cam the cunt

You lift your hand up, showing her the raw knuckles. "Had a little accident."

"Doesn't look like an accident." She raises her brow at you, and you chuckle. If only she knew the real cause of it, she'd probably scold you right away.

"Okay, off you go." She lets you enter the ever busy ER, practically throwing you in front of your colleagues.

"Y/N?"

"Oh my god, what happened?"

"Jesus. Is that your blood?"

Lena, Shen and Ellis huddle around you immediately, and you try not to wander around the room to look for a certain handsome doctor.

Lena ushers you into an empty room and orders you to sit down immediately. Once again, they are all staring at you.

"Gosh. I can't believe I'm asking this but did you punch someone?" Ellis asks, clearly amused the most. She's not worrying like a mother hen only because you seem to be okay. Well, besides the throbbing hand.

Your cheeks heat. "Yes."

They just stare at you, completely taken aback. Because they can't believe that you, their sunshine nurse, punched someone.

"What's going on here?" Jack finds y'all huddled together in the small room. He doesn't notice you at first, not when you are hidden by all of them.

But when he finally does, he strides towards you immediately, barking orders at the rest of them (softly of course), the man is too weak when it comes to his nightcrawlers.

"What the fuck happened?" Jack rolls a stool next to the bed, gently lifting your hurt hand up into his glowed once. God, he looks so worried at you and you cringe as he examines the red hand.

Even the lightest touch hurts, and you wince loudly before you finally confess. "Punched a guy."

"You did what?" Jack's head snaps up at you, attention gone from your injury. There's a clear concern for you written all over his face, it's even worse than it was before.

"Punched a guy." You repeat again, a little smugly this time. Because it felt good, so good, even if your hand is in ruins right now.

"Why?" Jack asks as he probs at various point in your hand, you wince and grimace every time.

You sigh before you answer. "I went out with my girlfriends as you know, and there was a creep. And when he didn't take a no for an answer, I took care of it. Thumb out of my fist just like you taught me."

Jack just stares, dumbfounded just like the others. It takes him a second to process your words but when he does, you almost melt.

"Good girl." Is all he says proudly before he's moving towards the computer. He has to occupy his mind with work or otherwise he's going to break a few HR rules by kissing you at work.

There's no scolding, no shaming for doing that, just understanding and that makes your heart feel funny things.

"I'll order an x-ray, it seems you might have broken a bone." He types it in before he turns his attention back to you. "Anything else that hurts, angel?"

"No just the hand. I did want to kick him as well but he got arrested before I could do it." You tell him, and he just shakes his head at you, suppressing the huge, proud grin. He should not be indulging you in this behaviour.

"Okay, well no more throwing fist for you, sweetheart. I'll go get you some ice for it."  And then Jack leaves with a soft squeeze of your knee, and you try not to fully lose it from the smallest touch.

You are like obsessed with your boyfriend, always craving more from him. More love, more kisses, more touch, more sweet words. But he's the same, obsessed with you beyond the reason.

Jack comes back a few minutes later with the ice pack clutched in his hand. He gently puts it over your hand, and it soothes the pain a little immediately.

"I'll be back with your x-ray results once that's done. And we'll see what happens after yeah?"

You hum in agreement, way too content in the fact that Jack's hand is tangled in your hair as he rubs slow circles into your jaw.

"Okay, angel. Try to get some rest." And then he gives you a quick kiss on the temple, HR rules be damned. Sleep finds you easily after that, and exhaustion from the pain, adrenaline and alcohol make it even easier.

-

When you wake up, Jack's there, his work bag slung over his shoulder and discharge papers in hand.

"Morning, sweetheart." He grins at your sleepy, smushed face. "No broken bones, just bad bruising. I got your discharge papers so we can go home."

You chance a look at your hand, only to find it wrapped up in bandage. Huh. You must have slept heavily when you didn't even feel somebody doing that.

"Home?"

"Yeah, baby. My shift ended so I can take you home and take a proper care of my girl." Jack helps you stand up from the bed even if it isn't necessary.

"I'd like that." You whisper sweetly, wrinkles appearing around your eyes as you smile.

"Of course you would." He teases you as he guides you out of the ER and towards his truck with his hand tightly clutching your un-hurt one.

"As much as I love taking care of you, angel. No more physical altercations please. God, you got me so worried." Jack says as he opens the door for you and helps you inside.

"I'm sorry. No more punching, I promise." You say sheepishly, you know he's just trying to protect you.

"Thank you." Jack says and then he gives you a peck on your mouth, and rounds the car. Both of you ready to go home and just cuddle in bed the whole day.

“You’re squirmy.” He grumbles, glaring at you in the dark. “No one ever teach you to sit still?”

You stick your tongue out. “No one ever teach you to mind your own business?”

“Hard to mind my business when you’re movin’ all the cushions, doll-“

“Then go sit somewhere else, robot man.”

Bucky’s jaw twitches. “I’m not a robot.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m not-“

“You act like one.” You snap, and Bucky closes his eyes. Like he’s fucking praying.

“I was here first.” He mutters. You don’t balk.

“Congratulations.”

You hold his glare, and Bucky lets out a heavy breath through his nose. He narrows his eyes, tongue flicking over his lips. His full lips. Pretty and chapped, but in the perfect, soft way-

Get a fucking grip.

“There’s a chair over there.” You point across the room, sinking back into the cushions. “Go sit in it, if I’m so squirmy.”

Bucky scowls, and opens his mouth, but whatever jab he’s got for you, you don’t want to hear it. You reach over and unpause the movie—probably another one of Sam’s this is what you gotta catch up on, Barnes suggestions, because there’s no way Bucky picked out the Goonies himself—and fix your glower on the TV screen. You hate this movie. You’re going to watch it all the way through, just to show Bucky that he doesn’t bother you.

You spread your own legs wide, too. If men are allowed to do it, so are you. Bucky grunts as your knee pushes over his thigh, and you smirk at the TV.

It has nothing to do with the thick muscle you can feel under his sweatpants, that you keep your legs like that for the rest of the night. Bucky’s fingers flex a few times, and brush over the inner curve of your knee and the top of your thigh, like he’s thinking about just shoving you away. At one point, you hear him grunt, and look over with mockingly raised brows.

“Everything okay?” You almost simper, and he grunts and nods.

That’s all you get. Bucky fixes his anger on the movie, you win this round, and you get to be close to him without thinking about it.

You’ll think about it later. In the comfort of your own bedroom, you’ll think about it and think about it and think about it all night. You’ll think about it until your wrist hurts. But Bucky doesn’t get to know that.

As far as he needs to be concerned, you never spare him a second thought. It’s all he spares you. And you’re not going to be the pathetic girl who falls for someone who only thinks of her as a buzzing gnat around his head. Who worships the ground of a man who would step on her like a flower into concrete, not because he was seeking to hurt, but just because he didn’t notice you were there at all.

Although Bucky does seem to notice where you are.

The farmer does like to keep track of pests in his crops.

“You skipped the mission briefing.” Bucky grunts in the morning, glaring at you over a cup of coffee.

Something soft in you swells like a prodded bruise. He noticed where you were.

You ignore it in favor of flipping him off.

“I was busy.”

“Too busy for your job?”

“It’s not my job-“

“Your name was on the roster.” Bucky slams the folder down on the table, and your lips twitch.

“Have you been carrying that around all day?”

“That doesn’t matter-“

“Yes, it really does-“

Bucky hisses your name. There’s a fury under his tone, that makes your mouth snap shut. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

“You need to be there, Steve was talkin’ about safety shit, and if you don’t know it you could get killed-“

“I know how mission briefing work, I’ve been here longer than you have-“

“Really? ‘Cause you don’t act like it-“

“I don’t act like it?” You snort. “Last I checked I’m ranked higher than you, Sargent.” You raise your chin, letting your lips curl. “Which is why I’m allowed to defer missions, and you’re not.”

Bucky blinks, recoiling slightly. “Defer? What, you-“

“I’m skipping.” You shrug, grabbing an apple from the counter. “And if I’m skipping, I don’t need to be at the briefing. But thanks for checking on me, dad.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow. You expect him to snap something about experience and you not being responsible enough or needing to care more.

But instead his fists curl and uncurl at his side. His nostrils flare. He grabs the counter, his scowl burning right through you. You take a large bite of your apple, and his gaze darts down. Juice drips down your chin, and you wipe it off with light fingers. That only seems to make him angrier.

“Why’re you skipping.”

You shrug. You should say none of your business. But part of you is childish. A very big, loud part that wants him to react to something you know he isn’t actually going to care about.

“I have a date.”

“A what.” It’s not a full reaction. He’s mostly staring at you like he didn’t understand the word. Maybe they called it something different in the 40s.

“A date?” You roll your eyes, a little meaner than you mean to be. He always bring that out in you, though.

Bucky always brings everything out in you. It’s incredibly annoying.

“You know.” You push mockingly. “Where you go out with someone. And flirt like people, instead of robots.”

“Robots flirt.” Bucky grunts, and you snort.

“Yeah, but they don’t have sex-“

The counter cracks. It’s loud, echoing through the kitchen. You start and twitch, and Bucky blinks at his metal hand, like he’s just as surprised as you are. He looks back to you, shakes his head, and takes a large step back.

“What’s-“

“Steve’s callin’ me.” He mutters, and you blink.

“No, he’s not-“

“Have fun.” Bucky ignores you. His words sound pushed through his teeth. “On your human date.”

Then he’s gone.

And you’re left in the kitchen with your apple and a cracked counter, staring at where he’d vanished through the door. You don’t care about the date.

You just need to know what the fuck that was.

There’s a part of you that feels bad, for the man Natasha set you up with. She’d picked him out specifically because he had a vague resemblance to Bucky—because you’ve never told her your secret, but you didn’t need to, she’s Natasha—but it wasn’t enough.

He didn’t have the underlying accent, or the gleam in his eyes. You made a sharper edged joke, and he just laughed. He didn’t spar. He didn’t push your buttons in a way that made you light up. He just smiled at you all night—wrong smile, too—and then didn’t pay. Bucky would’ve paid.

You have no evidence of that. It’s just a feeling, that comes from how he still opens doors for you, even when you’re at each other’s throats. All polite and handsome and insufferable. You hate him.

And there’s not a single point during the night, where you’re not thinking about him.

“We should do this again.” The Date—you’ve forgotten his name, and it’s certainly not a good time to ask—says at the end of the night.

You’re shivering. Bucky would’ve offered you his jacket. He did once, on a mission in the Andes. You got all cold and he rolled his eyes and muttered that he told you to bring another layer, but still gave you his jacket all the same. This man is just grinning at you after not calling you a cab and saying he wanted to stand outside in the misty, chilly night. He said he wanted fresh air, and now your freezing, and he thinks he’s getting a second date.

At the very least, you feel a little less guilty about only thinking of Bucky and the mission the whole time. He deserved it.

“Sure.” You smile, because even with superstrength, it’s easier to tell a man yes and then vanish than it is to deny them to their face. “Have a good night.”

He tries to hug you. Your phone buzzes, and you duck away to check it.

The mission is over.

Two days early.

Your jaw tightens.

Most people would think that a job being done early is a good thing. That it means the team was just so focused and coordinated that they sped through every single step, and ended in a total victory. But you’ve been on this job too long. Early mission conclusions only ever happen for one reason.

Something went wrong, and they have to come back.

You rush back to the compound with barely a goodnight to the Date. It’s mostly because you forget, in the blur of worry. You’d skimmed the mission files before they left, just to make sure it wasn’t anything too dangerous. Bucky had been mad about you not going with them. Maybe he’d thought they’d need the hands, but it had just looked like a retrieval mission. Old Hydra facility with some data Tony wanted. Nothing too hard.

But they’re back early.

And if someone’s hurt, you could’ve stopped it. You could’ve been there, instead of on that stupid fucking date. Which also means that Bucky was right, and that’s incredibly annoying. He’s going to weild it over your head, and the mocking is going to turn you on more, and you’ll have earned it which isn’t going to help anything at all. 

You get back to the compound, and it’s not in lockdown. There aren’t med staff flooding the grounds or emergency sirens blaring. You go right to the hanger, and find that it’s already been cleared out. The jet isn’t being quarantined.

Maybe they really did just… Finish early.

You’re heading back to your room when you slam right into them.

Steve and Bucky, standing in the middle of the hall, arguing in hushed voices.

“You need to go, Buck-“

“I’m fine-“

“No, you’re not. You can lie to the docs, don’t lie to me-“

“I ain’t lyin’, I’m fine-“

Your too lost in your own head, barely even hearing what they’re saying. You barrel straight into Bucky’s back.

He goes rigid. You stumble a little, and he grabs your upper arm.

His hand is hot.

Not sexy hot—although it’s also that—but literally, physically hot. Almost searing, against your shivering skin. You look up at him, and swallow.

He’s flushed. There’s sweat clinging to his brow, and an exhausted shadow over his features. His eyes are so blown out they’re almost fully black. You blink at him, and his mouth falls open in a ragged pant.

“Hi.” You whisper.

His throat bobs. “You’re back.”

“I- I got the alert.” You glance over to Steve, who’s gone oddly pale. “Did the mission go okay? It was fine that I wasn’t there, right-“

“Yep!” Steve almost shouts, and you blink. “I mean- We were all good. Wish you were there, we all missed you, but- We were fine. Right, Buck?” Steve grabs Bucky’s shoulder. “We were all good.”

Bucky doesn’t look away from you for a single second. He grunts, and his grip tightens on your arm.

“Let go.” Steve mutters, and Bucky shoots him a glare.

He releases you like you burned him, then wipes his hand on his pants. You scowl. He was the one touching you.

“I was gonna.” He grumbles, and Steve sighs.

“I know, but-“ You get a weary look. Like Steve doesn’t want you to hear their conversation. “I think- You know what I think-“

“Steve-“ Bucky cuts himself off with a groan, running a hand over his face.

He still hasn’t looked away from you. Or moved that far out of your proximity.

“I’m fine.” He says, low and under his breath. You’re rooted to the ground under his gaze, unsure what you could even think of to say. “It’s- I’m fine.”

Steve’s lips press in a thin line. Bucky takes a large, jerking step back. Like he’s dragging himself away.

“How was your date?” He grunts.

“Bucky-“

“I’m just askin’ a question.” He snaps, still not sparing Steve a look.

The attention is getting to be too much. Bucky is looking at you like he wants to eat you alive, and it’s making your body almost buzz in anticipation. You want to jump on him and feel those hot hands all over your body. His nostrils flare like he can smell your arousal. If he can, you might jump off a bridge.

