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pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: You're learning how to live without him (kinda). Robby is learning what that actually means.
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealousy, angst, longing, language, depression, therapy.
A/N: I really hope you enjoy this part! I won't lie, I was a little nervous while writing it because I kept second-guessing where the story was going. Let me know what you think, and whether you'd ever like to see an alternative ending! (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners) + Thank you @lavenderhaze967 for proofreading!
He used to wake up wishing he felt nothing. Wishing he was surrounded by darkness, by emptiness. Wishing for something close to... death.
Now he wakes up checking his phone.
He checks it on the way to the Pitt, at work between cases, even when he goes to the bathroom after washing his hands. He checks it while eating, while listening to Jack, and before going to sleep. Sometimes he even wakes up in the middle of the night, turns the TV volume down a little, and checks it again.
It has become a habit he can't seem to break. Maybe even an obsession.
He almost answered the same night he received your message, but never came that close again. He doesn't even open the keyboard anymore.
But that night?
He must have picked up his phone a dozen times. His thumb hovered over the reply button until the screen dimmed. He unlocked it again and stared at the words until they became blurry.
He knew you hadn't actually gone home with someone else. He knew exactly why you'd said it. You wanted him to picture it. To wonder. To hurt.
The worst part was that it worked anyway.
He thought about what he could possibly say. There wasn't an answer that didn't sound like a lie. Or an excuse. Or the kind of desperate confession that came too late. He came so close to begging when he finally understood how deeply he'd hurt you.
But in the end, he locked the phone and reached for a bottle instead.
One drink became another, then another, until thinking became impossible. The next morning he woke up with a splitting headache, still dressed, his phone lying exactly where he'd left it beneath his pillow.
So, for the first time in more than a decade, he called off work.
He had never done that. Not from exhaustion, not after thirty-hour shifts, not even when he probably should have. But that morning there was no chance he could walk into the Pitt and trust his own hands.
So yes, he can feel it. He feels it every fücking day of his life.
*
Jack notices before Robby realizes he's been caught.
It's after a chest tube. One of those shifts where the department hasn't stopped moving for nearly six hours. A three-car pileup on the interstate had flooded the Pitt with patients all at once: broken ribs, collapsed lungs, a shattered femur, enough blood to make the trauma bays feel too small. Robby had called Jack in early, and even then they'd barely managed to stay ahead.
By the time the last patient was stable, his scrubs were streaked with dried blood and antiseptic. His shoulders ached.
He steps into the ambulance bay, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he tries to catch a full breath. The cool air does little to clear his head. For a second, he remembers you.
You always knew the difference between a busy day and a bad one. On the bad days, you never asked questions first. You'd just come up behind him, work the tension out of his shoulders with your thumbs while he pretended to complain, then wrap your arms around his waist and stay there for a minute without saying a word.
Somehow, you always knew exactly where it hurt.
Maybe you had a gift. Or maybe you just cared.
Robby spent so much of his life expecting people not to that he'd mistaken being loved for being understood.
His phone vibrates.
Not a message, an email.
He knows that before he even looks.
Still, he unlocks it. Still, his thumb opens the same conversation. Still nothing has changed.
Can you feel it?
"You okay?"
Robby doesn't jump. He should have. Instead, he simply locks the phone and slips it into his pocket.
"Just peachy."
"You know," Jack says, "I've watched you unlock that phone at least twenty times today."
"So?"
"So you're lying."
Robby crosses his arms over his chest and drops his gaze to the concrete beneath his feet. It's an old habit, one Jack learned to recognize years ago.
"I've got patients."
"So do I." Jack sighs. "You gonna answer her?"
For half a second, Robby's first instinct is to play dumb.
Who?
He could ask it... pretend he has no idea what Jack is talking about. But it wouldn't work. Jack has known him too long for that.
"There isn't anything to answer. It's just a message."
Jack doesn't argue, like he'd expected that answer.
He just nods toward the doors, and they head back inside.
The department swallows them immediately: monitors, a trauma pager going off somewhere down the hall, Langdon and King making their way to a patient together. The usual chaos.
They stop at the nurses' station, where Dana is buried in charting, too focused to pay them any attention.
For a minute, neither of them says anything. Robby pretends to study the patient board, following the names across the screen without actually reading them. Jack watches him long enough to know it's an act.
"Okay." Another beat. "Then why haven't you deleted it?"
Robby's jaw tightens. "I don't know."
"Liar."
Robby lets out a dry laugh that doesn't sound anything like amusement. "I've never seen you this interested in my personal life."
"I'm not."
Jack folds his arms. "I'm interested in the fact that one text message has managed to get under your skin more than any patient, lawsuit, or attending ever has. More than Janey and even Collins."
Robby doesn't say anything. He doesn't even flinch when Heather is brought up.
Can you feel it?
He glances once toward where Dana had been a moment ago, finding the space empty now, as if she'd stepped away without him noticing. Then he looks back at the patient board, and the names blur into each other.
"I don't know, man," he says finally, quieter than before. "I am the one who ended it."
The words hang there a second longer than they should. He did. And it's supposed to be the right choice. The good, honorable choice. He's doing her a favor after everything she's done for him.
Robby swallows.
It's the closest thing to an admission Jack is going to get.
For now.
"Alright."
He pushes off the counter, and Robby thinks it's over.
"Still in therapy?"
It isn't.
"Yes." He went there three times in the last two weeks. Three times he'd sat in a chair and avoided talking about you directly… like keeping your name unspoken made it easier to stay in control of what he was actually feeling.
"Good," Jack says, like it's the most normal thing in the world, as if it isn't something Robby has to actively choose every week just to keep himself from slipping. "Then I'm not gonna give you my opinion."
He pauses.
"Hmm."
"What? I'll keep it to myself."
Robby almost laughs at that.
Jack has never been particularly good at keeping anything to himself. He made it very clear how he felt when he called him "dumb as fück" for breaking up with you.
They move toward the locker rooms before either of them has to think too hard about anything else.
It's one of the rare days they're on shift together. Jack is pulling a double to cover for Al-Hashimi; her kid is sick again, last-minute call-out.
Robby changes on autopilot, like his body knows what to do even if the rest of him is somewhere else entirely.
It's that familiar work-state where everything personal gets filed away for later.
And it almost works. He almost feels normal.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Almost.
"You know," Jack says, glancing sideways at him, "I saw her yesterday."
Something in Robby shifts... small, immediate. A tightening in his chest he refuses to name, refuses to let settle into anything as vulnerable as anticipation. It stays contained, buried before it can surface or, worse, explode.
He doesn't let it reach his face.
But Jack didn't even say your name.
He didn't have to.
"I saw her yesterday," Jack repeats, carefully, like he's making sure Robby actually hears him this time.
Robby's hand twitches at his side before he can stop it. An old reflex, almost unconscious.... the urge to reach for his phone, to check it again even though there's nothing new there. Just the same message he's already memorized.
But he doesn't move. He stops himself and keeps his voice even.
"What do you mean, you saw her?"
Jack glances at him.
"Outside work. She was with Santos."
That makes no sense.
Why would you hang out with Santos?
"Santos?"
"Yeah." Jack shrugs, like it's nothing. "She's been around her a lot lately. Whitaker too. Don't read into it."
Robby's jaw tightens anyway.
"I'm not reading into anything."
"Sure."
A beat.
"How…" Robby starts, then stops, recalibrating. His voice comes out more controlled the second time. "How did it happen? How did they even properly meet her?"
Jack adjusts his pace beside him, like they're still just talking about schedules and not something else entirely.
"She came by on your day off after she got her stitches removed," he says. "Brought food for everyone. Day shift and night shift."
His shoulders rise and fall.
"You know how she is. She stayed and talked to people. She thanked them and..."
A pause.
"She kind of… won them over," Jack continues. "Park too. He was here for an amputation consultation and still ended up almost laughing. She offered him a cookie like it was the most normal thing in the world."
Something in Robby tightens at that.
Park. She actually got through Park.
"Don't read into that either."
He huffs under his breath, almost amused, but it doesn't land.
"I'm not."
Jack doesn't push it.
He just keeps walking, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor, while changing the subject. But Robby stops listening.
Because something has already taken shape in his head, and it drowns out whatever Jack is saying.
You... not where he left you, outside his world. But inside it.
And he doesn't know what to do with that. Because in his head, it was never meant to work like this.
When you were together, he always assumed, without ever saying it out loud, that you'd remain on the edge of his work life forever. Close enough to hear about it, but never truly part of it. Kept away from the parts of his world that made him feel like a failure… the parts that left him wondering whether he existed as anything other than a doctor.
Not because he'd made a conscious decision. It was simply how he'd always lived.
Compartmentalized and contained.
Work stayed here, you stayed somewhere else.
It was easier that way. Cleaner. As if keeping the two apart meant neither could poison the other.
So when it ended, you were outside of it and he was inside.
Except you didn't stay outside after all.
You're there anyway. And somehow, that hurts more.
Most of them probably don't even know you were ever with him.
They like you because you're… you.
Even Park. That part twists something lower in his chest.
Of course you'd get through to him. Of course you'd sit in front of someone like that and make it easy, make it human, make it... normal.
Robby looks ahead, jaw tightening once before easing again, like he's trying to physically undo the thought.
For a moment, he doesn't speak.
Then, quieter to himself:
"I'm not reading into it."
But even he can hear how it doesn't hold any weight anymore.
*
He almost cancels.
He sits in his car for ten minutes, engine off, hands resting on the wheel, thinking about nothing and everything at once.
Then he goes in anyway.
"You're distracted today."
"I'm fine," he says again, but it's weak. His fingers curl slightly into his palm, like he can physically keep himself from slipping.
"How's the breakup been sitting with you this week?"
He breathes in through his nose. Too slow. Controlled in a way that takes effort.
"I made the right decision."
"That wasn't my question, Robby."
He presses a hand down to his knee instantly... like the pressure will quiet whatever's building. God, he thought he's better at this.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he says, but it comes out sharper than he meant.
"I want you to answer the question. If you can, of course."
"I'm not-" He stops, swallowing whatever he had in mind and starts again, quieter. "I'm not going to keep going over it."
The silence stretches.
Then- "What comes up when you think about it?"
"I don't feel guilty."
The response's immediate. Too immediate. Like if he says it fast enough it won't turn into anything else.
She doesn't react.
Just waits.
And that waiting does something worse than pressure, it gives him space to hear himself.
His shoulders drop a fraction before he catches it, like his body is betraying him without permission.
"I feel responsible," he says instead, quieter.
"For what?"
"For how it ended."
For hurting you.
"I was protecting her," he says, but it comes out rough, like it scraped on the way up. Like he needs to convince himself it's true.
"From what?"
That question is so simple, yet it feels like it rips something open inside him.
There's a moment where he can feel the words sitting behind his teeth, pushing forward whether he wants it or not.
"Me."
Jennifer doesn't react, and that somehow makes it worse.
Because they both know it isn't just an answer to this question.
It's something he's been carrying for longer than he wants to admit.... something he's just finally said out loud.
He looks down at his hands, like if he stares at them long enough, they'll feel like someone else's.
His chest feels tight again, like something pressing inward from the inside.
The thought comes anyway, unwanted but familiar.
He breaks things.
Not in theory or in vague, distant ways.
People.
Relationships.
Everything and everyone that gets too close for too long.
It doesn't happen all at once, it never does. It just… wears down quietly, until there's nothing left that holds.
And the worst part is he knows the pattern well enough now to see it coming before it finishes.
You would've been next.
Not because he doesn't love you.
Because he does.
Too much.
Enough to know what happens when he stays close long enough for it to matter on that level. He's not worth it.
He chose distance because staying would've meant waiting for the moment he ruined you too. He couldn't bear the thought of it, of seeing you like that... of you looking at him like he'd finally become exactly what he was afraid of being.
And now that he's said it, it doesn't feel like a justification anymore.
It's just a fact he's been avoiding naming for a long time.
Something in him has always felt like it doesn't stay contained. Like it spreads. Quiet, slow, inevitable. Like cancer. And people eventually step back before it gets worse.
He swallows, jaw tightening.
He couldn't let it reach you. Not like that...
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
But maybe he already waited too long anyway.
By the time he reaches home, he barely makes it past the entrance door as he leans into the wall, shaking, then sinks to the floor. His legs just stop working and his breathing turns uneven almost immediately, like his body forgets how to regulate itself.
He breaks into sobbing before he can even fully register it, his hand going to his neck, gripping his necklace like it's the only thing left to anchor him.
And right before he starts praying, all he can think is how much he misses holding you.
*
He doesn't even look away from the ceiling as he reaches over and silences it. For a moment, the apartment settles into silence.
Well, almost. The television murmurs softly in the background, left on sometime during the night as usual.
He sits up slowly and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until the sting eases.
And for a while, he stays where he is, elbows on his knees, listening to the television fill the empty apartment with voices he isn't hearing.
Eventually, habit takes over.
He reaches for his phone.
Nothing.
No messages. No missed calls. No notifications, just an email reminding him to distribute a petition.
He almost laughs as he opens your conversation.
I'm really sorry.
Too late.
I'm not with Noelle.
Not enough.
I still love you.
Selfish.
He locks the phone.
*
The Pitt smells exactly the same, and Dana is already arguing with someone on the phone before he's even finished clocking in, waiting for Shen.
Whitaker walks past, barely balancing four coffees, and flashes him a quick smile.
"Morning, Dr. Robby."
"Morning."
Santos laughs down the hall as Dr. King nearly trips over her own feet.
Normal.
The department never stopped moving.
Somehow, he did.
*
The first few hours fly the way they always do.
He intubates, explains, reassures, documents.
His hands never hesitate.
It’s his mind that does.
Twice, he reaches for his phone between patients before remembering there won't be anything new there.
It's been almost three months. There is never going to be anything new.
By noon, he's angry at himself for still noticing.
*
"...I'm telling you, she cheated."
"She did not. You just lost after you tried to cheat."
"I only adjusted my position because-"
Whitaker snorts. "That's literally cheating."
Robby doesn't look up from the chart he's working on.
The conversation barely registers at first. Whitaker and Santos always bicker over something, and somewhere along the way, he'd grown fond of it.
Of them.
"I'm serious, though."
"I haven't laughed that hard in weeks"
"I knew she'd fit in."
Robby stops writing when he hears Dana.
"Fit in?"
Whitaker laughs.
"I still can't believe she got Park to order that drink."
"He actually ordered two."
"No."
Robby looks up just in time to catch Dana shaking her head.
No, they're talking about someone else, he tells himself.
Someone funny. Easy to be around. The kind of person who remembers everybody's names, who brought pastries because she wanted to thank the staff... who somehow managed to make even Park smile.
They have to.
"Everyone spent years trying to get that man to loosen up. And she does it in one evening."
Robby lowers his eyes to the chart again.
The station fills with quiet laughter as Santos mentions her nickname for you, and Robby's stomach twists before he understands why.
Nobody knows about you two.
Nobody is talking carefully... Nobody is choosing their words.
No one is avoiding your name or glancing his way to see if he is listening.
To them, you're just the new person everyone likes.
You're Jack's VIP.
You didn't tell them.
*
Later, he finds himself on the roof for the first time all shift. He's telling himself he just needs a break from all the crazy shit he's been doing all day. He's so lost in his thoughts he doesn't even realize Jack joins him.
"They like her."
Robby jumps a little but keeps looking ahead.
"I know."
"You never wanted her here."
"No."
"Why?"
Robby lets out a slow breath.
"I thought..." He searches for the words. "She'd be happier away from all this."
He can feel Jack's eyes burning the back of his head, but he just can't turn around. His eyes burn.
"All this?"
"The hours, and the death, and the fücked up version of me that works here."
Silence.
Robby closes his eyes as Jack sighs.
"Shame nobody thought to ask her what she wants."
Robby isn't asleep.
The television is on, of course. A documentary he's already seen three times plays quietly in the background, more noise than entertainment.
He tells himself it's nothing as he opens Instagram.
He almost never uses it. He only downloaded it months ago so he could like your photos, your posts, the little campaigns you did for brands. He never comments or sends anything. He just scrolls and closes the app again.
He scrolls once.
Twice.
Then Javadi's story appears.
He hesitates.
He shouldn't care.
He definitely shouldn't be following any of his students or former students, anyway.
The first story is exactly what he'd expect.
Coffee.
Someone filming Santos trying -and failing- to explain baseball to Whitaker.
Laughter from somewhere behind the camera.
He almost skips the next one, but then it loads.
A shaky video. Victoria turns the phone toward herself before swinging it around the table.
"There she is!"
The camera lands on you.
You're already laughing at something Santos has just said, the kind of laugh that catches you completely off guard. It lights up your whole face before you even notice Victoria is filming.
"Oh my God, stop."
You lift your coffee cup to hide behind it, smiling anyway.
"You look adorable."
"I look exhausted."
"You always look exhausted."
"That's because I keep hanging out with a bunch of emergency physicians."
The table erupts in laughter, and someone tosses a sugar packet at you.
You throw it right back.
The story ends.
Robby watches it again.
Not because he's trying to catch the conversation.
Because you're laughing.
Really laughing.
Not the careful smile you gave him while he checked your stitches. This laugh is effortless.
It reaches your eyes and it lasts barely seven seconds.
He watches every single one.
The next story loads automatically.
A group photo: Javadi, Whitaker, Santos, King, McKay, and even Langdon.
We adopted her❤️
Before he realizes what he's doing, he's already screenshotting so he can zoom in.
You're sitting beside Santos, shoulders loose, your hair tucked behind one ear.
Your healed hand curls around a coffee mug.
You look… comfortable. Like you belong there.
His gaze lingers, and something catches his eye.
The hoodie.
For one absurd second, his heart stumbles.
You're wearing his sweatshirt.
No.
Not his. There is no stain on this one.
Yours.
The oversized green hoodie he'd bought because you kept stealing his until he finally gave up and bought you one of your own. Yet you still stole it.
"You realize this defeats the purpose, right?"
"Sure. Keep pretending you don't love it."
He smiles before he can stop himself.
And it's gone just as quickly.
He closes the story.
A few seconds later, he opens it again.
Coffee.
Santos.
You laughing.
The thought comes before he can stop it.
You look lighter. Not whole (at least yet).
He knows grief too well to mistake it for happiness.
The shadows beneath your eyes tell him that much.
