Cielo

Using your tablet had been a more recent development. Andrew was shy to use your things, that timidness and sense of obtruding never fully leaving him the way you hoped it would after so long together. It started one night when you were watching tv, splayed out on the sofa while Andrew showered. You had chosen one of your favorite sitcoms, choosing an episode at random and letting it play while you buried your head into one of the throw pillows, listening to the show more than watching. It was comforting, hitting the familiar beats you knew so well after rewatching it so many times without taking any more of your mental energy. It gave just enough noise to fill the quiet, not overwhelming you, but giving you something to laugh about when you did bother to pay attention. 

You lifted your head from the pillow when you heard Andrew’s footsteps, leaving a crater in the soft fabric that you would be sure to return to. 

“Whatcha watching?” He didn’t look at you, level eyes fixed on the tv as a laugh track played. His stoic expression and dark shirt and sweatpants, the collar pitched even darker as drops of water fell from his damp curls, made him stand out even more harshly against the overly animated characters on screen. 

You sat up slightly, making room for him on the couch beside you as he came closer. 

“An old sitcom. Probably not something you’d like.”

He lowered himself down next to you, sitting as far back as the cushions would allow, until his straight spine pressed against the backing. He didn’t say anything when you shifted closer, hugging his arm to your chest and resting your head on his shoulder. You could hear the quiet drips of the water as they landed on his clothed back. 

“I can change it if you want,” you offered, glancing up at him as much as the angle allowed.

Andrew frowned. He was thinking, eyes still glued to the tv, as if trying to puzzle out what made it so appealing. After a moment, he shook his head, head dipping to glance down at you.

“No,” he said simply. “You like it.”

A small smile pulled at your lips. “Well, yeah,” you agreed. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.” He only looked at you with those big brown eyes you’d come to love, his jaw flexing as he thought.

“You know, there’s another option,” you offered, reluctantly sitting up and releasing his arm, your heart warming at the small frown that tugged at his lips at your absence. “I could watch this, and you could watch something you like, like a documentary. I saw one on Netflix the other day I don’t think you’ve seen yet,” you tempted. “It’s all about squids and the way they think, and how they can get out of all kinds of situations. I added it to my list so I wouldn’t forget to show you.”

Andrew frowned, but you could see the way his eyes widened ever so slightly. He was interested. 

“There’s only one screen,” he said, confusion drawing his voice out lower. He gestured to the tv, as if you had forgotten the set up of your own living room. You had to bite back a smile, knowing there was another tv in the bedroom, but that he didn’t even consider it an option without you by his side.

“You’re right,” you conceded, standing up to walk behind the couch, crossing the room to where your bag hung from a hook in the hallway. “And yet you’re also wrong.” You pulled your tablet out of your bag, unzipping a smaller pocket and feeling around blindly until your hand closed on the small case that held your wireless earbuds. You held it in a closed fist as you walked back to the living room.

You held the tablet out triumphantly to show Andrew when you plopped back down next to him on the couch, leaning against his chest as you beamed up at him. 

“Behold,” you announced, “another screen. And-” you opened your closed hand, showing him the small bag you’d brought him. “Look at that, fresh ear pieces, just for you!” You were unable to stop the proud grin that took over your face. “Entirely unused, and kept in protective packaging. Ergo, or should I say ear-go, ha,” he rolled his eyes at your bad joke, not even trying to hide his small smile, “no germs!”

His brows furrowed as he looked down at the little baggie of ear pieces, turning them over in his broad hands like he expected them to disappear. 

“Why do you have these?” he asked.

You shrugged, leaning forward to press a kiss to his shoulder before resting your cheek on it. 

“For you. Figured you might want to use my earbuds someday, and I don’t want you stressing out about germs when you’re here. Not when I can help.”

He swallowed thickly, Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. His hand closed around the little baggie, his other dragging up your thigh where it rested halfway on his lap, giving it an appreciative squeeze.

“Thank you,” he said, quiet and low, the words wavering slightly.

His breathing stuttered a bit more when your hands found the nape of his neck, nails dragging soothingly through the wet curls. 

“Of course. Anything for you, Andy.”

All of that led you to today. Andrew was having trouble sleeping. Story of his life. Usually, it was easier when he slept over, finding the warmth of you pressed against him and the weight of your body enough to ground him in reality and push away the thoughts that plagued him both in sleep and wakefulness. But tonight, not even that was enough. He might have left the bedroom to pace or settle in front of the tv and listen to the calm drone of a nature documentary had you not looked so peaceful beside him, stretched out further onto his side of the bed than usual in your search for him. He couldn’t stomach the idea of leaving. 

He was relieved when an idea clicked in his head.

He peeled back the covers as smoothly as he could, careful not to expose your sleeping form to cool night air. He moved quietly out of the bedroom and down the hall to where you kept your bag, removing your tablet and earbuds, making sure to also grab the small canvas pouch with an embellished A embroidered on it that you’d made once he’d started using your earbuds more regularly. He’d thought it was ridiculous that you carried an extra little pouch in your bag just so he could steal your earbuds, but he would never complain, especially after he saw how happy it made you. He crept back to bed and slipped in beside you, making sure to tip the screen of the tablet away from you as he opened its case.

The screen leaped to life, and he blinked rapidly at the sudden brightness, wishing he could curse without risking waking you. He repeated the action you’d shown him once when he was frustrated that he couldn’t see things well on the screen, successfully lowering the brightness to a more reasonable level before moving to unlock it. He felt satisfied with himself for thinking of such a plan, and knew you’d love finding out that he turned to you, even by extension of your belongings, to find comfort in the night. After he’d entered your passcode, the screen unlocked to a webpage. 

The air stilled in his lungs when he skimmed the text scrawled across the screen.

You may be hurt by your loved one’s distance and moodiness or struggling to understand their behavior—why they are less affectionate and more volatile. You may feel like you’re walking on eggshells or living with a stranger. 

He blinked, hard, and read it again. When the letters didn’t rearrange themselves into something more palatable he brought his finger to the screen, scrolling to the top of the page as quickly as the device would allow. 

How to Help Someone with PTSD

His heart dropped. An article. One from a medical journal no less.

His eyes slid over to where you slept, one of your hands now tangled in the fabric of his pillow case. You’d picked out these bedsheets together, insistent that you wanted something that felt good for him too, even if he didn’t officially live with you.

Your comfort is still important too, you’d teased him, tossing a fabric sample at him in the middle of the department store. 

How long had this been going on? How long had you been researching, dissecting him without him knowing? His hands clenched, and he was aware that he was sitting much straighter now, any drowsiness he had once clung to long gone from his tired body.

You knew something was wrong as soon as you’d woken up. Your hand had stretched out before your eyes had even opened, unconsciously searching for Andrew. Only when your hand found cool linen in his place did you peel your eyes open, squinting in the morning light coming through your sheer curtains. Andrew was right. Blackout would have been the more practical choice, but you loved the morning light when it shone in, catching the red undertones of Andrew’s hair as it darkened with age.

You looked around, half expecting to see him in the adjoined bathroom, already brushing his teeth, or getting dressed to go meet his family. It wasn’t uncommon for him to have to leave early in the morning, and you tried not to take it personally, but something felt off. His spot in bed was cold, the covers thrown off instead of neatly pulled back up like he’d tried to make the bed as well as he could without waking you. 

“Andy?” you called hoarsely, suddenly feeling a bit worried. 

“I’m here.” His voice carried through the cracked bedroom door. “I’m in the kitchen. Didn’t want to wake you.”

He didn’t turn to face you when you padded out to join him. Normally he would at least glance over at you, his usually carefully guarded mask slipping for just a moment at the sight of you in your pajamas, still rubbing sleep from your eyes as you wrapped your arms around him, letting his nose dip into your hair as you nuzzled against his chest. 

This morning was none of that. He faced the wall, waiting for the toaster to go off, not even glancing over his shoulder at you. He was more rigid than usual, the muscles in his broad shoulders tense and his arms crossed over his chest, scowling down at the poor toaster as if it was its fault his life had gone this way. 

You didn’t know what had changed since last night, but you didn’t want to push your luck first thing in the morning. The last thing he needed was to clam up and storm out, clamping the lid down on his feelings like he used to do when he first realized you noticed more than you let on.

“Good morning, handsome.” You walked closer, waiting until he hummed his acknowledgement before sliding up next to him. You’d learned a long time ago it was wisest to let him see you before touching him, especially when he was this deep in his head. His eyes flashed with something unreadable when your hand came to rest on his shoulder, his muscles trembling as if they didn’t know whether to relax or run under the warmth of your palm. 

“What’s wrong, Andy?” You keep your voice soft, concern showing plainly on your face as you peer up at him. “You’re looking at the toaster like it owes you money. What happened?”

His jaw works, and his grip on the edge of the counter tightens, fingers flexing impatiently as he thinks. 

“I found your tablet,” he mutters after a few seconds. His eyes are still locked down, smoldering so hot they might cook his bread faster than the machine could. Your head tips to the side in confusion, and only then does he look at you.

“How to help someone with PTSD?” He says it like a threat, anger and disbelief bleeding through his words as he looms over you. “How long? How long have you been reading that shit, researching me like I’m some wild animal you don’t know how to be around?” His voice cracks at the end, and he turns, teary eyes fixed back on the counter, fighting to maintain even an ounce of composure.

It clicks then, what he’s talking about. You’d been doing some reading, noticing that he seemed to fall asleep easier when there was white noise playing in the background. A friend had casually mentioned that it helped her after she’d survived a violent ordeal, something about the one noise being easier to focus on than all the little noises that she was always worrying might be signs of danger. You’d used it as a jumping off point, seeing if there was anything else small that might help the man you loved so you could keep it on hand and accessible to him. God knew he had a hard enough time asking for things that he wanted, and even then, half the time he didn’t know what he wanted.

You scolded yourself for being so careless. You knew Andrew had blanket permission to use your things, and you’d even encouraged it, finding it comforting to see him do something as domestic as using your phone to look up something. 

“Honey, I can explain-” you began, before being cut off.

“Are you scared of me?” His voice broke, and he couldn’t meet your eye. “Is that why you were looking at those things? Trying to find ways to calm me down, to make me less crazy?” Memories flashed before your eyes. Conversations you’d had, slowly revealing some of what his home life had been like before his mother died. Crushed pills hidden in his food, his brothers telling him to knock it off and be less intense, that he scared everyone away.

“No, of course I’m not!” you insisted. “I love you, I could never be scared of you.” 

