went to the doctor and she said i was fine

A soft sun welcomes the calm morning. It streaks through the windshield of Robby's recently swapped Ford Ranger. Unlike his bike, it's built for the curvy, tree lined roads of the small northern town he's traipsing through.

His lids start to droop, stomach growling from the endless hours of driving. He perks up at a neon sign cutting through the pale blue skies. Soon thereafter, wafts of bacon, coffee, and oil drift through his cracked windows, and his stomach does the steering for him.

He's the only car in this parking lot, and he's surprised to see a little white building with pink trimming. Bright pink letters splash across the white wooden door.

Petal and Bloom- it reads in loopy letters, and stepping through the door is like walking through a time machine. It's pure 50s, a vibrant turquoise coating the walls, peach booths lining the width of the pink and white checkered floor.

He can't help but let a chuckle escape his lips, the giddiness knocked completely out of him at the sight of the waitress that greets him.

You're pretty. Gorgeous, even. The shiny gloss of your lips, the curve of your hips, the blush painting your cheeks- they make his heart skip in a way he thought wasn't possible anymore.

You sidle up to him, the sweetest diner dress adorning your figure. It's pink, with a pretty name looped into the stitching. It hangs off your frame with ease, pulled tight at the waist by your white apron. You bounce on your tennis shoes, a sweet smile on your sweet face.

"Hi! Dining in?" You chirp, and it's so perky he debates getting a coffee.

"Yeah, just me," Robby huffs, nodding his head and averting his gaze.

Looking at you nearly paralyzes him, but looking and talking to you? He feels like he's 14 again, talking to Patricia Connors at her locker the week before homecoming.

He slides into the booth you cheerily lead him to, cheeks heating at the new position. He looks up at you now, the early morning sun coating you in a golden glow. Your eyes sparkle in the light, and he swallows a thick lump in his throat.

"What can I get started for you, sir?" You ask, and guilt pools in his stomach at the name.

"Please, call me Robby," he waves you off, and you nod lightly. Your instant obedience gets his heart racing, and he smooths a hand down the back of his neck. It does nothing to self soothe.

Chill out, you gross old man, he kicks himself, clearing his throat before answering you.

"Can I just start with a coffee?" He rasps, eyes trained on the menu in front of him, only darting them up when you walk away.

The sway in your hips nearly knocks him unconscious, dark dots literally starting to pepper his vision. The clink of a cheap plastic glass snaps him out of his senselessness.

He sees water, accompanied by a mug of coffee and a piece of toast he's surprised was made so fast.

"You looked like you were about to pass out," you say, apprehensively.

He makes the mistake of looking up at you, your small smile rendering him breathless.

"Thanks," he breathes, and it's a pathetic croak in the back of his throat.

You chuckle, flipping your notepad open. You poise a pink pen to the paper, a pensive brow pointing right at him.

"What else can I get you?" You ask, and he rattles off his order- unable to resist the bacon he smelled a mile back.

"Alright, that'll be a while," you quip, snapping it shut in the wake of his confusion. "As you can see, we're packed to the brim. There's no way the kitchen will be able to get this out in under an hour. That okay?"

The empty sound of the diner fills the space between you. You're joking. He knows, somewhere deep in his semi-consciousness that you are, but his exhausted haze clouds his logical reasoning.

"What?" Is all he can manage, and he wants to kick himself.

"Nothing, sir," you chuckle, and miraculously, he doesn't feel embarrassed or ashamed, but endeared, almost. "I'll be back shortly."

He watches you walk away again, and curses under his breath. He runs a flat palm down his face, trying to scrub out the weariness in his eyes. His heart pounds a symphony against his chest, ringing even in his ears.

He has no idea what happened back there, can't remember a single time he dropped the ball while flirting. It came so easily to him in Pittsburgh, when he was at his worst.

Another thing clicks, something his therapist has taught him to identify. When we recover from trauma, our brain puts together puzzle pieces that have been scattered around for too long. Or something like that.

He makes a match now, realizing that his desperation for validation projected on his female counterparts, romantic or not. It's jarring for a moment, but he's gotten better at acknowledging it, deciding what he'll do better in the future, and moving on.

It's methodical, the steps to this procedure. It feels right for his brain, to check things off in a sort of list. It feels less daunting, actually doable for him.

Once again, his thoughts are interrupted by plastic dishware clinking on the table. He perks a little, the steam of his eggs and scent of his bacon enough to restart his nervous system.

He nods his head at you, muttering a small thank you, heart sinking a little at the thought of your interaction being over.

Like you can read his thoughts, you slide into the booth across from him, propping your chin in your hand.

"Is this okay?" You ask, smiling. "You seem like you could use a little bit of company."

You have no idea, he thinks.

"That'd be great, thanks," is what he says. He glances around, looking for any other employee in the building. "This won't get you in trouble, will it?" He asks, voice quieter than it was before.

A chuckle stifles past your lips, and the sound swirls around his head like little blue birdies in a cartoon. He feels like a caricature around you, a dopey, wide eyed Popeye, smitten by Olive Oil.