But you're surviving. Without him.
He sets the phone beside him on the couch.
Only five seconds pass before he picks it up again.
His chest tightens.
You're not replacing him. You're just living.
He'd spent weeks telling himself this was the point.
Leave.
Break your heart now so you'd have a chance to build something better later.
Now he's watching it happen, and he should feel relieved.
Instead, he can't seem to get enough air into his lungs.
He jumps out of bed, phone still in his hand, and wanders into the kitchen.
He opens the refrigerator, stares inside for a long moment, then closes it again.
He has no idea why he came in there.
The apartment suddenly feels too big, and quiet, and empty.
He braces both hands against the counter.
Breathes in.
Out.
Again.
Just like Jennifer taught him.
But it doesn't help.
His phone vibrates.
For one impossible, ridiculous second, hope punches him square in the chest, and he reaches for it before he can stop himself.
Jack.
Can you come in a little earlier tomorrow?
Robby lets out a laugh: short and flat. Almost embarrassed.
"Good."
The word echoes through the apartment.
Good.
This is what he wanted… you surrounded by people who make you laugh, finding your place. Building a life for yourself.
Good.
So why does it feel like something inside him is being slowly pulled apart?
Before he tries to sleep again, he opens Instagram one last time.
But the stories have already expired.
Gone.
Just like that.
*
He almost turns around twice on the drive there.
The first time at a red light, and the second when he passes the exit.
Instead, he keeps driving.
By the time Jennifer opens the office door, he already looks tired.
"You made it."
He nods.
"Barely."
A small smile crosses Jennifer's face.
"It still counts."
For the first several minutes, they talk about work.
A teenager who coded. A difficult intubation. A family he couldn't save. Anti-vaxxers refusing treatment until it was almost too late.
It's easier. Medicine always is.
Jennifer lets him speak until the stories run out.
"How have you been sleeping?"
"Fine."
"You look tired."
"I picked up a few extra shifts. Helped the night team. But I'm sleeping."
He looks toward the window before speaking again.
"I've been thinking."
"About her?"
His fingers twitch against his knee before he catches himself, but Jennifer notices.
"Whenever you are ready."
A quiet breath leaves him.
"Yes." He looks away. "Jack mentioned she's been around."
"The hospital?"
He nods.
"Around the day shift. People keep talking about her."
She doesn't ask him if he thinks it's intentionally because he's spoken about you quite a few times before.
Even though you sent that message that haunts him, Robby knows you are not a revengeful person.
"What do they say?"
"That she's funny. Kind." He lets out a sigh, eyebrows raising. "They like having her around."
Another moment of silence that Jennifer's careful not to interrupt.
Because she can see there's more.
Eventually, Robby looks at her and continues.
"It bothers me. I'm happy for her, yet it really bothers me."
"Two things can be true at once. They aren't mutually exclusive."
He nods. "I know."
"You wanted her to make friends and be happy, right?"
"Yes."
"To move on and continue her life…"
"Yes."
Jennifer studies him.
"And now she does."
He nods.
"So why does it bother you?"
They both know the answer to that. But somehow it's easier when someone else asks the question.
Easier to untangle the thoughts that have been circling in his head for weeks.
His gaze drops to the carpet as he drags a hand through his hair.
"Because..."
He swallows.
"I'm not in it."
Not in her life.
Silence settles between them, and Jennifer doesn't rush to fill it.
She lets him sit with the words… hear them outside his own head for the first time.
"I know how fücking selfish that sounds," he laugh humorlessly. "I just... I don't know how to deal with it."
"A few weeks ago," Jennifer says after a moment, "you told me you were protecting her."
He doesn't look up.
"You said she deserved better. That you made the right decision about her future."
He nods.
"But today..." She smiles gently. "You talked about how you feel."
He frowns.
"You didn't say you would've ruined her life or that you made the right decision."
His own words echo in his head.
I'm not in it.
I'm not in it.
I'm not in it.
He exhales slowly.
He hadn't even noticed.
Jennifer leans back in her chair.
"Something has changed."
He's breathless as he waits for her to continue.
"I think you're beginning to grieve the life you thought you'd have with her. The fact that you may never get to see who she becomes... while everyone else around you will."
That lands harder than he expects.
Because she's right.
He'd been so focused on surviving the breakup that he'd never stopped to think about everything that came after it.
Not calling you after work.
Not watching terrible television because you somehow made it entertaining with your reactions.
Not hearing you laugh from another room while he tried to guess what you'd decided to order for dinner.
The future he'd imagined had slipped away so quietly he almost hadn't noticed it.
"I miss her."
The words are barely audible.
Jennifer nods.
"I don't think..." His throat tightens. "I've actually said that before."
Another long silence settles between them. Then Jennifer asks,
"If she walked through that door right now, what would you do?"
He looks up.
He's heard versions of that question a hundred times before. It always sounded like a cliché.
Today, it doesn't.
He thinks for a long time before answering.
"I don't know."
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I'd probably ask how her hand is."
Jennifer smiles back.
"I think you would."
He lets out a quiet breath.
"I'm pretty predictable sometimes."
"You’re doing great, Robby. Last questions."
He nods.
"When the relationship ended, who made the decision?"
His chest tightens.
"I did."
"Who decided what was best for her?"
"I did."
"Who decided she deserved someone else?"
Jennifer lets the silence linger.
"What decision did she get to make?"
He doesn't answer.
Because he already knows.
"None."
Jennifer doesn't tell him he was wrong. She never does. She never tells him exactly what to do or how he's supposed to feel.
"I wonder whether protecting someone and choosing for someone are always the same thing. Or maybe we actually protect ourselves."
He leaves quieter than he arrived.
Not shattered. Not relieved.
Just thinking.
I never gave her the chance to decide whether I was worth loving.
*
He gets home and, for the first time in weeks, does the most rational thing he can think of.
He calls Jack.
The phone barely rings once.
"You done pretending?"
Robby snorts.
"Hi to you too."
"Therapy?"
He nods to himself before remembering Jack can't see him.
"Yeah."
"How'd it go?"
Robby leans against the kitchen counter.
"It was..."
He searches for the right word.
"Different."
"Good different?"
"I don't know."
Jack chuckles softly.
"Sounds about right."
A moment passes.
"So?"
"So?"
"You gonna tell me what happened, or am I supposed to guess?"
Robby smiles despite himself.
"You guess."
Jack doesn't hesitate.
"You miss her."
Robby doesn't answer.
"Brother..."
"I thought she'd hate me."
The humor disappears from Jack's voice.
"What?"
"When we broke up."
Robby stares down at the mug he'd made out of habit but hasn't touched.
"I thought that eventually she'd realize..."
He trails off, shaking his head.
"...that I wasn't enough. That she'd wasted years on me."
Jack says nothing.
"So I ended it first."
A slow breath crackles through the speaker.
"I know."
Robby closes his eyes.
"I knew she'd move on."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I wanted her to."
"And?"
"I just..."
His voice falters.
"I never actually believed it would happen."
Silence stretches between them.
Then Jack speaks.
"You know what I think?"
Robby waits.
"That you decided what she'd deserve before she ever got to tell you what she wanted."
Robby rubs a hand over his face.
"You never gave her the chance to choose you. You decided she'd be happier without you."
"Yeah."
"But did she ever tell you, 'I don't choose you, Michael'? Did she ever say she wanted someone else?"
Robby presses his thumb against the bridge of his nose.
"I thought I was saving her. I was trying to protect her."
"I know."
Jack doesn't sound accusing.
"I know, I believe you."
Jack's voice softens.
"But maybe..."
He chooses his words carefully.
"...maybe you were also protecting yourself from the chance that one day she wouldn't choose you."
Robby's stomach turns.
Because it's close enough to what Jennifer had said that it doesn't feel like coincidence anymore.
"You're one of the smartest people I've ever met."
Robby groans.
"Don't."
"I'm serious. You can diagnose someone in seconds. You can make impossible decisions, have the best speeches. You'll fight like hell for complete strangers." Jack sighs. "But you didn't trust the woman that you love to make one decision for herself. Because you think you’re not worth it."
"You sound just like my therapist."
Eventually Jack laughs quietly.
"You know what she told me?"
"What?"
"She asked if we could still be friends."
Robby blinks.
"She was worried she'd lose me too."
Robby closes his eyes.
He'd been so focused on removing himself from your life that he'd never considered the people you'd come to love because of him.
Robby hesitates before deciding to tell him one more thing.
"She thinks I'm with Noelle Hastings again."
"What?"
"When she came to the Pitt, she saw Noelle hugging me." He exhales. "She thought we were together."
"And you didn't tell her she was wrong?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I thought it'd sound defensive."
Jack lets out a disbelieving laugh.
"Jesus Christ, Robby."
He doesn't argue.
"She thought you'd replaced her after a week."
The words knock the air from his lungs.
He hears your voice as clearly as if you were standing beside him.
I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best.
He'd heard the bitterness, anger, and the jealousy but not the heartbreak and the rejection underneath your tone.
Robby squeezes his eyes shut.
And every time I scratch my nails.
Down someone else's back, I hope you feel it.
Well, can you feel it?
He finally understands what you must've seen.
A man who said one thing and made every choice look like the opposite.
Who swore he was leaving to save you, then let you believe he'd replaced you a week later.
Mr. Duplicity…
"I don't know if she'll forgive you."
"...I know."
"But if she ever gives you another chance..."
Jack lets the silence linger.
"Don't decide for her."
Another pause.
"She's old enough to make her own choices."
After they hang up, Robby remains standing in the middle of his apartment, phone still in his hand.
For the first time since the breakup, he realizes what an apology would actually sound like.
Not:
I did what was best. I was trying to protect you.
Just
I'm sorry I decided for you.
*
Robby almost texts you.
He writes: I'm sorry. I wasn't with Noelle. I shouldn't have decided for you. Let’s talk, please.
But he deletes it immediately.
It sounds like he's correcting facts instead of acknowledging your pain.
He puts the phone down.
Five minutes later he picks it back up.
He opens your conversation.
Your last message still sits there.
Can you feel it?
Below it… He realizes something.
Every conversation since the breakup has been started by him.
Instructions.
Appointments.
Orders.
Every important decision has been his.
He ended it.
He decided it was best.
He decided what you needed.
He decided you shouldn't love him.
He decided you deserved someone else.
He decided.
He lets his phone down and goes to search for his notebook.
The one he bought because Jennifer told him he needed to write about how he felt.
He writes one sentence.
I was wrong.
He stares at it.
Then another.
I thought leaving was the kindest thing I could do. I never asked what you wanted.
His pen stops.
He keeps writing.
Page after page.
About Collins.
About his mother.
About Adamson.
About Jake.
About believing people are safer without him.
About thinking love eventually becomes another thing he ruins.
About how terrified he was of becoming your biggest regret.
He slowly tears every page out when he's done and the apartment falls silent again.
Impulsively, he grabs his phone, reopening your conversation.
I’m really, really sorry… Can we talk, please?
His thumb hovers.
He thinks about adding:
Only if you want.
But he decides against it.
No speeches.
No pressure.
No manipulation.
Just... this.
He presses send.
Then a few seconds later… Seen. And nothing else.
Robby sets the phone face down.
This time... he doesn't pick it back up.
He has to wait.
*
Six days pass.
Nothing.
Not a single reply.
Robby tells himself that's fair.
He'd asked.
You hadn't answered.
That was an answer too.
*
Work fills every hour.
An elderly man with sepsis and a teenager after a motorcycle crash.
Life continues exactly the way it always has.
Patients arrive and leave.
Some stay. Some don't.
Usually that's enough.
Usually medicine leaves very little room for anything else.
Not anymore.
*
"You look like shit."
Robby doesn't bother looking up.
"So do you."
Jack smirks.
"I've got an excuse."
"So do I."
Jack waits, but Robby never offers one.
*
Later, Dana catches him rereading the same CT report for the third time.
"Wrong patient."
He blinks.
"Right."
She gently slides the correct chart toward him.
"Coffee?"
"I'm fine."
She gives him a look that clearly says you're absolutely not, but thankfully lets it go.
*
Four days later.
12:17 p.m.
His phone vibrates, and he almost ignores it.
Almost.
When he sees your name, his heart stumbles.
One word.
Okay.
Nothing else.
He reads it once.
Then again and again, Enough times that the letters stop looking like a word.
His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Thank you.
Delete.
Too much.
Are you free tomorrow?
Delete.
Too eager.
Too hopeful.
He stares at the screen for nearly a minute before typing again.
Wherever you're comfortable.
He reads it twice, then presses send before he can talk himself out of it.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Not the Pitt.
His reply is immediate.
Of course.
This time, the dots don't make him wait long.
Saturday, if you're free.
4 p.m.?
The park near you?
He doesn't realize he's smiling until his cheeks ache.
I'll be there.
He sets the phone down carefully, almost afraid that touching it again might somehow change the conversation.
A few minutes later, Langdon almost walks right into him.
He stops.
"What?"
Robby looks up.
"What?"
"You're smiling."
"Am I?"
Langdon nods once.
"I haven't seen that in a while."
Robby glances down at the coffee in his hands before waving him off.
"Must be a facial spasm."
Langdon snorts.
"Sure."
Robby takes another sip of his coffee.
The smile never quite leaves.
*
Saturday doesn't arrive fast enough.
Robby gets to the park twenty minutes early. Not because he thinks you'll leave if he's late. Sitting at home had simply become impossible.
Families sharing ice cream, dogs bark somewhere behind him, someone is playing guitar badly.
He wonders if you'll come.
You said you would. But then again... you had every reason not to.
His phone stays in his pocket.
He promised himself he wouldn't check the time every thirty seconds.
He fails anyway.
3:56.
3:58.
4:07.
Then
"Hi."
He turns. And for a second... he forgets how to breathe.
You're wearing jeans and an oversized sweater despite the warm afternoon, your sunglasses pushed up into your hair.
You look... healthy.
Still thinner than before. Still tired around the eyes.
But healthier than the last time he saw you.
He gets to his feet at once.
"Hi."
Neither of you moves.
No hug. Not even a handshake.
The distance between you suddenly feels enormous.
But you look at each other. You actually look at him after months.
"You came."
You almost smile.
"I wanted to know what you had to say."
He gestures toward the closest path.
"Do you want to walk?"
You nod once.
"Okay."
For the first several minutes, neither of you says a word.
You fall into step beside each other almost awkwardly, leaving enough space between you that neither of your arms accidentally brushes the other's.
The silence isn't comfortable.
It isn't hostile, either. It's careful.
As though one wrong word might send the whole conversation crashing down before it has the chance to begin.
Your footsteps fall out of rhythm, then back into it again.
Leaves rustle overhead. Cyclists pass every now and then, forcing one of you to step aside before drifting apart again without thinking.
The world carries on exactly as it always has.
"I almost didn't come."
"I know."
You glance at him.
"You do?"
He nods.
"I would've understood if you hadn't."
You let out a quiet breath.
"I don't think you would've."
For one instinctive moment, he almost reaches for you. His hand twitches at his side before he curls it into a fist.
But he doesn't get to comfort you from the pain he caused.
Instead, he slips both hands into his pockets and waits for you to speak when you're ready.
"I wanted to hate you," you admit with a small, humorless laugh. "God... I really tried."
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't."
Your voice trembles despite every effort to steady it.
"You have no idea how much I hated myself for not being able to just... switch it off."
You swallow.
"I kept thinking maybe if I slept with someone else..."
A bitter laugh escapes you.
"I didn't, obviously."
Your eyes stay fixed on the path.
"I think, in some twisted way, it would've been so much easier if you'd cheated on me."
The words surprise even you.
"If you'd just..."
You struggle to finish the sentence.
"...fallen out of love."
Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug.
"I could've built a life around that."
Beside you, Robby lowers his head. His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle move.
"But instead..." Your voice softens. "You told me I deserved better."
A hollow laugh slips out.
"Do you know how awful that is?"
He closes his eyes for the briefest moment.
He did this to you. Made you wonder… made you suffer.
And for what?
"Every single day, I kept wondering what was so wrong with me that I wasn't even allowed to choose."
The breeze catches a strand of your hair, and you tuck it behind your ear with hands that still aren't completely steady.
Silence stretches between you.
Long enough that you wonder if he's going to answer at all.
"There was never anything wrong with you."
You stop walking.
He takes another step before realizing you've stopped, then turns back to face you.
"There was everything wrong with me."
You shake your head immediately.
"No."
He frowns.
"No?"
You meet his eyes for the first time since you'd arrived.
"No. That's what you believed."
He frowns.
"You keep talking like you're some kind of... poison. Like you'll ruin everyone who gets too close."
His gaze drops.
His gaze drops to the gravel beneath your feet.
Isn't he?
"And maybe you really believe that." You take another slow breath. "But you don't get to turn yourself into a monster just because it's easier than believing someone could love you."
He feels the words before he understands them.
They settle somewhere deep in his chest, in the place he'd spent years trying not to look.
"You loved me," he says quietly.
"I did." You don't hesitate. "Very much."
He watches you wrap your arms around yourself, fingertips disappearing beneath the sleeves of your sweater.
"You were my first serious relationship, Robby."
A small, sad smile flickers across your face.
The past tense hangs between you.
"I let my guard down with you. I wanted to fit into your world."
Your eyes drift toward the trees.
"Sometimes... it felt like you were ashamed of me."
His head lifts so quickly it almost startles you.
"I wasn't."
"I know." You meet his eyes again. "But that's how it felt."
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
Because his intentions don't erase what you lived through.
"I still..."
The words die before they reach your lips.
Your jaw tightens.
"I'm still trying to figure out what I feel."
He nods once.
"That's fair."
A couple walks past, laughing quietly to themselves. Neither of you notices until they're already gone.
"I know you loved me."
He listens carefully, trying not to think about the hole he feels in his stomach
"But I don't know if I can trust you."
"I know."
"I don't know if I ever will."
"I know."
He lets the silence settle before speaking again.
For once, he lets it exist.
"There is one thing I need you to know."
You wait.
"I wasn't with Noelle." His voice is steady. "I wasn't with anyone else during or after our relationship."
"Thanks for explaining, I believe you."
"I know that's not why we're here."
You nod. "It isn't."
"But I couldn't let you keep believing I'd replaced you."
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry."
His voice is barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker toward yours for a second.