He scoffed at that, eyes smoldering as he shook his head. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be.” He swallowed painfully, the first of his tears following as his anger subsided. “And clearly you are or you wouldn’t be looking at those things. You’re scared, and you want out. You don’t want this,” he gestured towards himself, the anger in his voice breaking your heart in two. “It’s too much, I’m too much, and you needed a reason to leave.”

You were shocked enough to struggle to find words. Andrew had had his bad days, where he went right back to the dark place that he had spent so much of his life in, but he had been doing better. Slowly, he had learned to trust you. He’d had his backslides, like early in your relationship when you were sick with the flu and hadn’t responded to his messages for a day and a half and he’d assumed you were either in danger or wanting nothing to do with him. It had been a long time since his insecurities had flared up so fiercely though, and you were worried.

“What? No, that’s-that’s not what I was doing,” you protested, but it was too late. He was already gone, pulled under the tidal wave of guilt and self-hatred that lingered within him, slowly festering under the surface until it reared its ugly head again. Of course you had to read up about him like he was some case study. Of course you didn’t know how to act around him. He was a weirdo, just like everybody said, how they’d always said, ever since he was little. “Andrew, I promise that’s not what that was.” You pleaded with him, desperate for him to look at you, to do anything but glare down at the counter as his shoulders slowly caved in on themselves, his chest heaving as his breaths came faster. “Darling, I-I just didn’t want to make anything worse for you. I was just fact checking myself, and then I got interested in what I was reading, and I was wondering if there was anything I could do to help you, or anything that I was doing wrong.”

When Andrew spoke, his voice came out barely above a whisper, and the crack in his voice made your chest clench painfully.

“You wanted to fix me.”

“No.” You said it firmly, heart aching again when he lifted his head to look at you. His brow was furrowed, beautiful hazel eyes red as tears trickled down his cheeks. You bit down on your tongue not to let out a whimper at the sight. It took so much for him to crumble, years and years of walls he’d built up to protect himself all coming down around him in an instant.

“Andy, I don’t want to fix you,” you said, speaking as firmly as you could. You cupped his cheek with one hand, your thumb wiping away tears and your heart shattering even more at how he leaned into your hand, one of his own coming up to hold your wrist, as if he was scared you might disappear. “I don’t want to fix you because you’re not broken. You’re beautiful and wonderful and amazing, and yes, you have your troubles and things from your past you still struggle with, but who doesn’t? You went through hell, actually you grew up in it, but you came out the other end still caring and funny and good. You’re not broken because of what happened to you. You’re just hurt, and I’m so so sorry you’re hurting. That’s why I was looking at those things.” You sigh, so annoyed at yourself for causing this situation. You knew how he felt about therapy, how his hackles went up at the mere mention of it. Why wouldn’t they? Every time he’d ever spoken to someone about his mental health, they’d made him feel like a freak, or taken him away from the only home he’d ever known. 

“You don’t think I’m broken?” His weak voice shook, but his chest wasn’t heaving anymore and his tears had slowed to a trickle. “Even after everything that I’ve done?” His face fell, brow furrowing as he forced his words out. “All the people I’ve hurt. Some of them were innocent.”

You cut him off before he could continue down the slippery path back to the depths of shame that still lived in his mind. 

“You don’t do those things anymore,” you reminded him, keeping your voice gentle but firm. You trailed the fingers of your free hand through his hair, letting your nail gently drag down his scalp the way he once quietly admitted he found soothing. He needed to focus on where he was and ground himself in reality before the voices in his head swallowed him whole.

“You don’t hurt people anymore, love. You left that behind and you’ve been good, so so good. You help people now. You provide a place for kids to go with your skate park. You bring them food and look out for them even though no one asked you to. You help me in a million ways, and you’re always there for your brothers, even when they’re being idiots and causing their own problems.”

He exhaled at that, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make you smile.

“You mean Craig,” he said roughly.

Your smile widened. “I mean all of them,” you teased, “but Craig is certainly top of the list.” You wiped away the last of the tears from his face before slowly letting your hands slide down his chest and around his waist, pulling him in for a strong hug. His head dropped to your shoulder, his wet face buried into your neck. 

“I’m sorry the world made you feel broken,” you murmured against his shoulder, rubbing his back. You weren’t sure he could even hear you at first, but the warm breath fanning against your shoulder hitched and you knew he did. “And I’m sorry for letting you think even for a moment that you were anything other than the best man I know. I just wanted to make sure I was helping you as much as I could. I don’t want to let you down.”

Andrew’s grip around your shoulders tightened for a moment before loosening as he stood back up to his full height.

“You don’t.”

His words were simple, but the weight of them weren’t lost on you. How could they be when he looked at you like that, all softness and warmth. That kind of vulnerability didn’t come easily to him, and you would be damned if you didn’t treasure it every time he pulled back his armor to let you see him. 

He pulled you back to him without another word, pressing a slow kiss to your temple before tucking you back under his chin, just needing to hold you and know that this wasn’t what his mind had made it out to be. You weren’t going anywhere, not without him. And just in case he needed to hear it, you said it aloud.

“I love you, Andrew.” You could say it a hundred times a day and mean it fully. “And I always will. Because you’re the best part of me. You’re my whole heart.”

You could hear his sharp intake of breath, feel his chest press even more firmly against you as it rose with a slight tremor. It never failed to make him emotional to hear you say those words. 

His hand combed through your hair, his thumb sweeping gently over your cheek.

“I love you too.”

You both jolted as the toaster popped. You laughed when you realized what had happened, but Andrew only scowled at the machine over your head.

“Guess it had enough of our theatrics,” you joked.

“It’s burned.”

You shrugged, starting to pull away. “I’ll make you more.” His grip on you tightened, pulling you securely back against his chest.

“No. You’re staying here. And I’m buying you a new toaster. This one’s a fire hazard.”

Robby is watching you from Trauma One.

His sweetest kept secret.

For some reason, you have managed to bypass the seven-week itch and Robby thinks it’s down to being younger than him by a margin; meaning you often ran circles around him. 

From his obstructed view, he can occasionally capture you stretching above the line of the monitor like a docile cat. Before you reduce yourself to a bad posture again, Robby notices that soft fatigue that glazes over your watery eyes when you yawn. A sleepy look that—since the big shift in your non-labelled situation—he can recognise. 

Because you’ve started staying the night.  

Dr. Mohan is leading a hilar flip when he asks her, “You got this?” in which she gives him a strained smile alongside a curt nod; the tension still taught between them. 

He backs out of Trauma One and takes a leisurely stroll up behind you. You’ve dozed off somewhere in between him habitually sanitizing his hands and pulling a singular latex glove from a box nearby. He spares you a moment, so he can read the long waiting list of patients allocated to rooms across the department. 

Snap! 

You jolt awake from the feeling of thin rubber striking the back of your neck. You peel your eyes open to see Robby bending at the waist to look at you warmly. 

“Hello,” he says sweetly, his smile reaching his eyes, “Good sleep?” 

“I’ve had better,” you grumble and rub at your eyes, “I was just catching up on my long overdue notes like you asked me to do.”

Robby hums, “It looked like it too,” he chirps sarcastically and takes a deep inhale as he speaks again, “Save the charting for later. I’ve got a patient with GERD that has your name written all over it. Easy case to wake up to.”  

You emphasise your lack of enthusiasm as you stand, “You just told me to catch up on my charting.” it comes out as a whine. 

“Yes, I did. Then you started dozing off at the workstation, so now, I’m telling you to follow me so we can get this patient discharged and free up a bed,” Robby lilts as you catch up with his pace, his eyes on every corner of the PTMC. 

“If I have to redo my third-year of residency because of your indecisiveness on where to put me, Dr. Robby, I will be filing a report against you,” you grumble in discontent. 

Robby huffs a laugh. “Ho-ho. I’ll be sure to send you flowers.” 

“No you won’t.” 

“No, I won’t. Not for that anyway.” Robby advises you casually, he spares you a glance over his shoulder with a crooked smile on his face, “Because you won’t have to redo your third-year.”

The easy banter between the two of you makes your stomach burn with giddiness. 

You liked how things were going with Robby. Under the radar, no strings attached. Though, somehow, you both seemed to be getting a little tangled in your…well, entanglement. 

It was proving to be difficult to not have the boundaries blend into a real thing with all the bells and whistles of emotional feelings attached. The initial intentions were simply just for sexual pleasure—and then you started getting pleasure by just co-existing.

It was messy. But it was your kind of messy. 

McKay catches up to you, bumping your shoulder with hers, “How’s it going? I haven’t seen you all morning.” 

“About to give a patient a shot of Mylanta for his GERD,” you respond quietly, “Dr. Robby caught me sleeping.”

“Yikes.” she cringes, “Well, he’ll keep you right.” 

He has been for the better half of the year, in more ways than you know. Is how you want to respond to Cassie’s innocent statement. You settle for the latter of a hopeful smile and shrug of your shoulders. 

The three of you come to a slow halt in front of the patient bay Robby had selected for you off of the board. 

You peer into the window of the room. 

A bucket of ice cold water dumps over you.

“I can’t take this case on,” you blurt in a panic, which in turn has Robby and McKay’s head cock to the side, because what do you mean you’re rejecting a case as a R3. You shake your head, “No, seriously. It sounds stupid, but I matched with that guy on Tinder, and…it didn’t end on good terms.” 

It was true. The male sitting upright on the gurney, in a hospital gown one size too big for him, was currently under the status of blocked on your phone. 

Things had been going well within the app at the time, you matched, connected over menial interests and then took the conversation to text message. You must’ve missed the lesson in life that made the translation of app messaging to text messaging the equivalent to a hard launch into a relationship with a guy you had never met face-to-face. 

Because—and what a story to weave into a one truth and two lies game it had come to be—whilst you were elbow deep in a wide array of traumas that wheeled through the doors of the PTMC, this guy had left exactly 54 text messages, 32 missed calls and 1 beautifully arranged voicemail that poetically told you that you fumbled the catch of the century. 

(Fish were slippery for a reason, right?)

Even with the slight malicious tone blurred between his words, you still kept the voicemail; because it was deeply comforting to play to your co-worker Dennis Whitaker at 4PM after his patient had just coded. 

McKay dips her head to speak lowly to you. “You mean he’s the guy?” 

“What…guy?” Robby’s question is lost to the wind when you squeal out confirmation to McKay that the patient was in fact, the guy. 

He watches the exchange between you and McKay like a third party stuck behind a noise cancelling window. Somewhere amongst the back and forth with hints of worry and mild amusement, Robby starts to feel left out from the bigger picture. 

Tinder. Voicemail. Blocked, is all he took away from this. So…he frowns and crosses his arms across his chest.

