santos.”

“My specialty.” She pours herself a coffee and collects her bag. “Now do you want a ride or are you grabbing the bus?”

“It’s a beautiful morning; I don’t mind the bus.”

“Maybe Robby will get you a car.”

“Yeah,” you snort, “maybe.”

Right as your lunch break starts that afternoon, a delivery driver shows up by the staff entrance with an order bearing your name. After one of the other nurses calls you back, you take the heavy bag of absolutely heavenly-smelling Thai food and ask the driver, “Is this from Michael Robinavitch?”

“Yeah, he said you’d be expecting it.” He checks the order on his phone and reads, “The delivery instructions said ‘tell her I know for a fact she doesn’t eat enough protein to be growing a whole new person.’ Congratulations; he sounds like a nice dad.”

You shake your head and sigh. “Yeah, he can be.”

And it goes on like that for the next five days before you decide what to do. Robby always orders you lunch. None of the following meals come with messages, though, just something carefully chosen for your tastes and needs. He even remembers the way you order things – extra lime on your pad thai, salsa verde instead of pico on your tacos, and any bonus dessert he can throw in – to the point where you wonder if people at the Pitt are helping him out, campaigning for the two of you to get back together.

Robby checks his phone way too many times that entire first week that he’s back. He keeps waiting for you to text, call, email, hell he’ll even take a DM at this point. But you don’t. It’s agony. If nothing else, Trinity’s dagger-glare has dulled into more of a butter-knife-glare by Friday afternoon.

Then.

After he clocks out and heads to the parking lot, there you are. Leaning on his fucking motorcycle. You’re a vision in the waning afternoon, sunlight catching your hair and brightening your eyes. You speak first: “Can we talk?”

“Yes,” Robby answers too fast. “Of course we can. Do you…want to go somewhere else?”

“No. I don’t.” You swallow hard and then nod to a nearby bench, sitting down before he does the same. With one hand on your belly, you train your eyes forward and tell him, “You said in your note that you want to prove you love me. But I know you love me. That’s not the problem.”

Robby has to resist the urge to take your hands in his, to tilt your face toward him, to do anything that would ground your bodies together. “Tell me.”

Confirming his every fear, you whisper, “I don’t trust you enough to raise a child with you.”

Throat thick and limbs heavy, he rasps, “You don’t want me to be involved with my own kid?”

“Of course I want you to be in her life; that’s not- that’s not what I meant. But I don’t know if I can trust you to be her dad – her mom’s partner – and not just her biological father.”

The world tilts slightly.

Robby’s breath catches in his throat. 

Tears sting his eyes and he blinks them back. His voice trembles alongside his hands as he confirms, “It’s a girl?

You can’t help the way that softens you. You can see the universe he’s building behind his eyes: Robby holding a pink-blanket bundle, Robby learning to braid hair, Robby being fiercely protective and achingly tender.

You want to share that life with him so badly that it hurts. To sit by his side at dance recitals and tell bedtime stories together and be real.

“Yeah,” you settle for saying, intimately quiet, just for the two of you, “she’s a girl.”

“Wow. Holy shit. A girl. A little girl. Have you-” He clears his throat and swats a tear from his cheek. “Have you picked a name yet?”

You shake your head and admit, “I have some favorites, but it wouldn’t feel right to choose by myself. Without you, I mean. She’s not just mine.” Robby lets the next few tears fall onto his scrub pants and you can’t bear to watch. So you dig around in your purse and hand over the few ultrasound pictures you’d set aside, always hoping you’d be able to give them to him. One from each of your check-ups, a timeline from blob to baby. “Here. Yours to keep.”

Robby stares down at pure gold in his hands. He looks over each photo like a precious ancient text, smiling with those lovely wrinkles of his. After looking at the most recent one for a long time, he murmurs lovingly, “She’s got your nose.”

You touch your pointer finger to the picture and reply, “And your huge feet.”

His eyes stay locked on the scan for another full minute; he’s too choked up to add anything else. Once he’s finally starting to recover from growing a new chamber of his heart so quickly, he tucks the photos into his backpack, slides onto the sidewalk in front of you like he’s about to propose, and gazes up at your face. “I’ll do anything to be yours again.”

Biting your lower lip, you nod. Slow. Thinking. “I can’t just pick up where we left off.”

“I don’t expect you to. I don’t want that.” He sits back onto the bench next to you, this time tilting his whole body towards yours. Creating space he begs you to fill. “I know we can’t exactly start over, but I- I want to be new together. I want to fix what I broke.”

“Okay,” you whisper back, trying hard not to cry. Hormones and hope make a brutal cocktail. You sniffle hard and suggest, “Trinity told me you have the weekend off. Breakfast tomorrow? Well, brunch; the baby likes to sleep in.”

“Absolutely. Anywhere you want, any time.”

Your eyes narrow. “That fancy place you took me after the first time I slept over?”

“I’ll pick you up at ten.”

You wince as the baby launches a foot into your ribcage. “Sold.”

With those dumb beautiful wide cow eyes of his, Robby asks, “Are you okay?”

“Your daughter’s beating the shit out of me,” you groan. When he laughs, though, you soften even more. Tentative, you offer, “Do you want to feel?”

Robby’s voice is ragged and desperate like you’ve never heard it. It’s heavy with love and with need and with hope. One word holds every dream he’s ever had. “Please.”

You take his hand and guide it to the spot where the baby is currently dancing a samba, watching his tender, reverent expression every moment.

“Holy shit.” Robby laughs and grins at you while the baby nudges him over and over like she’s saying hi. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever felt.”

You roll your eyes and try not to smile. “Please; you’ve felt a million babies kick.”

“But this is-” He shakes his head and chuckles again at another flutter. “This is different. Is she always this active?”

“In the evening, yeah. Like she can tell I’m done with work and it’s playtime.” You put your hand over his, nothing more than an instinct, and rub your thumb over his skin. “She’s gonna terrorize us.”

‘Us’ settles, warm and cozy, in the hearth of Robby’s chest. He leans down and kisses your bump gently. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You’re halfway through the insanely decadent strawberries-and-cream crepes you ordered when you actually get up the confidence to break the charged silence between you and Robby. He’d overly complimented your cozy but stylish enough ribbed knit dress and you’d noted his freshly trimmed beard making him look too handsome for you to think clearly. Then a healthy dose of small talk while you waited for food. Now silence.

After licking a bit of vanilla cream from the corner of your mouth, you rush out, “I want you to audition to be my husband.”

One side of Robby’s lip ticks up into a cute, amused smirk. “Shall I prepare a monologue or a musical number? Will there be a dance portion?”

You hum teasingly, “There’ll be whatever I want; that’s the whole point.”

“This has Trinity Santos written all over it.”

You shrug and relent, “She may have had a hand in the concept.”

His fork wavers in the air. “Should I fear for my life?”

“No more than you usually do around her,” you giggle, just a bit, and Robby feels part of himself taking flight at the proof of any lightness left between the two of you. Then you go on seriously (so seriously it wraps back around to adorable for him), “For the next two weeks, I’m going to tell you what I need from you and you’re going to do it as soon as you can. Every time. I want to be the most needy, most demanding, most pregnant person in the entire world. If you can survive that, you can apologize. Give me a real, thoughtful apology and I’ll accept.”

Right away, Robby nods and confirms, “Consider it done.”

You raise a challenging eyebrow. “That easy?”

He puffs up his chest a bit. “I’m an emergency room doctor; I think I can handle a few midnight craving runs.”

“Is that so?”

“I’m 100% confident.”

“Great. Love that.” You sip your drink, gaze at him over the rim, and then tell him with the most vindictive smile you can manage, “The first thing I want you to do is sell the motorcycle.”

That night, Robby’s phone rings with a call from you for the first time in six months. It wakes him from a dead sleep, but he’s been craving your custom ringtone so much that he still manages to answer within less than a second. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he slurs out, “Hi, mama.”

“Hey, Michael.” He can clearly picture you sitting cross-legged on your bed with a menacing smile as you ask, “Can you bring me a tub of that cake batter ice cream I like? The one with the blue frosting swirl and rainbow sprinkles and the actual chunks of pound cake.”

Robby puts you on speaker so he can sit up, stretch his arms, and hit the lights. As he tugs on whatever clothes he runs into, he clarifies, “You mean the one they sell at that kitschy 24-hour diner roadside attraction thing off the highway out in Bridgeville?”

“That would be the one.” Sounding downright wistful, you tell him, “I’ve been craving it my whole pregnancy, but I felt bad asking Trinity to do nearly an hour of driving to scratch the itch.”

Robby frowns as he fumbles through tying his shoes. “You still don’t have a car?”

“I’m living with Dennis and Trinity to save money so I can get one by the time the baby needs to go to daycare,” you tell him softly, trying not to let it sound like an invitation. You swallow hard and repeat firmly, “Ice cream. One hour.”

He smiles to himself as he picks up his car keys. “See you soon.”

Before Robby opens the door to the garage, his phone pings with a text. It’s Whitaker, for some reason.

Good luck on your first mission. Her feet are killing her extra today, by the way.

With a grateful little smile, Robby grabs a tube of the cocoa butter lotion you’d put him onto back when you were together and tucks it conspiratorially in his pocket.

Noted. Thanks for the tip.