"For every decision I made for you. For keeping you outside the Pitt."
His eyes meet yours again.
"And for making you believe, even for a second, that you were easy to replace."
Your throat tightens.
"You asked me once what I was afraid of."
You wait.
"I think..."
He lets out a slow breath.
"I thought that if you stayed long enough… you'd wake up one morning and realize you were unhappy."
He laughs quietly at himself.
"That loving me would become the biggest mistake of your life."
His gaze drifts toward your sweater.
"The age difference. My job. The hours. My history. My depression..." He shrugs helplessly. "I kept adding reasons until I couldn't imagine you choosing me anymore."
He looks back at you before he continues. "That's not an excuse. I just want you to know where my head was."
His eyes shine.
"I hated myself so much that I became convinced you'd eventually hate me too."
Something cracks inside his chest. He sounds so lonely and lost. He can’t imagine what you must be thinking about him.
"I never thought that."
"I know."
"No." You take a step toward him before you even realize you're moving. "I really didn't, Michael."
Your eyes search his face.
"I chose you. And you were so easy to love."
He nods, tears gathering despite every effort to hold them back.
"I know that now."
A fragile smile touches his lips.
"Or I'm trying to."
He wipes quickly beneath one eye before the tear can fall.
"And I'm sorry it took losing you to believe it."
You stand there for a long time. Close enough that either of you could reach out. Neither of you does.
Eventually, you smile. It's small and sad, but real.
"I'm still angry with you."
"I figured."
"I might be angry for a long time."
"You've earned that."
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself.
"Don't get cocky."
He huffs a quiet laugh.
"I wasn't planning to."
"No?" You raise an eyebrow. "You broke up with me because you decided what was best for me without asking."
He sighs. For the first time, he truly tries to imagine the conversation with the roles reversed.
You looking him in the eye and deciding (for him) that he'd be happier without you. The thought twists something deep in his chest.
"Do you have any idea how infuriating that is?"
"I do now."
He gives you a small, almost hesitant smile.
"I'm glad you're doing better."
You look at him, but he doesn't answer right away.
"I tried to help. I know I couldn't, but I tried."
"You did. And you helped more than you know."
You look down at your hands.
"I heard you're seeing a therapist. Jack didn't tell me much."
"He wouldn't." A faint smile touches his face. "But... I'm really glad the two of you stayed friends."
"And I'm glad you're doing this."
He looks at you, almost surprised.
"So am I."
The words come more easily than he'd expected.
"I should've done it a long time ago."
Another moment of silence settles between you.
Then you take a slow breath.
"But I don't think we should get back together."
His smile disappears.
Not because he expected something different.vBecause hearing it still hurts like hell.
"Okay."
"But..."
He looks up.
"I also don't think today has to be goodbye."
His chest tightens.
"I don't want us to be strangers anymore."
"You don't?"
"I missed you." You let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "God... that sounds pathetic after everything that's happened."
"It doesn't."
You look away. "You were my best friend, Robby."
The words knock the air from his lungs.
He'd known it.
Somewhere, but hearing you say it out loud is something else entirely.
In so many ways that mattered, you'd been his too.
There were parts of himself only two people had ever truly seen.
You and Jack.
"And I just... I need to see whether the man standing here is the same man who left me before I can even think about dating you or simply being friends with you again."
He nods immediately.
"I understand."
"And I'm not promising anything."
"You don't have to." He lets out a slow breath. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give me."
For a while, you simply stand there.
The silence doesn't feel uncomfortable anymore.
Just... unfamiliar.
You glance toward the little café near the park entrance.
"I'm kind of thirsty."
He follows your gaze.
"You want tea?"
"I think..." A tiny smile finds its way onto your face. "Tea sounds safe."
He almost says, Let's go.
Almost. Instead, he catches himself.
"You tell me."
Your eyes lift to his and you hold his gaze for a long second before smiling.
"I hate that."
He blinks.
"What?"
"You're actually listening."
A quiet laugh escapes both of you.
"I came here fully prepared to argue with you."
"You still can."
"Oh, don't worry." Your smile grows just enough to reach your eyes. "I probably will."
You take a step toward the café before glancing back over your shoulder.
"But I think I'd rather have that tea first."
He falls into step beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.
pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: You're learning how to live without him (kinda). Robby is learning what that actually means.
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealousy, angst, longing, language, depression, therapy.
A/N: I really hope you enjoy this part! I won't lie, I was a little nervous while writing it because I kept second-guessing where the story was going. Let me know what you think, and whether you'd ever like to see an alternative ending! (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners) + Thank you @lavenderhaze967 for proofreading!
He used to wake up wishing he felt nothing. Wishing he was surrounded by darkness, by emptiness. Wishing for something close to... death.
Now he wakes up checking his phone.
He checks it on the way to the Pitt, at work between cases, even when he goes to the bathroom after washing his hands. He checks it while eating, while listening to Jack, and before going to sleep. Sometimes he even wakes up in the middle of the night, turns the TV volume down a little, and checks it again.
It has become a habit he can't seem to break. Maybe even an obsession.
He almost answered the same night he received your message, but never came that close again. He doesn't even open the keyboard anymore.
But that night?
He must have picked up his phone a dozen times. His thumb hovered over the reply button until the screen dimmed. He unlocked it again and stared at the words until they became blurry.
He knew you hadn't actually gone home with someone else. He knew exactly why you'd said it. You wanted him to picture it. To wonder. To hurt.
The worst part was that it worked anyway.
He thought about what he could possibly say. There wasn't an answer that didn't sound like a lie. Or an excuse. Or the kind of desperate confession that came too late. He came so close to begging when he finally understood how deeply he'd hurt you.
But in the end, he locked the phone and reached for a bottle instead.
One drink became another, then another, until thinking became impossible. The next morning he woke up with a splitting headache, still dressed, his phone lying exactly where he'd left it beneath his pillow.
So, for the first time in more than a decade, he called off work.
He had never done that. Not from exhaustion, not after thirty-hour shifts, not even when he probably should have. But that morning there was no chance he could walk into the Pitt and trust his own hands.
So yes, he can feel it. He feels it every fücking day of his life.
*
Jack notices before Robby realizes he's been caught.
It's after a chest tube. One of those shifts where the department hasn't stopped moving for nearly six hours. A three-car pileup on the interstate had flooded the Pitt with patients all at once: broken ribs, collapsed lungs, a shattered femur, enough blood to make the trauma bays feel too small. Robby had called Jack in early, and even then they'd barely managed to stay ahead.
By the time the last patient was stable, his scrubs were streaked with dried blood and antiseptic. His shoulders ached.
He steps into the ambulance bay, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he tries to catch a full breath. The cool air does little to clear his head. For a second, he remembers you.
You always knew the difference between a busy day and a bad one. On the bad days, you never asked questions first. You'd just come up behind him, work the tension out of his shoulders with your thumbs while he pretended to complain, then wrap your arms around his waist and stay there for a minute without saying a word.
Somehow, you always knew exactly where it hurt.
Maybe you had a gift. Or maybe you just cared.
Robby spent so much of his life expecting people not to that he'd mistaken being loved for being understood.
His phone vibrates.
Not a message, an email.
He knows that before he even looks.
Still, he unlocks it. Still, his thumb opens the same conversation. Still nothing has changed.
Can you feel it?
"You okay?"
Robby doesn't jump. He should have. Instead, he simply locks the phone and slips it into his pocket.
"Just peachy."
"You know," Jack says, "I've watched you unlock that phone at least twenty times today."
"So?"
"So you're lying."
Robby crosses his arms over his chest and drops his gaze to the concrete beneath his feet. It's an old habit, one Jack learned to recognize years ago.
"I've got patients."
"So do I." Jack sighs. "You gonna answer her?"
For half a second, Robby's first instinct is to play dumb.
Who?
He could ask it... pretend he has no idea what Jack is talking about. But it wouldn't work. Jack has known him too long for that.
"There isn't anything to answer. It's just a message."
Jack doesn't argue, like he'd expected that answer.
He just nods toward the doors, and they head back inside.
The department swallows them immediately: monitors, a trauma pager going off somewhere down the hall, Langdon and King making their way to a patient together. The usual chaos.
They stop at the nurses' station, where Dana is buried in charting, too focused to pay them any attention.
For a minute, neither of them says anything. Robby pretends to study the patient board, following the names across the screen without actually reading them. Jack watches him long enough to know it's an act.
"Okay." Another beat. "Then why haven't you deleted it?"
Robby's jaw tightens. "I don't know."
"Liar."
Robby lets out a dry laugh that doesn't sound anything like amusement. "I've never seen you this interested in my personal life."
"I'm not."
Jack folds his arms. "I'm interested in the fact that one text message has managed to get under your skin more than any patient, lawsuit, or attending ever has. More than Janey and even Collins."
Robby doesn't say anything. He doesn't even flinch when Heather is brought up.
Can you feel it?
He glances once toward where Dana had been a moment ago, finding the space empty now, as if she'd stepped away without him noticing. Then he looks back at the patient board, and the names blur into each other.
"I don't know, man," he says finally, quieter than before. "I am the one who ended it."
The words hang there a second longer than they should. He did. And it's supposed to be the right choice. The good, honorable choice. He's doing her a favor after everything she's done for him.
Robby swallows.
It's the closest thing to an admission Jack is going to get.
For now.
"Alright."
He pushes off the counter, and Robby thinks it's over.
"Still in therapy?"
It isn't.
"Yes." He went there three times in the last two weeks. Three times he'd sat in a chair and avoided talking about you directly… like keeping your name unspoken made it easier to stay in control of what he was actually feeling.
"Good," Jack says, like it's the most normal thing in the world, as if it isn't something Robby has to actively choose every week just to keep himself from slipping. "Then I'm not gonna give you my opinion."
He pauses.
"Hmm."
"What? I'll keep it to myself."
Robby almost laughs at that.
Jack has never been particularly good at keeping anything to himself. He made it very clear how he felt when he called him "dumb as fück" for breaking up with you.
They move toward the locker rooms before either of them has to think too hard about anything else.
It's one of the rare days they're on shift together. Jack is pulling a double to cover for Al-Hashimi; her kid is sick again, last-minute call-out.
Robby changes on autopilot, like his body knows what to do even if the rest of him is somewhere else entirely.
It's that familiar work-state where everything personal gets filed away for later.
And it almost works. He almost feels normal.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Almost.
"You know," Jack says, glancing sideways at him, "I saw her yesterday."
Something in Robby shifts... small, immediate. A tightening in his chest he refuses to name, refuses to let settle into anything as vulnerable as anticipation. It stays contained, buried before it can surface or, worse, explode.
He doesn't let it reach his face.
But Jack didn't even say your name.
He didn't have to.
"I saw her yesterday," Jack repeats, carefully, like he's making sure Robby actually hears him this time.
Robby's hand twitches at his side before he can stop it. An old reflex, almost unconscious.... the urge to reach for his phone, to check it again even though there's nothing new there. Just the same message he's already memorized.
But he doesn't move. He stops himself and keeps his voice even.
"What do you mean, you saw her?"
Jack glances at him.
"Outside work. She was with Santos."
That makes no sense.
Why would you hang out with Santos?
"Santos?"
"Yeah." Jack shrugs, like it's nothing. "She's been around her a lot lately. Whitaker too. Don't read into it."
Robby's jaw tightens anyway.
"I'm not reading into anything."
"Sure."
A beat.
"How…" Robby starts, then stops, recalibrating. His voice comes out more controlled the second time. "How did it happen? How did they even properly meet her?"
Jack adjusts his pace beside him, like they're still just talking about schedules and not something else entirely.
"She came by on your day off after she got her stitches removed," he says. "Brought food for everyone. Day shift and night shift."
His shoulders rise and fall.
"You know how she is. She stayed and talked to people. She thanked them and..."
A pause.
"She kind of… won them over," Jack continues. "Park too. He was here for an amputation consultation and still ended up almost laughing. She offered him a cookie like it was the most normal thing in the world."
Something in Robby tightens at that.
Park. She actually got through Park.
"Don't read into that either."
He huffs under his breath, almost amused, but it doesn't land.
"I'm not."
Jack doesn't push it.
He just keeps walking, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor, while changing the subject. But Robby stops listening.
Because something has already taken shape in his head, and it drowns out whatever Jack is saying.
You... not where he left you, outside his world. But inside it.
And he doesn't know what to do with that. Because in his head, it was never meant to work like this.
When you were together, he always assumed, without ever saying it out loud, that you'd remain on the edge of his work life forever. Close enough to hear about it, but never truly part of it. Kept away from the parts of his world that made him feel like a failure… the parts that left him wondering whether he existed as anything other than a doctor.
Not because he'd made a conscious decision. It was simply how he'd always lived.
Compartmentalized and contained.
Work stayed here, you stayed somewhere else.
It was easier that way. Cleaner. As if keeping the two apart meant neither could poison the other.
So when it ended, you were outside of it and he was inside.
Except you didn't stay outside after all.
You're there anyway. And somehow, that hurts more.
Most of them probably don't even know you were ever with him.
They like you because you're… you.
Even Park. That part twists something lower in his chest.
Of course you'd get through to him. Of course you'd sit in front of someone like that and make it easy, make it human, make it... normal.
Robby looks ahead, jaw tightening once before easing again, like he's trying to physically undo the thought.
For a moment, he doesn't speak.
Then, quieter to himself:
"I'm not reading into it."
But even he can hear how it doesn't hold any weight anymore.
*
He almost cancels.
He sits in his car for ten minutes, engine off, hands resting on the wheel, thinking about nothing and everything at once.
Then he goes in anyway.
"You're distracted today."
"I'm fine," he says again, but it's weak. His fingers curl slightly into his palm, like he can physically keep himself from slipping.
"How's the breakup been sitting with you this week?"
He breathes in through his nose. Too slow. Controlled in a way that takes effort.
"I made the right decision."
"That wasn't my question, Robby."
He presses a hand down to his knee instantly... like the pressure will quiet whatever's building. God, he thought he's better at this.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he says, but it comes out sharper than he meant.
"I want you to answer the question. If you can, of course."
"I'm not-" He stops, swallowing whatever he had in mind and starts again, quieter. "I'm not going to keep going over it."
The silence stretches.
Then- "What comes up when you think about it?"
"I don't feel guilty."
The response's immediate. Too immediate. Like if he says it fast enough it won't turn into anything else.
She doesn't react.
Just waits.
And that waiting does something worse than pressure, it gives him space to hear himself.
His shoulders drop a fraction before he catches it, like his body is betraying him without permission.
"I feel responsible," he says instead, quieter.
"For what?"
"For how it ended."
For hurting you.
"I was protecting her," he says, but it comes out rough, like it scraped on the way up. Like he needs to convince himself it's true.
"From what?"
That question is so simple, yet it feels like it rips something open inside him.
There's a moment where he can feel the words sitting behind his teeth, pushing forward whether he wants it or not.
"Me."
Jennifer doesn't react, and that somehow makes it worse.
Because they both know it isn't just an answer to this question.
It's something he's been carrying for longer than he wants to admit.... something he's just finally said out loud.
He looks down at his hands, like if he stares at them long enough, they'll feel like someone else's.
His chest feels tight again, like something pressing inward from the inside.
The thought comes anyway, unwanted but familiar.
He breaks things.
Not in theory or in vague, distant ways.
People.
Relationships.
Everything and everyone that gets too close for too long.
It doesn't happen all at once, it never does. It just… wears down quietly, until there's nothing left that holds.
And the worst part is he knows the pattern well enough now to see it coming before it finishes.
You would've been next.
Not because he doesn't love you.
Because he does.
Too much.
Enough to know what happens when he stays close long enough for it to matter on that level. He's not worth it.
He chose distance because staying would've meant waiting for the moment he ruined you too. He couldn't bear the thought of it, of seeing you like that... of you looking at him like he'd finally become exactly what he was afraid of being.
And now that he's said it, it doesn't feel like a justification anymore.
It's just a fact he's been avoiding naming for a long time.
Something in him has always felt like it doesn't stay contained. Like it spreads. Quiet, slow, inevitable. Like cancer. And people eventually step back before it gets worse.
He swallows, jaw tightening.
He couldn't let it reach you. Not like that...
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
But maybe he already waited too long anyway.
By the time he reaches home, he barely makes it past the entrance door as he leans into the wall, shaking, then sinks to the floor. His legs just stop working and his breathing turns uneven almost immediately, like his body forgets how to regulate itself.
He breaks into sobbing before he can even fully register it, his hand going to his neck, gripping his necklace like it's the only thing left to anchor him.
And right before he starts praying, all he can think is how much he misses holding you.
*
He doesn't even look away from the ceiling as he reaches over and silences it. For a moment, the apartment settles into silence.
Well, almost. The television murmurs softly in the background, left on sometime during the night as usual.
He sits up slowly and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes until the sting eases.
And for a while, he stays where he is, elbows on his knees, listening to the television fill the empty apartment with voices he isn't hearing.
Eventually, habit takes over.
He reaches for his phone.
Nothing.
No messages. No missed calls. No notifications, just an email reminding him to distribute a petition.
He almost laughs as he opens your conversation.
I'm really sorry.
Too late.
I'm not with Noelle.
Not enough.
I still love you.
Selfish.
He locks the phone.
*
The Pitt smells exactly the same, and Dana is already arguing with someone on the phone before he's even finished clocking in, waiting for Shen.
Whitaker walks past, barely balancing four coffees, and flashes him a quick smile.
"Morning, Dr. Robby."
"Morning."
Santos laughs down the hall as Dr. King nearly trips over her own feet.
Normal.
The department never stopped moving.
Somehow, he did.
*
The first few hours fly the way they always do.
He intubates, explains, reassures, documents.
His hands never hesitate.
It’s his mind that does.
Twice, he reaches for his phone between patients before remembering there won't be anything new there.
It's been almost three months. There is never going to be anything new.
By noon, he's angry at himself for still noticing.
*
"...I'm telling you, she cheated."
"She did not. You just lost after you tried to cheat."
"I only adjusted my position because-"
Whitaker snorts. "That's literally cheating."
Robby doesn't look up from the chart he's working on.
The conversation barely registers at first. Whitaker and Santos always bicker over something, and somewhere along the way, he'd grown fond of it.
Of them.
"I'm serious, though."
"I haven't laughed that hard in weeks"
"I knew she'd fit in."