“Wow. In the flesh…I’ll swap you for Central 8,” McKay barters, “Utensil through the nose.” 

“Can someone tell me what’s going on here?” Robby cuts through with his hands up, “You have history with this guy?” he thumbs to the door of South 15.

You nod, “Not so much a history, more a brief encounter that’s funny to talk about over drinks.” 

“Yeah. Well, we—” he gestures between you “—aren’t having drinks.” Robby supposes there’s some sort of streak of jealousy going on in his voice, “Can you catch me up to speed? This guy needs a shot.” 

You launch into a shortened version of the story of how this man came to gain such a notoriety that extended all the way into the pit of the PTMC and used for comedy relief after patient coding. Robby, for all intents and purposes, is trying his best to keep a neutral, maybe slightly concerned facial expression as you gesticulate through a brief recap of how you and this guy came to be.

It’s poorly timed the way the envy flares in his chest. He cranes his neck to take a look at the patient again, brows in a pinch because seriously? You had been setting up a potential, future relationship with that? 

Then you casually drop into the conversation that the male had informed you that someone like you, served no purpose for a man with such a catalogue of aptitudes. (He works in finance.) 

And Michael Robinavitch doesn’t like that.

“So, that’s your type?” Robby physically cannot help himself. It’s like he’s purposely being conspicuous. 

You hesitate in surprise, “Obviously not? I don’t really have a type, per se.” (You do. He’s staring right at you.) “I mean, this was all before…” 

“Before?” Robby goads, shifting from one foot to the other, he sinks his hands into his fleece pockets, pulling at the lint gathered there as the words get stuck in your throat. “Alright. I’ll take the case. In the meantime, you can go back to catching up on your notes. I’ll come find you afterwards.” 

“Dr. Robby, I’m happy to swap cases with her—” 

“I’ve got it.” Robby cuts McKay off with a curt nod and polite smile—something she isn’t buying. 

McKay surrenders, but not without flitting her eyes between the pair of you. If there was anyone that could read signs a mile off, Cassie McKay was the woman for that. 

Thankfully, she doesn’t press on the matter as she breaks away from the group. 

“Discreet, Dr. Robby,” you murmur. 

Robby pulls a face that is ridiculously handsome and borderline cocky, “I’ve got this. Charting. Go.” 

Robby finds you at a different workstation much later on. More awake, a few more cases under your belt, but still wearing a notable level of bleariness. He provided the shot of Mylanta to your ‘what could’ve been’ and spent half of his time between other patients, rendering to the insecurities of the probability that he was the oldest male you have ever been with. 

He mulls over his words until he finds a way to express this to you. 

“So…Tinder?” 

“Nope.” you look up at him, “Offloaded the app.”

“Hm.” Robby nods with a frown and then decides to put some feelers out there, “Do…you think I have a predisposition to geriatric behaviours?” 

Your fingers halt on the keyboard. The patient notes on the monitor are forgone for an easier distraction. The expression of perplexity is hard to squash when your brows pinch at the question that has seemingly been plucked from the thin air of the PTMC. 

Robby stands at full height over the central workstation. Brown eyes shimmering beneath the clinical lighting, there was an ease in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before and the look of innocent curiosity blended nicely amongst his weathered features. 

His long fingers tap idly at the surface top. 

You hesitate, and then point a finger to your chest, “Are you asking me?” 

“Well—” Robby exhales through his nose as he leans against the workstation, his forehead creasing as he peers over the rim of his glasses at you. “—I’d like to think you could give me some biassed insight.” 

He tosses a lopsided smile in your direction, and you harness some restraint to ensure that from an outsiders perspective that this was an ordinary conversation between the Chief Attending and a third year resident. When you poke your tongue into the flesh of your cheek to prevent a broad smile spreading across your features, that is when Robby mirrors the amusement filled to the brim in your eyes. 

Workplace relationships came with hardships. 

It was becoming evident that having a loosely labelled ‘relationship’ with Michael Robinavitch, the long-time bachelor of the PTMC, was a whole different ballgame altogether. 

It was a long-standing commitment, the act of secret keeping that is. An oath to keep things under wraps, whilst also balancing the navigation on what to do when the leak eventually becomes noticeable—all whilst surviving a twelve hour shift on a protein bar and a prayer. It meant that you were met with hurdles like: how morally grey is it really to sleep with your boss, who could also provide you with a gleaming recommendation at the end of your residency? 

The answer fell somewhere in the ‘power imbalances’ category in the tedious employee handbook. 

(Luckily for you, you only skimmed the surface on the hierarchical structures chapter.) 

It also meant that Robby would often approach you throughout the day with a bucketful of insecurities to unload in a feeble attempt to salvage the dignity that he lost on the way. Unfortunately—he thinks, for you anyway—his keen interest to receive intermittent reassurance from you that the gap in your ages was justifiable, through the form of abnormal questions that dogpiled onto your already stressful day; was his way of seeing the world through your eyes.

It was sort of…pendatically romantic. 

You begin to type your notes again, “Did Javadi school you again?” 

“No…” Robby frowns at the thought, “Just extending some morbid curiosity.” he leans one arm against the workstation and scans the rooms closest within his vicinity. “And, you can put an end to my suffering right about now—”

“You act your age.”

Robby slowly edges his attention to you. 

“Act my age?” 

You let out an airy laugh, “That’s a good thing. It means you didn’t peak in your formative years. Or the years following that.” 

“Huh.” Robby clicks his tongue as he straightens up, shaking a finger in your direction whilst he reads off the board, “Pinning this for later. I did not like the way you worded that.” 

“You got it, boss.” you track his movements as he rounds the workstation to depart it. 

Robby lets out a cackle from the back of his throat as he leaves, angling his body with his hands up to allow space for Trinity Santos to stroll past him. She occupies the vicinity in his immediate absence, her jaw slack as she stares over her shoulder at the humoured physician disappearing into the south-end of the department. 

As she idles up to the workstation, her brunette hair swishes around when she turns her attention to you. 

“What did Dr. Goofy want?” she asks plainly. 

“Dr. Goofy?” you repeat, unable to prevent your face from cracking with mirth. 

Santos shrugs, “Yeah. He’s been…like super chill recently. He seems happier? I don’t know. There’s an underground betting pool going on about the source of Dr. Robby’s joy.” 

“Really?” you brighten at the thought, “Have you put money on something?” 

“He’s getting laid,” Santos admits, her eyes narrow whilst she looks around, lowering her voice at the same time, “I just…don’t know who. I mean it has to be someone in the PTMC, right? I like to think he’s like a caged animal—the hospital and his apartment are the only two roaming spaces for the guy.” 

You hum, locking the computer. “Or he’s going to therapy?” (You knew that wasn’t true. Just throwing Santos off her scent.) 

“Yeah,” she scoffs, “Like the rest of us are.” 

“True.” you stand and stretch your spine until there’s a soft crack. The clock above ticks just over the next hour, “I’m going to spin round the perimeter and grab a coffee.” 

Trinity saddles up into the desk chair you had resided in for the last fifteen minutes and gives you a two-finger salute as you walk away. 

There’s a release of breath that escapes you once you turn down the corridor toward the coffee station besides Pedes. The news breaking that Robby’s sudden one-eighty into an optimistic nature following some questionable behaviours for a male edging into his fifties, was being highlighted amongst the gamblers of the Pitt; and that was enough to have your pulse quicken. 

It wouldn’t be such a crime to be unearthed by your co-workers. At some point, honesty would be the best policy and you weren’t so sure that the on-call rendezvous would go under the radar for much longer. However, it would feel similar to a humiliation ritual if your situation were to be exposed through sticky notes on the whiteboard in the staff room and a lump sum at the end of it. 

When you think about it, you take the mental note to take a leisurely stroll toward the dispatch room to try sneak a glance at the betting pool exclusionary toward one Chief Attending. 

The slop of coffee sputters into the white styrofoam cup with you patiently waiting with a yawn to encapsulate the low energy levels from spending the night at Robby’s, that had finally caught up to you mid-shift. You slow blink as the liquid fills to the brim of the cup, adding your preferences to the sorry excuse of a caffeine hit. 

You press the lid around the rim until it gives a soft pop. 

By some hideous trick of unfortunate timings and coincidental placement, when you bring the steaming hot coffee to your lips, Robby zooms into your periphery and swipes it out of your hand in hurried passing. He plants it at the coffee station as he ushers you with urgency with a hand to your back. 

The touch would have sent your stomach swirling—especially if it had been hours since the last—if it weren’t for your open mourning over the loss of caffeine searing your taste buds. 

You let out a longing whine, “My coffee.” 

“Will be reheated. By me, personally.” he swings the door from North into Central and manoeuvres you toward the South bays. “Right now, we need you in 15 with an AFib cardioversion.” 

“We?” you repeat, “Am I the guest of honour for this cardiovert?” 

Robby backs into the door of 15 with his hands already slathered in sanitiser. He tilts his chin, exuding healthy amounts of cockiness. “This is a teaching hospital, regardless of a more senior role. Let me teach you,” he croons. 

You chew back a snarky remark about Robby getting a new hobby instead of ‘peacocking’ around you for some telepathic praise. Instead, you find yourself opposite Robby as he snaps the latex gloves up to his wrists and observes the patient whilst Mel, beside you, presents the case to him. 

The patient is within your age range. Sort of handsome if you thought about it for too long. He looks up at you, his eyes glazed in awe. It was as if the white lighting overhead had created a halo effect around your head and he was witnessing the presence of an angel in real time. 

He gives you a lovesick, dopey smile. (You get that a lot.) 

Which, considering his circumstances, was a good sign in the grand scheme of things. 

“They hire from heaven or somethin’?” his question is met with a blanket of silence. His chest rises and falls at an unsteady pace—part of you wonders if it’s his condition or if it’s down to the fact that he is quite taken with you. 

Mel glances between the pair of you as she preps the propofol. 

The monitor beeps behind Robby, who silently tilts his head to see how you approach the compliment.

“Oh.” your eyes drift to Robby who scrunches one eye shut, his lips pressing into a thin line as you hesitate. You give an airy chuckle, “Delivered especially for you, Mr…” you look to Mel who mouths the patient’s surname, “King—Quinn.”

Robby glares at you, each wrinkle in his forehead lined with judgement that makes your skin prickle. “Mel, what is the safe window for cardioversion?” 

“Uh, twelve hours.” 

Brown eyes find you again. “What happens after that?” 

“Increased risk of embolic stroke from left atrial blood clot,” you say, eyes following Robby’s direction to the monitor as he encourages you to continue the diagnosis, “…Which he doesn’t have.” 