"No," you respond, and relief washes over him. "My best friend owns this place, she's not even clocked in. Still hungover from last night."

There's a teasing lilt to your voice, and he smiles, thinking about what it must be like to know you. To have known you, well enough to work together and live in the same small town together.

He does laugh at this information, eyes finding his plate. He grabs a piece of bacon, nibbling on it lightly without breaking eye contact.

"So, what brings you to our little corner of the world?" You ask him, with the familiarity of a life lived in the same place.

He shrugs, looking at the window to survey the scene. It's remote, located off the highway on the right and a small side street to the left. The left hand road leads to a slightly bigger downtown, if his strained vision proves correct.

"I'm a doctor," he starts, and it feels foreign falling from his lips. "I was…" he starts, and all the possible things he could say dance around in his brain. "…burnt out," is what he lands on.

That's one way to put it.

Your mouth twists downward, brows furrowing. It's not pity, though, and it's not sympathy, either. Both of those would have immediately triggered something deep and angry within him.

No, what he sees is more like empathy. The glint in your eye, the purse of your lips, the nod of your head tells him that you relate. It's what he's choosing to believe, anyway, as he doesn't have any factual information to back this up. He feels it pretty strongly, though, and he's learning that's not always a bad thing.

"I get what that's like," you sigh, and his ears perk up like a dog.

His heart pounds at the immediate validation, swirling a euphoric rush through his veins.

"Yeah?" He asks, voice lilting and a bit pitchy.

You nod again, pretty gold earrings dangling with the motion.

"I just got fired," you admit, and now it's his turn to frown. "That's why I'm working at my best friend's diner at 28."

There's a civil war brewing inside him, the guilt of hearing your age at battle with the giddiness your vulnerability makes him. It all results in a sore tummy, and he shovels scrambled eggs in his mouth to try and tamper it down.

"Please," he says, once he's swallowed, taken a sip of water and grounded himself. "You have your entire life ahead of you."

There's a brief pause in your rapport, then, the weight of his words hanging heavier than intended. You don't seem to mind, unless, again, his calculations are incorrect. He's been proven to read you pretty well so far, though, so he's hopeful.

The sparkle in your eye helps. The sun is now fully up, hanging high in the sky as mid-morning dawns on the both of you. It shines through the window, landing perfectly on you.

It takes his breath away, and he allows himself a moment to sink into it, to enjoy it. Instead of feeling guilty, racking his brain for all the reasons he wouldn't deserve to even enjoy a nice conversation, he indulges. That's what the sabbatical is for, right?

"And you don't?" You ask.

His face crinkles in a smile, dipping his head down to try and hide the wrinkles around his eyes. Shock paralyzes him when he feels your soft fingers tucking under his jaw and lifting him back up to you.

You're smiling when he meets your gaze, but then you give him a showy pout. It sends a cacophony of butterflies loose in his belly, and he feels like a school boy. He sips on his coffee, the caffeine doing nothing to quell the giddiness erupting within him.

"What's that face for?" He asks, and his soft tone surprises him.

"You're not smiling anymore," you jut your bottom lip out, and it's taking everything to not lean over the table, take them between his own lips, and suck.

"Why do I need to smile?" He asks, and feels ridiculous almost instantly.

You deserve to smile, Michael, you deserve to enjoy things, Dr. Parker would say, and he repeats it in his head like a mantra.

"You have these sweet lines around your eyes when you smile," your hand once again brands his skin, now your open palm cupping his cheek.

He's stunned at your abrasiveness, pathetically intrigued by what you have to offer. His cheek heats under your touch, and he spots the tiny smile creeping on your lips.

"They're nice," you remark, removing your hand from his face.

It's cold instantly without your touch, a shiver unzipping his spine at the loss of contact.

The moment floats between you two, vibrant and sparkly like a crystal ball. He knows exactly what his fortune is. He's looking at it.

"So," you say, effectively popping the magical bubble, "a doctor, huh?"

He nods, apprehensive to the topic. He can't remember the last time he talked about his job with someone who knew nothing about it. He can't remember the last time he's been this removed from Pittsburgh. It's…scary. Nice, but scary.

He powers through anyway, allowing himself the fortune he's so gracelessly stumbled upon.

"Yeah," he gruffs, smoothing his hand over the back of his neck.

He can't yet bring himself to say more, bottom lip sliding between his teeth.

"Can I guess what you do?" You ask, and he quickly nods.

This, somehow, eases him. It allows him the vulnerability of sharing the information, without the pressure of finding the right words, racking his anxious mind for something to mask how horrible it's been the past few years.

You stroke your chin with your forefinger and thumb, brows puzzled in the sweetest way. He fights the urge to kiss away the crease between your brows.

"Emergency medicine," you say, and his blood runs cold.

You perk up at his reaction, knowing immediately you got it right.

"Yay!" You squeal, clapping your hands together. "What a crazy coincidence! I don't know why I even guessed that, you just seem like you've seen some shit."

He chuckles at that, a genuine, cathartic chuckle.