Robby stops writing when he hears Dana.
"Fit in?"
Whitaker laughs.
"I still can't believe she got Park to order that drink."
"He actually ordered two."
"No."
Robby looks up just in time to catch Dana shaking her head.
No, they're talking about someone else, he tells himself.
Someone funny. Easy to be around. The kind of person who remembers everybody's names, who brought pastries because she wanted to thank the staff... who somehow managed to make even Park smile.
They have to.
"Everyone spent years trying to get that man to loosen up. And she does it in one evening."
Robby lowers his eyes to the chart again.
The station fills with quiet laughter as Santos mentions her nickname for you, and Robby's stomach twists before he understands why.
Nobody knows about you two.
Nobody is talking carefully... Nobody is choosing their words.
No one is avoiding your name or glancing his way to see if he is listening.
To them, you're just the new person everyone likes.
You're Jack's VIP.
You didn't tell them.
*
Later, he finds himself on the roof for the first time all shift. He's telling himself he just needs a break from all the crazy shit he's been doing all day. He's so lost in his thoughts he doesn't even realize Jack joins him.
"They like her."
Robby jumps a little but keeps looking ahead.
"I know."
"You never wanted her here."
"No."
"Why?"
Robby lets out a slow breath.
"I thought..." He searches for the words. "She'd be happier away from all this."
He can feel Jack's eyes burning the back of his head, but he just can't turn around. His eyes burn.
"All this?"
"The hours, and the death, and the fücked up version of me that works here."
Silence.
Robby closes his eyes as Jack sighs.
"Shame nobody thought to ask her what she wants."
Robby isn't asleep.
The television is on, of course. A documentary he's already seen three times plays quietly in the background, more noise than entertainment.
He tells himself it's nothing as he opens Instagram.
He almost never uses it. He only downloaded it months ago so he could like your photos, your posts, the little campaigns you did for brands. He never comments or sends anything. He just scrolls and closes the app again.
He scrolls once.
Twice.
Then Javadi's story appears.
He hesitates.
He shouldn't care.
He definitely shouldn't be following any of his students or former students, anyway.
The first story is exactly what he'd expect.
Coffee.
Someone filming Santos trying -and failing- to explain baseball to Whitaker.
Laughter from somewhere behind the camera.
He almost skips the next one, but then it loads.
A shaky video. Victoria turns the phone toward herself before swinging it around the table.
"There she is!"
The camera lands on you.
You're already laughing at something Santos has just said, the kind of laugh that catches you completely off guard. It lights up your whole face before you even notice Victoria is filming.
"Oh my God, stop."
You lift your coffee cup to hide behind it, smiling anyway.
"You look adorable."
"I look exhausted."
"You always look exhausted."
"That's because I keep hanging out with a bunch of emergency physicians."
The table erupts in laughter, and someone tosses a sugar packet at you.
You throw it right back.
The story ends.
Robby watches it again.
Not because he's trying to catch the conversation.
Because you're laughing.
Really laughing.
Not the careful smile you gave him while he checked your stitches. This laugh is effortless.
It reaches your eyes and it lasts barely seven seconds.
He watches every single one.
The next story loads automatically.
A group photo: Javadi, Whitaker, Santos, King, McKay, and even Langdon.
We adopted her❤️
Before he realizes what he's doing, he's already screenshotting so he can zoom in.
You're sitting beside Santos, shoulders loose, your hair tucked behind one ear.
Your healed hand curls around a coffee mug.
You look… comfortable. Like you belong there.
His gaze lingers, and something catches his eye.
The hoodie.
For one absurd second, his heart stumbles.
You're wearing his sweatshirt.
No.
Not his. There is no stain on this one.
Yours.
The oversized green hoodie he'd bought because you kept stealing his until he finally gave up and bought you one of your own. Yet you still stole it.
"You realize this defeats the purpose, right?"
"Sure. Keep pretending you don't love it."
He smiles before he can stop himself.
And it's gone just as quickly.
He closes the story.
A few seconds later, he opens it again.
Coffee.
Santos.
You laughing.
The thought comes before he can stop it.
You look lighter. Not whole (at least yet).
He knows grief too well to mistake it for happiness.
The shadows beneath your eyes tell him that much.
But you're surviving. Without him.
He sets the phone beside him on the couch.
Only five seconds pass before he picks it up again.
His chest tightens.
You're not replacing him. You're just living.
He'd spent weeks telling himself this was the point.
Leave.
Break your heart now so you'd have a chance to build something better later.
Now he's watching it happen, and he should feel relieved.
Instead, he can't seem to get enough air into his lungs.
He jumps out of bed, phone still in his hand, and wanders into the kitchen.
He opens the refrigerator, stares inside for a long moment, then closes it again.
He has no idea why he came in there.
The apartment suddenly feels too big, and quiet, and empty.
He braces both hands against the counter.
Breathes in.
Out.
Again.
Just like Jennifer taught him.
But it doesn't help.
His phone vibrates.
For one impossible, ridiculous second, hope punches him square in the chest, and he reaches for it before he can stop himself.
Jack.
Can you come in a little earlier tomorrow?
Robby lets out a laugh: short and flat. Almost embarrassed.
"Good."
The word echoes through the apartment.
Good.
This is what he wanted… you surrounded by people who make you laugh, finding your place. Building a life for yourself.
Good.
So why does it feel like something inside him is being slowly pulled apart?
Before he tries to sleep again, he opens Instagram one last time.
But the stories have already expired.
Gone.
Just like that.
*
He almost turns around twice on the drive there.
The first time at a red light, and the second when he passes the exit.
Instead, he keeps driving.
By the time Jennifer opens the office door, he already looks tired.
"You made it."
He nods.
"Barely."
A small smile crosses Jennifer's face.
"It still counts."
For the first several minutes, they talk about work.
A teenager who coded. A difficult intubation. A family he couldn't save. Anti-vaxxers refusing treatment until it was almost too late.
It's easier. Medicine always is.
Jennifer lets him speak until the stories run out.
"How have you been sleeping?"
"Fine."
"You look tired."
"I picked up a few extra shifts. Helped the night team. But I'm sleeping."
He looks toward the window before speaking again.
"I've been thinking."
"About her?"
His fingers twitch against his knee before he catches himself, but Jennifer notices.
"Whenever you are ready."
A quiet breath leaves him.
"Yes." He looks away. "Jack mentioned she's been around."
"The hospital?"
He nods.
"Around the day shift. People keep talking about her."
She doesn't ask him if he thinks it's intentionally because he's spoken about you quite a few times before.
Even though you sent that message that haunts him, Robby knows you are not a revengeful person.
"What do they say?"
"That she's funny. Kind." He lets out a sigh, eyebrows raising. "They like having her around."
Another moment of silence that Jennifer's careful not to interrupt.
Because she can see there's more.
Eventually, Robby looks at her and continues.
"It bothers me. I'm happy for her, yet it really bothers me."
"Two things can be true at once. They aren't mutually exclusive."
He nods. "I know."
"You wanted her to make friends and be happy, right?"
"Yes."
"To move on and continue her life…"
"Yes."
Jennifer studies him.
"And now she does."
He nods.
"So why does it bother you?"
They both know the answer to that. But somehow it's easier when someone else asks the question.
Easier to untangle the thoughts that have been circling in his head for weeks.
His gaze drops to the carpet as he drags a hand through his hair.
"Because..."
He swallows.
"I'm not in it."
Not in her life.
Silence settles between them, and Jennifer doesn't rush to fill it.
She lets him sit with the words… hear them outside his own head for the first time.
"I know how fücking selfish that sounds," he laugh humorlessly. "I just... I don't know how to deal with it."
"A few weeks ago," Jennifer says after a moment, "you told me you were protecting her."
He doesn't look up.
"You said she deserved better. That you made the right decision about her future."
He nods.
"But today..." She smiles gently. "You talked about how you feel."
He frowns.
"You didn't say you would've ruined her life or that you made the right decision."
His own words echo in his head.
I'm not in it.
I'm not in it.
I'm not in it.
He exhales slowly.
He hadn't even noticed.
Jennifer leans back in her chair.
"Something has changed."
He's breathless as he waits for her to continue.
"I think you're beginning to grieve the life you thought you'd have with her. The fact that you may never get to see who she becomes... while everyone else around you will."
That lands harder than he expects.
Because she's right.
He'd been so focused on surviving the breakup that he'd never stopped to think about everything that came after it.
Not calling you after work.
Not watching terrible television because you somehow made it entertaining with your reactions.
Not hearing you laugh from another room while he tried to guess what you'd decided to order for dinner.
The future he'd imagined had slipped away so quietly he almost hadn't noticed it.
"I miss her."
The words are barely audible.
Jennifer nods.
"I don't think..." His throat tightens. "I've actually said that before."
Another long silence settles between them. Then Jennifer asks,
"If she walked through that door right now, what would you do?"
He looks up.
He's heard versions of that question a hundred times before. It always sounded like a cliché.
Today, it doesn't.
He thinks for a long time before answering.
"I don't know."
A faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
"I'd probably ask how her hand is."
Jennifer smiles back.
"I think you would."
He lets out a quiet breath.
"I'm pretty predictable sometimes."
"You’re doing great, Robby. Last questions."
He nods.
"When the relationship ended, who made the decision?"
His chest tightens.
"I did."
"Who decided what was best for her?"
"I did."
"Who decided she deserved someone else?"
Jennifer lets the silence linger.
"What decision did she get to make?"
He doesn't answer.
Because he already knows.
"None."
Jennifer doesn't tell him he was wrong. She never does. She never tells him exactly what to do or how he's supposed to feel.
"I wonder whether protecting someone and choosing for someone are always the same thing. Or maybe we actually protect ourselves."
He leaves quieter than he arrived.
Not shattered. Not relieved.
Just thinking.
I never gave her the chance to decide whether I was worth loving.
*
He gets home and, for the first time in weeks, does the most rational thing he can think of.
He calls Jack.
The phone barely rings once.
"You done pretending?"
Robby snorts.
"Hi to you too."
"Therapy?"
He nods to himself before remembering Jack can't see him.
"Yeah."
"How'd it go?"
Robby leans against the kitchen counter.
"It was..."
He searches for the right word.
"Different."
"Good different?"
"I don't know."
Jack chuckles softly.
"Sounds about right."
A moment passes.
"So?"
"So?"
"You gonna tell me what happened, or am I supposed to guess?"
Robby smiles despite himself.
"You guess."
Jack doesn't hesitate.
"You miss her."
Robby doesn't answer.
"Brother..."
"I thought she'd hate me."
The humor disappears from Jack's voice.
"What?"
"When we broke up."
Robby stares down at the mug he'd made out of habit but hasn't touched.
"I thought that eventually she'd realize..."
He trails off, shaking his head.
"...that I wasn't enough. That she'd wasted years on me."
Jack says nothing.
"So I ended it first."
A slow breath crackles through the speaker.
"I know."
Robby closes his eyes.
"I knew she'd move on."
He lets out a quiet laugh.
"I wanted her to."
"And?"
"I just..."
His voice falters.
"I never actually believed it would happen."
Silence stretches between them.
Then Jack speaks.
"You know what I think?"
Robby waits.
"That you decided what she'd deserve before she ever got to tell you what she wanted."
Robby rubs a hand over his face.
"You never gave her the chance to choose you. You decided she'd be happier without you."
"Yeah."
"But did she ever tell you, 'I don't choose you, Michael'? Did she ever say she wanted someone else?"
Robby presses his thumb against the bridge of his nose.
"I thought I was saving her. I was trying to protect her."
"I know."
Jack doesn't sound accusing.
"I know, I believe you."
Jack's voice softens.
"But maybe..."
He chooses his words carefully.
"...maybe you were also protecting yourself from the chance that one day she wouldn't choose you."
Robby's stomach turns.
Because it's close enough to what Jennifer had said that it doesn't feel like coincidence anymore.
"You're one of the smartest people I've ever met."
Robby groans.
"Don't."
"I'm serious. You can diagnose someone in seconds. You can make impossible decisions, have the best speeches. You'll fight like hell for complete strangers." Jack sighs. "But you didn't trust the woman that you love to make one decision for herself. Because you think you’re not worth it."
"You sound just like my therapist."
Eventually Jack laughs quietly.
"You know what she told me?"
"What?"
"She asked if we could still be friends."
Robby blinks.
"She was worried she'd lose me too."
Robby closes his eyes.
He'd been so focused on removing himself from your life that he'd never considered the people you'd come to love because of him.
Robby hesitates before deciding to tell him one more thing.
"She thinks I'm with Noelle Hastings again."
"What?"
"When she came to the Pitt, she saw Noelle hugging me." He exhales. "She thought we were together."
"And you didn't tell her she was wrong?"
"No."
"Why?"
"I thought it'd sound defensive."
Jack lets out a disbelieving laugh.
"Jesus Christ, Robby."
He doesn't argue.
"She thought you'd replaced her after a week."
The words knock the air from his lungs.
He hears your voice as clearly as if you were standing beside him.
I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best.
He'd heard the bitterness, anger, and the jealousy but not the heartbreak and the rejection underneath your tone.
Robby squeezes his eyes shut.
And every time I scratch my nails.
Down someone else's back, I hope you feel it.
Well, can you feel it?
He finally understands what you must've seen.
A man who said one thing and made every choice look like the opposite.
Who swore he was leaving to save you, then let you believe he'd replaced you a week later.
Mr. Duplicity…
"I don't know if she'll forgive you."
"...I know."
"But if she ever gives you another chance..."
Jack lets the silence linger.
"Don't decide for her."
Another pause.
"She's old enough to make her own choices."
After they hang up, Robby remains standing in the middle of his apartment, phone still in his hand.
For the first time since the breakup, he realizes what an apology would actually sound like.
Not:
I did what was best. I was trying to protect you.
Just
I'm sorry I decided for you.
*
Robby almost texts you.
He writes: I'm sorry. I wasn't with Noelle. I shouldn't have decided for you. Let’s talk, please.
But he deletes it immediately.
It sounds like he's correcting facts instead of acknowledging your pain.
He puts the phone down.
Five minutes later he picks it back up.
He opens your conversation.
Your last message still sits there.
Can you feel it?
Below it… He realizes something.
Every conversation since the breakup has been started by him.
Instructions.
Appointments.
Orders.
Every important decision has been his.
He ended it.
He decided it was best.
He decided what you needed.
He decided you shouldn't love him.
He decided you deserved someone else.
He decided.
He lets his phone down and goes to search for his notebook.
The one he bought because Jennifer told him he needed to write about how he felt.
He writes one sentence.
I was wrong.
He stares at it.
Then another.
I thought leaving was the kindest thing I could do. I never asked what you wanted.
His pen stops.
He keeps writing.
Page after page.
About Collins.
About his mother.
About Adamson.
About Jake.
About believing people are safer without him.
About thinking love eventually becomes another thing he ruins.
About how terrified he was of becoming your biggest regret.
He slowly tears every page out when he's done and the apartment falls silent again.
Impulsively, he grabs his phone, reopening your conversation.
I’m really, really sorry… Can we talk, please?
His thumb hovers.
He thinks about adding:
Only if you want.
But he decides against it.
No speeches.
No pressure.
No manipulation.
Just... this.
He presses send.
Then a few seconds later… Seen. And nothing else.
Robby sets the phone face down.
This time... he doesn't pick it back up.
He has to wait.
*
Six days pass.
Nothing.
Not a single reply.
Robby tells himself that's fair.
He'd asked.
You hadn't answered.
That was an answer too.
*
Work fills every hour.
An elderly man with sepsis and a teenager after a motorcycle crash.
Life continues exactly the way it always has.
Patients arrive and leave.
Some stay. Some don't.
Usually that's enough.
Usually medicine leaves very little room for anything else.
Not anymore.
*
"You look like shit."
Robby doesn't bother looking up.
"So do you."
Jack smirks.
"I've got an excuse."
"So do I."
Jack waits, but Robby never offers one.
*
Later, Dana catches him rereading the same CT report for the third time.
"Wrong patient."
He blinks.
"Right."
She gently slides the correct chart toward him.
"Coffee?"
"I'm fine."
She gives him a look that clearly says you're absolutely not, but thankfully lets it go.
*
Four days later.
12:17 p.m.
His phone vibrates, and he almost ignores it.
Almost.
When he sees your name, his heart stumbles.
One word.
Okay.
Nothing else.
He reads it once.
Then again and again, Enough times that the letters stop looking like a word.
His thumb hovers over the keyboard.
Thank you.
Delete.
Too much.
Are you free tomorrow?
Delete.
Too eager.
Too hopeful.
He stares at the screen for nearly a minute before typing again.
Wherever you're comfortable.
He reads it twice, then presses send before he can talk himself out of it.
Three dots appear.
Disappear.
Appear again.
Not the Pitt.
His reply is immediate.
Of course.
This time, the dots don't make him wait long.
Saturday, if you're free.
4 p.m.?
The park near you?
He doesn't realize he's smiling until his cheeks ache.
I'll be there.
He sets the phone down carefully, almost afraid that touching it again might somehow change the conversation.
A few minutes later, Langdon almost walks right into him.
He stops.
"What?"
Robby looks up.
"What?"
"You're smiling."
"Am I?"
Langdon nods once.
"I haven't seen that in a while."
Robby glances down at the coffee in his hands before waving him off.
"Must be a facial spasm."
Langdon snorts.
"Sure."
Robby takes another sip of his coffee.
The smile never quite leaves.
*
Saturday doesn't arrive fast enough.
Robby gets to the park twenty minutes early. Not because he thinks you'll leave if he's late. Sitting at home had simply become impossible.
Families sharing ice cream, dogs bark somewhere behind him, someone is playing guitar badly.
He wonders if you'll come.
You said you would. But then again... you had every reason not to.
His phone stays in his pocket.
He promised himself he wouldn't check the time every thirty seconds.
He fails anyway.
3:56.
3:58.
4:07.
Then
"Hi."
He turns. And for a second... he forgets how to breathe.
You're wearing jeans and an oversized sweater despite the warm afternoon, your sunglasses pushed up into your hair.
You look... healthy.
Still thinner than before. Still tired around the eyes.
But healthier than the last time he saw you.
He gets to his feet at once.
"Hi."
Neither of you moves.
No hug. Not even a handshake.