You hope he’d catch you, then fuck you until your can’t even walk.

Get a fucking grip.

“Bad.” You cross your arms over your chest, trying to keep your heart from bursting out of your chest. “He sucked.”

And that’s the kind of thing Bucky would usually mock you for. Skipping a mission just for a bad date.

But a low, rumbling growl falls from his chest. His tongue darts over his lips. He takes a half-step forward, and you lean in to the gravity of his stare.

“We have debriefing!” Steve shouts, grabbing the collar of Bucky’s suit. “Bye!”

Before you can even register it, Steve’s dragging Bucky down the hall. You swear you hear another feral noise, and a crash after they turn the corner.

Something had to have happened on the mission. You just have no fucking clue what.

Bucky’s only been acting stranger. You’d pretend it didn’t bother you, if you could get away from it for a single fucking second.

You walk through the compound, and he’s somehow more everywhere than he was before. Around every corner, in the library, on the grounds, even in the control room while you’re going through the mission files.

“What’re you doin’.” He grunts, and you sigh.

You’re not surprised he’s there. It’s the fifth time today that he’s snuck up on you.

“I’m going through the reports on the mission.” You drawl. “Don’t you have better things to do than follow me around?”

Bucky grunts. It seems to be a no. You roll your eyes and go back to poking through the system. It’s hard to pretend that you can’t feel his presence behind you. There’s heat almost rolling from his body, and thick, spicy and musky scent that’s filling the room. It’s making you a little dizzy. It’s all you can do, not to look back at him.

That would be dangerous. He probably still looks feverish and animalistic. You might moan.

You find the files for the mission, and try to open them. Big, read access denied, contact your handler for permission to these files flashes over your screen. Your mouth falls open, and you whip back to glare at Bucky before you can think about it.

Mistake. Just like you’d thought, big mistake.

He looks even worse and better than you thought. He’s wearing just a t-shirt and sweats, and they’re clinging to his sweaty body. His eyes are hooded and his lips are parted. His attention is so wholly fixed on you that it almost makes you fall out of your chair. You almost forget you’re annoyed with him. Every single nerve in your body is alight, and your fingers are itching to comb through his sweaty hair.

You somehow—just barely—fight it.

“Why can’t I access these files.”

Bucky leans over you, his nostrils flaring. If you reach up, you could trace the stubbled line of his jaw. It’s hard to maintain your glare.

“Barnes-“

“You weren’t on the mission.” He mutters. “Not your files to see.”

You scowl. “I can access the files of every other mission I was on-“

“Steve should change that.”

God, you wish he wasn’t so pretty. It would be easier to think about punching him.

“I know something happened out there.” You hiss, sitting up a little taller. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ll figure it out.”

Bucky chuckles. It’s a low, raspy sound that runs through your body, making you shiver.

“Sure, doll. Have fun with that.”

You shoot to your feet, and Bucky lurches back. Another one of those deep, rumbling growls rolls from his chest, and for a second you think he’s going to pounce on you.

And then you blink, and he’s gone. Leaving you with only that hazy smell, and desire rolling through your veins.

You wish that was the extent of it, but it’s barely the start. And it only gets worse.

Bucky doesn’t do his movie nights anymore, which means you get the TV all to yourself. You watch what you want, and try not to look at the spot next to you. Where your body feels like he’s supposed to be. You stretch out your legs, but they ache strangely without his touch. You get more restless without him. Around midnight, you shuffle to the kitchen, hoping one of those soothingherb thingys that Wanda says help with her nightmares will be there.

Instead, you find Bucky. 

He’s drinking a glass of ice, with a little bit of water. He freezes when he sees you, and moves further behind the counter.

You sigh. You’re too tired to fight him.

“Can’t sleep?” You mumble.

He just nods.

You sigh, and walk over the cupboard.

“You want hot chocolate?”

A grunt. Better than silence. You make two mugs, one for you, one for Bucky.

And maybe it’s just that you’re really starting to worry, but you don’t bother pretending to hate him. Your fingers brush when you pass him his mug, and his body seizes like you shocked him, but you just offer a tiny smile.

His mouth falls open. He stares at you like he’s spent years only looking at the muddier reflection of stars in the water, and has finally thought just to tilt his head up. You let out a small, shaking breath. He’s still burning up. You can feel it from your place a foot away. But you don’t dare to push it.

Not when he’s looking at you like this. The way you’d always, secretly and shamefully, dreamed he would.

“I’m watching Star Wars.” You mumble. “You wanna…”

You trail off, and Bucky’s throat bobs.

He nods again. A new tendril of worry blooms, overlapping with the growing tangle of them in your gut. He might not be able to speak.

But he follows you to the living area, and takes his place on the couch. His knee pushes against yours. He’s breathing awfully shallow, but you’re a selfish coward that wants him close, so you don’t mention it.

You barely pay attention to the movie. All you can focus on is Bucky at your side. How he doesn’t even seem to be sparing the TV a glance. He’s not really touching you, save for that place where your thighs are always pushed together, but every time you shift he grabs your knee. You blink at him, and his throat just bobs. He still hasn’t said a word. You’re afraid that when he does, it will break this fragile illusion.

That he wants to be here.

Near you.

He passes out near the end of the movie. His head falls against your shoulder and his body goes limp, almost a blanket over yours. You don’t move, just staring at a lit up, black screen. He looks more peaceful than you’ve ever seen. His fever isn’t breaking, but it does seem to be easing. You run your fingers through his hair, and he makes a low sound like a purr.

Then he takes a deep inhale, right against the crook of your neck, and a different noise leaves him.

It’s almost a moan.

You swallow. Suddenly you need to move. You don’t know what’s going on with him, but this can’t be what he actually wants. To be asleep almost in your arms, purring and moaning. That’s not a part of him you get to have.

But when you try to move, his grip around you tightens.

You feel almost sick.

It takes almost an hour, to roll off the couch without him pulling you back. When you’re free, you still cover him in a blanket and press a hand to his brow. Just to check. You can’t really help it.

His fever is building again.

You wish he would just tell you what was wrong. Even if he thinks you hate him, he can’t think you wouldn’t care enough to help.

When you start to walk away, he moans again. You could swear it sounded a little like your name.

You force yourself to go to bed. You’re not sure if you want him to remember in the morning.

If anything, you just pray he gets better. It’s hard to hide your undying care for him, when he’s in pain. Impossible to ignore how much it bothers you, that he’s hurting. ‘

But it is Bucky.

And he’s never going to make anything that easy.

You walk out of your room in the morning, and he’s right there. Lingering in the hallway, staring at you with those blown-out eyes, working his jaw like he’s trying to bite his own tongue off.

“Hi.” You say lamely.

He stumbles back like you punched him. “You- You’re-“

“Bucky, are you-“

“’M fine.” He says it mostly to himself again. There’s sweat gathering on his brow and bags under his eyes.

You’re not going to tell him, but you’re getting worried. This is the third morning in a row you’ve found him here. The first night you asked if he’d slept there, and he’d scowled and stomped away.

But from the look of him, you don’t think he’s been sleeping at all.

“Do you need something?” You ask. You sound soft, but you can’t help it. The worse he looks, the more your heart tightens. “I can call Steve-“

“Don’t get Steve.” He steps back. The same jerked movement from the first night. It’s the only way he’s been moving around you, lately. “I’m fine.”

You give him a doubtful look. His tongue flicks over his lips. You take a step forward, and he takes another step back. Like you’ve got a polarity field around you. Like he can’t even stand to breathe the same air.

And yet he’s here. Outside your door, and breathing through his mouth like an animal.

“Bucky-“

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, stumbling another step back. “Just- Don’t.”

You swallow, and don’t give chase when he walks away. Jogs away. He yanks himself away, then runs like he thinks you’re going to catch him and drag him back. You won’t.

But you do go right to Steve.

“What happened on the mission.”

Steve flinches, gagging on his sandwich. You’re glaring down at him with your hands on your hips, and you think he knows his little charming smile isn’t going to work on you here. That doesn’t seem to stop him from trying anyway.

“Hey, um- Do you want a cookie-“

“Steven.” You hiss, and he swallows. “What happened.”

Steve winces, avoiding your gaze. “I’m not supposed to tell you.”’

“What do you mean you’re not supposed to tell me-“

“I mean I- I can.” He mutters. “But then Bucky will kill me. And I don’t want Bucky to kill me.”

You scowl. “Tough shit, because guess who’s going to kill you if you don’t tell me?”

Steve sighs. “Is it you?”

“Yep.”

He stares at his sandwich, like it’s somehow going to get him out of this situation. You wait for him to realize it won’t. You have plenty of time.

“I’m really not supposed to tell you-“

“I really don’t care.”

“Well- You will.” Steve looks up with a sad little puppy eyes.

You don’t have the same reservations about punching him in the face, that you have with Bucky. He’s basically asking for it right now.

“Steven, I swear to fucking God-“

“I can’t tell you.” He cuts you off with a shake of his head, and you scoff.

“No, you just won’t tell me-“

“That’s not- I can’t, okay? Please stop asking me to-“

“Why, because Bucky doesn’t want you to?” You leer. “Because last I checked, you’re the Captain. And if Bucky is your friend, you should be telling his teammates he’s in danger so they can help-“

“That’s the problem!” Steve shouts, and you blink. “You- Look, you’re going to want to help, and I can’t let you.”

“You can’t let me help?” You echo, and Steve winces.

“I know how it sounds-“

“Do you? Because what I’m fucking hearing that your best friend is in danger, and you won’t let me fucking help-“

“Why do you even want to help?” Steve fixes you with a pointed look. “All you ever do is complain about Bucky and how he’s annoying you. I would’ve thought you didn’t care.”

You narrow your eyes, and Steve raises his brows. You know what he’s doing. Smug fucking asshole. 

“That won’t work on me.” You grunt, and he shrugs.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Steve-“

“But,” he says causally. “If I did, I’d say that’s why I can’t tell you. And you know that.”

You hate it when he speaks in riddles. Like you’re just supposed to read between the lines when your brain is fogged with worry about Bucky.

“I- I don’t-“ You let out a slow breath, looking down to your shoes. Heat is flooding your cheeks. It’s annoying. “It’s not- I’m just- Please.”

Your voice cracks suddenly. You’ve been losing more sleep over this than you’re ever going to tell anyone. You almost feel ill with it—like the worry is an infection, knotting up your stomach and making your heart pick up—but that might just literal exhaustion. Something happened. No one will tell you what. It’s making you feel useless and hopeless and torn up to tiny, useless shreds.

“Bucky.” You say slowly. “Is- He’s not okay. I know he’s not okay.” You force yourself to meet Steve’s gaze. “Just- Lie to me and say he’s fine, and fix it, or tell me and let me help. But I- I can’t just-“

You don’t even know how to finish the sentence. There’s a burning feeling behind your eyes and a lump in your throat. You’re so worried. Worried this is something that’s going to kill him, and you’re going to lose him forever.

And there’s pity, in Steve’s gaze. It’s enough to make him break, his voice softening completely.

“Alright.” He murmurs. “But- You can’t tell him I told you.”

You nod quickly. “I’ll say I just got into the files, or- Something- Please.”

Steve sighs. “Okay. Okay.” He shakes his head. “It was on the mission. Bucky was distracted the whole time, and when we got jumped he wasn’t being controlled with his punches. He swag to hard on an Hydra agent. Knocked them back into some vials, and- Well they burst. All over both of them. We put the agent in containment, but he was displaying worse symptoms. Bucky- I think it’s the serum, or just… Bucky. But he’s been controlling it better.” Steve grimaces. “But that doesn’t mean he’s not still knocked up with stuff.”

You nod slowly. That’s not that bad.

But Steve didn’t want you to know for a reason.

“What are the symptoms?”

Steve won’t meet your gaze. “Fever. Nausea. Hormone flares. Um- Increased… libido.”

Your eyes widen, your mouth falling open. “What.”

“Hydra makes some weird stuff. Tony thinks this was, um- A breeding drug. We don’t know why they were developing it, but- There’s no other name.” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “The agent- His cell is disgusting.”

“But- Bucky-“

“I told you, he says he’s got it under control.” Steve shrugs, but doesn’t really sound like he’s convinced himself. “The agent has been, ah… begging for anyone. Bucky doesn’t have the same liberty with what will help. He says it’s going to pass, and he’ll be fine.”

“And will it?” You breathe. “Pass?”

Steve shrugs. “It did for the agent.”

“Before or after the mating?”

Steve’s silence is an answer. You swear under your breath.

“Why wouldn’t you tell me this, Steve? We- We need to get him to someone, this could fucking kill him-“

“I know that!” Steve snaps. “I know that just as well as you do! As he does! But- Jesus.” He shakes his head. “He won’t take anyone. He’ll only- Well- You know.”

“I know? I don’t fucking know, none of you have been telling me shit-“

Steve says your name plainly. You blink.

“What-“

“Nothing. Just- Why do you think he’s been lingering around you?”

You stare at him. He raises his brows, and you swallow.

“Steve-“

“I didn’t say anything-“

“Yes, you did-“

“Nope.”

You press your lips in a tight line. He can’t mean what you think he means. That would be to easy. Too good. “Bucky- He doesn’t- That’s not how he feels about me.”

Please don’t say it is. It’s not fair if you’re lying.

“Funny.” Steve shrugs. “He says the same thing about you.”

This is a bad idea.

Bucky hasn’t left his room in a day. You’d spent all of last night replaying your conversation with Steve, trying to pick it apart for a single reason he didn’t mean what you thought he did. What you hoped he did. What you’d always hoped for, only in the dead of night where no one would ever find out.

But it didn’t matter how you turned or picked at Steve’s words. There was only one conclusion. The beautiful, horrible one that you can’t even fully wrap your head around. It would mean you spent years hating him for no reason. Year thinking about kissing his stupid face, when you could’ve been actually kissing him. If Steve’s right, you’re going to kill Bucky.

After you fix this for him.

If Steve means what you think, you can fix this for him. He just has to let you.

Which is why this is a horrible idea. If Bucky turns you down, you’re going to have to quit your job and change your name and  move to Indonesia.

But if he doesn’t turn you down…

You steel yourself and knock on Bucky’s door. It’s worth the risk, just for him. Always just for him.

“Fuck off, Stevie-“

“I’m not Steve!” You call, and for a second there’s no response. 

Then there’s a muffled banging, and you almost fall forward when Bucky yanks the door open.

He looks even worse than before. And better. And hotter, and oh God, your knees are already weak.