Dennis shoots off two more texts before Robby gets to driving.

I’m rooting for you.

If you could also grab me some of those real rootbeers in the dark bottles they sell there that would be great.

Robby rolls his eyes and starts the car. It takes almost exactly one hour to make his way to the neighboring town, stand in line at the Cracker-Barrel-esque diner shop, and head over to your place. It’s quiet this time of night in your neighborhood, so quiet that he doesn’t even have to knock. You answer the door in a crop top that sits on top of your bump and gray sweatpants that hang low beneath it, rolled up around your ankles. You’re visibly exhausted and need a shower and you’ve never been more beautiful.

Then you glance over his shoulder at the car still idling by the curb and your mouth falls open in shock.

“Michael David Robinavitch,” you say breathlessly, hopping down onto the stoop to get a better look, “is that a minivan?”

“Brand new Chrysler Pacifica,” he confirms, following you over and slapping his hand on the hood like it’s a sports car. “Most safety and security features in its class. Ain’t she a beaut?”

With a shy smile, you confirm, “You got rid of the motorcycle?”

Robby shrugs modestly. “Not very practical when you have kids.”

“Kids. Plural.”

He cuts you a look that’s all cocky and loving. “Yeah. Plural.” Then, before you can stop buffering and come up with a response, he slides open the side door of the van and removes his spoils. Hoisting heavy reusable bags, Robby announces, “Two gallons of ice cream as ordered. Hopefully that’ll last you until after my next shift.”

You squeal and grab one of the bags from him, practically skipping back into the house. You leave the front door open and Robby hesitantly takes it as an invitation to join you inside, lingering in the doorway as you beeline to the kitchen, scoop yourself a hearty bowl, and put the rest away in the freezer. You pause, turn to Robby, and check, “You want some?”

Robby carefully steps the rest of the way into the living room and closes the door behind him. “I think all that sugar and fat would give me a heart attack even faster than the stress.”

You sigh and flop down on the couch, lifting your feet onto the coffee table and settling the bowl on your stomach. “Try telling that to your daughter; all she wants is sugar and fat.”

“Thus why I keep sending you balanced meals to eat.”

“Thank you for that, by the way,” you lilt gently, smiling around the spoon as you indulge in the ice cream. You close your eyes and throw your head back, moaning, “Fuck, this is so good. Are you sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m happier watching you eat it,” he chuckles as he memorizes your pleased expression. It’s the first time he’s seen you so content and not on the verge of yelling at him since he’s been back. “Is there anything else I can do for you tonight?”

“Yeah, actually,” you tell him as you try to get comfortable, adjusting pillows around your limbs, “I want to hear about your trip.”

Robby’s brows go up; he genuinely hadn’t expected you to want to talk to him at all. “Really?”

“Yup.” You pat the couch next to you. “Princess kept calling it your midlife crisis fuck-a-thon, so I want to hear about all your exploits.”

Robby tilts his head to the side and says plainly, quietly, urgently, “I didn’t have sex with anyone while I was gone.”

You try to ignore the way that knowledge makes you breathless, focusing on creating perfectly balanced bites of ice cream. “You didn’t?”

“Of course not.” He shrugs, joins you on the couch, and says sheepishly, “I thought I had my girl waiting for me when I got back.”

“Girls don’t wait for men who don’t even text while they’re gone,” you murmur back, sounding more pathetic than you’d wanted.

“I know. I was really screwed up before I left because of everything with the shooting and with Langdon and I- I didn’t see anything clearly. Couldn’t.” Without making anything of it, Robby shifts your bare feet into his lap and starts to rub the arch of one with his thumbs, deep and perfect. He gives you a cheeky look and adds, “But someone I’m trying to impress told me that I had to earn the opportunity to apologize, so I won’t get into all that yet.”

You give him a pointed look. “Any particular reason you’re rubbing my feet?”

He shrugs innocently and reasons, “You’re pregnant; I’m sure they’re killing you all the time.”

“It’s just interesting timing,” you muse, “considering I was complaining about needing a foot massage to Whitaker right before he left for his shift and you just so happened to bring him that weird Pennsylvania root beer he’s been wanting.”

“A man has to have some secrets,” he murmurs. Then he removes all pretense and rucks up the legs of your sweats, takes the lotion from his pocket, and really gets down to business. While he works tension from your feet and ankles and calves, Robby tells you honestly, “All I really did on my trip was think.”

You tease, “Sounds horrible.”

“It was, a lot of the time.” Robby takes the empty bowl from your hands and sets it on the coffee table, promising to wash it before he leaves, and insists you just relax under the expert working of his hands. “I didn’t go because I needed a vacation. I needed to…reset. I watched a lot of sunsets in beautiful places, wrote in my journal twice a day, tried to get eight full hours of sleep every night.”

Your mouth falls open. “You wrote in a journal?”

“Still do,” he replies, sounding a little impressed with himself. “It helps me think. Helps me view my thoughts more rationally – see how stupid they can get, how untrue – when I can read them on the page instead of just repeating them over and over in my mind.”

“That’s really good,” you sigh, head on the cushion and eyes closed. He’s not sure if you’re talking about the journaling or the foot massage or both. Frankly, he doesn’t care. Just getting to hear your sounds of simple pleasure is enough. Interlocking your hands over your bump, you sleepily prod, “Tell me about all the beautiful sunsets, then.”

Robby knows you’re about two minutes from falling asleep, but he happily obliges regardless. He talks about the rolling Appalachians that separate Pittsburgh from the East Coast, the light over the Atlantic early in the morning, the busy cities and empty back roads alike. He talks about the old man he sat with for three hours in a coffee shop listening to him glow about his late wife. He talks about the beach where he saw a family playing and finally felt at peace about Heather’s miscarriage years ago. He talks about the synagogue in New York City where he went just to feel connected to some peace but a rabbi sought him out from the sea of faces and said the Tefilat Haderech over him. He recites the lines he remembers.

…lead us in peace and direct our steps in peace, and guide us in peace, and support us in peace, and cause us to reach our destination in life, joy, and peace…grant me grace, kindness, and mercy…bestow upon us abundant kindness…

After a while, he hears you softly snoring, but he doesn’t stop. Instead he touches your exposed belly, gently working the lotion over your stretch marks, and soothes, “Someday I’ll take you all the beautiful places I’ve seen. You’re going to have the most perfect life I can give you. You and your mom and me.”

Coming in quietly after her shift, Trinity walks into the living room, takes in the scene in front of her, and grins unabashedly. Big bad attending Dr. Robby waiting on you hand and foot just like she told you he should. Grabbing a late snack, she chuckles and praises, “Now this is what I like to see, Rob.”

Robby whispers back, “Be quiet. She’s out like a light.”

“You were just talking to her.”

He corrects, “I was talking to the baby. Mom might be asleep, but my little girl is up and kicking in there listening to my stories.”

She gives him a slap on the back as she walks by. “You’ll bore her to sleep soon enough, gramps.”

Robby’s eating leftovers in bed the next time you call on him. He pauses the TV and picks up the call. “Michael Robinavitch personal assistant service, how may I help you?”

You groan, “I want to shave my legs and I can’t reach anymore.”

He chuckles quietly and hastens to eat the last few bites of his dinner. “Sounds like something I can handle. Do I need to pick up anything to enhance your experience? Chocolate?”

Your voice perks up just a little. “Twix. Several.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And a blue raspberry slushee if you get the Twix at a 7/11.”

“I think I can manage that.”

Half an hour later, you’re in the bath sipping on a Big Gulp and wearing a bikini – much to Robby’s eye-rolling amusement, you insisted he had to earn even non-sexual nudity – while Robby lathers up your legs with your fancy moisturizing gel. You don’t miss the way he takes the time to massage the knots from your calves with those deliciously large hands. God, you missed his hands.

“You’ve got a real jungle going down here,” Robby tuts as he starts in above your ankles, working his way over your skin methodically and thoroughly, his glasses sitting low on his nose as if he’s prepping a surgical field. If this is a measure of how much he cares for you, then he’s not going to miss a single hair. “Gonna need a weed wacker for those shins.”

You glare at him. “I will send that razor straight through your hand, Michael.”

“I’m just saying you could’ve asked me a week ago.”

“I didn’t have any reason to shave my legs a week ago.”

“But you do now?” He raises a suspicious eyebrow. “Hot date?”

“With the OBGYN, yup. She’s a real hunk.”

He gives you a very pointed look at that. “Do you want me to trim your bush?”

“Michael!”

“I know you prefer to keep the topiary neat and the ground below smooth.”

“I will not hesitate to splash you.”

Robby just laughs. As he rinses off the razor and touches up some areas – he even shaves your big toes without saying a word, the gentleman – he sighs and lets his voice go low and honest. “That was a sincere offer. I’m not trying to get off on your personal maintenance, I promise. You always told me you felt uncomfortable when things got a little unruly.”

Sounding far too flirty for Robby’s sanity, you reply, “And you always told me you like unruly.”

“But it’s your body,” he replies. Earnest. Insistent. “I’m not going to push it, but it’s on the table if you change your mind. I want to do anything that will make being pregnant more comfortable for you. I know being up in the stirrups every few weeks can’t exactly be fun.”