The distance between you suddenly feels enormous.
But you look at each other. You actually look at him after months.
"You came."
You almost smile.
"I wanted to know what you had to say."
He gestures toward the closest path.
"Do you want to walk?"
You nod once.
"Okay."
For the first several minutes, neither of you says a word.
You fall into step beside each other almost awkwardly, leaving enough space between you that neither of your arms accidentally brushes the other's.
The silence isn't comfortable.
It isn't hostile, either. It's careful.
As though one wrong word might send the whole conversation crashing down before it has the chance to begin.
Your footsteps fall out of rhythm, then back into it again.
Leaves rustle overhead. Cyclists pass every now and then, forcing one of you to step aside before drifting apart again without thinking.
The world carries on exactly as it always has.
"I almost didn't come."
"I know."
You glance at him.
"You do?"
He nods.
"I would've understood if you hadn't."
You let out a quiet breath.
"I don't think you would've."
For one instinctive moment, he almost reaches for you. His hand twitches at his side before he curls it into a fist.
But he doesn't get to comfort you from the pain he caused.
Instead, he slips both hands into his pockets and waits for you to speak when you're ready.
"I wanted to hate you," you admit with a small, humorless laugh. "God... I really tried."
"I know."
"No." You shake your head. "You don't."
Your voice trembles despite every effort to steady it.
"You have no idea how much I hated myself for not being able to just... switch it off."
You swallow.
"I kept thinking maybe if I slept with someone else..."
A bitter laugh escapes you.
"I didn't, obviously."
Your eyes stay fixed on the path.
"I think, in some twisted way, it would've been so much easier if you'd cheated on me."
The words surprise even you.
"If you'd just..."
You struggle to finish the sentence.
"...fallen out of love."
Your shoulders lift in a helpless shrug.
"I could've built a life around that."
Beside you, Robby lowers his head. His jaw tightens so hard you can see the muscle move.
"But instead..." Your voice softens. "You told me I deserved better."
A hollow laugh slips out.
"Do you know how awful that is?"
He closes his eyes for the briefest moment.
He did this to you. Made you wonder… made you suffer.
And for what?
"Every single day, I kept wondering what was so wrong with me that I wasn't even allowed to choose."
The breeze catches a strand of your hair, and you tuck it behind your ear with hands that still aren't completely steady.
Silence stretches between you.
Long enough that you wonder if he's going to answer at all.
"There was never anything wrong with you."
You stop walking.
He takes another step before realizing you've stopped, then turns back to face you.
"There was everything wrong with me."
You shake your head immediately.
"No."
He frowns.
"No?"
You meet his eyes for the first time since you'd arrived.
"No. That's what you believed."
He frowns.
"You keep talking like you're some kind of... poison. Like you'll ruin everyone who gets too close."
His gaze drops.
His gaze drops to the gravel beneath your feet.
Isn't he?
"And maybe you really believe that." You take another slow breath. "But you don't get to turn yourself into a monster just because it's easier than believing someone could love you."
He feels the words before he understands them.
They settle somewhere deep in his chest, in the place he'd spent years trying not to look.
"You loved me," he says quietly.
"I did." You don't hesitate. "Very much."
He watches you wrap your arms around yourself, fingertips disappearing beneath the sleeves of your sweater.
"You were my first serious relationship, Robby."
A small, sad smile flickers across your face.
The past tense hangs between you.
"I let my guard down with you. I wanted to fit into your world."
Your eyes drift toward the trees.
"Sometimes... it felt like you were ashamed of me."
His head lifts so quickly it almost startles you.
"I wasn't."
"I know." You meet his eyes again. "But that's how it felt."
He opens his mouth, then closes it.
Because his intentions don't erase what you lived through.
"I still..."
The words die before they reach your lips.
Your jaw tightens.
"I'm still trying to figure out what I feel."
He nods once.
"That's fair."
A couple walks past, laughing quietly to themselves. Neither of you notices until they're already gone.
"I know you loved me."
He listens carefully, trying not to think about the hole he feels in his stomach
"But I don't know if I can trust you."
"I know."
"I don't know if I ever will."
"I know."
He lets the silence settle before speaking again.
For once, he lets it exist.
"There is one thing I need you to know."
You wait.
"I wasn't with Noelle." His voice is steady. "I wasn't with anyone else during or after our relationship."
"Thanks for explaining, I believe you."
"I know that's not why we're here."
You nod. "It isn't."
"But I couldn't let you keep believing I'd replaced you."
He rubs a hand over the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry."
His voice is barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker toward yours for a second.
"For every decision I made for you. For keeping you outside the Pitt."
His eyes meet yours again.
"And for making you believe, even for a second, that you were easy to replace."
Your throat tightens.
"You asked me once what I was afraid of."
You wait.
"I think..."
He lets out a slow breath.
"I thought that if you stayed long enough… you'd wake up one morning and realize you were unhappy."
He laughs quietly at himself.
"That loving me would become the biggest mistake of your life."
His gaze drifts toward your sweater.
"The age difference. My job. The hours. My history. My depression..." He shrugs helplessly. "I kept adding reasons until I couldn't imagine you choosing me anymore."
He looks back at you before he continues. "That's not an excuse. I just want you to know where my head was."
His eyes shine.
"I hated myself so much that I became convinced you'd eventually hate me too."
Something cracks inside his chest. He sounds so lonely and lost. He can’t imagine what you must be thinking about him.
"I never thought that."
"I know."
"No." You take a step toward him before you even realize you're moving. "I really didn't, Michael."
Your eyes search his face.
"I chose you. And you were so easy to love."
He nods, tears gathering despite every effort to hold them back.
"I know that now."
A fragile smile touches his lips.
"Or I'm trying to."
He wipes quickly beneath one eye before the tear can fall.
"And I'm sorry it took losing you to believe it."
You stand there for a long time. Close enough that either of you could reach out. Neither of you does.
Eventually, you smile. It's small and sad, but real.
"I'm still angry with you."
"I figured."
"I might be angry for a long time."
"You've earned that."
The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself.
"Don't get cocky."
He huffs a quiet laugh.
"I wasn't planning to."
"No?" You raise an eyebrow. "You broke up with me because you decided what was best for me without asking."
He sighs. For the first time, he truly tries to imagine the conversation with the roles reversed.
You looking him in the eye and deciding (for him) that he'd be happier without you. The thought twists something deep in his chest.
"Do you have any idea how infuriating that is?"
"I do now."
He gives you a small, almost hesitant smile.
"I'm glad you're doing better."
You look at him, but he doesn't answer right away.
"I tried to help. I know I couldn't, but I tried."
"You did. And you helped more than you know."
You look down at your hands.
"I heard you're seeing a therapist. Jack didn't tell me much."
"He wouldn't." A faint smile touches his face. "But... I'm really glad the two of you stayed friends."
"And I'm glad you're doing this."
He looks at you, almost surprised.
"So am I."
The words come more easily than he'd expected.
"I should've done it a long time ago."
Another moment of silence settles between you.
Then you take a slow breath.
"But I don't think we should get back together."
His smile disappears.
Not because he expected something different.vBecause hearing it still hurts like hell.
"Okay."
"But..."
He looks up.
"I also don't think today has to be goodbye."
His chest tightens.
"I don't want us to be strangers anymore."
"You don't?"
"I missed you." You let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "God... that sounds pathetic after everything that's happened."
"It doesn't."
You look away. "You were my best friend, Robby."
The words knock the air from his lungs.
He'd known it.
Somewhere, but hearing you say it out loud is something else entirely.
In so many ways that mattered, you'd been his too.
There were parts of himself only two people had ever truly seen.
You and Jack.
"And I just... I need to see whether the man standing here is the same man who left me before I can even think about dating you or simply being friends with you again."
He nods immediately.
"I understand."
"And I'm not promising anything."
"You don't have to." He lets out a slow breath. "I'll take whatever you're willing to give me."
For a while, you simply stand there.
The silence doesn't feel uncomfortable anymore.
Just... unfamiliar.
You glance toward the little café near the park entrance.
"I'm kind of thirsty."
He follows your gaze.
"You want tea?"
"I think..." A tiny smile finds its way onto your face. "Tea sounds safe."
He almost says, Let's go.
Almost. Instead, he catches himself.
"You tell me."
Your eyes lift to his and you hold his gaze for a long second before smiling.
"I hate that."
He blinks.
"What?"
"You're actually listening."
A quiet laugh escapes both of you.
"I came here fully prepared to argue with you."
"You still can."
"Oh, don't worry." Your smile grows just enough to reach your eyes. "I probably will."
You take a step toward the café before glancing back over your shoulder.
"But I think I'd rather have that tea first."
He falls into step beside you. Not ahead. Not behind. Beside.
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pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: Eight days after your breakup with Robby, a kitchen accident leaves you needing stitches. The only thing worse than the injury is running into him at the Pitt (and seeing him with his ex).
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealous!r, angst, longing, language, r hurt herself catching a knife, r does not imagine herself having kids.
A/N: I hope you'll enjoy it! This wasn't originally supposed to be a multi-part story, but it ended up getting a little longer than I planned, so part 1 it is. It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so I’m just hoping I’m not too rusty. Also, I have no medical background, so I apologize if the ER scenes aren't completely accurate. I hope the next part will come fast🌼 (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners)
You knew you should have come straight to the Pitt, the same way you should have seen that his fear of commitment would eventually outweigh the little fantasy world you'd built together over the last few months. Yet you put it off, pretended not to see it, and ignored how much it actually hurt.
“Can you move your fingers?”
You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.
“Yeah.”
Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.
“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”
You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.
It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.
Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.
Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.
Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.
But you're not surprised.
Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.
You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.
Still. Eight days.
Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.
You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.
So you step outside.
You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.
You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.
When you look up, you try not to frown.
It's Jack.
Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.
Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.
“What the hell happened?”
“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.
You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.
And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.
He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.
“How long has it been bleeding?”
“Not that long.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.
“Jesus Christ.”
“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”
“Not anymore.”
Or maybe that's what he says.
Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.
You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.
You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.
And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.
Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.
The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.
Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.
“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.
“I didn't think it was-”
“That bad?” he cuts in.
You shrug.
“I handled it.”
“You were bleeding for two hours.”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”
“You're in the ER.”
Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.
Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.
You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.
Or maybe he knows.
“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.
Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.
And no wedding band. Interesting!
“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”
So he knows who you are.
You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.
You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.
Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.
Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.
“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”
“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.
Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.
“Can you move your fingers for me?”
You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.
The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.
“Again.”
You repeat the motion.
“Good. Now straighten them.”
You do.
“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.
“No.”
He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.
“Tell me if this feels the same.”
You nod.
“It does.”
Langdon glances at Jack.
“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”
“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.
"Three years ago.”
Another nod.
“You're fine.”
You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.
“This part's going to sting.”
“Define sting.”
Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. “It's the worst part.”
“Great.”
Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.
And.
It.
Fúcking.
Burns.
“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”
That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”
“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.
To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.
“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."
Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.
“Take a deep breath.”
Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.
“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.
It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.
Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.
It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.
The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.
But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.
Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.
How many times has he done this?
How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?
“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.
“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.
You just know he's a good teacher.
He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.
You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.
“I hate this shit.”
Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.
But you refuse to watch.
Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.
Anything except your own hand.
“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”
Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.
You glance down.
Thread, needle, forceps.
Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.
“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"
And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.
“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.
Maybe you can keep Jack.
You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.
Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.
The first stitch is… weird.
You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.
Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.
Your fingers twitch instinctively.
“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.
“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”
You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.
“Six or seven, probably.”
“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”
“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.
“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.
Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”
They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.
“You’re definitely number two.”
“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.
And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.
Then the door opens.
You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.
You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.
Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.
“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”
Your stomach drops before you even turn around.
You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.
Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.
Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.
He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.
You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.
When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.
“What the fúck happened?”
He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.
You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”
No detail, no explanation.
He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.
Robby’s jaw tightens.
“When?” he asks.
“Earlier.”
“When?”
You hesitate.
“Two hours ago. Probably more.”
You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”
“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.
“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”
“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.
“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.
“Can we not-”
“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.
Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”
But Robby barely reacts.
“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”
Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.
“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.
But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.
You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.
“No,” you say. “Not really.”
It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.
“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.
He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.
A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.
“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.
The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.
“Again.”
You flex them once more.
“Good. Make a fist.”
You do.
Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.
Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.
“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”
“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.
“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”
Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.
“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.
“I wasn't-”
“You were absolutely going to ask.”
Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.
“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”
Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.
No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.
And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.
The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.
Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.
Robby notices the change immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.
“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.
Not angry this time, just tired.
You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.
“Noted.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.
“You should’ve told me.”
You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.
“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.
You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.
You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.
So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.
He blinks. “What-”
“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.
Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.
“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”
For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.
But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.
And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.
Because you’re right.
And that’s the problem.
*
After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.
So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.
“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.
“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”
“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”
“Noted.”
It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.
By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.
“You got someone to take you home?”
You can't help but snort.
“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”
“Didn't say you were.”
“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”
He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.
He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.
You just want to go home.
“Yeah. I know you can.”
There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.
“Thanks. Really.”
“For what?”
“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”
You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.
And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.
“Next time, come sooner.”
“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”
“Good plan.”
You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.
“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”
That earns you a crooked grin.
“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.
“Have a good shift.”
“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”
“Yeah. Don't.”
You freeze.
Of course.
Inhale, exhale.
Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.
At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.
So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.
Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.
His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.
Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.
“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.
You shift instinctively.
“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”
The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.
When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.
And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.
No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).
He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.
Close enough to remember.
“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.
The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.
“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”
From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.
“You should've called,” he says.
There it is. Again.
A laugh escapes you.
His audacity...
“Why?”
“Because I would've helped you.”
You almost laugh.
Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.
And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.
Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.
“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”
His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.
“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”
“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”
The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.
But neither of you moves.
Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.
Almost.
The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.
“Yeah.”
You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.
Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.
He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.
“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”
There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.
Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Safe territory.
“I'll take something when I get home.”
His gaze lingers.
Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.
Or both.
You're being ridiculous.
“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”
“Wow.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”
Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.
This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.
Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.
Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.
And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.
“Just be careful.”
The words come out softer.
Not doctor-soft.
Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.
You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.
You can't do this.
“I will.”
You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.
His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.
He doesn't.
You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.
What is wrong with you?
“Text me when you get home.”
The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.
You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.
You need to get the hell out of here.
“No.”
The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.
And for a moment, something in his face falters.
“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.
Or the lack of it.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.
“I'll be fine.”
He nods.
“I know.”
You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.
So as you walk, you don't look back.
But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.
*
By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.
You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.
Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!
The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.
For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.
Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.
You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.
No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.
Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.
And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.
You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.
Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.
Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.
You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”
Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.
You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.
You shake your head.
The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.
Your eyes sting before you can stop it.
“No,” you say quietly.
Like that helps.
You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.
You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.
You could do a lot of things.
Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.
Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.
Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.
Humorless and pathetic, really.
Because despite everything you miss him.
His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.
Ten days before you're free.
*
Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.
Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.
It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.
You want to use your hand... to test it.
But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).
You tell yourself it's necessary.
You always tell yourself a lot of things.
*
The message comes on the third day.
Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.
No hello. No how are you. No are you available.
Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:
I was told 10 days.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Disappears.
Appears again.
You hate that your pulse picks up.
Then:
Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.
You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.
Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.
You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.
*
You go anyway.
Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.
The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.
Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.
“Back already?”
You glance up.
“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”
His eyes drop to the bandage.
“Follow-up?”
“So I've been told.”
A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.
“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”
“No promises.”
He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.
At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.
Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.
Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.
“Room six.”
“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”
“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”
“Fair.”
“Good luck.”
Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.
The traitor!
The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.
Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.
Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.
Or maybe that's you.
“You came.”
You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.
You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.
“You summoned me via text.”
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.
“Sit down.”
There's no point arguing, so you do.
The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.
Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.
“Let me see it.”
You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.
His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.
Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.
The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.
Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.
The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.
“Any increased pain?”
“No.”
“Drainage?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
You give him a look.
“No.”
His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“You've been using it.”
You let out a short laugh.
“That's a bold accusation.”
When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.
“You've been working despite our medical advice.”
The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.
You look away first.
“I had deadlines.”
“I know.”
Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.
Because he does know.
He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.
His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.
“The swelling's worse here.”
Damn it.
You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.
“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”
“You sound like a doctor.”
“I am your doctor.”
The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.
When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.
“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”
You nod, because it should feel reassuring.
Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.
“You'll come back in a week for removal.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His mouth almost curves.
Almost.
You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.
Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.
You don't look back.
Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.
*
You try to work.
You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.
But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.
“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”
Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.
Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.
The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.
You can do better than me.
The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.
Your jaw tightens.
“No, that's bullshit.”
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.
“Shit.”
You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.
It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.
Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.
The screen lights up.
Nothing.
No messages except the family group chat.
No notifications, either.
You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.
I'm happy for you.
You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.
I wish nothing-
Delete.
A frustrated laugh escapes you.
“God.”
The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.
You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.
The music keeps playing in the background.
At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.
Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.
Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.
An older version of me…
A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?
“Yeah.”
You rub your eyes.
“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”
The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.
Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.
You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.
The song continues.
Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?
That one almost makes you laugh.
“Fúcking hell.”
You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.
Everything is careful now.
The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.
Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.
Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.
You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Nope.”
Your finger points at nothing.
“We're not doing that.”
But your imagination ignores you completely.
Of course it does.
A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.
Your stomach tightens.
Not jealousy exactly.
Something uglier.
Much uglier.
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.
You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You'd hold me until you died?
Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?
Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.
You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.
You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.
The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.
Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.
It feels really pathetic.
You drag a hand over your face.
“God, I sound insane.”
But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.
*
The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.
There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.
So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.
Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.
And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.
“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.
There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.
When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.
Then he wraps it anyway.
Habit, maybe.
“You’re healed,” he says finally.
“I’m free.”
You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.
A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.
You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.
Like it never left at all.
Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.
“I want you to know something,” you say.
His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.
“I’m happy for you.”
The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.
“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”
You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.
“What are you doing?”
No denial. That alone tells you enough.
You were right.
“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.
And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.
Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t,” he says.
He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.
You almost smile as pick up your bag.
Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.
And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.
“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.
A beat.
“I didn’t need better than you.”
Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.
“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”
The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.
Then, very quietly:
“You should go.”
And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.
Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.
You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.
A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.
“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”
The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.
He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.
When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.
“We’re done here.”
*
The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.
Like nothing important happened at all.