“Good,” he mutters softly. (You give him a warning glance to end the praise there.) 

Mr. Quinn is in an immediate state of sedation with a successful cardioversion that sends him into a sinus rhythm that will need a few hours of monitoring. Something you don’t jump at the chance to do to lessen the work load that was quickly piling up on your shoulders. 

You exit the room with Robby in tow. 

He walks a few paces behind you, head on a swivel whilst he takes a headcount of fresh faced med-students roaming around the department. Once you’re out of earshot from nearby gossips—Princess and Perlah—Robby bends slightly to talk into your ear. 

“I think you should give patients similar to your age, a wide-birth.” his tone is playful in its emphasis at the very least. 

You tut, “Why encourage patient negligence? I’m clearly a crowd favourite.” 

“Tell that to the grey hairs you give me.” Robby pinches your wrist as he takes over you, heading in the direction of Pedes. Presumably to the coffee station, where your abandoned coffee remains—you hope anyway. “Reheated coffee coming right up. I’ll come find you.” 

“You seem to be doing that a lot today,” you call back to him. He doesn’t respond. 

You decide to double back toward dispatch, to cash in the mental note of placing a bet on the secret betting pool on Robby’s newfound happiness. As always, you find Ahmad standing at the door with his thumbs tucked into his belt loops whilst he scopes his surroundings. 

He looks bored. So, you give him something to be excited about. 

“Do my ears deceive me, or is there some exclusionary betting pool going on that I wasn’t aware about, Ahmad?” you sing as you approach him. 

Ahmad instantly brightens, “Maybe.”

“What have the wagers been so far?” 

“$40 on new motorcycle, $20 on a pay rise, another $20 on pussycat.” Ahmad glances at you with a knowing smirk, “Santos submitted that one.”

“Go figure,” you mumble.

“Are you in, doc?” 

You nod and reach into your scrub pocket, “Sure, why not. I’ll put…$20 on a mid-life crisis.” 

Ahmad smothers his laughter behind his fist. “That’s heartless. Alright. $20 on mid-life crisis.” he takes the bills from your grasp, “You’re lucky he ain’t part of this bet. That recommendation you need after your residency? Dust, if Robby knew.”

“It can be our little secret until then.” you tap at your nose. 

“What can?”

The timing of Michael Robinavitch was impeccably vexing. As the eyes and ears of the ED, most of you began to fear that he was presenting evidence of omnipresence. He appears, he soaks up the happenings, and then he dissolves into the chaos. 

If you wanted to be the one to water the reasoning down, it would be the fact that Robby was slowly becoming the South Pole magnet to your North Pole magnet and you just happened to create such a forceful magnetic field across the department, that it was near impossible to not drag himself toward you when he got the chance. 

He’d just call it grabbing you a well-earned coffee. 

You don’t bat an eyelid as you speak.

“That would defeat the purpose of secrets, Dr. Robinavitch.” you take the coffee from his grasp, fingers intentionally overlapping, you don’t flinch when you feel the card that had been conveniently placed on the underside of the cup—your fingers curling to conceal it from Ahmad’s view. 

Robby steps back and gives you a subtle nod. 

On-call room. Fifteen minutes. 

Ahmad holds his hands up in surrender, “I’m out on this one.” 

He manoeuvres himself out of the situation with ease, leaving Robby and you exactly where you wanted to be. Out of earshot and each other’s company. 

You take a sip of your coffee, kissing your teeth at the bitterness. “You need to be a little more subtle.” 

“That…is what the on-call room card is for.” 

The next thing you knew, you were slipping into the on-call room five minutes after Robby. He meets you in the middle of the room with a face melting into unfiltered fondness, tugging you in by the crook of your elbow, his fingers featherlight against your arm as he envelops you into a warm embrace. 

This was one of the very few places where CCTV couldn’t capture grainy footage of your bond. So, you soak it up when you can. 

With your ear against his chest, you can hear the low rumble he lets out from being content where he is. You tilt your chin upward and he’s quick to catch your lips in a chaste kiss—greedily taking a second.

Being deprived of affection all day, you relish in his undivided attention. 

Robby is staring deeply into your eyes, swaying you both. He decides to take a leap of faith, “Stay tonight?” 

“Two nights in a row?”

“Yes…” Robby grumbles in a warning. 

A smile creeps onto your face. “I think this could be a healthier habit for you to adopt. No reason for me to say no.” 

Crows-feet prominent, Robby smiles and dips to kiss you again. You pull away and begin to pick at the bobbling on the fleece he wears. He keeps you in the warmth of his arms, tucking his chin to watch you busy yourself. 

After a couple of seconds, he brings up a relevant topic of discussion. 

“You want to tell me what that was about with Ahmad?” he coos.  

You give him an innocent expression, “No idea what you’re talking about. We were just having a discussion.” 

“Ah.” Robby draws his brows together, “Nothing to do with the wages being placed against the reasoning behind my…” he takes a deep breath, “upbeat tempo these days?” 

“Don’t make a snitch out of me, Robinavitch.” you nudge his chest in disbelief, “How’d you know about it?”

“Well. This is my department. I know the inner workings of the entire ecosystem, sweetheart,” he croons before adding, “Plus, Abbot was ecstatic to be the one to tell me.” 

You scoff at the revelation. It just had to be Jack Abbot. 

“Are you mad?” 

“Oh, I think I’ll survive the outside noise for a little while longer.” Robby traces your cheekbone with the pad of his thumb, in a way that feels less along the lines of no strings attached. “What did you put your money on?” 

“Something not relating to your sexual deviance.” you tease and Robby brings his fingers up to tug at your earlobe. You moisten your lips and bare your teeth in a sickly sweet smile to soften the blow, “I put $20 on mid-life crisis.” 

Robby’s brows shoot to his hairline, squeezing his eyes shut as he gives his head a wobble to digest your words. There was a conversation that needed to be had somewhere in there; just much, much further down the line. 

And outside of the PTMC. To preserve both of your sanities.

You find yourself trailing the palms of your hands down Robby’s forearms—half covered by the rolled up sleeves of his fleece—to soothe his outward reaction of immediate discontent at the accusation you haphazardly flung out. 

A fucking mid-life crisis.

“You…give me a headache,” he says earnestly.

“I know. But you like it.” (Correction: he loves it.) 

Robby draws back with little time left before your co-workers begin to put two and two together due to the convenient disappearance of you both. 

“I suppose I’ll take it on the chin.” he shoots you a playful look, his eyes glinting with mischief, “I put in an anonymous wager in myself two nights ago. Perks of being the last one to leave this fucking place.” 

“Oh yeah?” your interest piques. 

He reaches for the handle of the door, scratching at the coarseness of his beard with his other hand, “Yeah. I think I have a good shot at winning,” he chirps. 

“Okay.” you nod your head in amusement as he walks away from you, “What did you even wage on? New motorcycle?”

The door buzzes open and Robby swings it open with his face filling with mirth. He leaves you in the On-call room with a singular word uttered; sending you into a frozen shock. 

“$40 on girlfriend.”

your squealing goes up a notch and now your hands are over your eyes. frank drops the hammer on the man's toes, startling another pained moan out of him but frank is unmoved. "baby—"

"my rug!" you warble out, still confused on whether any of this is real, peeking from between your fingers.

frank looks down, winces at the red puddle that seems to only get bigger with time. "shit, sorry, ba—"

"and my drink!" you cry, now pointing your shaking finger at the man bleeding out on the chair. "he's bleeding all over the place, wha— I don't—"

frank shushes you before you can talk yourself into a tizzy. "hey, it's alright, hey" he goes to step towards you then reconsiders. he's covered in blood, and he's pretty sure getting it on the coach bag you just got with his credit card might be what tips you over the edge.

"s'alright, sweetheart, don't gotta worry. I'm almost done here, yeah? let me finish up then I'll take you out, ok? dinner? that place on 5th."

you blink at him, then back at the man when he whimpers.

"hey," your eyes fly back to frank, who's chasing your gaze with his hands up in what he hopes is a reassuring way. "you trust me, right? you know I take care you. wouldn't let anything happen to you, would I?"

you shake your head, because of course he wouldn't. he mirrors your head movements, trying not to spook you. "that's right, daddy takes care of you, doesn't he?"

"daddy takes care of me" you nod - and you don't stop nodding, just up and down until he's worried you're gonna make yourself dizzy. the man behind him starts to gurgle and frank sighs, picking the hammer back up.

"right, so you gotta trust me, yeah? turn around and put your hands over your ears, you hear? eyes closed, baby, c'mon let me see it."

only after you do as he says does he swing. you are never getting that blood out of the carpet now, that's for sure.

"Oh, hi!" You said it like you'd been expecting him, like this was the most natural thing in the world, a stranger nearly falling over your moving boxes at nine at night. "Sorry, sorry, I know this looks like a crime scene. Give me one second, I promise I'm almost done blocking the hallway."

Robby blinked. "You're moving in?"

"Moving in," you confirmed, setting the lamps down with gentle care. "4C.” You stuck your hand out, "I'm your new neighbor, apparently." He shook it before he'd fully decided to. "Michael."

"Michael." You said his name back like you were trying it on, like it fit fine. "You look like you pulled a double shift from hell."

"Close enough." A ghost of a smile. "ER doctor."

"Oh, that explains the thousand-yard stare." You said it warmly, not unkindly, and grinned when he huffed something that was almost a laugh. "I'm 3, maybe 4 boxes away from being human again.”

He should have just said goodnight. He was bone-tired, and normally this was the part where whoever he was talking to noticed the set of his shoulders, the flat, closed-off exhaustion he wore like a coat, and made their exit polite and quick. People tended to give him room. Nurses did it, residents did it, half the attendings did it, nobody wanted to be the one bothering Dr. Robinavitch at the end of a bad day. You didn't seem to have gotten that memo. You were looking at him like he was just a guy in a hallway, mildly interesting, worth talking to for another minute.

"You always unpack at this hour?" he asked, mostly just to keep you talking, which surprised him more than it should have.

"I always do everything at whatever hour it needs doing," you said easily. "The movers were late." You picked the lamp back up, hip-checked a box out of the way like you'd done this a hundred times. "You live across the hall?"

"4B."

"4B and 4C." You said it like you were already fond of the symmetry. "Guess we're gonna be running into each other a lot, Michael" There was something unhurried about the way you said it, no nerves, no softening, none of the careful deference he had gotten so used to that he had stopped noticing it was there at all. It threw him a little. He found himself standing in the hallway a beat too long, hands in his jacket pockets, trying to figure out why a twenty-something with too many lamps and a stray pothos leaf stuck to her sleeve had him feeling like the junior one in the conversation.