After a moment, you whisper, barely loud enough to be heard above the gentle movement of the bath water. “You’re making it really hard to stay mad at you.”

His eyes drift up to yours. You both hold the eye contact for so long that, for some reason, tears sting at your waterline. His golden brown irises are too familiar, too warm, too full of love you’re afraid to accept and afraid to lose. Finally he says, “I want you to be mad at me until you don’t need to be anymore.”

You scoff, “You want me to be mad at you?”

He swallows hard and amends, “I want you to feel everything you need to feel. I can take it.”

And you want to kiss him.

You hate him – and you want to kiss him. So you sigh and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?”

Untying the sides of your bikini bottoms, you confirm, “Let’s trim the bush.”

He makes a show of patting his pockets before announcing, “Crap, I think I left my pruning shears at home.”

You smile and roll your eyes, grateful for his levity and the effortless way he makes you feel safe in his presence. You slip the rest of the way out of the bikini, wring it out, and hand him the sopping fabric. He hangs it over the sink and returns to his place by your side.

As he cleans off the razor again, Robby assures you, “Tell me if you want me to stop. It’s okay if you change your mind any time. You know as well as I do that the OBGYN won’t care what your vulva looks like.”

You snicker, “I know. Get to it, doc.”

Robby chuckles, sinks his hands into the water, and guides your legs apart just enough to give him access. When his fingertips graze your labia, he hisses in a needy breath at the familiar feel of your soft lips. Then he curses softly, shaking his head with a laugh. “Sorry, sorry. Reflexive reaction. Nothing short of professionalism from here on out.”

You laugh, “It’s okay. Glad to know someone still finds me remotely attractive even though I feel like a beached whale.”

“You’ve never been more attractive,” he says quietly. Quickly. But he doesn’t let it hang. He gives a sharp soldier’s nod and gets to work, using his precise doctor’s fingertips to guide his motions. “You know, the last time I did this, it was because a woman had superglue in her pubes. Gluing her shut.”

You wince. “Jesus fuck. How does something like that even happen?”

He shrugs. “Freak sex accident, I’m assuming. That’s half the job.” Then he furrows his brow and drags his fingers up your innermost thigh, cleaning up the edges. “Alright, no more jokes, I’ve gotta focus when I’m relying on touch.”

You roll your eyes. “Yes, sir.”

You close your eyes and lean your head back on the bath pillow Robby ordered to be delivered to your place a few nights ago. In the low light with a backdrop of soothing water sounds, you relax easily; Michael’s touch could never be unfamiliar to you. He uses the fingers of one hand to guide the other, methodically following his own touch along your labia, down near your entrance, up towards your clit. You try to control your breathing as his confident motions start to work some neglected parts of your brain. When he gently pushes against your mons to make the skin straighter and easier to shave, the heel of his hand rests against your clit and you can barely think. He’s not doing it on purpose – that much is clear from how he’s got his tongue slightly out in focus, attuned only to what he’s doing – but it’s working you up nonetheless.

Your shaky voice breaks through the silence. “Michael?”

Totally concentrated on the task at hand, he slows his hands and offers, “Hm?”

Like a guilty child, you admit, “You’re turning me on.”

Right away, he withdraws his hands from under the water and moves away from the tub. “Shit, I’m sorry. I swear I wasn’t trying to do any-”

“No, it’s- it’s okay,” you assure quickly. “I just haven’t been able to, um, do anything about, ah, that particular sort of thing for the last two-ish months. I’m a little…pent up. I didn’t want to, like, start moaning or something on accident.”

Robby hesitates. There’s a war in his eyes. You watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard, trying not to think about anything at all. His cheeks turn red the way you always teased him for and he opens his mouth to talk. Closes it again. Repeats that a few times.

Ultimately, he doesn’t say a thing, just waits for you to lead.

You love him for not offering, for not cracking a joke, for not deflecting. He just creates space for you, leaning against your counter and keeping his eyes on your face. The man in front of you is the same Robby you’ve adored for years and claimed as yours for months, but he’s different, too. There’s a calm to him you haven’t seen before. When Robby used to touch you, it was hot and claiming and craving and yearning. You felt his desperation in every kiss. This man is waiting. Deferent.

For the first time, you’re in charge. You get to decide.

So you decide.

Gently, certain but sheepish, you ask, “Would you mind, um, helping me out with that?”

His voice is strangled and his face is contorted into something akin to agony. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t want to change anything with where we’re at right now,” you clarify, speaking slow, like you’re worried about a nervous cat darting, “but I could really use some relief on that front. If that- if that wouldn’t be too weird.”

“Weird?” Robby laughs and rubs the back of his neck. “No, it wouldn’t be weird.”

“What would it be, then?”

He takes in a shaky breath and replies, “It wouldn’t have to be something.” Sitting down by the tub again, he says, “I said I’d do anything to make you comfortable. Anything.” He lets his hand once again drift below the water, looking at you like it’s a challenge. “I’m not a chicken about fingering a girl when she needs some help.” As his thumb ghosts over your clit, you gasp and stifle the ensuing moan with the back of your hand. Suppressing a self-satisfied smirk, Robby reminds you, “Just tell me if you want me to stop. This isn’t about me.”

You nod eagerly and tilt your hips forward to give him better access. Robby shakes his head a bit; you were always so greedy for him to touch you and it doesn’t seem like that’s changed. Robby uses the pad of his thumb to work your clit, keeping firm contact as he rubs it in small circles, not too fast but not teasing, either. Your need is obvious in the fast rising and falling of your chest, the twitching in your thighs, the way you bite your lower lip and pinch your eyes shut. He treats this like what it is: Relief.

When he can tell you’re wanting more – letting out those soft and desperate little moans he always replays when he jerks off – he dips his other hand between your legs and feels between your lips. You’re wet and begging and he’s not going to deny you for even a second. With the water not letting anything get particularly lubricated, Robby keeps his fingers seated inside of you, curling them instead of thrusting. Your pretty lips fall open in a pleased ‘o’ and Robby’s borderline dizzy from how good it feels to get you off again. He’s not sure if it’s the pregnancy or the desperation but you feel downright swollen with lust, hot and plush and like he could spend the rest of his life keeping you knocked up and-

Woah, asshole.

Calm down.

He takes a deep breath of his own, matching one of yours, and focuses back on you and not on his achingly hard cock straining for freedom from his sweats. As he massages your g-spot way too effortlessly, the palm of his other hand pulls the hood of your clit back slightly, just enough to light your nerves on fire from the intensity of his touch. Heat rises in your cheeks, your chest, your thighs. Robby knows how to work a long, hard orgasm out of you. He never rushes. He matches the curls of his fingers with his thumb on your clit and doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow, doesn’t race. He lets you feel every singular sparking second until you’re tightening up around him, your toes curling, your thighs clamping around his hand, your back arching as much as it’ll allow.

All Robby gives himself permission to say as you cum around his fingers is a soft, loving, “There you go. That’s it.”

When your pussy finally starts to release him, only faint fluttery aftershocks remaining, Robby pulls out of you, resists the urge to lick his fingers, and wipes his hands dry. He shuts his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath before he can bear to look at you. The sweat on your brow, the blown darkness of your pupils, the slight swell from biting your lower lip. You’re too beautiful for him to cope with. Robby gazes at you only as long as he can handle before averting his eyes. 

To distract himself from the goddess bathing below him, Robby absently strokes your oversized towel hanging on the nearby rack and offers, “Ready to get out? I’ll help you up.”

Still breathless, you stare up at Robby in surprise. He didn’t kiss you, didn’t ask for any pleasure in exchange, only gave you what you needed, what you asked for. Pure, unadulterated respect. For your body, your boundaries, your desires. That’s so much sexier than the desperate love the two of you used to make between agonized sheets. “That would be good. Thank you.”

Robby pulls the stopper on the tub and extends his strong hands for you. Your eyes lock together as you stand with a groan. As he wraps you up in the towel, he holds your shoulders a moment and says urgently, earnestly, “Anything. Any time.”

I love you.

I love you.

I love you.

In the morning, Robby’s securing his sleeves with his nicest cufflinks when you call him exactly when he’d expected. He may have snooped on your calendar – it was hanging on your wall as he helped you into bed, sue him – and saw that your OGBYN appointment this morning is, in fact, your third trimester anatomy scan at 9:00am. He knew as soon as he saw it that you were going to ask him to come at the last minute, so he’d asked Jack to stay a few hours late and he’d do the same at night.

He picks up the phone, trying not to sound to pleased with himself. “What can I do for you, oh glorious mother of my child?”

“Laying it on thick already,” you tease. He can hear you talking around your toothbrush and the image makes him smile as he smooths out his charcoal gray blazer and applies a few dabs of cologne. “Would you mind coming to my ultrasound with me today? Trinity was supposed to drive me but I guess she can’t now.”

Robby grins from ear to ear when he catches you in the blatant lie. Trinity’s working a double, which of course Robby would know as her supervisor. You were never planning on asking anyone else. Tucking that knowledge away in a secret place in his heart, Robby nudges, “Do you need a ride or am I invited in?”

“It’s your baby, dumbass,” you reply, the words half-formed now as you floss. After you rinse and spit again, you tell him more seriously, “I want you there.”

“You do?”