His shirt is gone, and his broad, muscled chest is shining with sweat. His hair flops over his eyes, mussed up and soft looking. He’s breathing through his nose, even as his swollen mouth hangs open. His metal fist is curled against the door, making the wood crack under his fingers. Standing through his sweatpants is the long, proud outline of his cock.

You swallow, your mouth watering. Bucky says your name, and you can’t tell if it’s supposed to be a plea or a prayer.

“You shouldn’t be here-“

“Steve said you need me.”

You stare at each other. Bucky’s tongue flicks out, and you chew on your lower lip. This is it. If he turns you down, you’ll walk away and live. A new life, across the world. You’ve never been to Indonesia, but you hear they have good food and community, and you’re sure you’ll be able to fit right in over time, and if you don’t at least Bucky will never find you to make you relive this humiliation, because it’s been almost two full minutes and he hasn’t said anything, so you should probably pull out your phone and start researching Indonesian names-

“Steve shouldn’t have told you anything.” Bucky growls, and you swallow.

“I- I made him.”

He sighs. You could swear his dick twitches. “Of course you did.”

“I was worried about you-“

“You don’t have to be, doll. I’m-“

“If you say I’m fine, I’m going to fucking punch you.”

Bucky scowls. You scowl harder. You have a feeling neither of you are going to back down.

“You’re sick.” You say plainly, and Bucky lets out a sharp exhale through his nose.

“Maybe. But it’s not the kinda sick you can help with-“

“Steve says it’s the kind of sick only I can help with.”

He’s silent again. You risk a tiny step forward, and he takes one back, muttering your name. It’s a warning. A plea.

“Don’t do this.” He mutters, fists balled at his side. “Not outta pity, not for me-“

“It’s not pity.” You stop in his doorway, making your voice soft. “I want to help, Bucky. Let me help.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut. “No, you- You just- You don’t feel like that for me-“

“You don’t feel like that for me.” You breathe, and Bucky’s body locks up.

“Who says?”

“You’re an ass to me-“

“You’re an ass to me.”

“I don’t mean to be.” You whisper. “I- I don’t- I’m not good at… You know.”

Bucky’s throat bobs. He still doesn’t move.

“Me neither.”

You nod. “But…”

“Yeah.” He swallows. “Yeah. I do.”

You take a deep breath. His whole room is filled with that musky, spicy smell. The heat is almost rolling off his body.

“Please ask me to help.” You don’t bother to hide the desperation in your voice. He needs to know that you mean it. “I- I want to, Bucky, I want you so bad-“

Bucky muffles your pleas, crashing forward and pressing his mouth over yours.

It’s not the soft, loving kiss of your fantasies. It’s rough and desperate, the kiss of a man finally letting his leash snap. He grabs your neck and scrunches his fingers in your hair, dragging a moan from the back of your throat. It turns into a hungry cry, when he pushes his tongue between your lips. Your knees wobble from the bruising force of it. You grab his shirt for balance, scrunching the fabric between your fingers.

Bucky grunts, pressing further over you. One arm drops to wrap around your waist, and the other slide up to cradle the back of your head. The touch his shockingly gentle, for the demanding way he’s almost eating your kisses. You’re standing nowhere near a wall, but he’s caged you all the same. There’s nothing to do but feel the way his cool, metal fingers dig into your hips, and the unrelenting heat of his mouth.

You kiss until your breathing is ragged. He tastes like mint and salt, and it’s a little addictive. Even after you’re light-headed and whimpering, Bucky sucks on your lower lip and takes just a little more. You whimper, gasping for air that he doesn’t seem to need. He tugs on your hair, forcing you to tip your neck back, and he plants open, hungry kisses over every place he can reach.

“You gotta be sure.” He murmurs against your skin. “Tell me you’re sure, doll, ‘cause- I don’t think I can go easy.”

And oh God, isn’t that lovey thought. Bucky not going easy. Combined with his tongue flicking over a pulse point, you almost fall over from the pure thought of it.

But he’s asking real permission. His hold on your hip is getting tighter, and his shoulders are squared and tense. He’s keeping himself from taking what he really wants, until you give him total permission.

You didn’t know you could want him more.

“I- Oh-“ Your eyes flutter, as he nips on sensitive skin under your jaw before kissing away the hurt. “I’m sure, Bucky, I- I don’t want you to go easy.”

For some reason, that only makes him more tense. He takes an uneven breath, pressing his brow against your head and almost pulling you off your feet as he hugs you tighter. You wait, slowly wrapping your arms around him and dragging your nails soothingly over the nape of his neck.

Bucky draws himself back, his expression unreadable as he scans over your face. You offer him a tiny, nervous smile, and he lets out a shaky laugh.

“You- You got no idea, do you?”

Your face falls to a pout. “I have a lot of ideas-“

“No, you don’t.” He drops his brow over yours. “You got no fuckin’ clue, what you do to me.”

And your brain stalls. It gets all gooey and soft, as you just blink up at him. You’re already on unsteady legs. You never thought he’d catch you if you fell, but with the way Bucky’s looking at you right now, you think he’d dive off a cliff to be at your side.

“Bucky…” You breathe, and he drops his forehead against yours. Your noses bump. His gaze darts between your lips and eyes, and you think you might be burning alive.

“You smell so good.” He mutters, before leaning down to press a soft, sweet kiss to your lips. “Taste better than I imagined.”

“You-“ You almost whimper, when he pulls away. “You imagined?”

He chuckles, kissing just your upper lip. You’re already putty under his hands, and you might turn to just a steam of desire if he doesn’t stop kissing you so softly.

“Didn’t you?”

You nod, and Bucky’s lips twitch.

“Bet I imagined more.”

And you doubt that, but Bucky’s kissing you again before you can tell him that you imagined so much it scared you sometimes. The way you were sure that you’d never be able to recover, from an addiction to a drug you’d never even taken.

You’re certainly never going to recover now. Kissing Bucky is even better than you’d let yourself dream about. His lips are just as soft as you thought. Even with the way he’s holding himself back, his touch is possessive. He traces your sides like he’s trying to memorize them, and kisses you the same way.

“Got no idea what I’m gonna do to, either.” He rasps against your lips. “If you let me, doll… You shouldn’t- But-“ He groans, pushing his nose into your cheek, kissing over the slope of your jaw. “Fuck, I want you to.”

You want him to. You want to feel those sloppy, devout kisses everywhere, to get that infernal tongue between your legs. His cock is almost bursting through his sweats, protruding into your thigh. He’d be heavy on your tongue, and split you better than the toys that you’ve used in his place before. The ache in your core throbs from just the idea, and you can feel your heart trying to burst all out of your throat with confession of desire and adoration. But you’re not sure if he’s going to believe them.

“Tell me.” You whisper. “Tell me what you’ve dreamed about doing to me.”

Bucky pulls back, and you worry you’ve stepped on an invisible landmine. That you’re going to be shoved out of the room, the door slammed in your face instead of behind you, locking you out of the room you’ve longer to be in since you met him. Bucky stares at you. You open your mouth to apologize and take it back, but he loves to move faster than your lustdrunk mind can understand.

You squeal as he walks you backward, but not out of the room. He kicks his door shut as you pass it. It slams, right as Bucky pins you between against the wall. He kisses you before you can protest or ask questions, and keeps going until you’re squirming against him and unsure if you should pull him closer or push him away. His kisses wander your cheeks, over your nose and hairline and back down to your ear.

“I wanted you just like this.” He chokes out, and your swallow. He sounds wrecked, and you’re not even kissing anymore. “Wanted you everywhere. Would see you in a meetin’ and think about bending you over the table. You’d get under me on the training mats and I’d wanna get in a headlock between your legs. Bet you taste so good.”

He shudders, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. His dick has shifted to push right near your core, and it’s almost too much pressure, while not being nearly enough.

“Would sit next to you on the plane and think about gettin’ on my knees.” He rasps, beard ticking against your skin. “Worshipping your pussy like it deserves. Makin’ you- Fuck- Call my name-“

Bucky moans, his hips jerking forward. A tiny moan escapes your lips, and Bucky almost whines and does it again. You don’t think he can help it.

“Wanted to stuff your pretty little lips with my cock.” He thrusts again, his whole weight almost collapses over your body. “You’d get all mouthy and I- I jerk off to the idea of puttin’ you over my knee or gettin’ you lying in my bed. I’d- I’d fuck you so nice, doll, I swear I’d be good, but- Fuuuck-“

He’s rutting between your thighs, and seems to forget the story he’s supposed to be telling you in favor of sucking on your neck. You whimper, pushing your hand between your bodies. Not to stop him—never to stop him—but to wrap your fingers around his cock through his sweats.

Bucky moans, his voice breaking with raw, starved relief. You try to pull him back to kiss him, but he just wraps closer around you. He’s almost shaking. You think he’s trying not to fuck your hand.

You can’t have that.

“It’s okay.” You drag your fingers over the line of his cock, and he whimpers against your neck. “I- I’ve thought about it too.”

Bucky slams forward, and you smile at the air.

“Wanted you to shove me down and fuck me stupid. Wanted to ride you until I passed out. I bought a dildo, baby, just to pretend it was you.”

You use your free hand to pet the back of his head, slowly sliding his sweats down to give yourself better access. Bucky’s thick and heavy in your hand. Your fingers don’t even come close to wrapping fully around, and whenever your nails graze his balls, he bucks forward with a strangled moan.

“Wasn’t as big.” You breathe, stroking his dick in long, tight motion. “You’re so big, Bucky, I don’t think it’s gonna fit.”

He grunts, his teeth grazing your neck. “Gonna- Fuck-“

You squeeze him at the base, and he doubles over. He’s almost fully collapsed against you. You want to feel him come apart.

“Gonna make it fit.” He hisses in your ear, and you hum.

“How?”

“Open you up.” He mutters, words slurred like he’s drunk. “Get you all over me, doll- Wanna watch you cum over and over and- God-“

His dick is twitching, and you giggle. He’s working himself up.

“You think this is funny?” He rasps.

You smile, swiping your thumb over the weeping slit of his dick. “A little. You wanna make me cum but you won’t even touch me.”

He makes an annoyed sound, and tries to push off of you. You tug his cock a little harder, and he falls back over with a moan. You giggle again.

“You- You’re a fuckin’ brat-“

“I’m helping you, Barnes.” You whisper in his ear.

He chuckles, and the sound rolls through your body. “Helpin’ me would be sitting on my face- Fuck-“

Bucky’s whole body shakes, when you squeeze him one last time, and his control slip. You pet him through his orgasm, unsure if you want him to notice how you press your legs tighter to try and get more stains of his cum. He pants and groans against your skin, his lips latching back around that one bruise he seems to be obsessed with.

There’s so much cum. Bucky grinds into your fist, and it just keeps coming and coming and coming until your fingers are sticky and drenched. The idea of him doing that inside you is almost a little terrifying. You’ve never wanted anything more.

A choked sound like your name comes out, muffled against your skin. You smile, leaning back to try and meet his gaze.

Bucky seems to need a second. You hope you didn’t already wear him out.

“You okay?” You whisper, and he tenses.

Bucky pulls back, and your pulse picks up into a drum.

Whatever he’d been before, it had been tame compared to this. His jaw is clenched, his attention fixed on you like a predator. His chest heaves, his hands limp at his side. You swallow, feeling a lot smaller than you did a second ago.

You can’t stop yourself from looking down. It only makes things worse.

He’s bigger than he felt. His cum is dripping down his thigh, and it’s barely been a minute, but he’s already getting hard again. You drag your eyes up the expanse of his chest—all flushed skin and muscle—and realize he hasn’t stopped staring at you. You lick your lips. He mimics the movement.

“It won’t fit.” You says again, but your tone has lost all the teasing mockery of before.

And Bucky’s smirk is dangerous. A thrill rushes through you at the sight of it. You’ve gotten exactly what you wanted.

“Gonna make it fit.” He growls.

You yelp, as he grabs your wrist and yanks you forward. You don’t even slam into his chest before he’s lifting you off the ground with another mind numbing kiss. It’s a distraction. You know that. You don’t really care, though, returning it in a second.

Bucky carries you like you’re a doll, your knees bent like some princess and his warmer arm locked around your waist. He leans over, lowering you to the mattress with a shocking care. For a second you’re fully lost in him. The gentle motion of his lips over yours, the way his hands wander and map your body as he settles you into the mattress.

“So soft.” He mutters. “All that bite, doll, but I knew you’d be so fuckin’ soft for me.”

You’d like to protest, and say that you’re not soft. But Bucky’s kisses are making your head spin, and no single, clear word can make it out of the daze. All you manage is a high, long whine.

Bucky chuckles. His hand pushes under your shirt, almost tickling over your sides.

“You like that?” He tease, his knuckles tracing over the underside of your boobs. “You like bein’ my sweet girl?”

You are not sweet. You try to snap that, but it mostly just comes out a feral grumble. You don’t know how he’s the one with a sound mind right now. You’re not under a sex drug.

You’re just under Bucky. Where it’s very, very warm, and sticky, and nice. His cum is dripping over your clothed core and midriff. You shiver as it hits bare skin, and Bucky smirks against your lips.

“Say it and I give you more.” He rasps. “Say you like it.”

And it’s a game. You know that you like it. He does too. But he’s poking and teasing you, trying to get you spar with him. To get you to play.

So you glare at him when he leans back, spreading your legs wider at the same time. You keep your mouth stubbornly shut.

Bucky grins. He traces the curve of your hips with massive hands, his thumb angling to smear his cum over your navel.

“Look at you.” He mocks. “Beggin’ for me and then can’t even admit she likes it.”

You wrinkle your nose, turning up your chin. Bucky smacks your inner thigh, then rubs his metal palm right over your pussy. The sudden sting then harsh pleasure make your hips push off the bed with a cry. Bucky takes his hand away to splay it on your abdomen, shoving you back down.

“You like gettin’ tossed around, too?” He laughs, and heat floods right to your core. “I’ll toss you around, baby. Make you into a nice little cockslut for me, even let you put my in that pretty mouth.”

He grabs your jaw, and you part your lips in a second. Bucky groans, his cock getting impossibly harder.

“Already listen so well.” He mutters, teasing his two forefingers over your mouth. “Just can admit you fuckin’ love it, do you? Can’t be a good girl and tell the truth.”

You narrow your eyes in defiance, and pretend to bite down on his fingers. It’s not a real bite. Just teeth grazing knuckles. But Bucky understands what it means.

Permission to go further.

His eyes gleam. His cock is already leaking with pre-cum.

“Alright, babydoll.” He rubs your thighs, a dangerous smile playing on his lips. “Have it your way.”