"Ooh, you have no idea," he says, and your smile makes his heart race.

"Where is it? Are you guys typically busy?" You ask, and he almost envies your naivete.

"Uh, 's in Pittsburgh," he says, eyes trained on his lap.

His ears are on fire, heart roaring in his chest but he pushes through, even though his voice is croaky and he feels like he might throw up.

"We're a trauma center, so…" he trails off, gaining the courage to look back up at you. "Yeah, I've seen some shit."

You give him a kind smile, a sweet giggle peeling from your lips, and he positively melts. He can't remember the last time someone looked at him like this, like he was something, anything else than Dr. Robby.

"Well, I'm looking forward to hearing some stories," you propose, tone uneasy.

"Yeah, I'm sure I can make that work," he says, sipping his coffee, nibbling his toast.

"How long are you in town?" You ask, and his heart sinks at the thought of ever leaving this cozy bubble.

"I'm here for three months," he says, and is almost prideful by the way you perk up at this news. "Plenty of time to swap stories."

"I can't wait," you reply, and his stomach cartwheels. "Where are you staying?" You ask, and he raises a brow.

"Why? Y'gonna come murder me?" He asks, resting his back against the cushiony booth.

"Yup, you caught me!" You giggle, playing along. It electrifies him.

He laughs, and can't help but notice how easy this feels. It's exhilarating, addicting, and utterly terrifying.

"No," you roll your eyes once your laughter dies down. "I've lived here my entire life and I probably already know exactly where you're at."

"Well, with your track record of guessing things about me," he starts, pulling out his phone to open up his Airbnb app. "You probably will."

He turns his phone around, and goes still once he sees your face fall. You grab his phone, pinching the screen to zoom in and out, eyes glossing over. His gut twists, and he feels absolutely awful.

Before he can spiral, he decides to take action instead.

"I'm so sorry, did I say something?" He asks, shaky fingers plucking his phone back.

You shake your head, wiping a stray tear from the corner of your eye.

"Gosh no, no not at all," you insist, and it does nothing to sway his guilt. "That's actually uhm-" you swallow, and his heart sinks even deeper. "That's my grandparents' cottage."

"Oh," he blinks, unsure how to take this news.

"They always rent it out over the summer. They're in the Hamptons," you roll your eyes, and he can tell there's more to this story. "My whole family is, actually."

For the first time this entire conversation, you seem…small. You're avoiding his gaze, fiddling with your apron, pouting your lips.

"And you're here?" He asks, and you just shrug.

"I just moved back from New York, actually," you confess, and he leans forward, giving you his full attention. "I got fired from the marketing firm my grandfather owns."

His mouth twists downward, once again heeding your earlier understanding.

"One of the jackass accountants tried feeling me up," you say, and the confession rocks him. Not only does your brazen confidence scare the shit out of him, he's also overcome with a severe need to beat this preppy New York accountant's ass.

"I reacted maybe a bit…harsher than I should have," you continue. "I turned around and just slapped him. I honestly wasn't thinking, it was an instinctive reaction. So, I got fired for disorderly conduct."

"I'm sorry…" Robby trails off, genuinely confused. "They fired you for disorderly conduct? Not the guy putting his hands where he wasn't fucking supposed to in the first place?"

You nod, to his everlasting fury.

"On top of that, my boyfriend dumped me," you mutter. "Said he couldn't be with a 'snitch', like we're in third grade."

Anger flares white hot within him, furrowing his brows and burning his stomach until there's nothing left but ash.

"I had to come home," you say. "My family is not happy with me. I also have some stories."

"Well, I'm really looking forward to hearing them," he says, only able to offer kindness in wake of this news.

"Likewise," you murmur.

The sun shines between you once again, illuminating Robby's now empty plate. Your eyes find it, and he sees you immediately jump back into waitress mode.

"Let me take care of this!" You chirp, swiping his plate away and whisking it to the kitchen.

He feels cold at the loss of you, eyes trained on your frame the entire time. He watches you ring up the order, bringing his check back to the table.

He opens his mouth to speak, but is forcefully interrupted by the door swinging open.

"Oh. My. God. GIRL!" Another young woman bursts through the door, looking a bit worse for wear.

Her hair is mussy, makeup smeared and clothes wrinkled.

"Is my uniform here?" She asks, skittering through the diner.

"Yeah, in the back!" You shout, and she responds with a comical, "THANK GOD!"

"Aaaand that's Cherry, my best friend," you quip, collecting his payment and dispersing the change. "I'll see you tomorrow, Robby?" You ask, and he nods eagerly.

"Go and get some sleep, you'll need it," you tap your notepad on the table to see him out.

He reluctantly finds the door, slinging his bag over his shoulder before looking back at you one last time.

"And a tip?" You add, and he raises his brow. "The guest bed is comfier than the master bed. Trust me."

"Thanks," he chuckles, pushing the door open, back into the real world.

The next few weeks are almost always a mirror of that first morning. Robby coming in at the break of dawn, you two sitting over a coffee together.