You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.
Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.
Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.
But you do.
You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.
We’re done here.
Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.
Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?
The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.
What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?
Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.
Permission.
He always said you were too kind.
Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.
And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.
Your grip tightens around the phone.
“Fúcking asshole.”
Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.
He used to wake up wishing he felt nothing. Wishing he was surrounded by darkness, by emptiness. Wishing for something close to... death.
Now he wakes up checking his phone.
He checks it on the way to the Pitt, at work between cases, even when he goes to the bathroom after washing his hands. He checks it while eating, while listening to Jack, and before going to sleep. Sometimes he even wakes up in the middle of the night, turns the TV volume down a little, and checks it again.
It has become a habit he can't seem to break. Maybe even an obsession.
He almost answered the same night he received your message, but never came that close again. He doesn't even open the keyboard anymore.
But that night?
He must have picked up his phone a dozen times. His thumb hovered over the reply button until the screen dimmed. He unlocked it again and stared at the words until they became blurry.
He knew you hadn't actually gone home with someone else. He knew exactly why you'd said it. You wanted him to picture it. To wonder. To hurt.
The worst part was that it worked anyway.
He thought about what he could possibly say. There wasn't an answer that didn't sound like a lie. Or an excuse. Or the kind of desperate confession that came too late. He came so close to begging when he finally understood how deeply he'd hurt you.
But in the end, he locked the phone and reached for a bottle instead.
One drink became another, then another, until thinking became impossible. The next morning he woke up with a splitting headache, still dressed, his phone lying exactly where he'd left it beneath his pillow.
So, for the first time in more than a decade, he called off duty because of a hangover.
He had never done that. Not from exhaustion, not after thirty-hour shifts, not even when he probably should have. But that morning there was no chance he could walk into the Pitt and trust his own hands.
So yes, he can feel it. He feels it every fücking day of his life.
*
A/N: WIP. Coming sooooon! Thank you so much for the comments on part one!
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He pushes off the counter, and Robby thinks it’s over.
“You still in therapy?”
It isn’t.
“Yes.” He went there three times in the last two weeks. Three times he’d sat in a chair and avoided talking about you directly… like keeping your name unspoken made it easier to stay in control of what he was actually feeling.
“Good,” Jack says, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, as if it isn’t something Robby has to actively choose every week just to keep himself from slipping. “Then I’m not gonna give you my opinion.”
A beat.
“I’ll keep it to myself.”
Robby almost laughs at that.
Jack has never been particularly good at keeping anything to himself. He made it very clear how he felt when he called him “dumb as fück” for breaking up with you.
They move toward the locker rooms before either of them has to think too hard about anything else.
It’s one of the rare days they’re on shift together. Jack is pulling a double to cover for Al-Hashimi; her kid is sick again, last-minute call-out.
Lockers open and shut in steady rhythm. Scrubs pulled on, badges clipped, the low hum of people slipping into work mode. The kind of noise that usually leaves no space for anything personal to survive inside it.
And for a few minutes, it almost works. He feels normal.
Lockers slam softly, one after another. Scrubs are pulled on in silence, badges clipped like muscle memory. The whole room settling into that familiar work-state where everything personal gets filed away for later.
Robby changes on autopilot, like his body knows what to do even if the rest of him is somewhere else entirely.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Can you feel it?
Almost.
“You know,” Jack says, glancing sideways at him, “I saw her yesterday.”
Something in Robby shifts... small, immediate. A tightening in his chest he refuses to name, refuses to let settle into anything as vulnerable as anticipation. It stays contained, buried before it can surface or, worse, explode.
He doesn’t let it reach his face.
But Jack didn’t even say your name.
He didn’t have to.
“I saw her yesterday,” Jack repeats, carefully, like he’s making sure Robby actually hears him this time.
Robby’s hand twitches at his side before he can stop it. An old reflex, almost unconscious.... the urge to reach for his phone, to check it again even though there’s nothing new there. Just the same message he’s already memorized.
He doesn’t move. He stops himself and keeps his voice even.
“What do you mean, you saw her?”
*
A/N: I’m still working on this, so hopefully I’ll have it ready soon. Thank you so much for the comments on part one!
pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: Eight days after your breakup with Robby, a kitchen accident leaves you needing stitches. The only thing worse than the injury is running into him at the Pitt (and seeing him with his ex).
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealous!r, angst, longing, language, r hurt herself catching a knife, r does not imagine herself having kids.
A/N: I hope you'll enjoy it! This wasn't originally supposed to be a multi-part story, but it ended up getting a little longer than I planned, so part 1 it is. It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so I’m just hoping I’m not too rusty. Also, I have no medical background, so I apologize if the ER scenes aren't completely accurate. I hope the next part will come fast🌼 (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners)
You knew you should have come straight to the Pitt, the same way you should have seen that his fear of commitment would eventually outweigh the little fantasy world you'd built together over the last few months. Yet you put it off, pretended not to see it, and ignored how much it actually hurt.
“Can you move your fingers?”
You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.
“Yeah.”
Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.
“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”
You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.
It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.
Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.
Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.
Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.
But you're not surprised.
Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.
You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.
Still. Eight days.
Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.
You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.
So you step outside.
You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.
You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.
When you look up, you try not to frown.
It's Jack.
Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.
Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.
“What the hell happened?”
“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.
You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.
And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.
He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.
“How long has it been bleeding?”
“Not that long.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.
“Jesus Christ.”
“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”
“Not anymore.”
Or maybe that's what he says.
Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.
You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.
You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.
And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.
Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.
The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.
Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.
“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.
“I didn't think it was-”
“That bad?” he cuts in.
You shrug.
“I handled it.”
“You were bleeding for two hours.”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”
“You're in the ER.”
Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.
Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.
You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.
Or maybe he knows.
“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.
Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.
And no wedding band. Interesting!
“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”
So he knows who you are.
You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.
You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.
Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.
Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.
“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”
“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.
Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.
“Can you move your fingers for me?”
You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.
The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.
“Again.”
You repeat the motion.
“Good. Now straighten them.”
You do.
“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.
“No.”
He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.
“Tell me if this feels the same.”
You nod.
“It does.”
Langdon glances at Jack.
“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”
“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.
"Three years ago.”
Another nod.
“You're fine.”
You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.
“This part's going to sting.”
“Define sting.”
Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”
“Great.”
Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.
And.
It.
Fúcking.
Burns.
“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”
That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”
“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.
To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.
“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."
Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.
“Take a deep breath.”
Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.
“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.
It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.
Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.
It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.
The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.
But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.
Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.
How many times has he done this?
How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?
“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.
“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.
You just know he's a good teacher.
He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.
You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.
“I hate this shit.”
Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.
But you refuse to watch.
Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.
Anything except your own hand.
“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”
Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.
You glance down.
Thread, needle, forceps.
Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.
“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"
And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.
“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.
Maybe you can keep Jack.
You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.
Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.
The first stitch is… weird.
You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.
Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.
Your fingers twitch instinctively.
“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.
“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”
You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.
“Six or seven, probably.”
“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”
“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.
“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.
Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”
They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.
“You’re definitely number two.”
“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.
And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.
Then the door opens.
You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.
You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.
Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.
“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”
Your stomach drops before you even turn around.
You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.
Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.
Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.
He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.
You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.
When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.
“What the fúck happened?”
He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.
You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”
No detail, no explanation.
He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.
Robby’s jaw tightens.
“When?” he asks.
“Earlier.”
“When?”
You hesitate.
“Two hours ago. Probably more.”
You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”
“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.
“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”
“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.
“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.
“Can we not-”
“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.
Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”
But Robby barely reacts.
“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”
Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.
“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.
But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.
You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.
“No,” you say. “Not really.”
It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.
“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.
He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.
A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.
“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.
The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.
“Again.”
You flex them once more.
“Good. Make a fist.”
You do.
Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.
Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.
“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”
“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.
“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”
Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.
“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.
“I wasn't-”
“You were absolutely going to ask.”
Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.
“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”
Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.
No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.
And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.
The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.
Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.
Robby notices the change immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.
“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.
Not angry this time, just tired.
You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.
“Noted.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.
“You should’ve told me.”
You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.
“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.
You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.
You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.
So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.
He blinks. “What-”
“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.
Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.
“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”
For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.
But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.
And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.
Because you’re right.
And that’s the problem.
*
After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.
So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.
“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.
“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”
“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”
“Noted.”
It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.
By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.
“You got someone to take you home?”
You can't help but snort.
“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”
“Didn't say you were.”
“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”
He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.
He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.
You just want to go home.
“Yeah. I know you can.”
There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.
“Thanks. Really.”
“For what?”
“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”
You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.
And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.
“Next time, come sooner.”
“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”
“Good plan.”
You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.
“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”
That earns you a crooked grin.
“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.
“Have a good shift.”
“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”
“Yeah. Don't.”
You freeze.
Of course.
Inhale, exhale.
Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.
At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.
So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.
Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.
His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.
Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.
“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.
You shift instinctively.
“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”
The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.
When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.
And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.
No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).
He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.
Close enough to remember.
“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.
The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.
“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”
From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.
“You should've called,” he says.
There it is. Again.
A laugh escapes you.
His audacity...
“Why?”
“Because I would've helped you.”
You almost laugh.
Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.
And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.
Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.
“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”
His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.
“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”
“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”
The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.
But neither of you moves.
Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.
Almost.
The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.
“Yeah.”
You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.
Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.
He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.
“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”
There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.
Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Safe territory.
“I'll take something when I get home.”
His gaze lingers.
Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.
Or both.
You're being ridiculous.
“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”
“Wow.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”
Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.
This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.
Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.
Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.
And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.
“Just be careful.”
The words come out softer.
Not doctor-soft.
Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.
You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.
You can't do this.
“I will.”
You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.
His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.
He doesn't.
You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.
What is wrong with you?
“Text me when you get home.”
The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.
You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.
You need to get the hell out of here.
“No.”
The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.
And for a moment, something in his face falters.
“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.
Or the lack of it.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.
“I'll be fine.”
He nods.
“I know.”
You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.
So as you walk, you don't look back.
But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.
*
By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.
You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.
Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!
The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.
For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.
Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.
You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.
No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.
Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.
And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.
You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.
Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.
Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.
You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”
Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.
You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.
You shake your head.
The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.
Your eyes sting before you can stop it.
“No,” you say quietly.
Like that helps.
You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.
You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.
You could do a lot of things.
Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.
Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.
Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.
Humorless and pathetic, really.
Because despite everything you miss him.
His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.
Ten days before you're free.
*
Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.
Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.
It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.
You want to use your hand... to test it.
But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).
You tell yourself it's necessary.
You always tell yourself a lot of things.
*
The message comes on the third day.
Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.
No hello. No how are you. No are you available.
Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:
I was told 10 days.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Disappears.
Appears again.
You hate that your pulse picks up.
Then:
Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.
You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.
Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.
You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.
*
You go anyway.
Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.
The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.
Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.
“Back already?”
You glance up.
“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”
His eyes drop to the bandage.
“Follow-up?”
“So I've been told.”
A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.
“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”
“No promises.”
He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.
At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.
Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.
Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.
“Room six.”
“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”
“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”
“Fair.”
“Good luck.”
Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.
The traitor!
The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.
Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.
Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.
Or maybe that's you.
“You came.”
You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.
You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.
“You summoned me via text.”
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.
“Sit down.”
There's no point arguing, so you do.
The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.
Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.
“Let me see it.”
You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.
His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.
Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.
The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.
Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.
The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.
“Any increased pain?”
“No.”
“Drainage?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
You give him a look.
“No.”
His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“You've been using it.”
You let out a short laugh.
“That's a bold accusation.”
When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.
“You've been working despite our medical advice.”
The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.
You look away first.
“I had deadlines.”
“I know.”
Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.
Because he does know.
He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.
His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.
“The swelling's worse here.”
Damn it.
You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.
“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”
“You sound like a doctor.”
“I am your doctor.”
The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.
When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.
“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”
You nod, because it should feel reassuring.
Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.
“You'll come back in a week for removal.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His mouth almost curves.
Almost.
You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.
Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.
You don't look back.
Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.
*
You try to work.
You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.
But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.
“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”
Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.
Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.
The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.
You can do better than me.
The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.
Your jaw tightens.
“No, that's bullshit.”
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.
“Shit.”
You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.
It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.
Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.
The screen lights up.
Nothing.
No messages except the family group chat.
No notifications, either.
You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.
I'm happy for you.
You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.
I wish nothing-
Delete.
A frustrated laugh escapes you.
“God.”
The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.
You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.
The music keeps playing in the background.
At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.
Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.
Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.
An older version of me…
A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?
“Yeah.”
You rub your eyes.
“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”
The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.
Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.
You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.
The song continues.
Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?
That one almost makes you laugh.
“Fúcking hell.”
You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.
Everything is careful now.
The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.
Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.
Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.
You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Nope.”
Your finger points at nothing.
“We're not doing that.”
But your imagination ignores you completely.
Of course it does.
A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.
Your stomach tightens.
Not jealousy exactly.
Something uglier.
Much uglier.
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.
You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You'd hold me until you died?
Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?
Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.
You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.
You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.
The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.
Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.
It feels really pathetic.
You drag a hand over your face.
“God, I sound insane.”
But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.
*
The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.
There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.
So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.
Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.
And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.
“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.
There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.
When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.
Then he wraps it anyway.
Habit, maybe.
“You’re healed,” he says finally.
“I’m free.”
You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.
A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.
You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.
Like it never left at all.
Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.
“I want you to know something,” you say.
His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.
“I’m happy for you.”
The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.
“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”
You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.
“What are you doing?”
No denial. That alone tells you enough.
You were right.
“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.
And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.
Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t,” he says.
He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.
You almost smile as pick up your bag.
Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.
And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.
“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.
A beat.
“I didn’t need better than you.”
Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.
“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”
The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.
Then, very quietly:
“You should go.”
And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.
Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.
You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.
A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.
“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”
The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.
He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.
When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.
“We’re done here.”
*
The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.
Like nothing important happened at all.
You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.
Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.
Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.
But you do.
You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.
We’re done here.
Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.
Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?
The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.
What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?
Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.
Permission.
He always said you were too kind.
Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.
And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.
Your grip tightens around the phone.
“Fúcking asshole.”
Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.
gq What was Shawn Hatosy’s favorite TV show as a kid? What character would he play on Friends? In this episode of Streaming Consciousness, #ThePitt star talks all things television. 📺🎬
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
pairing: Michael “Robby” Robinavitch x graphic designer!afab!reader
w/c: 8.3K words
summary: Eight days after your breakup with Robby, a kitchen accident leaves you needing stitches. The only thing worse than the injury is running into him at the Pitt (and seeing him with his ex).
warnings/tags: age gap (I imagined r around 27, but I didn't specify. Robby was her first serious relationship, though), jealous!r, angst, longing, language, r hurt herself catching a knife, r does not imagine herself having kids.
A/N: I hope you'll enjoy it! This wasn't originally supposed to be a multi-part story, but it ended up getting a little longer than I planned, so part 1 it is. It’s been a while since I last wrote anything, so I’m just hoping I’m not too rusty. Also, I have no medical background, so I apologize if the ER scenes aren't completely accurate. I hope the next part will come fast🌼 (I found the Robby pics on pinterest, so credits to the owners)
You knew you should have come straight to the Pitt, the same way you should have seen that his fear of commitment would eventually outweigh the little fantasy world you'd built together over the last few months. Yet you put it off, pretended not to see it, and ignored how much it actually hurt.
“Can you move your fingers?”
You flexed them carefully, trying to look as unaffected as possible while the nurse unwrapped your improvised bandage. You weren't sure who she was. You'd heard about multiple doctors and nurses, but none of the descriptions seemed to fit her.
“Yeah.”
Unwrapping it hurts far more than the cut itself, anyway.
“Okay. Sit tight. We won't keep you waiting long.”
You nod, rewrapping your hand and pressing down again, just like he taught you. And when the door opens a moment later, you see him.
It's not cinematic. There's no slow motion, no dramatic swell of music, no sudden zoom-in. Your brain just takes half a second too long to catch up.
Robby is across the hall, near the nurses' station, hugging Noelle.
Not a quick hug, either. They're standing too close, fitting together in a way that's painfully familiar.
Your stomach drops and you look away immediately, as if you've touched a hot stove. As if looking any longer might make it real.
But you're not surprised.
Hurt? Absolutely. Surprised? Not really.
You knew about Noelle. Knew enough to pretend it didn't bother you when it probably should have.
Still. Eight days.
Only eight days -as far as you know- and he's already back with her. So much for the seven-week itch. Somehow he'd made it a few months with you. Looking at him now, you weren't sure whether that was supposed to make you feel better or worse.
You shake your head, determined not to have a breakdown in front of thirty strangers waiting to be treated.
So you step outside.
You spend a few minutes drafting a message to your boss, explaining that you might need half a day tomorrow -or at least a few hours- because you have no idea how long it'll take before a doctor finally sees you.
You hit send, and less than a minute later, you swear you hear your name.
When you look up, you try not to frown.
It's Jack.
Then again, this is the ambulance bay. Any doctor could be here.
Still, he's not wearing scrubs, and he's way too early for the handover.
“What the hell happened?”
“Hi to you too,” you say dryly, trying not to look affected.
You'd missed Jack. That was one of the less obvious downsides of the breakup. Somewhere along the way, he'd become one of your closest friends.
And seeing how worried he looks makes your throat tighten.
He steps closer, already reaching for your wrist.
“How long has it been bleeding?”
“Not that long.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“...Okay, like two hours,” you admit.
“Jesus Christ.”
“It wasn't that bad, I'm in triage. A really nice nurse already looked at it-”
“Not anymore.”
Or maybe that's what he says.
Before you can argue, he's steering you back toward the doors.
You barely register what happens next. As soon as you get past the triage, Jack says something to a nurse you vaguely recognize as Dana. She nods, glancing at a computer screen, and he asks her to page Langdon since he never clocked in for his shift.
You're not really listening. The image of Robby and Noelle is still haunting, replaying every time you blink. Their hug... the ease of it. The history in it. How easy it seemed to slip back into.
And for one awful second, you wonder if you've been looking at it all wrong.
Maybe you weren't the one who got replaced. Maybe, for a little while, you were the replacement. The pit stop. The distraction.
The room is too bright and everything is too loud. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting that harsh, clinical glow that always seems to make headaches worse. The exam table crackles beneath you when you shift, the thin paper sticking slightly to your skin. This is the last place you wanted to be.