In a single second, Bucky rips off your clothing like it’s paper. You barely have time to feel the cold of the air before he’s grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach, and dragging your ass up in the air. You yelp, fisting your hands in the sheets, and try to twist and see where he is.

A dazed part of your brain that doesn’t remember his hands on your hips sees no one behind you, and almost freaks out.

Then the first stroke of Bucky’s tongue hits your pussy, and you collapse fully into the sheets.

“Oh my-“ Your eyes roll back, as he teases the very tip of his tongue around your clit before dragging it through your folds. “Oh my God-“

“Sensitive fuckin’ pussy.” Bucky muses, and you feel the stubble of his cheek pressing against you thigh. “Barely even touching it. Wonder if I-“

 His thumb drags circles just around your clit, and you squeak. He kisses the curve of your ass, going a little fast. You whine trying to drag your own ass in circles to match his motions. You can’t see him. Can’t know if you’re doing well outside of his lips tracing your thigh, and the pleased hums against your skin.

Bucky jerks his thumb suddenly to the side, pushing directly over your clit. You scream, your knees sliding back. Bucky grabs them and pushes them back up, fully exposing your pussy to the air.

“Look at you.” His breath is warm, over that most sensitive spot. “Bet I don’t even need to fuckin’ prep you. You’re so wet, you’d just…”

He makes a deep, rumbling sound, and you almost sob as he drags his tongue right back between your puffed pussy lips. You clench around nothing, his stubbled scraping your clit. Bucky angles his face, letting his tongue flick over your clit. It goes back and forth and back and forth, toying with it before pressing flat. He sucks, hard like a lollipop, and you almost sob into the mattress.

“Sweet.” Bucky whispers, his metal arm wrapping around your legs. “So fuckin’ sweet.”

“Bu- Bucky-“

“Shhh.” He kisses right over your pussy. “Wanna taste, pretty girl. I gotta fuckin’-“ He moans, and the vibration shoots right up your spine. “Gotta taste-“

Bucky presses his face fully into your cunt, and the sound that leaves you almost isn’t human.

He’s good at this. So good at this. It’s a little unfair. Your mouth can’t do anything but hang uselessly open, as Bucky works his jaw against you. He eats you like he’s starved for it. Like he’s a man that wants to drown of an insatiable thirst.

Two hands hold you up in the air, as his tongue plunges ruthlessly in and out of your cunt. You keen, trying to push further back, and the warmer hand wraps up to your spine and shoves your stomach down. It’s a tighter fit like this. Bucky drags his tongue around, and it hits every sensitive area. His beard tickles and scratches, and cold fingers tease your skin.

You get more and more sensitive, with every flick and suck and groan. You’re so wet it’s almost drooling down your legs, mixing with the stains of cum he’d gathered from your midriff and smeared over your legs. The dual heat with his cold hand makes all your nerves stand on end. You pussy clenches again, and Bucky chuckles.

“That’s right.” He mutters, making out with your clit as you gasp for air into the bed. “That’s it, baby, you’re already lettin’ go, aren’t you.”

You whine, and Bucky nips at your ass.

“Aren’t you?”

“Ye- Yes.” You mumble. “’S good, Bucky- So good-“

“I know.” He grunts, pressing his cold, metal thumb down into your clit. “Fuck, baby, I know.”

You whimper, and Bucky starts up on your dripping pussy again. He’s lapping at it, pushing his tongue into your tight hole as he plays with your clit, and white lines your vision.

“I- I’m gonna- Fuck- Bucky-“ You scratch at the sheets. “I’m gonna- Oh God-“

He smacks your clit, spits onto your pussy, and resumes with double the effort. You cry his name, as your orgasm wracks your body. You can feel yourself seizing around him, twitching and writhing in his tight grip as your vision lines with white.

And Bucky doesn’t stop. You’re making a mess all over his face, and he’s rising up, but it’s just pushing you further into the mattress. You whimper, your cunt too sensitive, but he doesn’t even come up for air.

“Shit- Bucky- Oh- Ohhhhh-“

The ache quickly fades into pleasure again. Blinging pleasure that’s just on the wrong side of too much, but pleasure all the same. You squeal, and Bucky just moans against your cunt.

Then you hear it. The slam of his fist against his cock.

He’s jerking off while he eats you out.  He’s fucking himself so hard you can hear it, hear the slap of skin, feel all his little moans and grunts right against your pussy, and the thought sends you right over the edge again.

Bucky moans louder, as you cum on his tongue. Just like before, it seems to make him more and more feral. You have a feeling what lucidity that let him tease you before is gone. He’s eating you out the same way he’s kissed you, with rough lips and a fervor that’s almost animalistic. You’re boneless and whimpering into the sheets, taking it over and over as Bucky just keeps working his mouth against your cunt, and fucking his hand.

Then, suddenly, he’s gone. You whine from the lose, trying to roll over and look at him, but he just shoves you back down with a growl. The sound of his hand is getting faster and faster, and a hot weight drops over your back. Bucky presses his face into your neck, and takes a deep breath. You whimper, and he groans. His hips must be rocking, with how the bed is shaking.

“Smells good.” He rasps. “Gonna- Fuck-“

Bucky snaps back up, and you feel him cum more than you even hear it. Hot ropes spurt over your ass and back, seeping down the back off your thighs and into your pussy. You moan at the sensation, pushing back on trembling hands. There’s always just more of it, until you’re so marked up with him you’re sure you’ll never be able to wash it off.

You don’t want to.

With how Bucky grabs your hips and spreads the stain over your skin, you don’t think he does either.

“Shit.” He breathes out, and you hum in agreement. “Gotta- Flip for me, c’mon-“

Bucky helps you roll over. His touches are gentle again, but the gleam in his eyes hasn’t faded. You blink at him, flat on your back with your legs spread. Bucky traces the lips of your cunt, then slowly pushes two fingers inside you. Fucking his cum back into your tight hole. You mewl, eyes fluttering. Your head tosses back, and Bucky smiles

“Good girl.” He coos.

You try not get all gooey and weak just from the praise. Bucky laughs, and you think you might’ve failed.

“Strangling my fingers, doll.” He teases, pulling them right out.

You whimper. You’re too wet and ready not to take something. It’s really not fair to make you wait.

“I know.” He kisses your brow, voice rough. “Trust me, I fuckin’ know. You just gotta tell me you like it, then-“ His cock drags between your folds, and you keen. “All yours.”

You blink at him, opening your mouth to comply.

But you’re at an advantage.

Bucky’s hard again. His body is wound so tight above you, and his every word is thick. Like it’s an effort to speak. He’s still trying to fight against the drug running through his veins.

You want him to give in.

So you close your mouth, and give him a defiant glare.

Bucky growls again, and there’s no more teasing.

His mouth pushes over yours, and it’s not a loving kiss. It’s rough and quick, stealing your breath in seconds and distracting you as Bucky grabs your knees and shoves them back. You try to chase his lips, when he pulls away, but he shoves you back down with a grunt.

“Wanna be a brat.” He grunts. “Gonna get fucked like a brat.”

You almost beam. Yes, please.

Bucky folds you under him, your knees pressed to your chest and your cum-stained pussy on full display. He doesn’t waste time, tapping the head of his cock against your clit before slamming right inside. You’re so soaked you take it with only a hitched breath, but that doesn’t mean your eyes don’t roll back.

He hits right against you pelvis, when he bottoms out. His heavy balls sit on your ass, and the stretch of him is just enough pain to heighten the pleasure. Bucky kisses all over your face as he lets you adjust, but your pussy is greedy. He’d prepared you too well. You’re more than ready within seconds.

“Bu- Bucky-“ You gaps out, and he growls against your neck. “Move.”

If he’d told you to wait, you wouldn’t have been surprised.

But the drug seems to have overtaken him again, and all you get is a noise like a snarl against your throat before Bucky draws almost all the way out, and slams back in.

The air is knocked clean from your lungs. This time, he hit right against your g-spot, and your whole body seizes up. Bucky makes a low, deep noise, and repeats the motion. Again, he drives right into that gooey spot deep inside of you. You clench around him, and he doubles over, rutting deep inside of you.

“The- There-“ You whimper, fingers scrambling in the sheets. “Fuck, baby, right there-“

Bucky grunts an agreement, and starts to fuck you into the mattress. The angle is so deep you’re worried he’s going to permanently rearrange your guts. Every slam of his cock into your makes you see heaven, and Bucky pants over your, his eyes locked onto yours as your face contorts with pleasure.

He’s not even fucking you like a brat. He’s fucking you like a doll. He grabs at your limbs and moves them below him like you’re just a sleeve for his dick, and he needs you into just the right spot. One hand fists in your hair, forcing your neck a little up so you can watching your arousal gleam on his cock every time he pulls out. He moans every time he pushes back in, and you watch your cunt swallow his dick whole. A wet, smacking sound filling the room as he drills into you. He bends you even further to kiss over your neck and breasts, his tongue dragging in rhythm with his dick.

You try to clench around him every time he bottoms out, but your head is sort of empty, and now you’re just a drooling pussy around his massive cock, moaning his name and happily milking every bit of pleasure.

“Oh- Oooooh-“ You mewl, smiling like a cockdrunk idiot at the air. “Buuuucky-“

His mouth presses back over yours, and the kiss is strangely soft. His fucking hasn’t slowed or relented, but there’s a care with how his lips move over yours that makes you feel worshipped.

That’s what he’d said he’d do. Worship you. And you can really feel it here.

Bucky draws back, and the hand that had been fisted in your hair moves to your jaw. He squeezes again. You open for him easily, and his lips twitch.

“Good girl.” He coos, even if the words are tighter than before.

He spits into your mouth. You swallow obediantly, and open again when he squeezes your cheeks. Bucky slams forward with a groan, looking like a man wrecked.

“You fuckin’ like it, don’t you-“

“Love it.” You gasp, unable to even think to deny him again. “Love you, Bucky- Oh- Oh my god-“

Bucky makes a ragged, choked sound, and cums almost without warning. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, as he pumps you full of his release. It feels like even more than before. Like you’re going to burst with how full you are, spurts of it still being forced out as Bucky fucks you through. You’ve never felt so totally claimed, with him all over every inch of your skin. He kisses you and you giggle, dazed and almost high on the feeling.

And he’s not even done.

The period of lucidity between orgasms gets shorter before it gets longer. Bucky’s ability to control himself almost vanishes all together. You get a kiss and broken mumble of your name before you’re being flipped back onto your stomach and fucked from behind. There will be handprints on your ass and thighs in the morning, and the sheets are stained with your drool from how Bucky railed you from behind.

You’re dragged into his lap right after, and he pushes his thumb into your mouth, then ruts up into your gaping cunt. You’re all moans and ditzy smiles by that point. When rolls you back onto your stomach and sits up on his knees, you just take it with moans and giggles and cries of delight.

He hasn’t just ruined you. He’s pulled you apart a million times over, until you’re just a puddle that sings his name.

You don’t even fully realize he’s done, when he kisses pulls out that last time. You whine, and clench around nothing, but expect to get filled right back up.

Then Bucky kisses you, and it’s slow. Savoring and sweet. Romantic. His voice is hoarse, but it’s lost the strained quality. He’s fully teasing again, smiling against your lips.

“So soft.” He coos, rubbing your thoroughly abused pussy with his warm hand.

You writhe, trying to get further and closer at the same time. Bucky chuckles, and kisses the corner of your mouth.

“Jesus, doll. You’d think you were the one that got sex drugged.”

You try to glare at him, but forget why the moment you see his pretty eyes, shining on yours.

They’re blue again.

“You’re back?” You breathe, and Bucky grins.

He ducks down, and presses another quick kiss over your lips.

“I’m back.”

 You’re ordered not to move, while he cleans up. You don’t think you could if you tried. Your body is jelly, everything is sore in the best way, and your head is spinning with too many thoughts of what the fuck happened.

You told Bucky you love him. You told Bucky you love him. You’d never even fully admitted it in your head and he just fucked it right out of you. You said it fast, too fast, he thought you hated him four hours ago and now he must think you’re some kind of freak for just saying you love him.

He makes you drink water and go to the bathroom. Draws you a bath and brings you a snack and changes the sheets. You manage to find the strength to stand out of the tub and dry yourself off, wrapping the towel around your body before shuffling out in the center of his room.

God, he’s so handsome. All tan muscles and scars you want to trace with your tongue. Too bad you fucking blew it, and now you’re never going to get to touch him again-

Bucky turns, and smiles when he sees you. You swallow, bracing for the worst as he crosses the room.

He takes your face between his hands and kisses you. Deep and gentle and maybe he just forgot-

“Love you too.” He says against your lips. “Just- Uh- While we’re saying it.”

Oh.

Or that. That’s nice.

You throw everything you have into kissing him back, but end up tackling him down onto the bed with the sudden surge of strength. Bucky chokes out a laugh in surprise, wrestling you over onto your back with kiss and wandering hands. You giggle, trying to push back, and he nips at the tip of your nose.

Then he pauses, and pulls up with a small, worried frown.

“You’re stayin’ the night, right?”

You almost snort. There’s no getting rid of you now. You’re going to stay forever, and as long as he’ll allow after that.

“Yeah. I’m staying.”

✦End note: this was longer than my college thesis btw. and i. put more effort into it.✦

✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦

✦Buy me a coffee!☕️ (and get early access!)✦

You worked in the Pitt’s emergency department like chaos itself had clocked in for a twelve-hour shift.

Not incompetent chaos.

Never that.

You were terrifyingly good at your job.

Fast hands. Sharp instincts. Calm under pressure.

You could start difficult IVs in one try, talk down panicking family members, and verbally shred arrogant residents without even raising your voice.

But you were also the kind of person who:

accidentally started a hospital-wide argument over whether soup counted as a beverage.

kept tiny plastic dinosaurs in your scrub pockets and secretly left them at nurses’ stations.

climbed onto counters instead of using stools.

routinely forgot where you put your stethoscope despite it hanging around your neck.

once smuggled an entire espresso machine into the staff lounge “for morale.”

Jack had no idea how you still had a job.

The fact that everyone adored you certainly helped.

“You encourage her,” Dana accused one afternoon while Jack leaned against the desk watching you attempt to teach Whitaker how to moonwalk in compression socks.

“I ain’t encouragin’ shit.”

Dana gave him a look.

Across the station, you lost your balance mid-moonwalk and slammed into a supply cart.

“Jesus Christ,” Jack muttered automatically, already moving.

You popped up immediately. “I’m fine.”

“You hit your head?”

“Nope.”

“You sure?”

“I saw God for a second, but he said I still had charting left, so unfortunately I survived.”

Whitaker wheezed laughing.