"Do you need help with any of this?" The offer was out of his mouth before the tired part of his brain could veto it. You looked at him, really looked, a quick assessing flick that felt more like being read than being looked at, and smiled like you had caught him at something. "You look like you're one bad night away from falling asleep standing up. Go home, Michael. Sleep. I've got these boxes." A beat. "But I'm going to remember that you offered." You said, already turning back toward your door. "I'm gonna need someone to help me hang curtains eventually, and you seem like the responsible type."

"I really am not, when it comes to curtains."

"We'll see." You threw him one more grin over your shoulder, easy, unbothered, like the two of you were already something, before you nudged 4C's door open with your foot and disappeared inside, leaving him alone in the hallway with an open box of houseplants and the strange, unfamiliar feeling of having lost a conversation he hadn't realized he was having. Robby stood there another second longer than made any sense. Then he let himself into 4B, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn't thinking about work at all. He was thinking that 4C was going to be a problem.

The mail room in the basement smelled like damp cardboard and the little scented candle the super insisted on burning year-round, and Robby was elbow-deep in a stack of takeout menus and a suspicious number of credit card offers when your voice cut through the fluorescent hum.

"Michael! Hi!"

He turned, and there you were, wrestling an oversized, oddly heavy box out of one of the lockers, hair pulled up messy, looking entirely too pleased with yourself for someone hauling a box that clearly outweighed you.

"It's Robby," he said, before he really thought about it.

You paused, box balanced against your hip. "What?"

"Robby." He nodded. "Nobody calls me Michael. Not really. Not since medical school."

"No kidding." You said it consideringly, like you were turning the information over, deciding whether you liked the shape of it.

"It's Dr. Robinavitch at work," he explained, "so somewhere along the way it just, got shortened. Robby stuck. Michael didn't."

"Robby." A test run, same as you had done with his first name in the hallway, like you wanted to see how it sat in your mouth. "I like it. Suits you better, actually. Michael's a little formal for a guy who almost helped a stranger haul boxes at nine at night."

"That offer stands for the record. I don't recant."

"Noted." You hefted the box again, and he reached out without asking, taking the bulk of the weight off your arms before you could protest. You let him, which surprised him a little, no token argument, no I've got it, just a small, grateful shift of your grip and a look that said you had clocked the gesture and filed it away somewhere.

The two of you headed for the elevator, box between you, and you talked easily the whole way up, about the dying-whale sound your radiator had been making, about how the box currently digging into both Robby’s forearms was, apparently, a rice cooker your grandmother had insisted you needed and which you had absolutely no room for in your kitchen.

"I still haven't been grocery shopping," you admitted as the elevator doors opened onto the fourth floor. "I've got a rice cooker and no rice. I'm just going to order something, you should come eat with me. Consider it payment for hauling my grandmother's rice cooker halfway across the building."

Robby opened his mouth to say no. It was the easy answer, the automatic one, he had a shift in the morning, he barely knew you, and normally an offer like that would get a polite, tired excuse and a retreat behind his own door.

"Sure," he said instead.

You grinned like you had expected exactly that answer all along, like there never had been any real question. "Great. I don't actually know what's good around here yet, so you're picking."

He followed you down the hall, box still in his arms, turning the moment over in his head the way you had turned his name over in yours. He wasn't sure why he said yes. He wasn't sure why it had felt so easy to.

4C was, as promised, a crime scene of a slightly different variety than the hallway had been, boxes stacked three deep against one wall, a lamp with no shade plugged in and lit anyway, a roll of bubble wrap unspooled halfway across the floor like something had chased it there. But there was a couch, mostly cleared, a low coffee table with a takeout menu already open on it, and you were already toeing off your shoes and folding yourself onto one end of the cushions like you had lived there for years instead of hours.

"Sit anywhere that isn't a box," you told him as he set the rice cooker down on the counter. You grabbed your phone off the coffee table and held it out to him. 

"You're picking, remember? I don't know what's good around here yet, and I refuse to be the girl who orders the same pad thai from every restaurant within a five mile radius on principle."

He dropped down next to you, not quite close enough to be forward, close enough that he noticed anyway, and you waited while he scrolled, quickly placing an order.

"Delivery's gonna take a while, so we're stuck talking to each other." You said tossing your phone back onto the coffee table. You tucked your legs up under you, entirely at ease in a room that was still half in boxes, and looked at him with the same open, assessing interest you had in the hallway. "So. Robby. Tell me something about yourself."

He found himself hesitating, and it took him a second to place why. It wasn't that the question was hard. It was that he couldn't remember the last time someone had asked it and actually waited for the answer instead of filling the silence themselves, the way people did around him.  Nervous, deferential, careful not to take up too much of his time. You didn't do that. You just watched him, unhurried, like you had nowhere else to be and nothing better to listen to. It left him strangely unmoored, sitting in a stranger's half-unpacked apartment, groping for something to say that wasn't a case, a shift, a diagnosis.

"I read," he said finally. "A lot, actually, whenever I've got the hours for it."

You sat up straighter, genuinely delighted. "Me too. Like, obsessively." You twisted to look at him properly, like this had changed something. "We have to trade, give me your favourite, and I’ll give you mine. I’ve got loads of recommendations, but you have to actually read them and report back.”

Robby laughed at your enthusiasm, "I don't think that's how recommendations work."

"It's exactly how recommendations work, you just haven't had the right kind of friend yet." You said friend easily, like it already applied, like the word had settled into place between you without either of you deciding it should. "I'm serious. I will corner you in the hallway about this."

"I believe you." And he found himself meaning it, something about the certainty in your voice, easy and unbothered, eased a knot in his chest he hadn't realized was there. "Ok, your turn. Ask me something."

He should have had an easy question ready. Instead he found himself just looking at you for a second too long, trying to figure out what it was about you that had him feeling like the newer one in the room, the one still finding his footing. He was used to being the steady one. The one people orbited, carefully, at a respectful distance. He wasn't used to sitting this close to someone who didn't seem to know that was supposed to be the arrangement.

"What made you pick this building?" he asked, because it was the only thing he could land on.

"Honestly? The listing had good light." You said it like it was self-evident, like anyone would've made the same call. "And now I’ve got a doctor across the hall who’s going to let me steal all his books, so. Pretty good trade, so far.”

He didn't have a response for that. He just sat there, a little off-balance in a way he couldn't remember the last time he had felt, waiting for the food and finding, against every instinct that usually kept him at arm's length from people, that he didn't especially want to leave.

The food arrived faster than either of you expected, and by the time you had wrestled the containers open and passed them back and forth across the coffee table, the conversation had drifted somewhere easier, away from the careful testing-ground of first questions and into something looser. Teasing at your terrible use of chopsticks, and every time you laughed, or playfully shoved his shoulder, something in Robby’s chest had gone loose and warm in a way he wasn't used to cataloguing. He was usually good at cataloguing things,  vitals, symptoms, the particular tightness in a resident's shoulders that meant they were about to have a bad night. He wasn't used to a feeling he couldn't immediately name.

"Ok," you said, setting your carton down and tucking one leg further underneath you. "Since we're friends now, I get to ask the real questions."

"There were fake questions before this?"

"Those were warm-up questions. This is the main event." You studied him for a second, and he had the distinct sense of being weighed, though not unkindly. "Why emergency medicine? Not medicine generally. Emergency, specifically. That's a whole different ball park than, I don't know, doing whatever a dermatologist does."

He almost gave you the answer he gave everyone, the practiced one, something about the pace, the variety, never a boring day. It came to the edge of his teeth and then, for reasons he didn't examine too closely, he didn't say it.

"Because you don't get to wait," he said instead. "In the ER. You don't get the luxury of thinking about it for three days and scheduling a follow-up. Somebody's in front of you and you have to decide, right then, and it either works or it doesn't, and you live with whichever one it was." He turned his water glass a quarter turn on the table, an old restless habit. "I like that there's no hiding from it. No hiding from whether you did right by somebody."

You didn't say anything right away, which he noticed, because you weren't usually short on things to say. When you did speak, your voice had lost some of its earlier brightness, gone quieter, more careful.

"That sounds like a lot to carry around."

"It is." He said it simply, just fact. "Most days it's fine. Some days it's not."

"And today?"

He glanced at you, surprised by the directness of it, the way you just walked straight up to the thing instead of circling it politely the way most people did. "Today was a good day," he said, and found that it was true in a way it hadn't quite been until he said it out loud, sitting on a stranger's,  a friend's couch, eating noodles out of a carton at nine thirty at night. 

"I’m glad." you said, and the brightness came back into your voice, easy again, like you sensed exactly how far to push and pulled back right at the edge of it. 

Robby was the one who finally glanced at his watch, and the sight of the time pulled a low groan out of him.

"I have a shift in a few hours." You were already uncurling from the couch, stretching in a way that popped something in your back, wincing. "Fine, fine. Go be responsible. Save some lives."

He gathered the empty cartons without really thinking about it, an old instinct from a lifetime of cleaning up after himself in break rooms at two in the morning, and you swatted his hand away from the last one.

"I've got it. You've done enough hauling for one night." You took it from him, depositing it on the counter next to the rice cooker, which still sat there, before you walked him the six feet to the door like it was a much longer distance than it was. You leaned against the doorframe once it was open, arms crossed loosely, not quite ready to end it, and neither, he found, was he. The hallway light was harsh and yellow behind him, the same light that had watched the two of you fight over a stuck locker not three hours ago, and it felt strange that so little time had passed for so much to have shifted.

"So this is goodnight," you said.

"This is goodnight."

"I'm going to hold you to the book thing. I wasn't kidding about cornering you." Your mouth curved, but there was something quieter underneath it now, something a little more sincere than the teasing let on. "I'm glad that you’re next door, it’s good to have a friend in the building.”

He didn't have a smooth answer for that, no practiced line, and he found he didn't want one. "Yeah," he said, quietly. "Me too."

You held his gaze a second longer than the moment strictly required. "Night, Robby."

"Night." He stepped back toward his own door, key already out, and glanced back once before he let himself in, you were still in the doorway, watching him go, and you lifted a hand in an easy little wave before disappearing inside, the door clicking shut behind you.

Robby stood in his own dark apartment, keys still in his hand, replaying the whole strange, good evening, before he finally made himself go to bed.