There’s a beat of silence where he’s worried he’s pushed too far. But then you say, “Yeah, I do. I wish you could’ve been there for the first few.”

With a deep breath, he replies, “Me too. I’d give anything to go back and-” He takes another deep breath and shakes his head at himself. “I’ll be there to pick you up in a few, okay?”

“See you soon, Michael.”

“Lo- See you, sweetheart.”

When you see Robby leaning against that goddamn minivan, you nearly jump his bones. He’s wearing slim-cut jeans that make his thighs look like tree trunks, his white button-down is undone just enough to show off some chest hair, and he’s got on a fucking blazer. A blazer. The bastard. When did he start putting mousse in his hair to make it so…tousled? Touchable. You can just imagine grabbing it while you ride him into oblivion.

Robby can’t suppress the very similar thoughts he’s having at seeing your outfit. You’re wearing a tea-length floral skirt with a slouchy, oversized sweater half-tucked into it. You look so comfy. Something about how soft and domestic you look as you approach him with your lace-hemmed socks and your oversized travel mug of tea is driving him crazy. He sees his whole life walking toward him with a sleepy smile on her lips.

Trying not to gawk too hard, you eye him up and down and say, “Michael, you look-” sexy as all fuck “-very handsome.”

He puffs up his chest. “Gotta look good; it’s my first time seeing my baby girl. I need to make a solid first impression.”

You roll your eyes, grinning as Robby pulls open the front door. “She can’t see you through my organs, babe.”

You don’t notice the word slipping out, so Robby doesn’t call attention to it. He just makes sure you’re buckled in and then sits on your other side with a glow in his gut. Then he reaches into his messenger bag in the backseat and hands over a king-sized Twix before starting the car and heading toward the hospital.

As you greedily open the wrapper, you hum, “What happened to Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein?”

“Mr. Balanced Meal With Lots of Protein knows you’re having your favorite burger with bacon and an egg on it from your favorite dive for lunch, on me,” he replies, glancing at you knowingly over the tops of his too-sexy sunglasses. “Throw in a side of sweet potato fries and I’m pretty sure science says that balances out a chocolate bar or two.”

You give a mock-salute with the half-eaten Twix. “Whatever you say, doctor.”

When Robby parks in his reserved spot near the ED, you both seem to realize the same thing at the same time. Robby stiffens up in his seat and offers, “I’m sorry; I wasn’t thinking. I can, ah, drop you off at the main entrance and meet you inside?”

You turn to him with one of those soft, shy smiles that made his heart stammer every time he looked your way when you started in the Pitt. “It’s okay. Really. I mean, you’re gonna be on paternity leave in at most ten weeks, so it’s not exactly a secret, right?”

“Fair point,” he concedes. “You know they’re gonna make it a whole thing, right?”

“Of course I do.”

“There might even be cake by the time we’re done.”

“God forbid.”

“Alright, fuck it.” Robby kills the engine and then walks around to your side of the van, helping you get your footing. “Let’s announce our lovechild to the world.”

“They probably already know; Trinity isn’t the most tight-lipped person,” you reason as he guides you with a large hand on the small of your back. It feels too protective and grounding for you to even pretend to protest.

“Jack didn’t know until I told him.”

“Because he’s such a notorious gossip.”

Robby can’t even respond because, as soon as you’re through the staff entrance, Dana’s staring straight forward at the two of you. Without moving her eyes from your stomach, she beelines your direction and gasps. After wrapping you up in a a warm hug, she looks you over and, disbelieving, mutters, “Holy hell, you are extremely pregnant.”

“Not extremely,” you balk as if it’s a ridiculous idea, “30 weeks.”

Dana seems to notice Robby’s presence and she narrows her eyes suspiciously, running the numbers in her head. “Thirty weeks, eh? Is that a new Robinavitch she’s growing?”

You absolutely beam when Robby blushes like a middle schooler. He confirms, “Yeah, that would be my little girl.”

“A girl!” Dana hugs both of you again and then looks at you seriously. “This one treating you like you deserve? Groveling profusely?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Good. As he should.”

Robby cuts in gently, “We’ve got an appointment upstairs, so we need to try to get through the floor to the elevator without too many interruptions.”

“Yeah, good fuckin’ luck with that,” Dana laughs as she gestures to the buzzing crowd gathering around the nurse’s station to get a look at you and Robby. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

Your cheeks are burning hot, so you poke Robby in the side and murmur, “Can you do one of your magical Dr. Robby speeches to make them go away? I don’t do well with public interrogations.”

“Your wish is my command,” he assures you quietly, pressing a kiss to your temple. In the nerves of the moment, you want to turn and nuzzle your face into the comfort of his broad chest.

Then Robby claps loud a few times until the handful of free doctors and nurses gather up, including a deeply amused Jack, Trinity, and Whitaker. He announces in his Big Serious Attending voice, “Alright guys, a handful of things to stop-slash-start the rumor mill. One: Yes, I’m wearing a blazer; pictures are $45 a pop. Two: Yes, your former APRN is heavily pregnant. Three: Yes, it is my baby. Four: I’m in a period of repentance to regain her favor after being an ass for the last six months, but we’re figuring it out. Finally: The buy-in for the due date betting pool starts at $25; I’m not skimping out on my firstborn. Any follow-up questions can be directed to the admirable godmother Dr. Trinity Santos. Got it?”

Whitaker gives a charming little whoop and starts off the clapping, joined quickly by everyone else. As Robby accepts a handful of congratulations, Jack pulls you into a strong hug and looks you in the eyes, serious and stern as ever. There’s an undeniable warmth in the twitch of his lips, though, as he tells you, “He’s got you, kid. I know he does. He loves you to death and he knows he fucked up.”

You squeeze his bicep gently. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“No problem.” Then he points at your bump and adds, “That’s Uncle Jackie to you, miss.”

You blink back hormonal tears as you laugh. “Uncle Jackie, huh?”

He grins and boasts, “I was born to be an irresponsible but lovable bad influence uncle. That girl is gonna have the biggest and most annoying family of doctors and nurses.”

The baby gives you a swift kick in the bladder like she heard him say it. You place your hand over the ginger spot and smile. “Yeah, she will. We’re lucky.”

And suddenly so much love washes through your body you’re not sure you can hold it all. When you watch Robby absolutely glowing talking about becoming a dad, you know this is right. He’s the right man for you. For her. You’re swept up into the collection of hugs and congratulations, too, but you can’t stop watching Robby’s smile lines. The way he checks in with you every time he laughs. The way he’s looking at you not like a girlfriend or a baby mama but like the sun of his solar system.

Robby tucks you under his arm easily and calls, “Alright, alright, we have an ultrasound to get to, people, let’s back off the pregnant lady. You all have lives to save and baby shower gifts to buy.”

You giggle under your breath as he leads you to the elevator. “Baby shower gifts. Please.”

“What? You don’t want a shower?”

“I just don’t know who would put it together; I don’t really have the time.”

Robby scoffs, “As if either of us could physically stop the nurses from throwing one now that the cat’s out of the bag.”

“Good point,” you concede, trying to suppress the smile that won’t stop threatening your cheeks.

Maybe it’s just luck or maybe it’s the presence of one of the hospital’s more important doctors standing behind you, but you’re in the exam room with Robby holding your hand within a few minutes of checking in. The OB attending, Dr. Montgomery, arrives shortly after your vitals are taken.

She’s borderline glaring after she greets you and extends a hand to Robby. “Dr. Robinavitch, good to see you back at the hospital after so long away.”

“Good to be back,” he replies carefully, shaking her hand. “I’m guessing you’ve been given a harsh but fair view of me the past few months.”

“That would be an accurate assessment, doctor.”

Robby does that thing where he kind of hunches his broad shoulder to seem smaller and more approachable. It’s what he does when he’s hiding from Gloria or talking to a little old lady with chlamydia. He insists, “Call me Michael, please.”

“We’ll see.”

You snicker, “Addie, I promise he’s putting the work in.”

“Fine. Claws away while we say hi to baby girl.” Dr. Montgomery preps the ultrasound station as you get your clothes tucked out of the way. As she applies the warmed gel and manuevers the wand, she tells you, mostly addressing Robby since he wasn’t there for the other appointments, “She was a little small at our last scan, so I’m gonna take a few extra measurements to track her progress.”

Robby nods slowly and stares at the back of the ultrasound monitor like he can see through it and gather information. “Has there been anything else on the scans I need to know about?”

You gaze up at him while Dr. Montgomery takes her notes. “Nope, she’s been a total champ. I’m the problem between the two of us.”

Robby strokes your hair with his other hand; you can tell it’s more to soothe himself than you, so you let him. “What does that mean?”

You lean into his touch unconsciously and reply, “I’m just anemic; I passed out early on. That’s how I found out I was pregnant in the first place.”

Guilt skewers Robby like an ice pick. “You’re taking iron now?”

You roll your eyes. “And eating spinach and letting handsome baby daddies buy me burgers.”

Robby’s ensuing smile is cute and proud. Dr. Montgomery looks up from the ultrasound and happily announces, “Baby girl’s growth has gotten much better since your last vosot. She’s no longer small for her gestational age and is now firmly average. Good work, mom. Have you been adding more protein and healthy fats to your diet like I suggested?”