He came in that second day, looking much more rested than the day before, raving about the mattress in the guest room.

You'd laughed, giving him a playful 'told you so!' before assuming the exact same booth he'd had the day before.

Cherry's been more than cool, allowing you to sit and talk with him when you're really supposed to be on the clock.

You repay her in gossip, gushing to her about all the ways the hot, mysterious, older doctor has been flirting with you.

At least, you think he's flirting with you. He dances all around it, a teasing twinkle in his eye, a small smirk on his lips. Cherry's convinced he wants you. You're not so sure.

He always makes a point to confirm with you, and Cherry, that your early morning chats are okay. You can tell he feels guilty every time he asks, and in a sick way, it makes your heart swell. It still doesn't stop him from talking with you until the next customer comes in.

He comes in so early, this typically only happens after you've banked a good hour and change of conversation, each one more titillating than the last.

This morning, you'd finished your conversation with an invite. It was bold, unexpected, tumbling from your lips before you could have stopped it.

"Hey!" You chirp, just as he's about to push the door open. "Cherry and I are hosting a little something after closing hours."

"A little something?" He raises his brow, and your stomach somersaults.

Tonight, you and Cherry were debuting Bloom and Petal: After Hours. It's been a passion project of Cherry's, turning the daytime breakfast bar into a lively night scene.

You reference the framed certificate now resting behind the bar, some fancy scribbling displaying your newly acquired liquor license.

Robby's face shifts in understanding, a small smile hiding behind nervous eyes.

"A bar with a bunch of 25 year olds?" He quirks a brow, and your heart sinks.

You've never really addressed the age gap between you two, though it feels glaringly obvious, and even foolish now. Your face burns, and the words that leave your mouth leave you humiliated.

"For me?" You ask, cringing as they fall out of your mouth like rotten teeth.

He doesn't seem to share this sentiment, though, as his brown eyes glimmer in the light, his telltale sign you've gotten to his soft spot. Your heart rate picks up, and you look at him expectantly.

"Maybe," he murmurs, and you'll take it. It's something. "See you," he says, and he's out the door.

"See you," you breathe, into the empty diner.

Bloom and Petal: After Hours is thumping, and you've been on your feet for hours. Sweat drips from your brow as you weave through the crowd of sticky bodies of people you've known since grade school.

You're thankful to have ditched the thick, cartoony outfit for a pink Bloom and Petal t-shirt, paired with denim shorts. You finally escape behind the bar for a brief moment, attending to a few drinks and avoiding the crowd.

Your eyes keep darting towards the door, expecting a familiar face to walk through. Disappointment spreads deep in your stomach like a disease with each ring of the front bell.

"He's still not here?" Cherry yells over the crowd, and you shake a sad head no.

She rolls her eyes, forever on your side.

"Boo! What a dick! I thought he liked you!" She squeals, and her use of past tense, though unintentional, makes your tummy turn.

"I thought he did, too," you mutter, furiously cranking the beer tap.

Foam aggressively overflows the pint, and you crash it down on to the bar a little too harshly. Cherry rears her head back at this, eyes wide, and now it's your turn to roll your eyes.

"I'm so dumb!" You force a smile, your tone terminally delightful. "The stupidest girl in school!"

Cherry chortles at this, and you give her a sardonic smile. Then, you hear it again.

Ding!

Your head whips towards the door, like a pathetic dog waiting for its long gone owner. Cherry sees this too, wincing at the action.

Shame burns deep in your belly, and you turn, pressing your palms flat on the wall, leaning your forehead against them. A long groan strangles your throat, Cherry rubbing a soothing hand down your back.

"Take a minute, babe, it's been a crazy night," she says before darting to the other side of the bar.

You feel ridiculous, of course he wouldn't show up. He's about twice the age of everyone here, he's clearly here running away from something, and most of all, he's not your fucking boyfriend.

That last fact makes you sick, and you dart into the kitchen to get a fresh breath. You barrel your way through the bustling back to get through the door, bursting open like a treasure chest.

The relief of the fresh air folds you in half, hands resting on your knees as you will yourself not to vomit. Nausea spins your head, quelling with each breath of fresh, summer air.

"Woah!" You hear a familiar voice, and your eyes dart up to find the man you've been looking for all night.

He's like an angel in the fading sunset, approaching you gently from the other side of the parking lot.

"Robby!" You breathe, half chuckle half gasp. "Hi!"

He reaches out a tentative hand as if to steady you, approaching slowly, bending slightly at the knee to look you in the eye.

"You okay, sweet girl?" He asks, and the debut of this pet name does nothing to help your desire to hurl.

You nod, anyway, inhaling deep through your nose and out through your mouth.

"Good job," he mutters, and your knees nearly give out on you.

"Yeah," you swallow thickly. "Yeah, I'm good. I think I just need some water."

"Do you have any out here, sweet girl?" He asks.

You stumble, your heart skipping a beat. Again, with that damn nickname.

"N-no, I don't," you mumble, and you can't tell if the haziness is from Robby, or the overstimulation.