Jack rubbed a hand over his mouth to hide his smile.

You caught it anyway.

Your eyes narrowed triumphantly.

“There it is.”

“There what is?”

“That little smile.”

“Not smilin’.”

“Liar.”

Jack walked away before you could see the heat climbing up his neck.

Everyone in the department knew Jack liked you before Jack admitted it to himself.

Mostly because Jack was obvious in the deeply repressed, emotionally constipated way only he could manage.

He always noticed where you were.

Always listened for your voice in the chaos.

Always appeared whenever you got yourself into trouble—which was often.

Especially often because you had absolutely no sense of self-preservation.

“Get down from there.”

You looked down from the top shelf in the supply closet where you were balancing precariously on one foot.

“I almost have it.”

“You’re gonna crack your skull open.”

“I’m literally so graceful.”

The shelf wobbled ominously.

Jack stepped forward instantly, hands already reaching.

You grabbed the box triumphantly just as your foot slipped.

“Shit—”

Jack caught you against his chest before you hit the floor.

The impact knocked the air from both of you.

For one suspended second, everything stopped.

Your body pressed against his.

His hands firm on your waist.

Your breath warm against his throat.

You looked up at him with wide eyes.

Jack suddenly became painfully aware of every inch of contact.

“…Hi,” you said softly.

Jack swallowed hard.

“You’re a damn disaster.”

“But you caught me.”

His grip tightened involuntarily.

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

The supply closet suddenly felt too small.

Too warm.

Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth.

Jack’s heartbeat turned uneven.

Then someone outside yelled for trauma support, and the moment shattered instantly.

You stepped back first.

“Right,” you said, voice a little breathless. “Saving lives.”

Jack cleared his throat roughly. “Yeah.”

But the look you gave him before leaving stayed with him for the rest of the shift.

Jack tried not to think about you outside work.

He failed spectacularly.

Because somehow you had worked your way under his skin without permission.

He’d catch himself wondering if you’d eaten that day.

If you got home safe.

If your shoulder still hurt after wrestling a combative patient last week.

It irritated him.

Then it terrified him.

Because wanting people was dangerous.

Wanting meant losing.

And Jack had already lost enough.

So he kept you at arm’s length.

Which might have worked if you weren’t determined to crawl directly past every wall he built.

“You know,” you announced one night, dropping into the chair beside him in the break room, “for a guy who looks perpetually haunted, you give excellent piggyback rides.”

Jack nearly choked on his coffee.

“That was one time.”

“One beautiful, magical time.”

“You twisted your ankle.”

“And you carried me.”

“You couldn’t walk.”

“You could’ve wheeled me.”

“You were complainin’ the wheelchair squeaked.”

“It sounded haunted.”

Jack shook his head.

“You’re impossible.”

You grinned at him over your coffee cup.

“And yet you keep hanging around me.”

That shut him up.

Because you were right.

You leaned back in your chair, watching him carefully now.

Your expression softened slightly.

“You know you don’t always have to look at me like I’m about to get hit by a bus.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

Jack frowned down at his coffee.

You continued gently, “I’m not made of glass, Abbot.”

“It's not that.”

“Then what is it?”

He didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because the truth sat ugly and heavy in his chest.

It was this unbearable instinct to protect you.

Not because you were weak.

But because somewhere along the line, you had become important enough to scare him.

And Jack Abbot didn’t know what to do with fear that looked like affection.

The thing about being the funny one—the chaos gremlin, as you lovingly called yourself—was that people rarely noticed when you stopped joking.

Jack noticed immediately.

You were quieter halfway through your shift.

Still smiling.

Still competent.

But something felt off.

Your energy dimmed around the edges.

You winced once while reaching for supplies.

Then quickly hid it.

Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“You hurt?”

“Nope.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m literally thriving.”

“You look pale.”

“I always look pale. I work in a hospital.”

Jack stepped closer.

“What happened?”

You hesitated just long enough to confirm his suspicion.

“Got clipped driving in this morning.”

His entire posture changed instantly.

“What?”

“It was minor.”

“You got in a car accident?”

“It sounds dramatic when you say it like that.”

Jack stared at you incredulously.

“And you still came to work?”

You shrugged one shoulder.

“We were short staffed.”

Jack looked genuinely angry now.

Not at you.

At himself for not noticing sooner.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly.

“Hey,” you said quietly.

He looked at you sharply.

“I’m okay.”

“You should've gone home.”

“And left you people unsupervised? Absolutely not.”

That earned the smallest reluctant twitch at the corner of his mouth.

You stepped closer before you could overthink it.

“Jack.”

The sound of his first name from your mouth always affected him strangely.

His gaze locked onto yours.

“I'm okay, promise,” you murmured.

Something vulnerable flickered across his face so quickly most people would’ve missed it.

You didn’t.

And suddenly you understood.

Jack loved through actions because words had failed him too many times.

The constant checking on you.

The hovering.

The coffee silently left beside your charts.

The way he always positioned himself between you and danger without thinking.

You saw all of it.

His eyes searched yours carefully, almost cautiously.

Like he was waiting for you to laugh.

Instead, your expression softened.

And for the first time in a long time, Jack looked at someone and felt seen.

Really seen.

It scared the hell out of him.

The kiss happened because you had terrible impulse control.

In your defense, Jack looked unfairly attractive covered in rain.

The shift had been catastrophic.

Overcrowding. Short staffing. Two critical traumas back-to-back.

Everyone was exhausted.

You and Jack finally escaped outside after midnight while rain hammered against the ambulance bay.

You stood beneath the awning beside him, sharing exhausted silence.

Then you glanced over.

Mistake.

Big mistake.

His hair was damp from the weather.

Sleeves shoved up his forearms.

Tired eyes.

Scruff shadowing his jaw.

You stared a second too long.

Jack noticed immediately.

“What?”

“You’re annoyingly pretty.”

He barked out a startled laugh.

Actually laughed.

The sound hit you straight in the chest.

“There it is,” you whispered.

“There what?”

“That laugh.”

Jack shook his head, looking down briefly.

When he looked back up, something had shifted between you.

The air suddenly felt thicker.

Closer.

Rain thundered around you.

Your heart pounded.

Jack’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

You should’ve thought this through.

Instead you stepped forward, grabbed his jacket, and kissed him.

Jack froze.

For one horrible second, you thought you’d made a catastrophic mistake.

Then his hand slid into your hair and he kissed you back hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

You stumbled against him with a startled sound.

Jack made a rough noise deep in his throat and pulled you closer.

The kiss was messy and desperate and months of tension finally snapping.

You could feel how restrained he usually was by how intensely he kissed when he finally let go.

Like he’d been starving.

Your hands curled into his soaked shirt.

Jack’s thumb brushed your jaw almost reverently.

Then suddenly he pulled back.

Breathing hard.

Eyes wide like he’d just realized what he’d done.

“Jack—”

“This is a bad idea.”

Your stomach dropped.

“What?”

He stepped back immediately.

Rain blew cold between you now.

“You deserve better than this.”

Anger sparked instantly.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Decide what I deserve for me.”

Jack looked stricken.

“You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

“I’m asking for you.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” you snapped, hurt bleeding through now, “because unfortunately I didn’t ask your permission before falling in love with you.”

Silence.

Jack looked like you’d hit him.

You realized what you’d admitted exactly half a second too late.

“…Cool,” you muttered weakly. “So that’s out there now.”

Jack stared at you in stunned silence while rain crashed around the bay.

Then your pager went off.

Of course it did.

You laughed once, sharp and disbelieving.

“Right. Trauma never sleeps.”

You turned before he could answer.

And Jack stood there soaked to the bone, watching you walk away with his heart somewhere in your hands.

After that, things got messy.

Because Jack avoided you.

Not completely.

Never fully.

He still checked on you constantly.

Still hovered nearby during difficult cases.

Still looked at you like you mattered too much.

But he stopped lingering.

Stopped letting himself get close.

It hurt more than you expected.

“You gonna talk to him?” Dana asked bluntly.

“Nope.”

“You’re both miserable.”

“Builds character.”

“You’re flirting with burnout and emotional repression.”

“Sounds exactly like emergency medicine.”

Dana rolled her eyes.

“You know he’s scared, right?”

You looked away.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And I can’t make that choice for him.”

Because loving Jack was easy.

Waiting for him to believe he deserved it was the hard part.

Three weeks later, everything finally broke.

A multi-car pileup flooded the Pitt with critical patients.

The ER dissolved into controlled chaos.

Hours blurred together.

Blood. Noise. Shouting.

You were moving too fast, stretching too thin, adrenaline carrying you through exhaustion.

Then a patient crashed unexpectedly.

Everyone surged into motion.

And in the chaos, you got hurt.

Not badly.

But enough.

A violent swing from a disoriented patient caught you hard across the face and sent you slamming into equipment.

The room erupted instantly.

Jack reached you first.

“Hey—hey, look at me.”

Your vision swam.

“I’m okay,” you mumbled automatically.

“You’re bleeding.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Even dazed, you still joked.

Jack looked furious and terrified all at once.

His hands were gentle against your face as he checked your pupils.

“Stay still.”

“You’re very bossy for a man who won’t go on a date with me.”

Several staff members nearby snorted despite the situation.

Jack ignored them completely.

His eyes stayed locked on yours.

And suddenly you realized his hands were shaking.

Not from anger.

Fear.

Real fear.

Your chest ached.

“Jack—”

“I thought—” He stopped abruptly.

You stared at him.

His jaw tightened hard.

For a second he looked emotionally cornered.

Then something in him finally gave way.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered roughly. “I can’t do this anymore.”

“Do what?”

“Pretend I don’t love you.”

The entire room went suspiciously quiet.

You blinked.

“…Oh.”

One nurse immediately grabbed another and whispered, “Holy shit.”

Jack didn’t even notice.

His entire focus stayed on you.

“You drive me fuckin’ insane,” he said, voice uneven. “You climb things you shouldn’t climb, you joke when you’re hurt, you run yourself into the ground, and every damn day I’m terrified somethin’s gonna happen to you.”

Emotion clogged your throat.

Jack stepped closer.

“But I love you anyway.” His voice cracked slightly. “Probably because of it.”

You stared at him for one stunned heartbeat.

Then:

“You finally admitted it.”

Jack looked offended.

“That’s your takeaway?”

“You love me.”

“You got a concussion?”

“You love me.”

A helpless laugh broke out of him suddenly.

And there it was again—that rare, beautiful laugh.

You grabbed his scrub top and kissed him before he could say another word.

Someone wolf-whistled.

Dana yelled, “ABOUT TIME.”

Neither of you cared.

Jack kissed you like a man finally allowing himself something he’d wanted for a very long time.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“You’re still getting checked out,” he muttered.

“Boyfriend behavior.”

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “Guess it is.”

Dating Jack Abbot turned out to be surprisingly easy.

Not because he became less gruff.

He didn’t.

But because once he loved someone openly, he loved them completely.

Steady.

Quiet.

Certain.

He learned all your chaos instead of fighting it.

He carried spare hair ties because you constantly lost yours.

He automatically grabbed your wrist whenever you tried climbing counters.

He kept extra snacks in his locker because you forgot to eat.

And somehow, impossibly, his life became lighter around you.

Not easier.

Just brighter.

One night months later, you found him sitting alone outside after a brutal shift.

You dropped into the chair beside him.

“Tough day?”

Jack nodded once.

You bumped your shoulder gently against his.

After a moment, he reached for your hand automatically.

There was still sadness in him.

Old grief. Old wounds.

Maybe there always would be.

But now there was you too.

Loud and ridiculous and hopelessly in love with him.

You squeezed his hand.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “if we got matching swords, people would respect us more.”

Jack stared at you.

Then he laughed quietly under his breath and pulled you closer against his side.

“Chaos gremlin.”

You grinned.

“Your chaos gremlin.”

Jack pressed a kiss to your temple.

You wake up already tired.

Not oh, the weight of existence tired but the practical, bone-deep exhaustion that settles in your chest before your eyes are even open. Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. You can tell because the room is still quiet, the city outside your window holding its breath in that narrow hour before morning traffic starts screaming again.

Your lungs feel… tight. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like someone’s cinched a belt one notch too far and left it there overnight.

Fantastic.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment longer than you should, negotiating with yourself.

Okay. We’re not panicking. We’re not catastrophizing. We are simply acknowledging that breathing is currently a conscious activity.

You swing your legs out of bed anyway.

The floor is cold. You wince, more out of habit than pain, and shuffle toward the kitchen, shoulders already hunched forward like you’re trying to protect something fragile inside your ribcage. Which, rude as it is to admit, you are.

Meds first. Always meds first.

You line them up with mechanical precision, hands steady because they have to be. Inhaled corticosteroid, long-acting beta agonist—the familiar plastic weight of the inhaler fits your palm like muscle memory. You exhale fully, lips tight around the mouthpiece, inhale slow and deep until your lungs protest, then hold it there.

One Mississippi. Two. Three.

Your chest burns faintly, the way it always does. You tell yourself that means it’s working.

Spiriva next. You hate this one—the dry powder catches sometimes, makes you cough if you rush it—so you don’t. You take your time, breathing carefully, deliberately, like your lungs are temperamental animals that might bolt if startled.

Then the pills. The rattle of the bottle is too loud in the quiet apartment. You swallow them with lukewarm water, chasing them down like they might try to escape.

Supplements follow. Vitamin D. Magnesium. The illusion of control.

By the time you drag yourself into the bathroom, your chest has loosened just enough to be functional. Not comfortable. Functional. You’ll take it.

The mirror reflects someone who looks… fine. That’s the infuriating part. No obvious signs of weakness. No visible struggle. Just you, hair pulled back, dark circles softened by fluorescent light, scrubs hanging off your shoulders like armor you’ve worn long enough to forget the weight of.

You brush your teeth while mentally running through the day. Trauma call. Likely understaffed. Definitely overcrowded. The usual.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

By the time you badge in, the ER is already loud.

Not chaotic—not yet—but vibrating with barely contained energy. Monitors beep in overlapping rhythms, stretchers line the hallways because rooms are a luxury you no longer pretend to have, and someone is already arguing with triage about wait times.

You step into it and the noise swallows you whole.

This is the part of the day where you stop noticing your lungs.

You move through trauma bays with practiced ease, voice sharp and steady as you give orders that land clean and precise.

“Two large-bore IVs.”

“Let’s get a FAST exam.”

“Type and cross, now, not eventually.”

Your hands are sure. Your brain is faster. You crack a dry joke at a intern whose gloves are on backward, just to cut the tension, just to keep everyone breathing—metaphorically, at least.