When Robby opens his mouth to speak, you narrow your eyes at him an say, “Michael Robinavitch I will strangle you right now with my bare hands if you say ‘I told you so.’”

He chuckles and gives your hand a squeeze. “I would never. I’m just glad to hear our girl’s healthy – and not a bowling ball. I was 11 pounds.”

You cringe at the thought. “Lucky she takes after me on that front.”

So softly it sounds more like a prayer, Robby asks, “Can we see her now?”

Flipping the monitor around with a smile, Dr. Montgomery replies, “Yeah, of course. There’s her side profile; she’s perfectly posed for us. I’ll turn on the doppler, too.”

Robby leans forward and looks at the screen. Something cracks open in his chest as the baby’s heartbeat fills the room, whooshing fast and steady. He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Your eyes fly up to his and you see the tears flooding down his pink cheeks as he gazes at his daughter wriggling around on the monitor.

You squeeze his hand and he gasps a tiny bit like he just remembered you’re there. “Isn’t she beautiful?”

“She’s perfect,” he breathes softly. Then he presses his lips to the top of your head and takes a trembling breath. Even his softest whisper trembles. “How could I ever leave you? I can’t believe I let myself miss this. You’re so fucking perfect. So strong. I love you so much.”

Tears thicken your throat as you lean up to press your forehead to his, sniffling out, “Mikey.”

He starts to cry in earnest, then, and you reach up to hold him. Your arms tangle together and your tears stain each other’s shoulders and there’s nothing but future in the places where your bodies touch.

Things get easier between you and Robby after that. You find yourself asking him for more and more trivial things just to see him and hear his voice. Your phone calls turn from a few sentences to a few minutes to an hour or more if you catch each other at a good time. He takes you shopping for baby clothes and even pretends to have an opinion about different fabrics when you ask. He stocks up on diapers, helps with your labor go bag, and does absolutely everything in his power to take the mental load off your shoulders.

From that new closeness, a quiet tension emerges. As you reach week 32 of your pregnancy, the shared knowledge of your needing to move hangs over you both, unspoken but omnipresent. Robby hasn’t pushed the issue yet, but you know it’s going to reach a tipping point.

That day comes during the worst rainstorm of the year one gloomy day in October. It’s your day off, so you’re treating yourself to a shopping spree when the rain starts. The forecast had only been for a light drizzle, so you were comfortable leaving the apartment in something cozy with an umbrella and rain boots. But the light drizzle turned torrential while you were inside a baby boutique on the other side of town.

Meanwhile, the heavy, dark, oppressive thunderstorm has the ED swamped. All the attendings are on staff to handle the onslaught of car accidents, falls, and asthma attacks. As he’s supervising Mohan’s work on an elderly woman’s obliterated tibia, his phone vibrates in his pocket.

While closing another line of sutures, Samira asks over her shoulder, “Is that mama?”

Robby slips his phone out just long enough to check. “Shit, yes, it is. She wouldn’t call me during weather like this if it wasn’t important. Do you mind if I-”

Mohan chuckles, “I think Mrs. Frost and I have this handled. Go save your woman from her aching feet or lack of chocolate bars.”

Robby gives the patient an apologetic smile and excuses himself. He ducks around the nearest quiet-ish corner where the hospital’s chaos lowers to a dull roar and manages to pick up right before it goes to voicemail. “Hey, sweetheart, what’s going on?”

He can hear you crying on the other side, the sound barely coming through the rain. “Can you come pick me up?”

Robby half-jogs toward the locker room, already stripping off his trauma gown and dodging questions from his fellow doctors as he goes. “Where are you?”

“A bus stop in East Liberty,” you sniffle out. “The buses are all delayed because of the weather and I tried to get ahold of Trinity but she didn’t pick up and I’m soaking wet and freezing and I can’t-”

“Breathe for me, honey. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” Robby can hear the shivering and the tears and the panic in your voice and his gut clenches up in pain. He spares a glance outside and sees that the rain is still a deluge, the clouds dark and murky above and the ground shiny and slick with oil leeching out below. Lightning strikes and thunder claps. “Which bus stop?”

As you tell him, he dumps his trauma gown, rummages through his things, and grabs his keys and his gym bag, which at least has a towel and some dry clothes. “I’ll be there in ten minutes, okay? Is there somewhere warm and dry you can wait for me?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m all frazzled,” you admit. He can feel your reluctance to tell him, but you can’t stop it from spilling out through the crackling rain. “There was this guy who wouldn’t leave me alone, asking all these gross questions about my boyfriend or whatever and I just ran to the closest public spot I could find.”

Anger flares in Robby’s chest. He scribbles out a note and hands it to Dana as he passes the nurse’s station, barely pausing to see her reaction – just long enough to see her annoyed but supportive nod – before he shoves out of the door into the rain. “Are you alone now? Are you safe?”

“I’m okay, just- just kinda scared and tired and- and-”

“Breathe, baby, breathe. I’m getting in the car right now.”

A few beats pass with nothing but the rain in Robby’s ears. Then your meek, nervous voice: “Would you stay on the phone with me?”

“Of course.” He guns the engine and peels out of the parking lot, careful but quick. “I’m right here with you. Just keep talking and the time’ll pass. Tell me about what you were doing. Shopping for something fun?”

“Yeah, I was.” You sniffle again and try to smile. “I bought this, um, this handmade baby wrap carrier thing. It’s really soft and, like, this quilted fabric that I think would be really comfy for her.”

“You gonna teach me how to baby wear like all the hip dads are doing?”

“Definitely.” You actually let out a small laugh as you tell him, “The whole ‘big man carrying baby’ thing is very sexy. I’m sure it’ll help you pick up chicks at the grocery store.”

Robby snorts. “You know perfectly well there are only two chicks I’m interested in picking up the rest of my life.

“Rest of your life, huh?”

“If they’ll have me.” He makes a turn and spots you huddling beneath a leaky bus stop shelter. “Alright, I’m only a minute away now, but I might be late because I have to stop and offer the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen a ride, okay? She’s soaking wet and very pregnant and dressed inappropriately for the weather.” Robby pulls up to the curb and pushes your door open as he hangs up the phone. “Hey, stranger, can I give you a lift?”

You slide into the car next to him, your eyes puffy from crying and your hair disastrous from the rain. As you buckle in, you pout and observe, “You turned on the seat warmers for me.”

“I also brought you a threadbare towel and a hoodie; I’m a real gentleman,” he replies as he opens up his gym bag in the backseat and hands them off.

Gratefully toweling off your hair and tucking yourself under the hoodie, you smile and nudge him. “Yeah, actually, you are.”

Robby gives your knee a quick squeeze and pulls the car into traffic, heading back toward the highway. You gradually begin to feel like a person instead of a pregnant popsicle.

Teeth still chattering a bit, you manage to get out, “I’m sorry for interrupting you at work; I’m sure things are swamped there.”

Despite the fact that his phone’s been ringing non-stop since he left, Robby replies earnestly, “Nothing’s more important to me than your safety.” He swallows hard and apologizes for himself, “I’m sorry for calling you baby on the phone; I wasn’t thinking. I heard you upset and I just went on autopilot.”

You tell him softly, “It’s okay, Michael.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah, it really is,” you murmur back. “You missed the exit, by the way.”

Robby shakes his head. “I’m taking you back to my place; you need a warm bath and a hot meal and to sleep for twelve hours uninterrupted in a king size bed.”

You avert your eyes and admit, “That sounds really nice, Mikey.”

“I like hearing you call me that again,” he says gently. “Thank you.”

“Thank me by ordering me some orange chicken while I take a bubble bath.”

Robby chuckles, “Yes, ma’am.”

As soon as Robby has you inside, he’s helping you strip your exhausted, pruny body and drawing you a silky bath. As he collects some of his old comfy clothes for you to wear from his closet, you call out from the tub, “Would you actually make that matzo ball soup that you made when you gave me mono?”

“I did not give you mono,” he laughs, “but I will absolutely make you some nourishing comfort food.”

He can hear the teasing eye roll in your voice as you call back, “You had mono. You made out with me. I then had mono. Who the hell do you think I got it from?”

“Alright, whatever.” Robby sets down the clothes on the counter and points at you seriously. “Don’t you dare try to get out of that tub without my help, missy. I’ll be back once I’ve got the soup boiling.”

You smile at him fondly and bat your eyelashes. “Yes, sir.”

“Don’t play dirty with me.”

“I would never.” You sink deeper into the bubbles and sigh contentedly, “I’m more than happy to stay in here and turn myself into a little matzo ball.”

He leans down and kisses the top of your head. “Good girl.”

“Now who’s playing dirty?”

“I would never.”

Robby slips out of the bathroom and you just…relax. While Robby takes care of you. While he waits on you.

God.

God.

Between the bubbles and the bergamot bath oil, the tension and nerves leave. The sound of the storm outside becomes white noise. From downstairs, the smell of rich schmaltzy chicken broth wafts into your nose and you feel settled. Held. By the time Robby returns to the bathroom, you know, deep down in your bones, that you’ve forgiven him.