"Stay here, I'll be right back," he darts across the parking lot once more, back to his truck.

Your focus stills on his frame, the way it leaned and stretched into the front seat of his car. Your cheeks burn, shame creeping in your belly.

He's not your boyfriend, you remind yourself. Snap out of it.

He comes back, a steel water bottle rattling with ice. You perk up at the sound, a Pavlovian response driven by dehydration.

He holds out the bottle, and you snatch it from his grasp, savoring each slide of the cool liquid down your parched throat.

You let the straw go with a pop!, a groan of relief escaping your lips. Robby shifts on his feet at the noise, and you choose to think nothing of it.

"Is it okay if I walk you in?" He asks, pointing towards the door. "I just wanna make sure you get back okay."

You nod, wordlessly, letting him guide you toward the door, his arm hovering over your waist. You come back to life step by step, the energy of the bar swallowing you back in the second you cross the threshold.

Your lips wrap around the straw again, vision clearing up with each swallow. Robby taps your hip lightly in approval, and you almost stop to squeeze your legs together.

You burst out of the kitchen, immediately thrust back into the hot, sweaty bubble of the night. He rounds the corner of the bar with ease, propping himself on an empty stool.

It really sinks in, then, him being here. Seeing him, his wide, tired eyes, his soft smile, surrounded by purple and blue and pink flashing lights and bustling twenty somethings.

He's here for you. Your heart sings.

"Thank you for coming," you mutter sweetly. "What can I get you, handsome?"

You count this as revenge for his earlier nickname. You're successful, given his deep blush he tries so sweetly to hide.

"Whatever beer you have on tap, babe," he says, and you shudder.

You give him a curt nod, turning on the ball of your foot to fulfill his order. You tap your foot as you anxiously wait for the glass to fill, butterflies swarming your stomach at the thought of turning around to see Robby again.

You're met with a much worse sight, though. One that completely pops the Robby bubble you've inflated for yourself.

Clean cut brown hair, perfectly tailored suit, $200 tie. The same, sorry excuse of a man that left you alone, deserted in New York, after getting fired from your job.

"Brayden, what are you doing here?" You choke.

Beer threatens to spill over the lid of the glass you're shakily holding. Robby anticipates the situation, reaching two hands out to take his drink himself.

You're suddenly thankful, yet self conscious for his help all at the same time. Your eyes dart back to Robby, then back to Brayden. Back and forth, back and forth.

It's not long before Brayden clocks what's going on, the man sitting next to him. He scoffs, readjusting his tie with an arrogance that makes you want to punch him.

"I'm here to talk some sense into you," he responds, and hearing his voice again after all this time is like nails on a chalkboard. "Clearly you need it."

His eyes dart to his left as he says it, and you burn with rage.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" You size him up. Like always, he takes the bait.

"Your family is fucking furious with you, y'know?" He remarks, and you dip your head in shame. "This little stunt you're pulling?" He circles a finger in the air in reference to the space around him. "It's ridiculous. You know it's ridiculous! I mean- look at you! Are you wearing denim?"

You can't believe the words that are coming out of his mouth, wondering how you could've been so blind to this man's true self.

"I wore denim in New York, you fucking ass," it's the only thing you can think of to say, and you feel like a fucking idiot.

"Not at work," he says, and you roll your eyes. "Any job where you can get away with wearing denim is a job you should never be working at. Can you imagine what your family would say if they saw you right now?"

You cross your hands over your chest, a familiar burn stinging the back of your nose as you will yourself not to cry in front of him.

"I'm sorry," a gruff voice interrupts, and your heart stops.

Robby's holding up a hand in Brayden's direction, who rears his head back in surprise.

"Who the hell do you think you are, talking to someone like that?" he asks, tone poisonous.

It takes you by surprise, eyes anxiously darting back to Brayden

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Brayden scoffs, and your heart pounds in your ears, anxiety thrumming through your veins.

"Does it fucking matter?" Robby responds, and your eyes find the floor.

"Don't think I didn't see you two walking in from the back," he drops, and your body goes white hot with fear. "What do you think your family is going to think when I tell them you're letting a man twice your age fight your battles for you?"

You make the mistake of looking up at him, no longer able to hide the tears pricking your eye. He has an all knowing smirk on his face, and you catch Robby shifting in his peripheral.

"That's not how they raised their strong, nuisance of a girl, hm?" He asks, and Robby slams a hand down on the bar.

"Are you fucking serious?"He asks, wild eyes darting toward you.

You panic, giving him crazy, sad eyes.

"I'm sorry," he gruffs, holding a hand up. "I just can't stand to see him talk to you like this," his voice is quiet, as private as it can be with your ex breathing down his neck.

Your stomach rolls, heart pounding when you see Cherry approach from behind. Anxiety is a pinball within you, hitting each point of your nervous system and sparing no expense.

"Oh. Fuck. NO!" You hear her screech, latching her manicured fingers underneath his shirt collar, yanking him up off the stool.

He squeals, and the sound earns a genuine laugh from you.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?" She barks at him, using her large waitress tray as a shield, guiding him out the door with each step she takes.