The tightness in your chest is there, a low hum beneath your sternum, but you ignore it the way you ignore a hundred other discomforts. Hunger. Thirst. The ache in your feet. All negotiable. All secondary.

From the corner of your awareness, you feel Robby.

He doesn’t hover. He never does. He stands at the periphery, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed, eyes tracking everything—you included. He steps in only when necessary, when something teeters just slightly too close to the edge.

You pretend not to notice the way his gaze lingers a beat longer than strictly professional.

Dana passes you near the med room, voice low as she falls into step beside you.

“You’re gonna burn yourself out, kid.”

You don’t slow down. Don’t look at her. Don’t give the comment the dignity of consideration.

“After sign-out,” you reply, already moving toward the next crisis.

She snorts. “Sure.”

Later—or what feels like later, though time in the ER is elastic and cruel—Robby corners you at the board. Literally corners, planting a hand against the wall so you can’t just slide past him like you usually do.

“You should take a break.”

You don’t look up from the chart. “I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

You finally meet his eyes then, irritation flaring sharp and quick. “I didn’t realize this was a therapy session.”

His jaw tightens. Not angry. Concerned. Which is worse.

“You’re running yourself into the ground,” he says quietly. “And you don’t have to.”

You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Funny. Because it feels like I do.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you hums with unspoken things—looks held a second too long, proximity justified by medicine but charged with something else entirely.

Then a monitor alarms down the hall.

You slip past him. “Duty calls.”

He watches you go.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

That night, the locker room is mercifully empty.

You peel off your scrubs, muscles aching now that adrenaline has finally abandoned you. The quiet presses in, broken only by the distant echo of the ER and the harsh hum of fluorescent lights.

That’s when the cough hits.

Harder than usual. Deeper. It claws its way up from your chest, sharp enough to make you brace a hand against the bench until it passes. You breathe through it, slow and controlled, waiting for your lungs to remember how to behave.

They do. Eventually.

You straighten, grab your bag, and head out.

No one notices.

You prefer it that way.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You call out sick for the first time in years.

The realization lands with a strange, hollow feeling—not guilt, exactly, but disbelief. You stare at your phone after sending the message, half-expecting someone to knock on your door and accuse you of fraud.

Nice try, an imaginary charge nurse says. Get your ass in.

But no one does. The apartment stays quiet. Too quiet.

You’re back in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, your chest buzzing with that low, angry tightness that never fully lets go. Your skin feels too warm, like you’re wrapped in damp wool. Feverish, definitely. Congested. Wheezy in a way you recognize and resent.

Upper respiratory infection, you decide firmly. Unpleasant, inconvenient, but not dramatic.

You’ve treated a thousand of them. You know the script.

Your phone vibrates.

Samira: You okay?

You consider typing a reassuring lie. You settle for something vague.

Yeah. Just wiped.

Another buzz.

Trinity: Don’t die, I don’t want your patients.

You huff out a breath that turns into a cough halfway through. “You’re all heart,” you mutter to the empty room.

Then a private text lights up your screen.

Robby: Check in when you can.

You stare at it longer than the others. There’s no joke. No emoji. Just concern stripped bare of pretense.

I’m fine, you think reflexively. Then, more honestly: I don’t want to be seen like this.

You set the phone facedown on the mattress and close your eyes.

Sleep comes in fragments. Fever dreams and shallow dozing, your breathing loud in your ears, every inhale a little too deliberate. You wake coughing, you wake sweating, you wake convinced you forgot something important—an order, a chart, a patient—before remembering you’re not there.

Good, you tell yourself. You’re allowed to be a person today.

Sometime later—you’re not sure when—you wake up wrong.

Not groggy-wrong or disoriented-wrong. This is sharper. Immediate. Your eyes fly open and your body knows before your brain catches up.

You can’t breathe.

Not it hurts to breathe. Not this is uncomfortable.

You gasp, chest heaving, and nothing comes in. Your lungs feel like they’ve turned to stone, frozen mid-exhale. You suck in air again, harder this time, panic spiking hot and fast—

Nothing.

“Oh,” you rasp, the sound barely audible. “Oh, that’s… bad.”

Your heart is racing now, pounding so hard it shakes your ribs. You fumble for your inhaler on the nightstand, fingers clumsy, vision already starting to blur at the edges. You press it to your mouth, inhale sharply, trigger the dose.

Once.

Twice.

It does nothing.

The wheeze worsens, a high-pitched, traitorous sound you recognize from textbooks and trauma bays—from other patients. You sit up too fast and the room tilts violently.

Okay, you think dimly. We are officially outside the home management plan.

For one dizzying second, a cold, awful thought slices through the fog.

If I pass out before I call for help, this is how people find me.

The idea snaps something into place.

Your hands are shaking as you grab your phone. The screen swims. It takes two tries to unlock it. Dialing 911 feels surreal—like an out-of-body experience, like you’re doing this for someone else. You’re vaguely aware of how bad you must sound. You’re very aware of how little air you’re moving.

The minutes stretch unbearably long. Every breath is work. Your fingers tingle. Your vision tunnels further, the room dimming around the edges like someone’s slowly closing a lens.

Then—distant but unmistakable—sirens.

Relief hits you so hard your eyes burn.

The knock at the door is loud, urgent. You manage to get up, legs weak but functional, and fumble it open.

The paramedics take one look at you and move fast.

“Hey, hey,” one of them says gently, already slipping an oxygen mask over your face. “We’ve got you.”

You nod, or think you do. The cool rush of oxygen feels like mercy, like something you don’t deserve but are taking anyway.

They help you toward the stairs. You make it exactly three steps before your legs betray you completely, buckling without warning.

“Whoa,” someone says, and suddenly you’re being lifted, strong arms cradling you like you weigh nothing at all.

“I can walk,” you protest weakly, mortified even now.

“That’s okay,” the other medic replies, kind but firm. “You don’t have to.”

You cling to that sentence as they carry you down, fear finally punching through the professional detachment you’ve clung to all night.

You’re scared.

Not abstractly. Not clinically.

Viscerally, achingly scared.

And for the first time in a very long while, you’re not the one in control.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You arrive at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center barely coherent, which feels unfair considering you know this place blindfolded.

The automatic doors part and the world assaults you all at once—fluorescent lights drilling straight into your skull, the echoing clatter of gurney wheels, overlapping voices that refuse to separate into anything intelligible. Everything smells like antiseptic and plastic. Your chest tightens again, sharp and panicked.

Great, you think distantly. Dying at work.

Your hands are trembling. You try to slow your breathing, but your lungs refuse to cooperate, shallow and frantic like a bad parody of respiration. Someone says your name. Someone else says your oxygen saturation. Numbers float past your awareness without sticking.

Then—

“Hey. Hey. I’ve got you.”

Robby’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade through fabric.

It’s immediate. Instinctive. Your brain latches onto it with embarrassing desperation. You don’t even have to look to know it’s him—the exact cadence, the low steadiness he uses when everything’s about to go to hell and he needs people to listen.

You turn your head, or try to. The movement makes the room tilt unpleasantly.

There he is.

Robby is suddenly everywhere. One second he’s at your side, crouched slightly so his face is level with yours, the next he’s reaching for an oxygen mask, snapping instructions over his shoulder.

“Non-rebreather. Fifteen liters. Now.”

Someone moves fast. Someone always does when Robby sounds like that.

The mask settles over your face, cool plastic against your skin, elastic snapping into place behind your head. Oxygen floods in, sharp and dry. You suck it down greedily, but it barely helps. Your chest still burns. Your breaths still stutter.

Robby’s hand finds yours. His fingers are warm, solid, anchoring. His thumb brushes across your knuckles in a small, grounding motion that he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing.

You cling to it anyway.

“Robby—” you manage, voice muffled and pathetic beneath the mask.

“I know,” he says immediately, leaning closer. His eyes flick over your face, sharp and assessing, but his voice stays calm. “Don’t talk. Save your air.”

You want to argue—you always argue—but another wave of breathlessness hits and steals whatever retort you’d planned. You nod instead, which feels like a personal defeat.

You’re dimly aware of IV access being established—a sharp pinch in your arm, the practiced efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times. You feel hands adjusting monitors, stickers tugged onto your skin, leads snapping into place. The beeping of the monitor grows louder, more insistent.

Robby glances up at it, then back at you.

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “Okay.”

You don’t like that tone. You’ve heard it before. Usually from the other side of the bed.

Your lungs refuse to improve. The oxygen feels decorative at best.

You see the moment he decides.

It’s subtle—a tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders square—but you recognize it instantly. The same expression he gets when the plan changes from let’s see to we’re doing this now.

He straightens and speaks clearly, decisively.

“Noninvasive isn’t cutting it. We’re intubating.”

The words land with an odd sense of inevitability. You’re too tired to be scared. Mostly you’re annoyed.

Robby leans back into your space, one hand still holding yours.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “Listen to me.”

You force your eyes to focus on his. They’re dark, intent, threaded with something you don’t let yourself name.

“We’re going to help you breathe,” he continues. “I’m going to give you some sedatives. I’ll be right here the whole time.”

You snort weakly despite yourself, which turns into a wheeze.

“Lucky me,” you rasp, then pause to drag in another shallow breath. “Always wanted… the VIP experience.”

His mouth twitches despite the tension.

“That’s you. Always angling for special treatment.”

They tilt your bed back slightly. Gravity is not your friend. The room swims.

As they prepare, you watch with a detached, professional fascination. Laryngoscope. ET tube. Syringes drawn up with practiced speed. It’s surreal, recognizing every step while being utterly powerless to stop it.

Robby takes the laryngoscope from the tray. His movements are precise, economical — no wasted motion. He steps closer, positioning himself at the head of the bed.

You look up at him, at the concentration etched into his face, and the absurd thought occurs to you that he’s very handsome when he’s about to take over your airway. Your brain immediately follows it with: Focus. You are actively suffocating.

He meets your eyes again.

The meds are ready. You feel the cold sting as they push something into your IV. A creeping heaviness starts at the edges of your limbs.

You gather what little air you can manage and murmur, breathless and crooked:

“If you chip my teeth…” you pause, fighting for air, “…pray I don’t survive.”

For half a second, something raw flickers across his face — too fast for anyone else to catch.

His mouth tightens.

“You’re going to survive,” he says, firm, almost fierce.

The room feels farther away now. Sounds dull, like you’re underwater. Robby’s hands come to either side of your face, fingers firm but gentle as he tilts your chin upward, positioning you just right. It’s oddly tender for such a clinical moment.

“You're okay,” he says, voice low and steady, right in your ear. “You’re doing great. Just let it happen.”

You want to tell him you hate that phrase. That nobody ever “does great” while being rendered unconscious.

But the words slip away as the medication deepens its hold.

The last thing you register is his thumb brushing your jaw — a grounding, reassuring touch — and his voice, calm and unwavering, anchoring you as the world dissolves into dark.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

And then there’s nothing at all.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You wake up the way people always say you do in the ICU—confused, heavy, dragged back into yourself like you’re being reeled in through thick water.

The first thing you notice is the pain.

Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just… everywhere. Your throat feels like you gargled sandpaper. Your chest aches deep, bone-deep, the kind of ache that suggests your lungs are still offended you asked them to do anything at all. Every breath burns, shallow and cautious, like your body doesn’t trust itself anymore.

You blink.

The ceiling is wrong. Too white. Too close. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, a sound that feels personal, like it’s mocking you for waking up at all.

Then you realize what’s missing.

The tube.

Your tongue feels huge, your mouth dry, but there’s no plastic foreign object clawing down your throat. You swallow experimentally and immediately regret it. Pain flares hot and raw.

Fantastic, you think. I survived and my reward is feeling like I swallowed a cactus.

You turn your head slowly. Everything feels sluggish, like your brain is still half-asleep.

That’s when you see him.

Robby is sitting in the chair beside your bed, slumped forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he forgot what to do with them. His scrubs are wrinkled, darkened in places like he spilled something hours ago and never noticed. His hair is a mess. Not the intentional, charming mess—this is pure exhaustion. Dark circles are carved deep beneath his eyes, the kind that don’t come from one bad night but from too many strung together.

He looks wrecked.

The word lands with surprising weight. You’ve seen Robby after bad shifts. After codes that went sideways. After paperwork hell. This is different. This is hollowed-out.

For a moment you just watch him, stupidly fixated on the rise and fall of his chest, on the way his shoulders seem permanently braced for impact. You wonder how long he’s been there. The answer, you suspect, is too long.

Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets. The movement must register somewhere in the universe, because his head snaps up immediately.

“Oh—” He’s suddenly alert, halfway out of the chair before he seems to remember he’s human. “Hey. Hey.”

His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it properly in a while.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You try again, forcing sound past the burn. “Hh—”

He’s already moving. “Don’t push it. Easy. You were intubated for a bit, your throat’s going to be angry.”

Angry is a generous word, you think.

You take a shallow breath, gather whatever dignity you have left, and mutter, “Hope… You didn’t chip any teeth.”

There’s a split second where he just stares at you, eyes wide, like he’s not sure he heard that correctly.

Then he lets out a startled laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. It cracks out of him before he can stop it. He scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You wake up extubated and that’s your first concern?”

You try to smile. It probably looks terrible.

His laughter fades almost as quickly as it came, like it burned through its fuel and left ash behind. He sobers, eyes dropping back to you, expression tightening.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asks quietly.

The question isn’t accusatory. It’s worse than that. It’s hurt.

You stare up at the ceiling again, suddenly very interested in the fine cracks in the paint.

Your throat hurts. Your chest hurts. Answering hurts most of all.

“I didn’t want to be…” You pause, swallow, wince. “That story.”

He waits.

“You know,” you continue softly. “That inspirational story. Look at her, she’s so brave, living with chronic illness.” Your lips twitch. “Simply existing, but make it motivational.”

Robby exhales slowly through his nose.

“I didn’t want the pity,” you say. “The looks. The careful voices. People pretending they don’t see you counting your breaths.” You glance at him. “Didn’t want to be fragile.”

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” he says, not harshly—but firmly.

“I know.”

Silence settles between you, thick and humming with machines you don’t bother looking at. You already know what they’re doing. You don’t need the reminder.

Robby leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” he says, “to intubate someone you care about.”

That word lands hard.

Care.

It hangs there between you, heavy and unignorable. You feel it press against your ribs, right where breathing already hurts.

“I’m sorry,” you say, immediately. Too immediately. “I didn’t— I never wanted you to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, softer now. “I know.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then sets his hand over yours where it lies on the bed. His fingers are warm. Solid. His thumb rests lightly against your knuckles, not moving yet, like he’s afraid to assume permission.