Weeks in, and Robby had stopped pretending he didn't listen for you. He caught himself doing it constantly now, checking the mail room a beat longer than he needed to, in case you were down there fighting with a package. Timing his exit some mornings so it lined up with yours, some flimsy excuse about needing a coffee before work, an invite you would always accept. He started keeping a running list, mentally, of book recommendations he wanted to hand you. He listened for his phone, every night expecting you to text him as you always did, you need to read this one next, I'm not kidding, drop everything. He read three of your picks in a row without meaning to make a habit of it, and somehow every one of them had ended up dog-eared on his nightstand, waiting for the next time you asked what he thought.

Half the time it wasn't even about the books. Half the time it was something small, and he stopped minding the smile that crept onto his face every time your name appeared on his phone.

You still awake or should I handle this spider myself?

I’m bored and my tv won’t turn on, I might have forgotten to get batteries for the remote…

I made too much pasta, it’s not great, but I have wine to soften the blow.

He always went, no matter how late his shift ran, no matter how much his feet ached from twelve hours on the floor. He told himself it was neighborly. He stopped really believing that a while back. You had become a fixture in ways he hadn't planned for and didn't quite know what to do with. You knew which pizza shop on the corner he liked, and the ones he would complain about.  He knew you always drank your coffee when it was too hot, burning your tongue the same way you would always burn the first slice of anything you tried to cook. Somewhere in the last few weeks the hallway between you had stopped feeling like a hallway at all, and started feeling like the short distance between two halves of the same evening.

But tonight there was no text, just a crash, loud and wrong, cutting through the wall between you, loud enough that he was up off his couch before he fully processed hearing it. The book he had been reading, one of yours, sliding forgotten off his lap onto the floor. He crossed the hall in four strides and didn't bother knocking, your door was unlocked, same as always, the thing he gave you grief about at least once a week and you always waved off with some variation of nobody's breaking in for my rice cooker.

You were crouched by the kitchen counter amid a spray of broken ceramic, one hand cradled against your chest, blood welling dark between your fingers, your face gone pale in a way that made his stomach drop before he even fully registered the wound.

"Hey, hey, look at me." He was across the room before he decided to move, dropping down in front of you, voice dropping into the low, steady register he used at work when things went sideways, the one that made panicking people listen. "What happened?"

"I dropped it, I was just reaching for a mug and I dropped it and I went to pick up the pieces like an idiot and, " your voice was climbing, thin and fast, nothing like the easy, unbothered cadence he had gotten used to. Your hands were shaking, and there was a wobble in your breathing that told him you were maybe one bad thought away from properly panicking. "It's bleeding a lot, is that bad, that seems like a lot, is it supposed to look like that,"

"It's ok. You're ok." He said it firm and certain, because he needed you to hear certain more than you needed the truth softened. He eased your hand open gently, checking the cut. Deep, ragged at one edge, bleeding steadily, ugly, but clean-lined enough that his gut said no stitches. "It looks worse than it is. I promise. Look at me, not the hand. Can you stand for me?"

You nodded, unsteady, and he got an arm around you before you fully committed to the motion, guiding you past the broken glass toward the door. Your free hand found his arm and held on, fingers curling into his sleeve with a grip that didn't loosen the whole way across the hall, like he was the one steady thing in the room, and you weren't taking any chances of losing hold of it. It struck him, distantly, how strange it was to see you like this, you, who faced him down in a hallway on your first night without a flicker of nerves, who never once looked at him like he was someone to be careful around. Now your breath was coming quick and your eyes kept dropping to the blood like it might get worse if you looked away, and something in his chest ached at the sight of it, sharper than he expected.

"Talk to me," he said, steering you across the hall into his apartment, one hand at your back, the other still wrapped around the hand you had fisted into his shirt. "Anything. Doesn't matter what."

"I don't like blood, I'm sorry, I know that's stupid for someone who's friends with an ER doctor."

"It's not stupid." He got you settled at his kitchen table, pulling a chair out and easing you into it, careful of the hand you were still cradling against your chest. "Sit tight. I'll be right back, thirty seconds, I promise."

You nodded, and he made himself let go of you, moving fast down the hall to the bathroom, hauling the first aid kit out from under the sink. Properly stocked, more than the average person kept on hand, another thing you had teased him about once, but he was quietly grateful for tonight. When he came back and knelt in front of you, kit open on the table, something in him settled that hadn't settled all evening. This, at least, he knew. Weeks of feeling faintly off-balance around you, weeks of you reading him easily while he fumbled for his footing, weeks of being the one who blinked first in every easy back-and-forth you started, and here, finally, was ground he understood. He had done this a thousand times, in far worse light, with far worse injuries, on people far less inclined to hold still for him. His hands didn't shake. His voice, when it came, was low and sure.

"Let me see." He took your hand gently, turning it toward the light, and felt something almost like relief at how easily his focus narrowed down to just this, the wound, the cleaning, the steady rhythm of taking care of something that was actually his to take care of. "Deep, but clean-lined. No stitches. You're going to be fine."

"You sound very sure about that."

"I am sure about that." He said it simply, without the low-grade uncertainty that had been trailing him around you for weeks, and glanced up to find you watching him with something new in your expression, like you were seeing a piece of him you hadn't gotten to yet. "This part I actually know how to do." You huffed something that was almost a laugh, shaky but real. "I feel like I should've guessed that. You're annoyingly competent at everything else."

"Not everything." He reached for the saline, unhurried, laying out gauze and tape in the order he would need them without having to think about it. "You've beaten me at cards every single time we've played."

"I cheat." You confessed, a small laugh sitting at the end, but not strong enough to punch through.

"I know." A small, easy smile, the first since he had come through your door. "I let you."

He irrigated the cut carefully, narrating each step before he did it the way he did with scared patients who needed to feel like they had some say in what was happening to them, and your breathing evened out fractionally as he worked, your eyes finding his instead of the blood.

"This is going to sting," he warned, before the antiseptic, and you hissed but held still.

"You're doing great." He wrapped the gauze in slow, careful passes, you hand warm against his, warmer than he expected, or maybe he was just more aware of it than he had any business being, aware of the pulse ticking steady under his fingers, of how small your hand looked against his, and only then did he let himself really look at you, not at the injury, at you, the shakiness still sitting behind your eyes, the rare, unguarded way you were looking back at him. "There. No stitches. You'll be sore for a few days, keep it dry tonight, and if it starts looking worse instead of better you call me before you call anyone else."

"Bossy," you said, but it came out soft, none of its usual teasing edge, more grateful than anything. He kept hold of your hand a beat longer than the bandage required, thumb resting light against your wrist, and didn't examine too closely why he wasn't in a hurry to let go. "You scared me."

You looked up at that, really looked, the way you had that very first night in the hallway, like you were reading something in him he hadn't said out loud, and for once, you didn't have a quick answer ready.

"Yeah," you said quietly. "Sorry about that."

"Don't be sorry. Just be careful next time.”  But there was no real heat in it, and you both knew it, and for a long moment neither of you moved to break the quiet that had settled over his small kitchen, the two of you and a bandaged hand and something neither one of you had quite said yet.

A week later, you were back in Robby’s apartment. Properly this time, no broken glass, no shaking hands, just a movie neither of you were really watching and a bowl of popcorn balanced on the cushion between you that had mostly become his problem to defend.

"How's the hand?" he asked, somewhere in the second act, nodding at where it sat curled loosely in your lap.

"Better. Basically fine, actually." You held it up like proof, flexing your fingers for him. "Barely even twinges anymore."

"Let me have a look."

"Robby, it’s fine, I promise"

"Humor me." He was already reaching for you, unhurried but certain, and instead of waiting for you to shift toward him he simply drew you in closer, an arm guiding you until you were tucked against his side, your bandaged hand resting in both of his. You went easily, no protest in it, like some part of you had been waiting to be asked.

He peeled back the tape with careful fingers, unwinding the gauze in slow loops, and underneath it the cut had closed into a thin, healing line, the angry red gone soft and pink at the edges. He turned your hand gently in the low light from the TV, thumb tracing along the length of it, checking with the same quiet focus he had that first night, except there was nothing urgent in it now, nothing to fix, just his hands on yours longer than the examination strictly required.

"Looks good," he said, low. "Healing clean. You'll barely have a mark."

"Doctor's orders to stop wearing the bandage, then?"

"Doctor's orders." But he didn't let go. He kept your hand cradled in his, turning it over once more like he wasn't quite ready to hand it back, his thumb settling still against your palm.

You had gone quiet, watching him instead of the healed cut, and when he finally looked up and found you already looking, neither of you moved to break it. The movie kept talking to an empty room. His thumb traced one slow, absent line across your palm, and something passed between you that didn't need saying out loud to be understood, the careful, deliberate way he was still holding on, the way you weren't pulling back.

"Robby," you said, quiet enough that it barely carried past your lips. 

"Yeah."

"Kiss me"

He went still, his eyes widening just a fraction. His hands stayed where they were, and for a moment he didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He wasn’t composed, the steady stillness he had just found treating your hand, he was something more uncertain than that, the question knocking loose the ground he had only just gotten under his feet. He searched your face for a second, half-braced for some hesitation of your own to show up and give him an easy out.  His gaze flicks to your mouth, then back to your eyes.

"You're sure?"

Your laugh caught him off guard, easy and warm, all your usual unbothered confidence sliding back into place even with your hand still resting in his. "Very sure."

It was the certainty in your voice that undid him more than anything, no hedging, no second-guessing, the same steady sureness he had been circling around for weeks and never quite managing to summon in return. Then his hand came up, slow and careful. Cupping your face, palms warm against your cheeks. He didn’t lean in right away. He just looked at you, really looked, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the way your lashes caught the light from the TV. His thumbs traced small circles against your skin. When he finally closed the distance, the kiss was unhurried. He kept it slow, the way he cleaned the cut on your hand, careful, like getting this right mattered as much as anything he had ever done at work. His lips pressed to yours soft and deliberate, like he was testing the feel of you. He tilted his head slightly, deepening it only a little, tongue brushing your lower lip in a slow pass before he pulled back just enough to breathe. His hands stayed on your face the whole time, holding you steady, like he was afraid you would disappear if he let go. You stared back at him, an unmistakable smile plastered on your face, and a look that felt like the quiet end of a question that had been sitting in him since the night you stood in the hallway and threw his whole steady world a little off its axis. Your hands found his face, kissing him again as you climbed into his lap, knees bracketing his hips, and the kiss turned hungry fast. His tongue slid against yours, slowly, while his hands gripped your waist and pulled you flush against the solid wall of his chest.