"Thought I'd come see what you managed to scrounge together," he smirks, walking backward toward the door. "Not bad, classy as ever."

"God, that guy fucking sucks," Robby whispers as Cherry bullies him out the door.

"Tell me about it," you gruff, grabbing a damp towel and wiping down the nearest surface you can find. Anything to distract yourself from the heat of his gaze.

A moment of silence beats between you, his eyes trained on you as you do everything in your power to avoid him. The vulnerability of the moment settles over you like a wet blanket, rubbing you raw and making you ache.

"Robby, I think you should go," you whisper, regret lacing every word.

The look in his eye is that of a kicked puppy, and you once again will yourself not to cry.

"What?" He asks, utter confusion in his tone.

"Thank you for coming," you start, a smile on your lips, bright and fake as ever, "but I think he was right. If my family gets wind of what we've been doing-"

"What have we been doing, exactly?" He cuts you off, and you freeze, not expecting this question.

Because, in all honesty, you really don't know what you've been doing.

You like Robby, that much is for certain. You like spending time with him, talking with him, listening to him, but maybe Brayden was right. He's nearly 30 years your senior, you could never have a relationship with him without stirring the pot with your entire family.

Is it worth it? For someone that will be gone in three months?

"I don't really know, Robby," you throw your hands up. "We're…two adults who talk to each other? We're friends?" You let that last question linger, toeing the line on suggesting more than that. You ultimately don't take the bait, and just raise your brow at him instead, begging him to tell you different.

He doesn't, of course, just slides a $10 over the counter, hops off the stool, and leaves.

Your heart sinks, cheeks on fire, and you bury your face in your forearms, laying flat against the bar.

"Ugh!" You groan, tears pricking the corners of your eyes.

What the hell has this man done to you?

You're worse for wear the next morning, a headache splitting your head in two. You bring a hand to your forehead, groaning at the light seeping in through the window.

Folding a pillow over your head, you thrash to the other side, memories of last night coming to you in flashes.

Robby not showing, Robby finding you in the parking lot, Brayden, Robby leaving, the shots Cherry clunk down on the bar after closing…

You're starting to regret that fifth lemon drop as it rumbles your stomach, acid creeping up your throat. You clamp a hand over your mouth, willing the nausea to ebb.

It eventually does, and you feel strong enough to sit up, swing your legs over the side of the bed, and make a sad attempt to stand. Your legs are wobbly to start, but eventually you find your footing, padding into the bathroom.

You freshen up, a mere face wash reviving as you move to the kitchen, desperately clamoring for some coffee and a piece of toast. A buzz on the counter lights up your screen, and you take in a message from Cherry.

Cherry: girl…did robby respond to you yet

Your heart drops, numb fingers swiping rapidly to get to your messages. Robby had given you his number a few days prior, something he tried to keep low key as he scribbled it on his receipt. You remember feeling flushed, like a love sick high school girl who just got asked to the prom.

Now, you just feel sick, actually sick. Opening the messages, an onslaught of drunken nonsense greets you, to your everlasting horror.

RObb

Robb y

H hey

Is your real name robert??? what's up with that

These were just to name a few, and the more you scroll, the worse you feel. Your view is instantly shot back to the very last text you sent- it's just the Spotify link to Go Go Juice by Sabrina Carpenter- and you drop the phone like it's hot as the three, cursed little bubbles pop up.

You scream, literally scream, as the phone clatters onto the counter, making impact with the marble at the same time your toast pops out of the toaster.

You sit in silence with yourself for a minute, then, feeling absolutely ridiculous about the predicament you've gotten yourself in.

Four months ago you were drinking champagne on the fanciest rooftop bars in Brooklyn. You were also more unhappy than you'd ever been.

Meeting Robby has made you feel like yourself for the first time in a very, very long time. And if that's the case, then it can't be that bad, can it?

Your phone buzzes, drawing your attention back to the devilish brick taking up real estate on your counter top.

Robby: My real name is Michael. Last name Robinavitch. Everyone at work calls me Robby. It's easier.

You stare at the words on your screen, tapping your foot anxiously as they settle in. The simplicity of his message is almost laughable, but there's weight to his select words.

He gave you his first and last name, something that feels ridiculously intimate for absolutely no logical reason at all.

As you ponder on how to respond, you come up empty time and time again. Your mind wanders back to that first day, the conversation about his Airbnb.

Before you can consider the possible ethical and moral violations of your actions, you slip your shoes on, grab your keys, and are out the door with your coffee in hand.

You roll up to the familiar, grand cabin with your heart beating a million miles an hour. The adrenaline has finally worn off as you sit in your car, in a deep stare down with the house that you spent most of your childhood in.

You feel so fucking stupid. Why would you even think this was okay? Tears burn your eyes as you scramble for the gear shift, pulling before realizing you hadn't even turned the car back on yet.

Before you can shakily push the button, the door swings open, and you're caught red handed. You freeze, your hands finding a home on the steering wheel, almost in defense in front of you.