Robby helps you out of the tub and wraps you up in a fluffy robe he must’ve been warming in the dryer for you. Then he grabs a tube of lotion, sits down on the bed, and gestures for you to join him. While he tends to your feet and legs, he pleads with you, “Move in here, sweetheart, please. I can’t- I can’t function not knowing if you’re okay. Not knowing where the baby’s going to be sleeping and not knowing if I can be there for her and for you and-”

“Michael.” It’s a whisper, a tender one at that. “I don’t want to feel like I’m trying to fit into your life.”

“I don’t want to make you feel that way; I swear.” He kisses your hand a few times and then takes a deep breath. “I’d like to apologize now. If you’d let me.”

You nod slowly and try to ignore the tears that rise to your waterline. “I’m ready. Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” After a deep breath, Robby starts, “Look, I’m not going to apologize for leaving. I needed to leave. I needed to-” He gestures wide and begging as he searches for the right words. “I needed to grow up. I know I’m a little old for that, but I think it’s the closest thing to true. I’m sorry I told you instead of talking it through. I’m sorry I went radio silent. But honestly?” 

Suddenly he reaches out and cups your cheek in his large hand. His palm is warm and so familiar that you can hardly breathe. With his thumb stroking your skin, he finishes, “What I’m the most sorry for is that I didn’t ask you to come with me. Every sunset, every motel mattress, every wide open highway would’ve been so much better if I shared them with you.”

He presses his forehead to yours and murmurs, “I swear I’ll spend every single one with you from now on. I’ll be there for every birthday, every Chrismukkah, every fucking thing you want me at. Nothing has ever or will ever matter to me more than being your husband. The father of our children. So tell me what you want. Tell me every single thing you want for you and for me and for the baby and you’ll have it. Because I love you more than my stupid bike and more than my career and more than everything I’ve ever had. You are everything now.”

The air sparks like the lightning outside. For a full minute, it’s you and it’s Robby and it’s the storm.

Then you lean forward. You hold Robby’s face with both hands and search his golden brown eyes. His heart pounds in his ears. His lungs are tight and screaming.

And you kiss him.

It’s slow, so gentle, and he’s holding his breath. Then reality seems to settle softly on his shoulders and he smiles against your lips, slides his hands onto your waist, thumbs affectionate on your bump, and kisses you back. When you pull away only slightly, you inform him, “I want a house with a yard. One that I get a say in. Further from the city. I want a safe, sensible family car for myself. No black interior. Light brown. I want a big fat diamond ring. Four carats minimum. I want sex at least three times a week. Six orgasms for me as a baseline. And I want a husband who works at most 50 hours.”

Robby gazes at you with watery eyes. “Okay.”

You smack him on the chest and laugh, “‘Okay’? I was trying to be unreasonable, Michael!”

“Well I’m being serious. Let’s move to the suburbs and have a huge wedding and fuck whenever you want. I’ve got savings to get us through as long as we need. I’ll start my own practice, slow down, buy a grill, join the PTA, the whole nine yards.”

You roll your eyes and scoff, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not,” he assures seriously. “If you’re taking me back and making me a dad, you can be a hell of a lot more unreasonable than asking me to put my family first.”

“Fine.” You cross your arms over your chest and try not to grin. “I want a puppy.”

Robby grips his heart like you’ve stabbed him. “If you really want one – when the baby’s old enough that I won’t have a panic attack having a dog around her.”

“Deal.” You rest your forearms on his shoulders, playing with the hair at the back of his neck. “I want you to mow the lawn shirtless on Saturday mornings.”

He melts under your touch and smiles. “Okay.”

You lean in closer, a smile of your own breaking out. “And I want my own craft room in the house.”

Glancing down at your lips, he promises once again, “Okay.”

“I want a hot tub.”

“Okay.”

“And a soaking tub.”

“Okay.”

“Manicures every other week. A tropical vacation every summer. Two more babies in the next ten years.”

“Okay, okay-” he kisses you again, soft and warm and unhurried “-very okay.”

Your hand slides down his chest and toys with the hem of his tee. You watch his stomach twitch and his chest gasp upwards as you purr, “And I want you to fuck me. Right now.”

Robby’s lips return to yours. Urgent now. He pulls you into his lap and drags kisses up your neck, tasting your clean skin and your pulse beneath him. His breath is hot and his every touch – slipping the robe from your shoulders, lazing his fingers along your arms, kissing the shell of your ear – is an act of worship. At last, he murmurs against your lips, “Okay.”

Your crush on Dr. Michael Robinavitch has been an open secret to everyone except the man himself.

Which feels statistically improbable, given the number of people involved, but here you are.

You try subtle.

Very subtle.

Subtle in the way a moth is subtle when it keeps reappearing near the same porch light.

You find reasons to be within arm’s reach when he dictates orders—close enough to hear the quiet rasp at the back of his voice when he’s been awake too long, close enough to smell antiseptic and coffee and whatever soap he uses that smells aggressively utilitarian.

You pass him instruments before he asks. You’re already holding the chart when he turns. You anticipate him the way nurses do when they’ve worked with someone for a decade—or the way someone does when they’ve been paying far too much attention and need to maybe go outside and touch grass.

You tell yourself it’s professional. You tell yourself you’re just good at your job. You tell yourself a lot of things, actually. You’re very articulate in your own head.

In your head, you’re devastatingly charming.

Out loud, you mostly nod.

The ER hums the way it always does: fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, monitors beeping in uneven rhythms, the smell of stale coffee and disinfectant clinging to everything.

You lean in as Robby dictates discharge instructions, his brow furrowed in that familiar way that makes him look perpetually one bad cup of coffee away from homicide.

You hand him the pen before he asks.

He doesn’t even look at you. Just takes it, continues talking.

Which is fine. Totally fine. This is how professionals behave. This is normal.

Dana watches you clock out at the end of the shift, arms crossed, expression sharp with the kind of amusement that comes from knowing too much.

“You keep orbiting him like that,” she says mildly, “someone’s going to start calling it gravitational.”

You pause mid-bag-shoulder-sling. “I’m being subtle.”

Dana snorts. It’s inelegant. It’s devastating. “You’re being invisible.”

Rude. Accurate. But rude.

So you decide to take matters into your own hands.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You start with caffeine, because caffeine is universal. Reliable. Non-threatening. Also, if nothing else, it will keep him alive long enough to notice you, which feels like a reasonable goal to set for yourself. Manageable. Achievable. Low emotional risk.

You learn his coffee order by observation alone. A little milk. No sugar. Strong enough to raise the dead. You learn this the way one learns all dangerous things: quietly, carefully, without admitting to anyone—including yourself—that you’re doing it.

You begin making sure it appears on his desk during shifts.

Not announced. Not labeled. Just there. Steam curling faintly in the air. A benevolent force of nature. Like weather. Or fate. Or a very tired nurse with poor impulse control.

The first few times, he doesn’t comment. He just drinks it. Which feels… promising? Maybe? You try not to read into it. You read into it anyway. You read into everything.

One night, on a whim—on a deeply questionable whim—you write his name on the cup.

You stare at the blank cardboard for a full thirty seconds, marker hovering. You weigh the pros and cons. The pros: he might notice you. The cons: you might die from embarrassment.

You add a tiny smiley face.

You immediately regret it. You commit anyway.

You set the cup down and walk away like nothing in your life has ever mattered less.

He picks it up without comment.

You pretend to reorganize a drawer you reorganized an hour ago. You are very busy. Extremely focused. A paragon of productivity.

“Who made this?” he asks the room.

Your heart does something profoundly unprofessional.

“I did,” you say, leaning against the counter, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere near strained confidence. You meet his eyes. You give him a look you are certain could crack glass, or at least communicate hello, I exist, please acknowledge this fact.

He studies the cup. The name. The smiley face. His mouth twitches—not quite a smile, but close enough to be dangerous.

“Good call,” he says. “Saved my life.”

And then he turns back to his computer.

That’s it.

No follow-up. No lingering glance. No dawning realization that you are, in fact, a person with a face and a personality and a truly alarming amount of affection for him.

You wait.

You linger.

You give him another look, this one sharper, more deliberate, the kind that has historically been effective on bartenders and one regrettable ex.

He doesn’t get it.

He never gets it.

You sigh internally, telling yourself—again—that this is fine. That this is just a crush. That you are a grown adult with a job and a life and absolutely no business falling for a man who doesn’t notice smiley faces on his coffee cups.

Later, you overhear him tell an intern:

“The nurses here really look out for you.”

You freeze mid-step, one hand wrapped around a stack of IV kits, the other hovering uselessly in the air like you’ve forgotten what hands are for.

Really look out for you.

Nurses.

You stare at the supply room door in front of you, the beige paint chipped from years of gurneys clipping the frame, and seriously consider screaming directly into it. Not a polite scream. Not a dignified one. A feral, banshee-level howl that might echo all the way down to radiology.

You don’t. You are, tragically, an adult.

Inside your head, however, you are already screaming.

Nurses. As if the coffee just materialized out of thin air. As if caffeine itself clocked in for the shift and decided he looked especially exhausted. As if a disembodied union of scrubs and competence collectively decided to adopt him.

You picture the smiley face on the cup. The tiny one. The one you debated like it was a life-altering moral decision.

Apparently, it died for nothing.

You retreat to the nurses’ station, jaw tight, brain buzzing with the static of unspent emotion and overthinking. Dana clocks you instantly, because of course she does. She’s been doing this longer than you’ve been alive. She can smell romantic distress the way some people smell rain.