“But,” he adds, eyes locking onto yours, “never do that again.”

It’s not a request.

You nod. “Okay.”

He watches you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then, with infinite care, he lifts his other hand and smooths two fingers back through your hair, tucking it away from your face. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts more than the illness. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.

Your eyes burn unexpectedly. You blink it away, annoyed.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice still rough. “If you’re going to hover, you could at least pretend I’m not your worst nightmare.”

A faint huff of a smile pulls at his mouth. “You already were,” he says. “This just confirmed it.”

You breathe—carefully—and let the quiet stretch again.

“I was twenty-five,” you say suddenly.

He stills, thumb beginning its slow, absent sweep over your knuckles.

“Halfway through med school,” you continue. “Finally felt like my life was… moving forward.”

You swallow.

“Then I got diagnosed.”

Hospitals. Tests. More hospitals. You list them clinically, like reciting labs. Pneumonia that didn’t respond to antibiotics. A lung that decided it was done participating. Surgery. Recovery. Rehab. Months of learning how to breathe without panicking. Months of medication adjustments, side effects, alarms, inhalers, checklists.

“And now,” you finish quietly, “I’m here. Years later. And my lungs are still trying to kill me.”

Robby doesn’t interrupt once.

He doesn’t tell you you’re strong. He doesn’t say everything happens for a reason. He doesn’t offer platitudes or statistics or false reassurance.

He just listens.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and steady, grounding. When your voice falters, his grip tightens just a fraction, like an anchor.

“I’m tired,” you admit. “Of being careful. Of pretending this isn’t always in the background.”

“I know,” he says again.

For the first time since you woke up, you let yourself believe him.

The monitors hum. The lights buzz. The ICU breathes around you.

And Robby stays, hand in yours, like leaving was never an option.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

They move you out of ICU on a Tuesday that smells faintly of antiseptic wipes and rain.

The step-down unit is quieter, but only in the way a library is quieter than a nightclub—still full of noise, just less obvious. The monitors are fewer. The alarms less dramatic. No one is hovering over you like you might spontaneously decide to die out of spite.

Progress, apparently.

You sit propped up in bed, lungs still sore, ribs, staring at a beige wall that has absolutely nothing to say for itself. There’s a window, but it looks out onto a brick wall and the vague suggestion of Pittsburgh weather. Today’s forecast appears to be gray.

You are contemplating whether pudding counts as breakfast when there’s a knock—not a polite one, not a formal one, just a quick tap like the person on the other side already knows the answer.

Robby slips in anyway.

Of course he does.

He’s not in scrubs today. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers that have definitely seen things. He looks… off-duty, which feels illegal somehow. Like spotting a teacher at the grocery store buying frozen pizza.

“Good,” he says immediately, scanning you with his eyes in that clinical-not-clinical way. “You’re sitting up. They finally trusted you with gravity again.”

“Barely,” you say. “I could still topple. It would be dramatic.”

He smirks, then lifts the brown paper bag in his hand.

“I come bearing gifts.”

You eye it suspiciously. “If that’s hospital pudding—”

“It is not,” he says, affronted. “I have standards.”

He sets the bag on your tray table and pulls out a small plastic cup with a peel-off lid. Chocolate pudding. The good kind. Smooth. Dark. Definitely not something that came from the nutrition department.

You feel something warm and traitorous bloom in your chest.

“Oh,” you say weakly. “Real pudding.”

“Real pudding,” he confirms. “Procured legally. No bribes were involved. Probably.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, a short sound that immediately turns on you. Your chest tightens. A cough claws its way out.

Robby’s smile vanishes.

“Hey—easy,” he says, already moving closer. His hand hovers, uncertain, like he’s trying to remember which version of you he’s allowed to touch. “Slow breaths. In through your nose.”

You obey, because apparently your autonomy packed up and left sometime during intubation. The cough passes, leaving you annoyed and vaguely embarrassed.

“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You made me laugh. This is your fault.”

“I’ll live with that,” he says, but his brow is still creased. He watches you for another few seconds, like he’s waiting for the universe to take another swing.

When it doesn’t, he relaxes a fraction.

He pulls the visitor chair closer, spins it around, and sits on it backward, arms folded over the backrest. It’s casual. Too casual. Like this is just something he does—drops by your hospital room with contraband pudding and concern he pretends is professional.

“So,” he says. “Step-down unit. Big milestone.”

“I miss ICU,” you say solemnly. “The constant surveillance. The thrill of wondering which alarm is for me.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans. “Very relaxing.”

You peel the lid off the pudding. The smell alone is enough to make your eyes close for a second. When you take the first bite, you make an involuntary sound that is frankly undignified.

Robby grins.

“There it is,” he says. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”

You swallow. “I could cry.”

“Please don’t,” he says. “I don’t think I’m equipped to handle that.”

You eat slowly, savoring it, aware of him watching you like this is the highlight of his day. Which is ridiculous. He is a grown man with a job and a life and approximately eight million other things he could be doing.

And yet.

“So,” he says, leaning back slightly. “You want to hear something incredibly stupid?”

“Always,” you say. “I’m bored and medically fragile.”

“Matteo tried to flirt with a patient,” he says.

You pause mid-spoonful. “He what now?”

“This one was actively vomiting,” Robby adds.

You choke on pudding this time. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me Dana saw.”

“Oh, Dana saw,” he says with relish. “Dana nearly murdered him. I thought she was going to use the IV pole.”

You laugh again, softer this time, more careful. Your chest protests but allows it.

“What did he say?” you ask.

“He told the patient she had ‘beautiful eyes.’”

“While she was vomiting.”

“While she was vomiting.”

You shake your head. “Bold strategy.”

“He’s lucky she didn’t throw up on him out of spite.”

“Or attraction,” you say. “Who can tell.”

Robby snorts. The sound surprises both of you. He looks down, like he’s embarrassed by his own amusement.

For a moment, it’s just that. You. Him. Pudding. Ridiculous ER gossip. It feels… normal. Too normal.

Domestic, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

Dangerous follows right behind it.

You shift slightly, the sheets rustling. You’re painfully aware of how small you feel in this bed, how your body still doesn’t quite feel like yours. How he’s seen you at your worst—gray-skinned, gasping, unconscious.

And still he’s here, telling you stories like this is just another shift overlap.

“Why are you really here?” you ask lightly, because if you don’t make it a joke it will sound like something else.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He tilts his head, considering you in that careful way he has.

“I was nearby,” he says finally. “Thought I’d check in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Nearby.”

“Very nearby,” he admits. “Okay, I came on purpose.”

There it is.

Your stomach flips, traitorous again.

“Well,” you say. “Good thing you had a medically relevant excuse.”

“Nutrition is essential care,” he agrees.

Another silence settles, not awkward, just… full. You can hear the soft beep of a monitor down the hall. The murmur of voices at the nurses’ station. Life going on without your permission.

Robby shifts closer without realizing it, his knee nearly touching the bed. His voice drops.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he says.

Us.

You look at him, closely. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tension he hasn’t quite shaken. The way his hands are clasped together, tight.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks.

“For being dramatic,” you say. “For making you all work so hard.”

He exhales, something like a laugh, something like a sigh.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t apologize for almost dying.”

“Fine,” you concede. “I’ll apologize for the coughing.”

“That I’ll accept.”

You finish the pudding. He takes the empty cup without comment, like this is a routine you’ve done a hundred times.

Something domestic. Something dangerous.

He stands, lingering.

“I’ll come by again,” he says. It’s not a question.

You nod. “Bring vanilla next time.”

He smiles, soft and genuine, and for a moment you forget you’re in a hospital at all.

“Rest,” he says.

“You say that like it’s optional.”

He hesitates at the door, then glances back.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he says simply.

So am I, you think.

You don’t say it out loud.

He leaves, and the room feels quieter without him—like something essential has stepped out and taken the oxygen with it.

You lie back against the pillows, heart a little too full, lungs a little too tight, and think, not for the first time, that this is going to complicate everything.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Robby’s arrival announces itself with the unmistakable crinkle of plastic and the soft, conspiratorial thunk of a bag being set down like contraband.

You don’t even look up at first.

“I swear to God,” you say, staring at the television that’s muted and playing a cooking show you cannot hear and would not watch even if you could, “if that’s another pudding—”

“It’s not pudding,” he says, far too pleased with himself.

That gets your attention.

You turn your head slowly, suspiciously, and there he is—leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there, hoodie half-zipped, badge flipped backward, holding a clear plastic sleeve of brightly colored popsicles.

Popsicles.

Your brain takes a moment to reboot.

“…Robby,” you say carefully. “Where did you get those.”

He grins. Not sheepish. Not apologetic. A victory grin.

“Pediatrics.”

You stare at him.

“You stole from sick children,” you say flatly.

“I liberated,” he corrects. “Two. Maybe three. They won’t miss them.”

“They’re children,” you hiss. “They’re ill. They’re tiny.”

He shrugs, entirely unrepentant, and steps farther into the room, already tearing open the sleeve.

“Worth it.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “You’re going to hell.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I’ll be warm.”

He hands you one—red, still frosty, the plastic already slick with condensation. It’s absurdly cheerful against the sterile beige of the room.

You take it. Of course you do. You are weak and cold things taste good.

“You’re lucky I’m not strong enough to report you,” you say.

“You are absolutely strong enough,” he counters. “You’re just morally flexible.”

You peel the plastic open and take a tentative lick. Cherry. Artificial in the best way.

Your eyes close for half a second.

“Oh no,” you murmur. “This is good.”

“Told you,” he says, smug. He pulls a chair closer but doesn’t sit, perching on the edge like he might bolt at any moment. “Ice helps with inflammation.”

“You stole medical supplies,” you accuse.

“I practiced medicine creatively.”

You take another lick. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

He watches you with a soft, fond expression that makes your stomach do something unnecessary and unhelpful.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks, quieter now.

You roll your shoulders experimentally. “Like my lungs were sandpapered. But upright. Which feels like winning.”

He nods. “Good.”

There’s a beat. Comfortable. The unit hums around you—distant call bells, a cart rattling past, the low murmur of voices. Normal hospital life. You are still here to hear it.

“So,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Want to hear the stupidest thing that happened last night?”

You sigh happily. “Desperately.”

He rubs his hands together, already gearing up.

“Okay. So. We get this patient—middle-aged woman, chest pain, nothing dramatic at first. Comes in clutching this carrier.”

You frown. “Carrier.”

“Carrier,” he confirms. “She tells triage it’s her emotional support animal.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t a ferret.”

“Worse,” he says solemnly. “A pigeon.”

You freeze. Popsicle halfway to your mouth.

“No.”

“Yes.”

You stare at him. “Like. A city pigeon?”

“Like,” he says, nodding, “a full-grown, extremely confident pigeon.”

“Oh my God.”

“We’re trying to get her settled,” he continues, eyes bright now, clearly relishing this. “Dana asks her to keep the carrier closed. The woman says he gets anxious.”

You already know where this is going.

“She opens it,” Robby says.

You cover your mouth. “Oh no.”

“And the pigeon,” he says, gesturing broadly, “immediately launches.”

You laugh—a sharp bark of a sound that surprises you.

“He starts flying around the trauma bay,” Robby says. “Wings everywhere. Feathers. One of the interns screamed. I think Matteo ducked.”

“I would have paid money to see that.”

“Dana tried to shoo it with a clipboard,” he adds. “Like that was going to help.”

You laugh again, harder this time. “What did security do?”

“They refused,” he says. “Said it was a ‘personal boundary.’”

That does it.

You laugh properly now—head tipping back, chest shaking, a real laugh that feels good for exactly half a second before your lungs decide to revolt.

The sound catches. Breaks.

Your chest tightens abruptly, breath stuttering. The laugh turns into a cough, sharp and uncontrollable, each one scraping your throat raw.

Robby is on you instantly.

He drops down into a crouch beside the bed, all humor gone, one hand firm and warm against your back. His palm settles between your shoulder blades like it’s always belonged there.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got you. Easy.”

He rubs slow, steady circles, grounding, instinctive. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just there.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “In through your nose. Out slow.”

His touch doesn’t waver, pressure consistent, reassuring.

“Sorry,” you rasp between breaths. “Stupid—laughing—”

“Shh,” he says. “Not stupid. Just breathe.”

You follow his lead, inhaling carefully, counting it out. The fit eases, leaving you shaky and embarrassed and painfully aware of how close he is.

His thumb presses gently, grounding you back into your body.

“There you go,” he says quietly.

When the coughing finally subsides, you sag back against the pillows, exhausted. He doesn’t move his hand right away. You don’t ask him to.

“Pigeon got caught eventually,” he adds softly, like an afterthought. “Landed on the crash cart. Refused to move.”

You huff weakly. “Of course he did.”

Robby smiles, still crouched there, still rubbing your back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… lungs throwing a tantrum.”

“They do that,” he says.

You look down at him then. The concern in his eyes. The care he’s pretending isn’t personal.

“You’re going to get caught stealing popsicles,” you say faintly.

“Worth it,” he repeats.

You believe him.

And that, somehow, is the scariest part.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Robby shows up this time with coffee.

Real coffee.

You know it’s real before you even see it—the smell hits first, rich and dark and almost obscene against the sterile hospital air. It cuts through disinfectant and plastic and the faint sadness of overcooked vegetables like a promise.

You lift your head slowly, wary. Hope is dangerous.

He nudges the door shut behind him with his foot, both hands occupied: one paper cup, double-lidded, and a small tower of sugar packets tucked precariously under his arm like an offering.

Your eyes narrow.

“…Is that,” you say, “actual coffee?”

“Actual,” he confirms solemnly. “From the cafeteria. Not the vending machine one that tastes like mop water.”

You push yourself a little more upright, interest thoroughly piqued. “And the sugar?”

He dumps the packets onto your tray table. There are… many.

You count automatically. One. Two. Three. Four—

“Robby,” you say faintly. “This is enough sugar to kill a small horse.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know your dosing.”

“I am not a hummingbird.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, already popping open packets. “You look fragile.”

“You’re trying to kill me,” you accuse.

“I’m trying to make you happy,” he corrects. He stirs, hands you the cup.

It’s warm. Solid. Comforting in a way that borders on emotional manipulation.

You take a careful sip.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh wow.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s… aggressively sweet.”

He grins. “Good.”

You sip again, slower this time, savoring it. It tastes like mornings you don’t have anymore. Like being awake on purpose. Like normalcy.

You sigh. “I might cry.”

“Please don’t,” he says. "I'll panic."