Your hand is still wrapped, but the bandage is not doing much anymore. The gauze is damp, a dull red stain spreading through it while Jack stands nearby, arms crossed, glaring at it.
“You really waited?” he asks again, as if he still can't quite believe it.
“I didn't think it was-”
“That bad?” he cuts in.
You shrug.
“I handled it.”
“You were bleeding for two hours.”
“It sounds worse when you say it like that. It wasn't that dramatic.”
“You're in the ER.”
Before Jack can continue, Dr. Langdon steps in, already pulling on a pair of gloves. And honestly, you've never been more grateful for an interruption.
Because you know Jack... or at least, you think you do. He wouldn't let it go. He'd ask why you waited so long. Why you didn't call Robby. He'd keep pulling at the loose threads until he got to the truth, and right now you're not sure you can survive another person looking at you too closely. Or worse, with pity.
You know Jack never liked whatever was going on between Robby and Noelle. Maybe Robby kept the details to himself. Maybe Jack has no idea that the same girl who came before you apparently came after you, too.
Or maybe he knows.
“Alright,” Dr. Langdon says, flashing an easy smile.
Truth be told, he's even more charming than Robby described. There's something boyish about him, softened by confidence and experience. It's a dangerous combination.
And no wedding band. Interesting!
“Let's take a look at Abbot's VIP.”
So he knows who you are.
You immediately offer your hand, asking him to call you by your name.
You thank him, too. You know he must be busy. Hell, the whole department seems one bad shift away from complete chaos.
Langdon smiles and starts unwrapping the bandage, and as the cool air hits the cut, you hiss through your teeth.
Beside you, Jack leans forward despite himself, and Langdon shoots him a look.
Don't panic. Don't panic. Don't panic.
“Okay,” Langdon says as he studies the wound for another second. “Yeah. That's deep.”
“Oh, I love hearing that,” you mutter playfully.
Langdon doesn't react, though. He just adjusts the overhead light, angling it directly over your hand. It makes everything look far more detailed than you'd like.
“Can you move your fingers for me?”
You don't hesitate, so you slowly curl them inward.
The skin pulls tight around the cut. It's an uncomfortable stretching sensation that makes your jaw clench, but everything moves the way it should.
“Again.”
You repeat the motion.
“Good. Now straighten them.”
You do.
“Any numbness?” Langdon asks.
“No.”
He takes a piece of gauze and lightly brushes it across your fingertips, then along the edges of the wound.
“Tell me if this feels the same.”
You nod.
“It does.”
Langdon glances at Jack.
“Alright.” A small nod towards Jack. “No nerve involvement.”
“Your last tetanus vaccine?” Jack asks without looking up.
"Three years ago.”
Another nod.
“You're fine.”
You smile nervously as Langdon reaches for a syringe.
“This part's going to sting.”
“Define sting.”
Jack glances at you as you eye the needle. "It's the worst part.”
“Great.”
Langdon doesn't wait, and the next thing you feel is the needle sliding into the skin beside the cut.
And.
It.
Fúcking.
Burns.
“Jesus-fúck, that hurts.” You suck in a sharp breath. “Sorry.”
That makes Langdon smile and shake his head. “That's a healthy reaction. No need to apologize.”
“Breathe,” Jack adds, arms crossed.
To your surprise, he actually looks concerned.
“I am breathing,” you say through clenched teeth. "It's not my fault this feels like hell."
Then it fades quite fast. Your palm starts to feel so heavy like it’s been inflated from the inside, so you instinctively try to flex your fingers. It's such a weird sensation.
“Take a deep breath.”
Another injection and another flare of that same burning pressure.
“You'll feel some pressure,” Jack says as Langdon trades the syringe for a larger one.
It's a good thing needles don't bother you much, because that one looks ridiculous.
Quickly, he positions it over the wound and presses, and you assume it's saline what shoots into the cut. And you flinch.
It doesn't exactly hurt, it's worse.
The sensation is deep and wrong, as if something is moving where nothing should be moving. You have to fight the urge to yank your hand away.
But you are a big girl. Instead, you watch how the fluid runs out pink at first, then gradually clears. It spills onto the blue pad beneath your hand, soaking into it.
Langdon repeats the process several times and despite yourself, your thoughts drift back to Robby.
How many times has he done this?
How many cases just like yours has he seen? Distracted people catching a knife with their palm while making dinner... How many wounds has he cleaned and stitched over the years? How many patients had come before you were even born?
“Why does that feel worse than I expected?” you ask, mostly to distract yourself. You don't even expect an answer; you just need something to focus on besides him.
“Because it's inside the wound,” Jack answers, still watching carefully.
You just know he's a good teacher.
He seems so patient and pulled together. And you're jealous.
You wish you could inspire that kind of confidence in people... make them feel safe.
“I hate this shit.”
Langdon chuckles and makes a few jokes as he blots the area dry, inspecting it more closely while gently parting the edges of the cut.
But you refuse to watch.
Instead, you stare at the ceiling, counting tiles, then the lights.
Anything except your own hand.
“Alright,” he says finally. “We’re good to close it.”
Once Jack gives an approving nod, Langdon opens a sterile suture kit.
You glance down.
Thread, needle, forceps.
Jack shifts his weight but doesn't leave.
“You don't have to wait for me,” you absently tell Jack. You're more than grateful, but you know he's busy. And so is Langdon "I'm sure you have actual patients to see. And if something urgent comes up, just let some newbie practice their stitching skills on-"
And maybe Robby doesn't have to be the center of every conversation.
“Shut up,” Jack cuts in, but there’s no bite to it. He is worried... he actually cares.
Maybe you can keep Jack.
You can watch tennis together, meet for coffee. Be friends.
Maybe he doesn't have to know how much it still hurts.
The first stitch is… weird.
You don't feel the needle break the skin, but you feel the movement afterward: the tug, the pull.
Like someone's threading something through your hand from the inside.
Your fingers twitch instinctively.
“Try to keep it still,” Langdon says, flashing you a smile that could probably solve half the hospital's complaints.
“I'm trying.” You shake your head. “How many?”
You've never needed stitches before. Well, you’ve also never caught a falling knife mid-air, so there’s that.
“Six or seven, probably.”
“Great, I’ll name them all. I saw that in a film.”
“My son did that once, too.” Langdon says immediately, and Jack huffs a quiet laugh.
“First one’s Jack,” you say, lips quirking into a smirk. You already know exactly how he’ll take it, and you're happy that the mood has changed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Too late.”
“Of course it is,” he mutters, shaking his head, but there’s no real anger in it. He is used to you being a pain in the ass.
Langdon snorts, smiling again. “I’d like to be excluded from this.”
They continue to talk about the shift after that, careful not to wander into anything confidential with you sitting right there.
“You’re definitely number two.”
“Why am I involved in this at all?” Langdon asks dramatically, and you wink.
And somehow, it doesn't even hurt anymore.
Then the door opens.
You flinch so hard your hand nearly jerks.
You've always been easy to startle... too aware of everything around you.
Robby used to think it was funny. He'd appear out of nowhere and say “boo” when you were least expecting it, just to watch you jump. Back when things were easy, of course.
“Hey, what do we have here?” a voice asks. “Abbot, since when do you have a VIP?”
Your stomach drops before you even turn around.
You know that voice far too well. Especially when it slips into that teasing tone... even if he isn't talking to you.
Your body goes still. You don’t even register Langdon’s needle anymore.
Jack catches it immediately, his gaze flicking from your face to the doorway as Robby steps inside.
He looks once. Then again. And only then does it register.
You. Sitting on the exam table. Hand open. Stitches halfway done.
When you finally manage to change your expression into something polite and distant, you catch the shift in his face. But you really don’t know how to read him anymore.
“What the fúck happened?”
He’s already moving toward you before the question is even finished.
You swallow, keeping your voice steady. “Kitchen accident.”
No detail, no explanation.
He stops beside the bed, eyes immediately dropping to your hand. And you’re suddenly very aware of how close he is.
Langdon keeps working, unfazed, though the room feels tighter now, like it has less air in it than before.
Robby’s jaw tightens.
“When?” he asks.
“Earlier.”
“When?”
You hesitate.
“Two hours ago. Probably more.”
You close your eyes for a second. “Thank you, Jack.”
“You waited two hours?" Robby says, sharper now, like he can’t quite believe it.
“I was fine. I handled it. The nurse-”
“That’s not okay,” he cuts in.
“I assume you checked for nerve damage," he adds, already shifting his attention toward Langdon and Jack, trying to take control of the situation.
“Can we not-”
“You should’ve called,” he says, colder now and you can’t tell who it’s meant for anymore.
Langdon clears his throat without looking up. “Almost done.”
But Robby barely reacts.
“Jack found me in triage. And, as you can see, I'm in great hands.”
Robby’s expression shifts again, while Jack raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. He looks like he’s been pulled into a game he didn’t know had rules.
“Does it hurt?” Robby finally asks after a long moment of awkward silence, as if the question is an afterthought.
But it isn’t. You know it, so it lands differently. Dangerous in a quiet way.
You glance down at your hand as Langdon finishes the last stitch.
“No,” you say. “Not really.”
It isn’t entirely clear what you’re answering.
“Alright. That’s it,” Langdon says with a small, professional smile.
He cuts the thread cleanly, leaving a neat row of stitches across your palm. Langdon presses gently along the edges of the wound, checking the closure, and in your peripheral vision you catch Robby nodding once, like he’s confirming something to himself.
A final wipe of antiseptic follows, then a non-stick pad, then gauze wrapped carefully around your hand until it no longer looks like your hand at all.
“Move your fingers for me,” you hear Robby gently ask you. And even though every single bone in your body wants to disobey him, you listen.
The movement works, but it feels strange... slightly delayed, as if your hand belongs to someone else for a moment. You wonder if this is exactly what Mary Shelley meant when she wrote Frankenstein’s monster. You almost laugh at your own thoughts.
“Again.”
You flex them once more.
“Good. Make a fist.”
You do.
Just in time to catch the small exhale Robby lets out. Relief, subtle but unmistakable... the kind only someone who knows him well would notice.
Unfortunately for you, though, you've spent enough time loving him to notice it.
“No numbness or tingling?” Langdon asks.
You shake your head. “No.”
“Good. No obvious nerve involvement. Tendons intact, sensation normal.” He pauses, then adds lightly, “Sense of humor intact too.”
“Obviously,” Jack mutters from his spot against the wall.
“Keep it dry for forty-eight hours,” Langdon continues, peeling off his gloves. “No heavy lifting, no gripping if you can avoid it. Change the dressing as instructed. I’ll leave notes, but I’m sure Jack will fill you in.”
Jack glances at you briefly, and something in your stomach twists -guilt, or something close to it-but you don’t know where to put it.
“And before you ask, no, you’re not magically healed because the stitches are in,” Robby adds under his breath.
“I wasn't-”
“You were absolutely going to ask.”
Jack snorts, and you choose not to defend yourself.
“Tetanus shot is up to date,” Langdon says, recapping for Robby as well. He doesn’t know exactly how close you two are, but it’s obvious there’s history there. “So no booster. Stitches out in ten to fourteen days.”
Then he tosses the gloves into the bin, and just like that, the procedure is over.
No more reason for anyone to be hovering around your bed, no more reason for you to still be in his ER.
And somehow, that’s worse. Because now there’s nothing left to distract from the fact that Robby is still standing there.
The adrenaline drains out of you slowly, leaving behind exhaustion, and a small tremor runs through your fingers before you can stop it.
Jesus, you will never try to use a knife again.
Robby notices the change immediately.
Of course he does.
His eyes drop to your hand, then lift back to your face. The concern is brief, but enough to make your chest tighten anyway. Fúck him.
“Should’ve come in sooner,” he says.
Not angry this time, just tired.
You let out a breath. Well, you're tired too.
“Noted.”
“I'm serious.”
“I know.”
“Take ibuprofen or acetaminophen once the anesthetic wears off. Dana will bring your discharge paperwork,” Langdon says, but Robby doesn't take his eyes off you as you gently thank your doctor before watching him go.
“You should’ve told me.”
You finally meet his eyes, finding his tone almost unbearably clinical. Like a lecture... like something to be corrected.
“You don’t get to be worried like that,” you say firmly.
You're tired of this conversation, of him, of pretending this doesn't hurt more than your hand does... of this whole day.
You just want to go home, order takeout, and not think about any of it.
So you hope it lands harder than if you'd raised your voice.
He blinks. “What-”
“You have no right,” you continue, just as quietly, and the room goes very still.
Beside you, Jack wisely says nothing as you adjust the bandage around your hand. You really hope the pain meds are going to be effective. You know this is going to hurt like a motherfúcker.
“I’m fine,” you add, playing it cool. “See? All patched up.”
For a second, Robby just stares at you like he’s trying to decide whether to argue.
But you step past him, with Jack following without uttering a word. Neither of you looks back immediately.
And when you finally do, just before the door swings shut, Robby is still standing exactly where you left him, staring at the empty space on the bed, jaw tight, something unsettled and unresolved sitting heavy in his chest.
Because you’re right.
And that’s the problem.
*
After they discharge you, Jack insists on walking you out. It's not like his shift has started yet anyway.
So you slow your pace, careful not to make it obvious that you're adjusting it for him. You don't know how uncomfortable it is to walk quickly with a prosthetic, and you don't want him to think you're pitying him.
“You okay?” he asks, and you flex your fingers slightly inside the bandage in response, which you end up regretting immediately as a dull, pulling ache shoots through your palm and up your arm.
“Yeah. Just... feels weird.”
“It will,” he says, still looking at your hand. “That's why you shouldn't use it.”
“Noted.”
It's only half a lie, at least. You're gonna slow down. But you can't stop using it completely. How are you supposed to just stop working? Nobody can replace you for two weeks.
By the time you reach the ambulance bay, everything feels different. Quieter.
“You got someone to take you home?”
You can't help but snort.
“I'm not dying, Jack. It's just a cut.”
“Didn't say you were.”
“I can manage by myself. I'm a big girl.”
He studies you for a second longer than necessary, and you know that look.
He's thinking about saying something... probably about Robby, or the disaster that is whatever exists between the two of you. And you're grateful when he decides against it. It's already been a long day: the knife accident, the ER, seeing Noelle, seeing Robby, talking to him.
You just want to go home.
“Yeah. I know you can.”
There's something in the words... Acknowledgment, maybe. Or acceptance or even pride. You're not sure, so you just smile.
“Thanks. Really.”
“For what?”
“For helping me. For not letting me bleed out to death.”
You add the last part just to make him smile. You know he loves drama as much as you do. Maybe even more.
And it works: a quiet laugh escapes him.
“Next time, come sooner.”
“Next time? Hell, I'm never cooking again.”
“Good plan.”
You nod, trying not to look back at the entrance. What did you expect? For Robby to drop everything and come find you? The thought is embarrassing the second it appears. It's ridiculous.
“I really hope I'll see you around. You're a great guy, Abbot.”
That earns you a crooked grin.
“I hope so. You're pretty fun to be around, even when you're bleeding.”
A laugh slips out before you can stop it, and you lift your left hand in a wave.
“Have a good shift.”
“You too,” he says automatically. Then he shakes his head. “Actually, don't work at all.”
“Yeah. Don't.”
You freeze.
Of course.
Inhale, exhale.
Robby is standing a few steps behind Jack.
At some point, he'd come outside, and you hadn't heard the door open.
So for a second, all you can do is stare. He looks different out here.
The harsh fluorescent lights of the department make him look untouchable. Outside, beneath the natural sunlight, he looks less composed... less untouchable. Exhausted.
Like whatever walls he keeps so carefully in place inside didn't quite make it through the doors with him.
His scrubs are wrinkled and a bit dirty. His hair is slightly messed up from running his hands through it, you're sure. And there are shadows beneath his eyes you don't remember noticing earlier.
Or maybe you did, and you just weren't letting yourself look for real. You used to kiss this man every morning. You used to bite his arms, caress his cheeks, and touch his hair as many times as you could.
“You shouldn't be using it,” he adds, nodding toward the bandaged hand tucked against your chest.
You shift instinctively.
“I'm not. And I've already said I won't.”
The lie leaves your mouth before you can stop it. But he knows you better than that and he has more power over you than you'd like.
When Robby takes a step closer, the rest of the world seems to blur around the edges: the ambulance bay, the traffic... even Jack standing beside you. All of it fades into background noise.
And only later do you realize Jack is no longer there.
No goodbye, as if he'd taken one look at the two of you and quietly decided this conversation wasn't meant for him (once again).
He's not close enough to crowd you, but it's enough for you to smell the hospital soap and coffee.
Close enough to remember.
“You really waited two hours?” he asks again, quieter now as he brings his left hand to the back of his head, messing up his hair.
The disappointment in his voice catches you off guard, and you can't control the hollow feeling in your stomach. You've always wanted to be good for him. You never cared about what other people thought of you on the level that you cared about Robby's opinion. So your gaze slides past him toward the street.
“Yeah. I didn't feel like sitting in an ER.”
From the corner of your eye, you see his jaw tighten. His gaze lingers on your face, searching, questioning, but you don't give in. You keep your eyes forward. You won't let him know just how much power he still has over you.
“You should've called,” he says.
There it is. Again.
A laugh escapes you.
His audacity...
“Why?”
“Because I would've helped you.”
You almost laugh.
Of course he would've. He would've shown up and made sure you were okay.
And then he would've gone right back to not choosing you.
Because I have a hero complex and I'd help you even though I can't stand being with you.
“You don't get to help me anymore, Robby.”
His expression flickers, like something in your gaze cuts deeper than the words themselves.
“I know you can take care of yourself, but I-”
“I don't care,” you interrupt, keeping your voice as steady as possible despite the tightness in your throat and the pressure building behind your eyes. “You made it pretty clear you don't want me anymore. And I made it clear I'm not interested in being your friend. So no, I don't want your help.”
The sounds of the ambulance bay drift around you. Doors opening. Tires rolling over pavement. Life continuing.
But neither of you moves.
Robby exhales slowly and drags a hand through his hair while you keep your eyes fixed on the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Is it starting to hurt?” he asks, and the sudden change of subject is almost funny.
Almost.
The anesthetic is wearing off slowly, and so is the adrenaline, but you'll survive until you get home.
“Yeah.”
You see it immediately. The way his shoulders straighten... the way his attention narrows.
Like every part of him is wired to respond to that answer.