You rocked forward, grinding down without thinking, and Robby groaned into your mouth. The sound vibrated through you, low and needy. His fingers dug into your ass, guiding your movements so your clothed heat dragged over the rigid line of his cock through his scrubs. Every roll of your hips made him twitch beneath you, the friction perfect, and you could feel how hard he was, thick and insistent against your core. Then, without warning, he pulled back. His hands left your body, palms lifting in surrender as he leaned away, chest heaving. 

"Wait, fuck, we should stop," he muttered, voice rough, eyes darting anywhere but your face. The sudden distance hit like a bucket of cold water. He shifted beneath you, trying to create space, and you felt the tension in his thighs as he fought to keep still. Confusion flickered through you until your gaze dropped. There, darkening the front of his scrubs, was a spreading wet patch. The fabric clung to the head of his cock, soaked through with his release. He'd come, right there, grinding against you, fully clothed, and now he was embarrassed, trying to hide it, trying to shut the whole thing down before you noticed.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, voice cracking with shame. His hands hovered at your hips, not quite pushing you away but trembling like he wanted to. 

"God, I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean to, fuck, I haven't done that since I was a teenager." His face burned crimson, and he couldn't meet your eyes. The apology only made it hotter. 

You rocked against him again, deliberately dragging your clit over the wet fabric, and felt another weak pulse from his spent cock. Robby hissed, hands flying back to your waist like he meant to lift you off, but you stayed put, grinding slow and deliberate against the softening bulge. He closed his eyes shut, like he couldn’t bear to watch himself react to you again. Heat flooded your belly. The sight of him like that, flushed, breathing hard, come staining his pants because he lost control just from kissing you, made your whole body throb. You didn't pull away.

"Don't apologize," you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. "I felt that. You came for me." Your voice was low, reverent, almost awed. You rocked again, chasing the slick friction, and Robby shuddered, fingers tightening involuntarily. 

"That's the hottest thing I've ever seen."

"No, it's, it's embarrassing," he insisted, voice barely above a whisper. His hands finally settled on your waist, but they were gentle, almost pleading. "I should have more control than that. You deserve better than some guy who can't even kiss you without making a mess in his pants." He swallowed hard, throat working. "I'm sorry. Really. I can clean up, or, you can leave if you want."

You smiled against his throat, nipping at the skin there, and kept moving, slow, filthy rolls of your hips that dragged your clit over the damp fabric.

"I don't want to leave," you told him, pressing down harder so he could feel how wet you had gotten just from watching him lose it. "I want you to stay right here and let me feel every drop you spilled for me."

Robby's face burned hotter, but he couldn't hide the way his cock gave another weak twitch beneath you. The apology, the shame. You wanted to make him come again just like this, messy and desperate and completely at your mercy, while he whispered apologies against your skin.

His breathing came ragged against your neck, hot and uneven, and when he finally spoke again his voice cracked with something raw.

"I have no idea how to act around you," he admitted, the words spilling out like he couldn't stop them. "Every time I'm near you I feel lost. Like I don't know who I am anymore." His forehead dropped to rest against your shoulder, and you felt the heat of his face even through your shirt. 

"I came in my pants just from kissing you. Like some desperate teenager who can't control himself. And now you're still here, still grinding on me, and I don't know what to do with that."

The confession made you clench. You rolled your hips again, and Robby whimpered, a broken, helpless sound that went straight to your clit.

"I feel undone," he continued, voice muffled against your shoulder. "Completely fucking undone. You touch me and I lose every bit of control I thought I had. I'm sitting here with come in my pants while you use me like this." His cock gave another weak twitch beneath you, responding to your movements despite how spent he was. "I don't know how to be around you without wanting to fall apart."

You pressed down harder, letting him feel how wet you had gotten, how much his vulnerability turned you on. Robby's fingers dug into your hips, not pushing away anymore just holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

"I don't want you to have control," you told him, voice low and filthy. "I want you exactly like this, messy and desperate and apologizing while I make you come again."

Robby groaned, the sound torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His cock was starting to harden again, pressing insistently against the damp fabric as you worked yourself over him. "God, the way you say that, like you actually want me like this. Pathetic and lost." He lifted his head to look at you, eyes dark and desperate. "I don't know how to handle that either. But I can't stop. I don't want to stop."

You leaned in and kissed him hard, swallowing his next apology, and kept grinding against the growing mess between you.

Pope is here because Smurf told him the property needs checking on. At least that’s the story he’s feeding himself.

And it makes sense. There’s water damage in one of the downstairs units and some dipshit’s been stripping cooper out of the laundry room again. If it’s not one thing going wrong, it’s another.

This building’s always two steps away from falling apart. Someone has to stop it from going to hell completely.

Plenty of good, rational reasons to be here. 

None of which do a thing to explain why he does not move from being propped on the hood of his truck just yet.

He stays at the curb as he watches the building’s familiar pulse of seedy activity.

It’s not even the worst spot owned by the Codys, not by far, but that doesn’t make it good. It’s definitely not good enough for you, not by a long shot. Run-down. Full of people who loiter outside longer than they should and pay too much attention to things that aren’t theirs.

A woman argues fervently on the stoop, body tense enough he can see the harsh jut of her collarbone from here. Two boys pretend to clean their bikes by the courtyard, their hands moving in repetitive, meaningless circles, rags never actually removing any grime.

And then there’s the smoker, with a long beard and crooked nose, leaning near the stairs, smoke rising around him.

Pope watches his sleepy gaze harden suddenly, tracking something straight ahead.

Pope’s neck cranes as his vision tunnels into pinpoint clarity, finding what the man found first: you.

Walking up the sidewalk with two grocery bags hooked over your wrists, pink flats picking their way carefully over the buckled concrete, skirt the same shade catching around your knees every time the breeze shifts. White cardigan buttoned all the way up over your chest despite the heat.

You don’t hurry. That bothers him.

You move through the courtyard with no care in the world. Unaware of the eyes that linger on your body, the curiosity you unwittingly ignite.

God he hates this place most when you’re in it. Without you, it’s just brick and mortar. But with you here, everything is suddenly hostile. A million scenarios blooming in his head. Someone following you from your car, someone hiding just around the corner waiting for you to pass by, a neighbor deciding your door lock doesn’t look so hard to force open.

He has tried to get you to stay at Smurf’s countless times now, using different tactics each time. Gentle coaxing, stubborn demands, pushing you into the kind of corner where the only real choice was already decided for you.

And those all work most nights. 

Still, every now and then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, you insist on sleeping here.

So every now and then, he comes and sits off to the side, his truck parked discreetly out of view. Always staying within striking distance should anyone dare to try anything stupid.

Thankfully he hasn’t had to act yet, people know better, whispers exchanged in doorways and hallways: that pretty little thing tucked away in apartment 2B is Cody territory. Off limits.

It takes him four long strides to reach you. 

He comes up behind you without saying anything, partly because he doesn’t want to startle you and partly because he wants to see how long it takes before you notice a man his size coming up behind you. Too long, apparently. 

You don’t notice him when his shadow cuts across the pavement beside yours, not when his boots hit the concrete close enough you should hear him, not even when he’s right behind you, inhaling the faint sweet drift of your perfume over the dirty air of the courtyard.

You just keep walking, grocery bags bumping into your legs every second step, head angled down as you watch your feet over the cracked walkway. 

Then you stop so suddenly he nearly runs into you, boots scuffing against the ground in the process.

Nearly turns into definitely when you move again, bending at the waist to grab a little carton that had tumbled out of your bag and rolled near your shoe.

He can’t dodge you fast enough before he’s crashing against you, the ample of your backside pressed flush against him, your skirt skimming his denim-clad thighs.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down the groan lodged somewhere in his throat, and his hands shoot out to grip at your waist. Half to steady you, half to hold himself back.

You jump, a sharp little gasp tearing out of you as you twist in his hold, eyes wide, lips parted.

But the fear vanishes when you realize it’s him. Dissolves so quickly into relief, then blossoming into that lovely smile of yours Pope spends half his days obsessing over. Lip gloss glistens like honey under the afternoon sun, squinting at him through the harsh glare.

“Pope,” you breathe, like he’s something good that happened to you rather than the man who decided to follow you through a parking lot to prove a point.

His fingers flex once before he makes them let go.

“You don’t pay attention,” he tells you plainly.

You smile pinches at the edges a little, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s teasing you or scolding you. You seem to assume the later. A good assumption.

“I do pay attention,” you insist, the words coming out with the stubborn certainty of someone who has already decided they're right. Then you glance down at the sidewalk as though it might testify on your behalf. One of the grocery bags slips lower on your wrist, plastic stretching, and you hitch it back up with a small huff of effort. “I was paying attention to the ground. Because last week I almost twisted my ankle right there.”

Pope follows the line of your finger.

Without a word, he reaches for the bags. His hand closes around the handles and lifts them clean off your arm before you can object. You make a small noise of surprise, letting him take them.

“What if it wasn’t me coming up behind you?” 

Your brows pull together. “But it was you.”

“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t?”

You hesitate visibly, your fingers weaving together, rocking onto the tips of your shoes. You look almost apologetic when you speak. “I dunno.”

Exactly, he thinks.

He breathes out very slowly through his nose to keep the worst of his frustration from showing. It still sits heavy on his face, he’s sure. In the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands tighten around the plastic bags until the handles stretch thin. 

“You gotta be more aware,” he says, dipping his face towards yours, almost pleading. His gaze flickers anxiously over your face, desperate for more reassurance. “Can you do that for me? Check around when you get out of the car, look before you walk up the stairs, take a second before you open your door.” 

You open your mouth to speak, something potentially defensive at the tip of your tongue, before you reconsider, shoulders sinking just a fraction. 

“For me,” Pope urges again. No room for misunderstanding.

And because you are you, you give a gentle, almost reluctant nod in surrender. You have a hard time fighting him on anything.

He returns the gesture with his own stiff nod. He knows you don’t fully understand the fuss, not completely, but you’re trying, and that has to be enough for now. He’ll shoulder the rest.

He moves towards the staircase, leaving you to catch up. You hurry to follow behind him. 

“Why’re you here anyway?” you voice after him. “Did I miss rent or something?”

Pope doesn’t turn around; doesn’t trust himself to look at you without giving too much away.

“No,” he replies, casual, like it’s not something he thinks about every single month.

You would never be late. You are a meticulously precise creature. Keeping track of everything, neat little numbers, due dates, confirmations, all of it lined up exactly the way you like, and then you get that pleased look on your face when you send the payment, like you’ve done something worth being proud of.

Which you have. He lets you have that. But he can’t stand taking your money.

So every month he waits until that little deposit appears, waits another day or two to avoid suspicion, then finds a way to get it back to you.