She leans back in her chair, arms folded, eyes bright with restrained amusement.

“Oh no,” she says. “You heard it.”

“He thinks I’m a collective,” you say flatly. “I’ve been absorbed into the nursing hive mind.”

Dana snorts. “At least he appreciates the hive.”

You drop into the chair beside her, spin it once, stop abruptly. Your leg bounces. You cannot stop it.

“I wrote his name on the cup,” you say quietly. “There was a smiley face.”

Dana’s eyebrows climb. “Bold.”

“I lingered,” you continue. “I linger. I make eye contact that should legally require a warning label.”

“And yet,” Dana says gently, “here we are.”

You scrub a hand down your face. The ER hums around you—monitors chiming, a trauma bay curtain snapping shut, someone arguing in triage. The world continues on, indifferent to your suffering.

“He’s not being dense on purpose,” Dana says, still watching you spiral. “He’s just… like that.”

You glance at her. “Like what?”

She tilts her head, considers. “Oblivious to romance. Exceptionally competent about everything else.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “That’s the worst possible combination.”

“Tell me about it,” Dana says. “Brilliant hands. Terrible radar.”

You glance down the hallway where he’s standing now, shoulders hunched slightly as he listens to the intern, nodding along, offering calm, precise advice like the very embodiment of competence and control. He looks tired. He always looks tired. Something in your chest softens despite yourself.

“That man could diagnose a patient through a wall,” you mutter, “but can’t recognize a crush if it hands him coffee with a smiley face.”

Dana hums. “To be fair, you’re very subtle.”

You shoot her a look.

“I’m being strategic,” you say. “This is a slow burn.”

“Sure,” she says. “Just know you might have to light the match.”

You don’t respond right away. You watch him laugh at something the intern says, just a brief huff of sound, gone almost as soon as it appears. It does something deeply inconvenient to your internal organs.

You sigh.

“Next time,” you say, resigned, “I’m drawing a heart.”

Dana grins.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You abandon subtlety.

Not dramatically—no grand declaration, no sudden hand on his chest in the middle of the trauma bay. Just the quiet, weary realization that implication is a language he does not speak. Or if he does, it’s one he refuses to acknowledge out of stubbornness, self-preservation, or a tragic devotion to professional boundaries that borders on ascetic.

Fine. Words it is.

The ER hums around you in its usual state of controlled chaos: monitors chirping like anxious birds, the low murmur of nurses exchanging vitals, the antiseptic tang of disinfectant clinging to everything, including your clothes. You’re leaning against the counter near the charting station, arms folded loosely, watching him finish dictating notes from the last trauma.

He’s still riding the aftershock of it—adrenaline not quite spent, shoulders tight beneath his scrubs, hair a little mussed in that irritating way that makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine titled Overworked But Competent. Blood stains have been scrubbed from his forearms, but you can still see faint water marks where he rushed through it.

You clear your throat.

“You were incredible in that trauma,” you say, tone deliberately even, like this is a completely normal thing colleagues say to each other all the time and you’re not testing a hypothesis.

He looks up, startled just enough to notice. His expression softens into something easy, open.

“Thanks,” he says. “Good teamwork.”

Of course. Of course that’s what he says.

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting the urge to point out that teamwork does not usually involve him giving orders with surgical precision while you anticipate them half a second before he speaks. Teamwork does not usually make your pulse jump when he looks at you like that—focused, trusting, utterly unaware of the effect.

“Right,” you say instead. “Teamwork.”

He’s already turned back to the computer, fingers moving quickly over the keyboard. Compliment absorbed, neutralized, filed away under Professional Affirmation. You feel a strange mix of irritation and grudging fondness. Mostly irritation.

Fine.

You try again later.

Different shift. Different light. Same him.

It’s quieter—one of those rare lulls that feel like borrowed time. The overhead lights have been dimmed slightly, casting everything in a flatter, softer glow. He’s standing near the med room, sipping vending machine coffee like it’s a necessary evil rather than a beverage, shoulders slumped in the particular way of someone who has been awake too long but refuses to admit it.

You approach with intent.

“You look good today,” you say, deliberately casual, as if you’re commenting on the weather or the state of the supply room. You don’t smile. You don’t soften it. You just let the words sit there between you, unadorned.

He blinks.

Once. Twice.

“Oh. Uh.” He glances down at himself, like the answer might be written somewhere on his scrubs. “Long shift,” he says. “Probably just the lighting.”

You stare at him.

Not glaring—no, this is worse. This is the slow, incredulous stare of someone watching a grown man walk directly into a glass door and then apologize to it. You feel deeply, personally offended. By his humility. By his complete inability to parse meaning. By the fact that you have now complimented him twice and he has somehow managed to dodge both like they were incoming projectiles.

The lighting.

Right.

“Sure,” you say. “The lighting that makes you look… competent.”

He frowns, confused. “Is that—”

“It’s a compliment,” you interrupt, a little too quickly. You can feel heat creeping up your neck, annoyance prickling under your skin. You’re not embarrassed—no, that would imply regret. This is more like being thwarted by an unexpectedly dense puzzle.

“Oh.” He smiles then, sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck. “Thanks.”

There it is again. That smile. The one that makes you forget, briefly, why you’re annoyed at all. It’s open and unguarded, like he genuinely doesn’t understand why anyone would look at him and see something worth commenting on.

Which is absurd. Objectively.

You turn away before you do something reckless, like point out the exact list of reasons he looks good today—broad shoulders filling out those scrubs, the silver streak in his beard and on his temples, the way his voice drops when he’s tired.

Still, you don’t stop.

If anything, you escalate.

You start finding reasons to be near him—charting beside him, handing him supplies he didn’t ask for, lingering just long enough to say things like, “Nice call back there,” or “You’re really good with patients,” or, once, when he manages to de-escalate a particularly hostile family member, “You have a calming presence. It’s annoying.”

“That doesn’t sound like a compliment,” he says, amused.

“It is,” you reply. “I’m just mad about it.”

He laughs at that—actually laughs—and for a moment you feel like you’ve cracked something. Like maybe, finally, he’s seeing it. The intent beneath the words. The way you’re watching him, not just as a colleague, but as someone who is increasingly, inconveniently important.

Then he says, “You’re good too, you know. Really sharp. Patients trust you.”

And just like that, it slides back into safe territory.

Professional. Neutral. Mutually assured restraint.

You smile, because you’re not cruel. Because you do like him. Because part of you suspects that if you pushed any harder, he’d retreat entirely, and you’re not ready for that yet.

But as you walk away, you can’t help thinking:

This shouldn’t be this hard.

You’ve stopped hinting. You’re using words now. Clear ones.

If he still doesn’t catch on?

Well.

You’ll figure out something else.

You escalate further.

Not recklessly—no, this is a calculated escalation. A measured one. You’ve ruled out subtlety, exhausted compliments, survived the humiliation of watching him interpret flirtation as atmospheric lighting. This is the next logical step: honesty, softened just enough to be deniable if it goes poorly.

It’s late. Of course it is. The kind of hour where the ER finally exhales after hours of holding its breath. The trauma bays are quiet, the monitors mercifully steady, the fluorescent lights humming with that faint electrical buzz that makes everything feel slightly unreal. Your feet ache in a deep, structural way. Your coffee has gone cold twice.

He’s at the counter across from you, sleeves pushed up, reviewing labs with the concentration of someone who refuses to half-do anything. There’s a pen tucked behind his ear. You notice it. You always notice stupid things like that.

You hover. Casual. Definitely casual.

“You know, I like working with you,” you say.

Your voice comes out softer than intended. Less banter, more… something else. You hate that you can hear it. You hate more that he can too.

He looks up immediately. That part is promising. His expression warms, easy and genuine, like you’ve just handed him something uncomplicated.

“Likewise,” he says without hesitation. “You’re one of our strongest nurses.”

There it is.

You feel something inside you shrivel politely and die.

Strongest nurse.

Not favorite person to share a shift with. Not I feel steadier when you’re here. Not even I like you too in the dangerous, human way. No—this is a performance review. This is the sentence that gets written in emails to administration.

You blink once. Slowly. Carefully. Like if you move too fast, you might scream.

“Wow,” you say, because silence would be suspicious. “High praise.”

He smiles, entirely sincere, entirely oblivious. “I mean it. You anticipate needs, you keep your head under pressure. Patients respond to you. Makes a difference on shifts like this.”

You nod, because that is objectively nice. Because he is being kind. Because it is not his fault that every word he says lands half an inch to the left of where you need it.

Inside your head, you are already standing on a bridge.

The Allegheny is cold, you think distantly. Efficient. A little dramatic, but honestly? Fitting.

“Yeah,” you say aloud. “Teamwork.”

Again with the teamwork. You are haunted by this word.

He glances at you, brow furrowing just slightly. “You okay? You look… tired.”

That does it. That’s the final insult. You have bared your soul—with softened honesty—and he has diagnosed you with fatigue.

“I’m fine,” you reply quickly. Too quickly. “Just contemplating my life choices.”

He chuckles, assuming this is a joke. You let him. It’s easier.

“Join the club,” he says. “I’ve been doing that since med school.”