He takes a step closer before he seems to realize he's doing it.
“Alternate ibuprofen and Tylenol when it starts throbbing. You shouldn't need anything stronger.”
There he is. Not your Robby... Definitely not your Michael.
Dr. Robinavitch, the Chief of Emergency Medicine at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.
Safe territory.
“I'll take something when I get home.”
His gaze lingers.
Not quite staring, but long enough that you're suddenly aware of everything: your posture, your messy hair, your tired eyes. The fact that you've probably got dried tears on your face.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something.
He looks at you like he's trying to remember something, or maybe fix something... fix you.
Or both.
You're being ridiculous.
“You should keep it dry,” he says eventually. "At least a day. Two if you can.”
“Wow.”
His eyebrows lift slightly.
“Didn't Dr. Langdon just tell me that? It's like you work here or something.”
Usually, that would've earned at least a smirk. He used to love your bratty tone.
This time, it doesn't. His expression barely changes, and the silence that follows settles heavily between you.
Suddenly the joke doesn't feel funny anymore.
Because maybe he doesn't miss this... Maybe this isn't hard for him.
And maybe -just maybe- you were never what he wanted at all.
“Just be careful.”
The words come out softer.
Not doctor-soft.
Dangerous-soft. Boyfriend-soft. The kind of soft that makes your chest hurt. That belongs to a life you don't have anymore.
You feel a fresh wave of frustration rise in your throat.
You can't do this.
“I will.”
You look at him again, and a weird feeling hits you. For one stupid second, you think he's actually going to reach for you.
His hand shifts slightly at his side, then stills.
He doesn't.
You sigh, trying not to be disappointed. You hate yourself for even thinking about it.
What is wrong with you?
“Text me when you get home.”
The words slip out before he can stop them. Like they're instinctive.
You blink a couple of times before you can find the strength to open your mouth.
You need to get the hell out of here.
“No.”
The answer isn't cruel. That's not your intention. It even sounds less firm than you'd like, but it gets the point across.
And for a moment, something in his face falters.
“Right,” he says quietly, as if he's just remembered the nature of your relationship.
Or the lack of it.
You adjust your bag on your shoulder, and the movement feels awkward with only one good hand.
“I'll be fine.”
He nods.
“I know.”
You turn away before he can say anything else. Before you can say something stupid, or even worse, tear up because he looks like he saw a ghost, yet somehow still has time to flirt with his casual ex-flings.
So as you walk, you don't look back.
But somehow you know he's still standing there watching you, just like he watched you leave the first time.
*
By the time you get home, your hand is throbbing in a steady rhythm.
You close the door with your elbow, careful not to put any pressure on the bandaged hand, and lean against it for a moment before making your way to the kitchen.
Everything suddenly feels like too much: the lights are too bright, the apartment is too quiet, and the mess. God, the mess!
The cutting board is still sitting on the counter. Half-chopped vegetables have started to dry at the edges, left exactly where you dropped everything and ran to wash your hand.
For a moment, you just stand there and stare. Then your gaze drops to the thick white bandage wrapped around your palm.
“Fúcking ridiculous,” you mutter.
Whether you're talking about the injury or yourself, you're not entirely sure. You needed seven stitches because you were trying to make yourself dinner.
You make your way to the couch and sink into it carefully. The cushions dip beneath your weight, and that's when the quiet finally catches up with you.
No Jack or Langdon. No monitors beeping in the background.
Just you and the image of Robby standing in the ambulance bay... the look on his face when you told him no. The way he'd watched you leave.
And, despite everything, the memory that hurts the most: Robby's arm around Noelle.
You shift uncomfortably, as though you can physically move the thought away. But of course, it doesn't work.
Because it’s not even about Noelle. It’s about being replaced so quickly while you're still trying to remember how to breathe around the empty space he left behind.
Your fingers curl slightly and the pain shoots through your palm and up your arm immediately.
You hiss through your teeth and force your hand open again. “God, I'm a fúcking idiot!”
Like you were still someone he was allowed to be responsible for.
You knew he was emotionally unavailable, that he was an avoidant, that there was an age gap big enough for everyone to have an opinion about it. But you stayed. You fell in love... you trusted him.
You shake your head.
The worst part is how calm he was, how concerned he still looked.
Your eyes sting before you can stop it.
“No,” you say quietly.
Like that helps.
You pull your phone from your pocket and place it face down on the coffee table before you can do something stupid.
You could text him and tell him exactly what you think of him aka call him a coward and a fúcking asshole. You could say all the things you refused to say eight days ago when he ended it.
You could do a lot of things.
Instead you just sit there, your bandaged hand still aching as something ugly and honest rises up in your chest.
Not sadness, something sharper. Something that needs somewhere to go.
Eventually, you force yourself off the couch in search of ibuprofen, and halfway to the kitchen, a laugh escapes you.
Humorless and pathetic, really.
Because despite everything you miss him.
His stupid, sad smile, his voice, his nose. The way he always stole your fries and pretended he wasn't doing it.
Ten days before you're free.
*
Two days later, it’s worse in a different way.
Not the pain, which you got used to by now. It even became more manageable.
It's the tight, itchy pull under the skin that makes you want to do exactly what you're not supposed to do. To disobey him and prove to yourself you got the power.
You want to use your hand... to test it.
But you don't (except for a few hours when a project deadline leaves you no choice and you're back at your desk, using your hand far more than Langdon, Jack or Robby would've approved of).
You tell yourself it's necessary.
You always tell yourself a lot of things.
*
The message comes on the third day.
Robby: Come in tomorrow morning. Quick check.
No hello. No how are you. No are you available.
Just an instruction. So you stare at it for nearly a minute, then type:
I was told 10 days.
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Disappears.
Appears again.
You hate that your pulse picks up.
Then:
Robby: I know. Just come in when the morning shift starts.
You stare at the message... at the familiar bluntness of it and the complete lack of explanation.
Then you lock your phone and toss it onto the couch beside you as the podcast continues playing in the background.
You have absolutely no idea what they've been talking about for the last ten minutes.
*
You go anyway.
Partly because you're annoyed, and partly because refusing would mean admitting he's gotten under your skin.
The hospital smells exactly the same as it did three days ago: antiseptic and stale coffee.
Jack spots you before you've finished signing in.
“Back already?”
You glance up.
“Apparently I left such a strong impression the boss invited me back.”
His eyes drop to the bandage.
“Follow-up?”
“So I've been told.”
A smile flickers across his face, and you can't help but grin back. He has a kind of charm that disarms you.
“Try not to injure yourself on the way in. Or him. We can't run this hospital without the chief.”
“No promises.”
He walks with you toward the exam rooms, matching your pace without comment. The conversation stays comfortably superficial: the weather, his shift, and the last show you watched - which you're grateful for.
At the nurses' station, he slows. Dana is halfway through updating a chart when she looks up. You exchange a few pleasantries while Jack leans against the counter, listening with a half-smile.
Then Dana's gaze flicks past you toward one of the exam rooms.
Something passes silently between her and Jack, and he straightens immediately.
“Room six.”
“That's it? No dramatic goodbye?”
“I figured you'd had enough medical attention for one week.”
“Fair.”
“Good luck.”
Before you can ask what that's supposed to mean, he's already turning away.
The traitor!
The room is empty when you step inside, but you barely have time to feel relieved before the door opens again.
Robby walks in carrying a chart, and for a second neither of you says anything.
Without the chaos of the emergency department around him, he looks strangely out of place.
Or maybe that's you.
“You came.”
You set your bag down on the chair beside you, keeping your expression neutral as he pumps sanitizer into his palms.
You remember how many times you had to remind him to moisturize his hands, his skin always so dry it looked like it might split open.
“You summoned me via text.”
Something flickers across his face. Annoyance or maybe amusement. You can't tell anymore.
“Sit down.”
There's no point arguing, so you do.
The paper covering the exam table crackles beneath you as you climb up, the sound reminding you of the last time you were here.
Robby pulls on a pair of gloves.
“Let me see it.”
You offer your hand without comment, but for a moment, he doesn't take it.
His gaze drops to the bandage first, studying it like he's already looking for evidence of something worse.
Then his fingers close gently around your wrist as he starts unwrapping it.
The contact is professional, almost detached, but your stupid brain notices anyway.
Layer by layer, the dressing comes away, and he studies the wound in silence.
The stitches hold the edges together neatly now. The swelling has gone down, and the angry redness from the first day has faded into pink.
“Any increased pain?”
“No.”
“Drainage?”
“No.”
“Fever?”
You give him a look.
“No.”
His attention stays fixed on your palm, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“You've been using it.”
You let out a short laugh.
“That's a bold accusation.”
When his gaze lifts to yours, you want to hit him. It's infuriating how quickly he sees through you.
“You've been working despite our medical advice.”
The certainty in his voice makes it clear it's not a guess.
You look away first.
“I had deadlines.”
“I know.”
Somehow those two words are more irritating than if he'd argued.
Because he does know.
He knows exactly how many hours you'll spend obsessing over a project. What a perfectionist you are. He knows you'll work through headaches, exhaustion, and apparently hand injuries if given the chance.
His thumb hovers near the base of your palm.
“The swelling's worse here.”
Damn it.
You say nothing, and Robby sighs softly- resigned, as though this outcome was entirely predictable.
“You need to leave it alone for a few more days.”
“You sound like a doctor.”
“I am your doctor.”
The silence that follows is familiar, and Robby looks down and resumes wrapping the fresh dressing around your hand, carefully. Methodically. Giving both of you something else to focus on.
When he's finished, he smooths the edge of the bandage into place and steps back.
“You're healing pretty well, despite the fact you haven't been listening.”
You nod, because it should feel reassuring.
Instead, it leaves a hollow ache somewhere beneath your ribs. Healing implies moving on, and you're not sure you've figured out that part yet.
“You'll come back in a week for removal.”
“Yes, doctor.”
His mouth almost curves.
Almost.
You stand quickly and reach for your bag, but neither of you moves for a couple of seconds.
Then, before you can do something stupid, you turn toward the door.
You don't look back.
Not because you don't want to. But because you already know he'll be watching.
*
You try to work.
You really do. The laptop is open on the coffee table, a half-finished design staring back at you from the screen.
But after several minutes of pretending you're accomplishing something, you let your head fall back against the couch and close the laptop.
“Great,” you mutter to the empty apartment. “I'm completely useless. Fantastic!”
Outside, a car passes. Somewhere upstairs, something heavy drops.
Life continues. Unfortunately, so does your brain.
The problem isn't that you keep replaying memories. It's that you keep replaying a sentence.
You can do better than me.
The same calm voice, the same careful expression. As though he'd handed you a gift instead of a goodbye.
Your jaw tightens.
“No, that's bullshit.”
You push yourself upright too quickly and immediately regret it when your injured hand protests. Pain flashes through your palm.
“Shit.”
You sink back into the cushions with a groan, but it's not your hand that's upsetting you.
It's the way he left, as though he was doing something responsible. Noble. As though loving you had been a mistake he was finally correcting.
Your phone lies face down beside you, and without thinking, you reach for it.
The screen lights up.
Nothing.
No messages except the family group chat.
No notifications, either.
You stare at it anyway, then open a message box.
I'm happy for you.
You stare at it for three seconds before deleting it.
I wish nothing-
Delete.
A frustrated laugh escapes you.
“God.”
The worst part is that neither statement is entirely false.
You do want him to be happy. You just wish you didn't have to witness it.
The music keeps playing in the background.
At some point, you stopped paying attention to the playlist.
Now it feels like the playlist is paying attention to you.
Alanis Morissette's voice fills the apartment: raw, messy, unapologetically angry.
An older version of me…
A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. Isn't that funny?
“Yeah.”
You rub your eyes.
“You really thought that sounded noble, didn't you?”
The memory of that conversation has somehow become more irritating with time.
Not less... because now you can hear everything he thought he was saying.
You are not a child, and he knows it. You could have handled him telling you he stopped loving you much better than what he actually said.
The song continues.
Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity?
That one almost makes you laugh.
“Fúcking hell.”
You shift forward, resting your elbows on your knees, careful of your hand.
Everything is careful now.
The music keeps going and your mind drifts somewhere you don't want it to.
Toward Noelle. Toward possibilities. Toward images you never invited into your head.
Maybe they want the same things... Maybe he wants a baby with her.
You never really considered having kids. You can't imagine yourself in that position, and Robby knows it. You were honest from the get-go.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
“Nope.”
Your finger points at nothing.
“We're not doing that.”
But your imagination ignores you completely.
Of course it does.
A familiar laugh, a familiar smile, a mini-version of Robby... life continuing without you.
Your stomach tightens.
Not jealousy exactly.
Something uglier.
Much uglier.
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother.
You've heard these a hundred times before, but now they feel like they were always about you.
And every time you speak her name
Does she know how you told me
You'd hold me until you died?
Is this what grieving a relationship feels like?
Because it's so humiliating it almost hurts more than the loss itself.
You don't want revenge or to see him miserable. You don't even want him back if being with you made him unhappy. If he truly thinks you're too young, too immature, too much of whatever it was that finally convinced him to walk away with no regrets.
You just want proof that you mattered. That he didn't walk away and immediately become -again- someone else's person. That somewhere beneath all that careful self-control and rational decision-making, there's still a place where you exist. A scar. A memory.
The thought settles heavily in your chest. Now you understand why you've been listening to this stupid song on repeat.
Beneath all that anger is a woman desperately trying to convince herself she wasn't forgettable. That she was loved.
It feels really pathetic.
You drag a hand over your face.
“God, I sound insane.”
But you reach for your phone anyway and hit replay.
*
The removal is simple and fast: clip, lift, pull.
There’s no real pain, just a faint tugging beneath the skin, more memory than sensation.
So you watch him work. Not your hand. Him.
Because this version of him is always like this: controlled, in command, careful in a way that feels effortless.
And it’s unfair how good he looks like this. Glasses on, focused, entirely elsewhere while still being right in front of you.
“You’ve been using it,” he says without looking up.
There had been no real conversation before this, just the quiet logistics of being here. He was waiting at the nurses’ station while Jack finished the handover, you assume.
When the last stitch is out, he doesn’t move immediately. Just checks the skin, thumb hovering near the edge as if confirming something only he can see.
Then he wraps it anyway.
Habit, maybe.
“You’re healed,” he says finally.
“I’m free.”
You don’t know what kind of freedom you mean.
A quiet exhale slips out of him... almost a laugh, before the silence settles again.
You flex your fingers once. Strange how quickly something that was broken can feel like it belongs to you again.
Like it never left at all.
Then you look at him, suddenly making up your mind. It feels like the last real chance to say what’s been sitting in your chest for days. You deserve better closure than silence... and better than what he gave you. You need to do this for your own peace.
“I want you to know something,” you say.
His attention shifts fully now as he waits for you to continue.
“I’m happy for you.”
The words land exactly the way you expect them to. Something in his expression tightens... not surprise, not relief. Recognition.
“I wish you and Noelle nothing but the best,” you add. “I guess she really made an impression on you. You ended up all cozy in the hospital barely a week after we broke up.”
You hope this makes him feel like shit. Because it isn’t really about Noelle.
He exhales through his nose, controlled, and you can't read his expression. His shoulders tense, his expression being unreadable in a way that only makes you more certain you’ve hit something real.
“What are you doing?”
No denial. That alone tells you enough.
You were right.
“I’m not quite as well,” you say, your tone so even it almost sounds detached, like you’re commenting on the weather instead of opening your chest and handing him your heart once again.
And the moment it leaves your mouth, you regret it.
Because it’s too honest and real, and it gives him something he doesn’t deserve anymore.
His jaw tightens.
“Don’t,” he says.
He drags a hand through his hair, and you notice it now: the smallest crack in his control. Not panic exactly, just something closer to discomfort. Or guilt.
You almost smile as pick up your bag.
Then stop. Because if you leave now, it becomes clean.
And this isn’t clean, so you turn back.
“I thought you should know you were wrong,” you say.
A beat.
“I didn’t need better than you.”
Your voice stays steady, but something underneath it fractures anyway. You just needed your Michael.
“I just needed you to stay. Or if you were going to leave, you should’ve said it properly. You should’ve told me there was someone else. Or that you didn’t love me anymore. Not… that.”
The words leave you all at once, sharp and unfiltered, like there’s nothing left to protect anymore. You have nothing more to lose.
For a moment, he doesn’t respond at all. He continues to stare at the wall, then the floor, then your shoes before he finally meets your eyes.
Then, very quietly:
“You should go.”
And something in you almost laughs at how predictable it is. How final. How cleanly he can end things when it suits him.
Your throat tightens. It becomes hard to breathe in a way you can’t fully hide. Your eyes sting, that familiar pressure building behind them until your vision blurs at the edges.
You swallow hard, but it doesn’t go away. It just sits there: heavy, humiliating, like your body is betraying you for still caring.
A short, broken sound slips out of you before you give him what he asked for.
“Well then,” you say, voice lower now, steadier in a different way. “Every time I scratch my nails down someone else’s back.” You pause, holding his gaze. “I hope you feel it.”
The silence after that is immediate. But it's far from empty... it's charged as his expression shifts. Something in him stills completely.
He exhales slowly, tension pulling through his neck and jaw, a faint flush rising there.
When he speaks, his voice is lower now, colder.
“We’re done here.”
*
The next evening settles in too easily and that bothers you.
Like nothing important happened at all.
You tried to focus on work all day, but you can barely get anything done between meetings. Even music doesn’t fill the space properly anymore.
Eventually, you stop pretending it isn’t eating at you, and the phone is already in your hand before you realize you reached for it.
Your thumb rests over the screen as you tell yourself you don’t care what happens next.
But you do.
You think about yesterday, not the words exactly, but the tone.
We’re done here.
Clean. Practiced. Efficient. Like you were just another patient he needed out of the room.
Did your relationship really mean nothing? Did you mean nothing?
The thought of Noelle slips in again, uninvited.
What did he see in her that he can't see in you? What is so special about her? What kind of power does he have to make you still think about him after everything?
Something shifts inside you subtly, almost quietly.
Permission.
He always said you were too kind.
Maybe today you are petty. Maybe you always were, just quieter about it before.
And maybe he deserves to feel all of it.
Your grip tightens around the phone.
“Fúcking asshole.”
Your fingers move before you can think about his feelings and stop yourself.