He lifts his hand, making a 'come hither' motion with his fingers, and it's embarrassing how immediately you obey.

You swing the door open, stomping across the gravel dirt road to reach the porch. You're breathing hard as you approach him, in his low hanging sweatpants and thin white t-shirt.

And his glasses, oh God, his fucking glasses. It's perfect. He's perfect, you're afraid.

"Your first name is Michael?" You breathe, and he can't help but rear his head back a little.

"Yeah," he huffs, and that, unfortunately, does it for you.

You press your hands on his scruffy cheeks, pressing your lips firmly into his.

He's shocked, at first, going rigid in your arms as you plant one on him.

It doesn't take him long to melt into it, though, gathering his bearings and wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you closer to him, your tits pressing against his chest, the thin fabric of both your pajamas leaving little to the imagination.

He stumbles backward into the house, closing the door behind you and pressing you up against it. You shiver at his initiative, wrapping your arms around his neck and pressing him against you deeper.

He runs his tongue over your lips, and you pout, desperately wanting his own on you again. He awards your impatience with one, two, three sweet kisses. You beam.

Your lips brush together as you smile up at him, eyes sparkling in the early morning light. You see his brows crease, a self-pitying smirk on his lips.

"God, I am so fucked," he rasps, smashing his lips into yours once again.

Your teeth clink at his intensity, and your tongues swirl each others as he palms your sides, going lower until he reaches your ass.

"Is this okay?" He husks, pressing sweet kisses and kitten licks to your ear.

You nod feverishly against him, and he pinches the plush skin of your ass. You squeal, and he gives you a light smack.

"Words, doll," he demands, and you're once again at his beck and call.

"Yes, God, yes, please," you mewl, eyes shining desperately.

"Good girl," he grunts, pressing his forehead against yours.

He hikes up your thin pajama shirt, pressing delicate kisses down your neck. You can't help but throw your head back into the wall, nails scraping the back of his neck.

His palms find your tits, squeezing and rolling your nipples, pinching every now and again. Warmth blooms deep in your lower belly, squeezing your thighs together at his expansive grip.

"Feel good?" He murmurs against your neck, and you nod desperately. "Arms up," he instructs, and you throw them up like a rag doll.

He slides your shirt over your head, marveling at the sight before pulling you to him, wrapping your legs around his waist as he carries you to the guest room.

You cup his cheeks as you move, peppering kisses all along his face. He chuckles, and your heart swells with the sound.

"Stop!" He laughs, "I can't see," he flops you down on the bed, his gaze on you so entirely vulnerable.

"Sucks," you shrug, making yourself comfortable on the memory foam mattress.

He quirks a brow, resting one knee on the bed.

"Oh, so you wanna be bratty about this, huh?" He poses, sliding his knee between your legs.

"It's the only thing I really know how to be," you reply, snippily.

Your breath catches in your throat as he hovers above you, ghosting his lips over your neck.

"Such a fucking tease, Michael," you breathe, wrapping your arms around his neck.

He allows himself to be pulled in by you, and you revel in every second of the close contact. His hands fly to your waistband, tugging on the elastic band. He presses a kiss at the exposed skin there, and you draw in a shaky breath.

"Can I taste you?" He murmurs against your skin, eyes closed as he takes you in.

"Yes, please," you reply, and he presses a kiss to your hip bone.

"Oh my God," he groans, peeling your bottoms off to reveal your glistening center. "You're so beautiful, fuck."

Your heart swells at his praise, nails digging into his scalp as he dives in. He laps at your collecting wetness, running his tongue up to your clit.

You jump when he flicks the tip of his tongue, swirling around your clit in a way that has you preening. You arch your back off the bed, grinding your pussy into his face to absorb any of the friction he was so generously giving you.

The scrape of his beard adds a special sting to the overstimulation, the sensitive skin of your thighs rubbing raw within minutes. It's a delicious sting, one that you can't seem to care much about at the moment.

He plays in your wetness, teasingly dipping his tongue into your hole, just a little. You gasp at his cruelty, tugging his hair ever so slightly. He groans against you, bringing a thumb up to rub your clit.

He coos at your soft whimpers, the pit in your stomach burning hot as he looks up at you, eyes big and brown and desperate.

He delves his tongue into you fully, his thumb never slowing its assault. Your release is quite rapid, waves of fire dancing over your skin as you roll your hips into his face.

He lets you use him to ride it out, rubbing his face and beard against your sensitive skin to help you through it. You dissolve into the pressure, ears ringing as you come down from your high.

Robby wastes no time crawling up your body, pressing his lips against yours immediately. You moan against his mouth at the taste, and he dips his tongue into your mouth.

Your hand finds his length, big and hard and still confined in those damn gray sweatpants.

"Why are you still fully clothed?" You ask, and he can't help but laugh.

He rolls his eyes, sitting back on his heels to lift his shirt off. He goes to lean back over you then, but you put a hand up, stopping him from going any further.

You take a moment to relish in the sight before you, the dark hair peppering his torso, the soft curve of his tummy. He's gorgeous, and you tell him so.