You imagine explaining it to him. Laying it all out. When I say I like working with you, I mean I like the way you look at me when we’re in sync. I mean I trust you with my back and my heart, apparently. I mean I’m flirting so hard I should get written up.

Instead, you straighten, plaster on a professional smile, and push off the counter.

“Well,” you say, already retreating, “thanks for the feedback. I’ll add it to my annual self-worth assessment.”

He laughs again, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”

You pause mid-step, glance back at him.

“You have no idea,” you say.

He watches you go, still smiling, still clueless.

You walk toward the supply room, toward the locker area, toward literally anywhere that is not within conversational distance of him. Your chest feels tight—not painfully, just enough to register as something you’ll unpack later, preferably with snacks.

Strongest nurse, you think.

Fantastic.

At this rate, you’ll confess your feelings outright and he’ll hand you a commendation certificate and ask if you’d like to precept next semester.

The Allegheny River continues to call to you.

Later, Dana finds you aggressively restocking gloves.

Not restocking in the calm, methodical sense. This is personal. Boxes are being yanked open with more force than necessary, gloves shoved into dispensers until they bulge slightly, like they’re being punished for something they personally did to you. The nitrile snaps sharply every time you pull a pair free, a sound that feels far too satisfying.

You’re on your third dispenser when Dana leans against the supply room doorframe, arms crossed, eyes bright with the particular interest of someone who has clocked everything.

“You know,” she says mildly, “those gloves are innocent.”

You don’t look at her. “They know what they did.”

She hums, watching you for a moment longer than strictly polite. The supply room smells like cardboard and antiseptic. The fluorescent light flickers once overhead. Of course it does. Even the building is tired.

“I’ve known him fifteen years,” Dana says finally. “You could flirt by skywriting and he’d ask about air traffic regulations.”

That gets you.

You stop mid-shove, one glove dangling uselessly from your hand. You turn slowly, staring at her like she’s just delivered a formal diagnosis.

“…That’s the most upsetting thing anyone has said to me tonight,” you reply.

She grins. “Accurate, though.”

You exhale, dropping the glove back into the box with a defeated little flick of your wrist. “I told him I like working with him.”

Dana winces in sympathy. “Oof.”

“And he said I’m one of the strongest nurses,” you continue flatly. “Strongest, Dana. Like I’m a structural beam.”

“Well,” she says thoughtfully, “you are load-bearing.”

You glare at her. She holds up her hands. “Hey. Compliment. Sort of.”

You lean back against the shelf, arms crossing tight over your chest. The irritation is still there, buzzing under your skin, but now it’s mixed with something else—relief, maybe. Validation. The comforting knowledge that you are not, in fact, losing your mind.

“So it’s not me,” you say.

“Oh, absolutely not,” Dana replies. “He’s just… like that. Emotionally illiterate unless feelings arrive with a consent form and a peer-reviewed study.”

You snort despite yourself. “That tracks.”

She tilts her head, studying you more carefully now. “You’re actually trying, though.”

You hesitate. Just a fraction. Enough.

“Yeah,” you admit. “Apparently that was my first mistake.”

Dana’s expression softens—not pitying, but kind. She pushes off the doorframe and steps closer, lowering her voice even though no one else is around.

“He notices things,” she says. “Just not the things people usually mean.”

You pick at the edge of a cardboard box. “Great. So I need to flirt in bullet points.”

“Clear objectives,” she agrees. “Minimal subtext.”

You consider this. The idea of looking him dead in the eye and saying I am attracted to you and this is not about teamwork makes your stomach do something unpleasant and acrobatic.

“Or,” Dana adds, smirking, “you could just keep escalating until he accidentally figures it out.”

You laugh, short and breathy. “At this rate, I’ll propose marriage and he’ll ask if this is about shift coverage.”

She laughs with you, the sound easy and familiar. Then she glances back toward the hallway, where voices echo faintly—his voice among them.

“You okay?” she asks more quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Dana bumps her shoulder lightly against yours as she passes. “Good. Because watching you flirt with him is the most entertainment I get on days like this.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth now.

When she leaves, you finish restocking the gloves—this time with less hostility. Your pulse has steadied. The sting has dulled into something manageable. Almost fond.

You straighten the last box and take a breath.

Skywriting, you think. Air traffic regulations.

Fine.

If implication won’t work, and escalation keeps getting rerouted into professionalism, then eventually there will only be one option left.

You grab a pair of gloves and snap them on, resolve settling in your chest.

Next time, you won’t let him miss it.

✦ ─ ˗ˋ ୨୧ ˊ˗ ─ ✦

You decide—foolishly—that if directness failed yesterday, then banter will surely succeed today.

Because banter is safe. Banter is deniable. Banter lets you pretend you’re not standing one ill-timed heartbeat away from emotional free fall.

The ER hums around you, the smell of antiseptic clinging to everything like a second skin. It’s late enough that the adrenaline has softened into something duller, heavier. The kind of hour where everyone’s shoulders slope forward and voices drop without anyone consciously deciding it.

He’s standing at the counter, reviewing labs on the computer, brows knit in concentration. One hand braces against the laminate, the other scrolls absently, as if his body knows this ritual so well it no longer requires supervision. His sleeves are rolled to his forearms. You notice this. You always notice this. You tell yourself it’s purely observational. Anatomical. Clinical.

Liar.

You approach under the pretense of dropping off a coffee and a protein bar—again. This has become a pattern. You tell yourself it’s because he forgets to eat. Which is true. You also forget to eat, yet somehow no one is shepherding you with snacks like a feral cat.

You lean in slightly, lowering your voice. Casual. Easy. Playful.

“You know,” you say, tilting your head just enough to suggest mischief, “if I keep saving you coffee and snacks, people might start thinking I like you.”

There. Light. Teasing. A line with plausible deniability baked right in.

You wait.

He doesn’t look up at first. Just hums thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the screen.

Then he snorts.

Actually snorts.

“They should,” he says easily. “You’re excellent at your job.”

You blink.

Once.

Twice.

Your brain stalls like a car refusing to turn over in winter.

“…That’s not what I meant,” you say, because apparently today you’re choosing honesty in the most pathetic increments possible.

He finally glances at you then. Just briefly. A faint smile tugs at his mouth—not smug, not teasing. Earnest. The kind of smile that suggests he truly believes what he’s saying.

“Still true,” he says, then turns back to the screen as if the conversation has reached its natural conclusion.

Ah.

Yes.

Of course.

Naturally.

You stand there for a half second too long, holding a coffee you suddenly resent deeply. Your internal monologue is a mess of static and profanity and the slow, dawning realization that you have once again underestimated just how profoundly literal this man is.

You wanted subtext.

He handed you a performance review.

You force a smile that probably looks more like mild indigestion and slide the coffee toward him.

“Well,” you say, voice pitched professionally neutral now, “drink that before it turns into a science experiment.”

“Already halfway there,” he replies absently.

You pivot on your heel and walk away before your soul physically exits your body.

As you pass the nurses’ station, you can feel your face burning. Not a cute flush. A full-body betrayal. Your brain helpfully replays the exchange on a loop, annotating it with commentary like bold of you to assume.

You duck into an empty supply alcove and lean back against the cool metal shelving, exhaling slowly through your nose.

Great. Fantastic. You tried flirting and somehow managed to sound like an HR email.

The worst part—the truly unforgivable part—is that he meant it. He wasn’t dodging you. He wasn’t deflecting. He just… answered the question he thought you asked.

And some traitorous, inconvenient part of your chest tightens at that. Because sincerity like that is dangerous. It doesn’t bounce off you cleanly. It lodges.

You straighten, roll your shoulders, and plaster professionalism back into place. You’ve survived worse than this. You will survive a man who cannot, under any circumstances, read a room.

Still, as you step back into the noise and motion of the department, you can’t help thinking—

Next time, you’re bringing diagrams.

You make the executive decision—questionable, but bold—that the previous disaster was a fluke.

Everyone deserves a second attempt. Possibly a third. Science demands replication.

The day has settled into that strange ER lull where chaos hasn’t stopped, exactly, but it has learned to whisper. Monitors beep softly. The overhead lights feel harsher when you’re tired enough to notice them.

He’s at the charting station again—of course he is—shoulders slightly hunched, jaw set, glasses pushed higher on his nose than necessary. He looks… focused. Grounded. Annoyingly competent.

You approach with the confidence of someone who has not yet learned.

He’s typing when you stop beside him. You lean your hip against the counter, deliberately invading the edge of his personal space. Not aggressively. Just enough to be noticeable. You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head.

“So,” you say lightly, “do you always look this intense while charting, or is this a special occasion just for me?”

This time, he does look up.

Progress.

He studies your face for a beat, expression thoughtful. Analytical. As if he’s running differentials on your sentence.

Then he nods.

“Usually worse,” he says. “Tonight’s actually been decent.”

You stare at him.

He goes back to typing.

You wait.

Nothing. Incredible. Truly. A masterclass in missing the point.

You try again. Because you are nothing if not persistent.

“Well,” you add, lowering your voice conspiratorially, “I was hoping I was at least partially distracting.”

He pauses mid-keystroke.

Looks up again.

Brows furrowed.

“Oh,” he says. “No, you’re fine. You’re not distracting at all.”

You feel something in your chest give a little cough and die.

“Great,” you say weakly. “That’s… reassuring.”