Sometimes it’s hidden in elaborate Cody business expenses; other times Craig’s buddy does some invisible computer shit to push numbers back into your account, nothing ever traced to pope.

And occasionally, he just leaves cash in places he knows you’ll find it. In your purse, between pages of a book you’ve left out, tucked behind a coffee mug. 

He loves hearing you puzzle over it. You always chalk it up to luck, or fate, or some karmic gift from the universe. Never once suspecting Pope’s fingerprints on every cent.

It all sounds more complicated than it actually is.

Really, it’s just logical. You need the money. Pope has the money. Problem solved.

At the steps, Pope pauses, gently nudging you ahead of him.

It’s a selfish move. He’s got a bad feeling you don’t have shorts under that skirt, and he’s not in the mood to have that confirmed by anyone standing behind you. Better him at your back than anyone else. Better him blocking the view.

As if to confirm his fears, someone over his shoulder lets out a short laugh. “Man, a girl that pretty oughta let me buy her dinner. Hell, maybe I’d even send her home wearing a pearl necklace.”

Pope looks back and finds the bearded cigarette smoker slouched against the vending machine, filter hanging loose between two fingers, eyes still fixed on you with that same open, filthy interest. He’s got a buddy with him now, some wiry little shit standing half a step to the side, not looking too sure of himself now that Pope’s facing him. 

Pope thinks about how easy it would be. Pin the guy up against the machine, forearm to windpipe, watching the smartass shine drain out of his eyes. Pictures crushing the cigarette into the soft part of his cheek. But he can’t do that without scaring you off.

So he crouches just enough to place the bags on the stairs without jostling them, eggs and bread and whatever else cushioned upright where it won’t tip. 

When he rises, he goes back the way he came, jerking his head in your direction. “You talkin’ about her?”

“Just complimenting her.”

“No,” Pope says. “You weren’t.”

The wiry friend shifts back half a step. Smart. 

The bearded man tries to recover, but it’s too late, Pope can already see the little glint of fear sputtering in his eyes, igniting as he sizes him up.

He lifts the cigarette to his mouth. “Ain’t that serious, man.”

Pope reaches out and plucks the cigarette from his fingers before it gets there. Drops it to the concrete. Crushes it under his boot. 

“Look at her again, talk about her again, I’ll make sure the next thing I crush under my boot is your throat.”

The bearded man opens his mouth. 

“Don’t. I’m tryin’ real hard not to scare her,” Pope growls. “Don’t make that difficult for me.”

The man’s eyes flick once past Pope, towards the stairs, toward you, then snap back fast like even that was a mistake.

“Alright,” he mutters finally, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

A lie. A terrible one, at that. But Pope doesn’t spare the man another look. Just turns, grabs the grocery bags, and comes back up the steps to where you’re perched on the landing, watching him with that dazed little expression of yours. 

“I don’t even like pearls,” you whisper to him the second he gets close enough. “They’re kinda old-ladyish.”

Pope shuts his eyes for half a beat.

“Yeah,” he finally sputters, tips of his ears burning a little. He ushers you towards 2B. “C’mon. Inside.”

The inside of your apartment is cute. Small as it looks from the outside and from what he can see through your window at night, but it’s cute, all pinks and whites and soft little girlish details scattered across every surface.

There’s a coffee table crowded with tiny trinkets he can’t make heads or tails of, glossy little objects with no obvious purpose except that you liked them enough to bring them home. 

And it’s clean. He likes that it’s clean. Clean means he won’t spend the time here distracted by dust in the corners and fingerprints on glass, trying not to imagine bleaching every inch of it.

He carries the bags into the kitchen and sets them on the counter one by one. Behind him, you wobble a little taking off your shoes and catch yourself on his shoulder.

It leaves a searing brand behind when you pull away. 

“What was that out there?” you ask.

Pope shrugs. “Nothin’. Guy’s just a dick.”

He winces inwardly as soon as he says it. Dick feels too crude aimed anywhere near you, and he has to resist the urge to take it back and replace it with something nicer.

“It’s not like he said anything really bad or anything,” you say, shrugging in a way that suggests you’re used to it. 

Used to being stared at, cat called, talked about. And maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, given who you are.

He’s seen it before, at Smurf’s parties, men practically stumbling over themselves to offer you a drink, eyes tracking every movement you make. Drivers nearly wrapping their cars around telephone poles because their heads turn too fast when you walk down the street. 

You’re beautiful. Beautiful enough that people can’t help staring at you. But Pope’s never been forced to hear it firsthand, never had to stand there while some pervert talked about putting a pearl necklace across your throat and chest. And you don’t even understand what he was saying. 

He could handle it. He could handle it right now. If the guy’s still lingering around when Pope leaves, he might just have to. The asshole will be out of this building tomorrow regardless, he’ll will make damn sure of it.

Your hand touching his arm snaps him out of it. He looks down and sees your painted fingers resting there, cautious like you’re not sure what’s going on in his head. 

“Pope?”

The heat cools just enough for him to breathe. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He said somethin’ bad enough.”

You cock your head to one side. “Taking me to dinner isn’t exactly the worst offer I’ve ever had. And like I said, pearls aren’t really my thing, but it’s a nice sentiment, I guess?”

Pope shoves his hand through his hair, forced to take a step back because standing this close to your face is messing with him. 

“Look a pearl necklace isn’t… it’s not jewelry, okay? It’s not fuckin’ nice. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

You fold your arms over your chest, your hair slipping forward and partly covering your face. Pope’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place. 

“Not really… I— well,” you pause, fingers drumming along your left arm. “What else could a pearl necklace be, if it’s not jewelry?”

His blood pressure ticks up exponentially. Why must you make everything so difficult?

“I’m not gonna explain it. Just trust me, it’s not somethin’ appropriate for anyone to say to you.”

“What happened to ‘I’m an adult’ and ‘it’s my call if I wanna know stuff’?”

Shit. He did say that, didn’t he?

Pope takes a deep, irritated breath, wishing he could turn back time and rip his own vocal chords out. This must be his own purgatory. Cursed to answer all your sex related questions for all of eternity and unable to do anything about it.

You trust him. That much is obvious. He doesn’t want to abuse that trust. A Sisyphean task. Endless. Futile.

“Alright, look. It’s slang for a guy… finishin’ on you. On your throat, your chest, wherever.” His voice is strained, worried he might break something delicate in you just by saying it. “It’s disrespectful. Sleazy.”

You blink, eyes huge as you look up at him, clearly stunned by what you just heard. You shake your head slightly, trying to puzzle it out. “So it’s… disrespectful if someone does that to you?”

Pope cracks his neck, wincing slightly, as if the right words are somewhere trapped there and refusing to come out easy. 

“Christ — yes,” he grumbles. Then quickly, backtracking, “I mean no — no, it ain’t disrespectful if it’s something you, uh, wanted someone to do, but it’s disrespectful for someone to say shit like that to you unprompted.”

“Oh, well, yeah, that was gross,” you agree, wrinkling your nose.

Then you turn away from him, starting to put away the groceries with a distracted, absent-minded care. He thinks he’s in the clear, that you’re satisfied with his sparks note version of the definition.

He’s eyeing the door, when you pause again, bottom lip caught between your teeth, a bag of carrots dangling in your hand.

“Why would someone even want to do that to someone? The guy, I mean? Not him specifically, just, like, any guy? Is that something… you think about? Like a lot?”

He coughs, almost choking, and a hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.

There’s an instant headache pulsing behind he eyes as he tries desperately not to picture exactly what you just asked him.

Is it something he thinks about? Not until this moment. Not until he imagines those same wide and trusting eyes looking up at him as he spills milky white ropes of cum across your bare chest.

Christ. He’s no better than that asshole downstairs, thinking shit like that about you. 

He presses two fingers to his temple. “No, it’s not like I sit around thinking about stuff like that.”

It feels like a fib now.

“So why would someone wanna do that at all?”

Because it would feel good, he thinks. Immediately. The act itself, yes, but the claim in the aftermath. The evidence left behind.

The way people are always trying to leave marks on things they like. Names carved into desks. Initials scratched into trees. Dogs pissing on fire hydrants. 

You stare at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

He looks at the wall behind you, at the cheap paint and the little crooked shelf you’ve decorated with candles and a tiny ceramic flower.

Anything but your face. Anything but the curve of your throat. Anything but the where your shirt dips when you shift closer. 

“It’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “It’s visual.” The word sounds dragged out of him. “That’s part of it. Men are wired like that. And part of it’s ego. They wanna see you messy like that. Wanna see that you let ‘em do it.” His mouth flattens. “It’s not always romantic. A lotta the time it’s just selfish.”

“But maybe it depends on who it is? Like doing it to you?” You continue to worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Like… if it was someone safe. Someone you trusted a lot.” A tiny crease forms between your brows. “And if it was something you wanted too, couldn’t it be kind of romantic?” 

Pope goes still. All his blood seeming to rush downwards as the question lands between you like something lit, something rolling close to dry brush.

He can feel the conversation slipping somewhere it shouldn’t. He needs to reign it back in, regain control.

Instead he says, “Could be. If you trusted ‘em. If it was somethin’ you were askin’ for, or… into. Not somethin’ that’s being pushed on you.”

You go quiet, turning that over.

Then, in that soft, absentminded way of yours, like you don’t realize you’re lighting a match in a room full of gas, you say, “I guess that makes sense. A lot of things probably feel different with a person you trust.”

You’re looking at him so intensely he has to take another step back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Can’t. Your gaze moves back down into the grocery bag with a shrug, sweet and unaware that you’ve just handed his imagination enough to ruin the rest of his night.

He’s corrupt for wanting to be that person for you. The one you trust enough to paint your body. To teach you all this dumb shit, but with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock.

He clears his throat hard, grabs the last bag off the counter even though it’s already empty, then sets it right back down like he forgot what he was doing in the first place.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat in that way it only gets when he’s holding too much under it. “Maybe.”

He leaves not long after that. Before you ask anything else. Before he can give into his urges and contaminate you with his darkness.  

By the next afternoon, the guy downstairs is gone.

Smurf’s property manager tells the tenants it was a lease violation. Some issue with unauthorized guests, late rent, maybe smoking too close to the building. Nobody asks too many questions. Nobody wants to.

And a few days later, you mention in passing that the creepy man by the vending machine must’ve gotten into some kind of accident.

“His face looked weird when he was packing up all his stuff,” you say, frowning a little. “Like he burned himself or something.”

Pope just hums, eyes on the road.

He doesn’t tell you cigarette burns heal terribly.