He flushes red at the compliment, moving your hand gently as he dips down to kiss you again.

"Can't remember the last time I've been called that," he murmurs against your cheek, pressing a light kiss there as he kicks off his pants.

He wasn't wearing underwear, and you thank whatever deity is above for the way his cock springs free, bouncing against his tummy.

The tip is red, angry, pre cum pooling at the center. You can't help but lean forward, darting your tongue out and collecting the salty liquid.

He grips your jaw and stops you from going further, earning him a cute little pout.

"I know, sweet girl. Next time," he kisses the pout off your face, and those last two words echo in your mind.

Next time, next time, next time.

"If you get your mouth on me right now, I'm going to cum," he explains, lining himself up at your entrance. "And believe it or not, I'm not in my twenties. Can't just bounce back like I used to."

Your cheeks heat at his words, teeth biting down on your lower lip as he teases your entrance with his tip.

"But don't worry," he mutters, thrusting into you, hips flush with your ass in one fell swoop. "I'm gonna fuck you real good, baby."

The air is knocked from your lungs, a gasp strangling out of your throat as he hikes your legs higher around his waist. He pulls out, only to slam back in harder, a whine falling from your pouty lips.

He leans down to kiss you as he starts to move, a repetitive rhythm that has you squealing into his neck.

You dig your fingers into his back, throwing your head back onto the pillow. He mouths at your neck, desperate grunts falling from his ow lips.

"So fucking beautiful," he murmurs against your neck. You shudder. "You have any idea how good this pussy feels?" He asks, sitting up on his knees to pick up his speed.

You wail, his balls slapping your ass with each thrust. He holds both of your legs up by your ankles. now, resting them on one shoulder as he continues to drive into you.

"God, Michael!" You whine, throwing your forearms over your eyes.

He shudders at this, kissing your ankle and asking you to call him that again.

"Feels so good, Michael," you whimper, a sweet smile on your face now that you know the damage you cause him. "Gonna make me cum."

He groans at this, and it's guttural. Your pussy squeezes down on him extra hard, the spring in your stomach beginning to coil. He kisses your ankle again, your shin, running his tongue along every spare inch of skin he can find.

You're dizzy underneath him, the world hazy as you bring your hands up to his belly, pressing and groping all of him you can.

"Fuck," a strangled groan wrestles its way out of his throat. "Your hands feel so fucking good, baby," he insists, thrusts nearly erratic. "You like feelin' me? Like how soft I am for you? Even when I'm fucking you like a slut?"

His words spark inside you, exploding like tiny fireworks. You feel your wetness pooling on the bed below, only growing messier at his words. He coos as he feels you gush around him.

"So perfect for me," he whispers, and you nod, taking a fistful of his tummy in each hand. "Love it when you fucking feel me up."

"I love your body, Michael," you tell him, eyes hazy and glossed over. "You're so gorgeous," you repeat your words from earlier, and he shudders above you.

"Pretty girl," he moans, his thrusts growing sloppy. "Want you to cum for me, make me the luckiest guy in the world, yeah?"

That does it, your Earth no longer spinning on its axis as your second orgasm hits you. It's like a freight train, rough and brutal and perfect. His own is soon to follow, his hips pressing flush against your ass as he empties himself inside you.

"Michael," you whine, teary eyes finding his darkened ones.

They soften at your plea for him, maneuvering your legs into a more comfortable position before pulling out. You whine at the loss of him, and he lightly taps your inner thigh.

"I know, sweet girl," he says, getting up from the bed. "You stay there 'n look pretty, hm?" He runs a large hand over your hair as he settles you into the bed. "I'm gonna get you a towel, m'kay?"

You nod wordlessly as you watch him go, selfishly committing his ass to memory.

You watch him nearly melt when he comes back, his reaction to you just…laying in his bed an immediate ego boost. Your heart swells as he gets his hands on you again, gently patting your core dry.

He then squirts some lotion in his hands, rubbing them gently into your raw inner thighs. You hiss at the sting, and he presses a sweet kiss to your lips, shushing you gently.

Once he's done a thorough clean up, he crawls in next to you, taking you in his arms and pulling you flush against him. You whimper, your lower half still sensitive as it pulses around nothing, the feeling of just being close to him so exciting.

He reaches down to pinch your ass, a light chuckle and a "be good," leaving his lips. He kisses you when you nod, muttering something about the best girl in the world.

Your lids grow heavy, and he jostles you slightly before you can fully give in.

"Hey," he starts, licking his swollen lips. "We're gonna talk about those messages when you wake up again, hm?"

Embarrassment floods you again, and you bury yourself into him. He shushes you sweetly, rubbing his hand along your back and pressing a kiss to your head.

"It's okay, it's okay," he validates, and you snuggle into him. "You're okay. I'm not mad, or weirded out or anything. I like you, and I want to talk about this, just not when you're this sleepy," he murmurs against your skin, and you nod desperately.

He clutches a hand on the back of your head, holding you flush to him as you drift to sleep.