He pulls the chair close again, this time actually sitting, stretching his legs out beneath the tray table like he’s planning to stay awhile.

He watches you drink, something gentle in his expression, something that makes your chest feel tight in a different, quieter way.

“You know,” he says casually, “doing ER residency with your FEVs is either very bold or very stupid.”

You choke on the coffee slightly—not coughing, just sputtering in surprise.

“Wow,” you say. “Good morning to you too.”

“I mean,” he rushes on, holding up a hand, “respectfully.”

“Ah yes. Respectfully calling me an idiot.”

He smirks. “I prefer ‘optimist.’”

You lean back against the pillows, cradling the cup. “In my defense, becoming a pulmonologist felt a little too on the nose.”

He laughs. “Fair.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “So why emergency?”

You hesitate, just a beat. The question isn’t invasive. It’s curious. Genuinely so.

“I was almost done with it,” you say finally. “My internal medicine specialty.”

He nods. “Almost.”

“I wasn’t happy,” you admit. “I was good at it. But it didn’t… fit.”

He waits. Doesn’t rush you. You appreciate that more than you should.

You stare into the coffee, watching the surface tremble slightly with each breath you take.

“You know what they tell you when you’re thinking about putting your dog down?” you ask.

He blinks. “That took a turn.”

“Quality of life matters more than quantity,” you say. “They tell you to stop counting days and start looking at joy.”

He exhales slowly. “That’s bleak.”

“No,” you say, immediately, more firmly than you expect. You look up at him now. “Think about it.”

He does. You can see it on his face.

“Dogs don’t know,” you continue. “They don’t sit around catastrophizing. They just… wag their tails. They go full tilt for every scrap of joy they can find.”

He smiles despite himself.

“A sandwich crust,” you say. “A good walk. Someone coming home.”

You gesture vaguely with the coffee cup, sloshing a little dangerously.

“I want to live like that,” you say. “Like I don’t know when it ends, but it could be soon, so I better enjoy the sandwich crust.”

Robby’s smile fades into something softer. Something more careful.

“I want to treat every day like it’s the last good one,” you add quietly. “Like I’ve still got time to chase a ball.”

The room feels very still.

He looks at you like you’ve just said something important and he’s afraid to mishandle it.

“You’re making me sad about an imaginary dog,” he says finally.

You laugh.

A real laugh.

It comes out smooth and unbroken, no coughing, no sharp edge afterward. It startles you both.

You pause, blinking. Then you laugh again, just because you can.

“Oh my God,” you say. “Did you hear that?”

“I did,” he says, eyes bright. “Small miracles.”

You grin at him. “I've always suspected you had a soft spot for animals.”

He scoffs lightly. “Untrue.”

“Mm,” you hum. “This feels like confirmation.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe,” you say, lifting the cup in a mock toast.

For the first time in days, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.

You feel like you’re just… here.

Chasing the ball while you still can.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Discharge planning happens the way everything in hospitals happens: abruptly, between alarms, with a clipboard shoved gently but firmly into the space of your life.

The nurse perches on the edge of the chair, pen poised, eyes kind but efficient. She has the voice of someone who has learned to ask difficult questions without sounding like she’s asking anything at all.

“So,” she says, glancing down the checklist. “Who’s helping you at home for the first few days?”

The room hums. Ventilation. Footsteps in the hall. A cart rattling past with a tray of untouched Jell-O cups.

You look down at your hands because they are safe and familiar and currently doing nothing incriminating. Your IV tape is peeling at the edges. There’s a faint bruise blooming underneath, yellow and purple like a bad watercolor.

“My family’s…” You pause, because the sentence wants to end dramatically and you refuse to give it the satisfaction. “…far.”

Geographically far. Emotionally far. Functionally useless in a crisis. Take your pick.

The nurse nods, already writing something, and for half a second you think that’s going to be it. That she’ll circle home health consult and move on. That this will be solved with pamphlets and a phone number and the gentle implication that you are, technically, an adult.

“I’ll drive her.”

Robby’s voice lands in the room like it’s always been there.

You look up.

He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, wearing the same hoodie he’s been wearing for three days straight, the one with the frayed cuff he never notices. He looks tired in that specific ER-doctor way—wrung out but alert, eyes sharp, posture deceptively relaxed. Like he’s braced for impact even while offering help.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He looks at the nurse. Calm. Certain. No qualifiers.

The nurse blinks once, then smiles. “Okay,” she says easily. “That works.”

Of course it does. Of course the universe accepts this without question. Of course Robby saying it makes it real.

You open your mouth, ready to object on principle—something about independence, something about being fine, something deeply unconvincing—and then you close it again.

Because you’re tired.

Because you don’t want to navigate stairs alone.

Because your lungs still feel like they’re negotiating with you rather than cooperating.

Because a small, traitorous part of you wants to see what happens if you don’t push him away this time.

Robby glances at you then, just briefly. His mouth tilts, not quite a smile.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly, like this is already settled.

You swallow. Nod once.

The nurse finishes her notes, explains medications you already know by heart, gives you the look that says don’t be brave at home, and disappears back into the controlled chaos.

When the room finally empties, the silence feels louder than the alarms ever did.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says immediately. “I wanted to.”

There it is. No argument. No martyrdom. Just a fact.

You sigh. “You’re going to get sick of me.”

He snorts. “Bold of you to assume I’m not already.”

You roll your eyes, but it comes out weak. He steps closer, reaches for the bed rail, steadying it while you shift. His hand brushes your wrist—accidental, probably—and you hate how much you feel it.

He keeps showing up after that.

Not in grand gestures. In quiet invasions.

The first time you come home, your fridge is empty in that way that feels more like an accusation than a fact. You sit on the couch, breathing carefully, cataloging all the things you should do and won’t.

The next morning, there are groceries.

Not dropped dramatically on your counter. Not announced. Just… there.

Soup you actually like. Crackers that don’t taste like despair. Fresh fruit. A stupidly expensive brand of electrolyte drink you once mentioned offhand in the break room.

You stare at the bags for a long time.

You do not text him.

He doesn’t mention it.

Later, when he stops by “to check in,” he pretends not to notice you eating the soup. You pretend not to notice him checking your breathing without looking like he’s checking your breathing.

Nothing is said.

Everything is understood.

He sits in the armchair like he belongs there, scrolling through his phone, telling you about a patient who insisted on keeping a lizard in his hoodie pocket. You listen, half amused, half exhausted, your body slowly unclenching in ways you didn’t realize it had been holding.

Your breathing gets easier.

Not perfect. But easier.

You catch yourself taking deeper breaths without thinking about it. Laughing without immediately coughing. Sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch.

Emotionally, too.

That’s the part that scares you.

Because illness is familiar. You know how to be sick. You know the rules. You know the exits.

This—being cared for, quietly, without obligation or expectation—this feels dangerous.

You watch him from the couch, the way he moves around your kitchen like he’s already memorized it. The way he washes his hands automatically. The way he glances back at you every few minutes, like a reflex.

You think, dryly, Ah. This is how people get into trouble.

Your chest tightens—not from bronchospasm this time, but from the creeping realization that you’re letting this happen. That you’re not stopping it.

That you don’t want to.

Robby looks over. “You okay?”

You force a shrug. “I feel like someone who was discharged from the hospital less than a week ago.”

He smiles, soft and knowing. “Fair.”

You lean back, close your eyes, let yourself breathe.

And for the first time since you landed in that trauma bay, the fear isn’t about whether your lungs will hold.

It’s about what happens if your heart does.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The sink chooses that moment to betray you.

It doesn’t do anything dramatic—no geyser, no catastrophic failure—but there’s a steady, petulant drip from the cabinet below, the kind that suggests it’s been happening for a while and you’ve been politely ignoring it out of mutual disrespect.

You notice it because Robby notices it.

He pauses mid-sentence, head tilting. “Do you hear that?”

You do not look toward the sink. You know better. “Hear what.”

“That,” he says, already crouching.

“Robby.”

He opens the cabinet door. The drip becomes visible, obscene in its persistence. A slow bead of water gathering, falling, splashing into a warped plastic container you shoved under there weeks ago with the full intention of dealing with it eventually.

He straightens slowly. Looks at you.

“How long has this been leaking?”

You consider lying. Decide you are too tired to construct a believable narrative.

“A while.”

“A while as in—”

“Time perception is subjective,” you say mildly.

He stares at you.

You add, “I was going to call someone.”

“When?”

“When I could breathe without bargaining with my alveoli.”

He exhales through his nose, already rolling up his sleeves. “I’m fixing it.”

“You absolutely do not have to—”

“I’m fixing it,” he repeats, firmer this time, like he’s announcing a trauma protocol.

You push yourself up from the couch, wobble slightly, and immediately regret it.

“Sit,” he says without looking at you. “Actually—no. Sit on the floor. I don’t want you passing out and cracking your head open.”

“That’s very romantic of you.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”

You sink down onto the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, legs stretched out. The tile is cool through your sweatpants. You tell yourself this is fine. You tell yourself you are absolutely not watching the way his forearms flex as he reaches under the sink.

You are offering moral support. This is a noble position.

“You know,” you say, “I could call a plumber.”

“And wait three weeks while it turns into a mold ecosystem?” He reaches into the cabinet. “No.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“I’m a man with YouTube and a basic sense of spite.”

Water drips onto his knuckles. He hisses quietly.

“See,” you say. “This is where I’d stop.”

He glares at the pipe. “I’m not losing to a sink.”

You tilt your head back against the cabinet, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His hoodie has ridden up slightly, a sliver of skin visible at his waist. You think, unhelpfully, This is how people end up emotionally compromised.

“You really don’t have to do this,” you try again, softer.

He pauses. Crawls back out from under the sink and sits on his heels, looking at you properly now.

“I know,” he says. “I still want to.”

Something in your chest shifts. Not tight. Not painful. Just… exposed.

You clear your throat. “Well. I’m here for… encouragement.”

He snorts. “Thrilling.”

“I can say things like ‘good job’ and ‘wow, you’re so capable.’”

“That would help tremendously.”

He goes back under the sink. You watch his legs stretched out behind him, the ridiculous domesticity of it all. This is not an ER. There are no alarms. No urgency. Just a man fixing your sink because he decided you shouldn’t have to deal with one more broken thing.

Your brain tries to make a joke out of it. Your heart does something quieter and more dangerous.

“How’s it going?” you ask.

“Ask me again in five minutes.”

“I’m very good at waiting.”

He laughs, muffled by the cabinet. The sound warms the room more than the radiator ever has.

You rest your chin on your knees, breathing slow and steady. The drip stops.

“Hey,” he says. “I think I got it.”

You lean forward, peering into the cabinet like you have any idea what you’re looking at. “I never doubted you.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, I doubted you briefly.”

He emerges, wiping his hands on a towel, hair slightly mussed. He looks… pleased. Ridiculously so.

“Fixed,” he declares.

You smile up at him. Real. Unguarded.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Anytime.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Eating together becomes a thing without either of you ever calling it that.

At first it’s practical. Necessary. You need calories; your lungs are burning through them like they’re fuel in a failing engine. Robby insists, in the same tone he uses to insist patients take their antibiotics, that soup alone does not constitute a meal.

“This,” he says one evening, setting a container on your table, “is not dinner.”

“It’s warm and it has sodium,” you counter. “What more could a woman want.”

“Protein.”

“I had crackers.”

He just looks at you. That look. The one that says I will absolutely die on this hill.

So you eat together.

Sometimes it’s takeout he brings under the pretense of having “ordered too much.” Sometimes it’s something embarrassingly domestic—pasta, scrambled eggs, toast with peanut butter because that’s all either of you has the energy for. You sit at the small table by the window, knees occasionally knocking under it, your apartment dim and soft in the evenings, the city humming faintly outside like background noise you’re both too tired to notice.

Sometimes you talk.

Sometimes you don’t.

On quieter nights, you chew slowly, deliberately, focusing on breathing between bites. Robby doesn’t fill the silence. He just eats, glancing at you now and then like he’s monitoring something important but invisible.

It’s comforting. And irritating. Mostly comforting.

Then there are the nights with the TV.

It starts innocently enough. You’re curled on the couch, blanket tucked around your legs, when he flips through channels with the vague indecision of someone who has opinions but no solutions.

“You can put something on,” he says.

“I did.”

He squints at the screen. “Is this… Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Yes.”

He looks at you like you’ve admitted to a minor crime. “You don’t even like hospital shows.”

“I like this hospital show.”

“They defibrillate asystole,” he says flatly.

You smile sweetly. “I don’t watch it for accuracy.”

“What do you watch it for?”

“The drama.”

He groans, dropping back against the couch. “They’re all sleeping with each other.”

“That’s the point.”

“That’s not a point.”

“It’s a soap opera with scrubs,” you say. “Let people live.”

He gestures at the screen as Meredith Grey launches into a monologue about love, loss, and something metaphorical involving elevators. “This is ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you say, spooning another bite of food into your mouth, “you’re still sitting here.”

“I’m eating.”

“You could eat anywhere.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Scowls faintly.

You hide a smile behind your fork.

You argue about it the way you argue about everything—half serious, half performative. He complains about the medical nonsense; you complain about his lack of imagination. He insists real life is dramatic enough; you tell him real life is exhausting and fictional drama is safer.

“At least on TV,” you say, “the worst thing that happens is someone gets amnesia or married to the wrong person.”

He snorts. “That’s not the worst thing.”

“You’ve clearly never been married to the wrong person,” you say dryly.

He quiets at that, just for a moment. Then the show cuts to commercial and he clears his throat.

“You want dessert?” he asks, like an offering.

You glance at the clock. At your half-empty plate. At the way your chest feels—tired but steady.

“Sure,” you say. “If you don’t judge me.”

“I will absolutely judge you,” he says, already standing. “But quietly.”

He brings back ice cream. You eat it straight from the container, knees tucked up, the spoon clinking softly. He leans back, one arm along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel his warmth without touching.

You realize, distantly, that this has become routine.

That you expect him now.

That when he doesn’t show up until later than usual, you feel it like a skipped heartbeat.

You tell yourself this is temporary. Recovery-adjacent. A kindness with an expiration date.

You also tell yourself a lot of lies.

The episode ends. Another starts. You breathe easier than you have in weeks—physically, yes, but also in the quieter, more treacherous way.

Robby glances down at you. “You good?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And for once, you mean it.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

It happens on a Thursday, which feels important only in retrospect.

You’re halfway through an episode you’ve seen before—something dramatic is happening, someone is crying attractively in a stairwell—when you notice the silence beside you has shifted. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy kind.

Robby’s head has tipped back against the couch cushion, mouth slightly open, breath slow and even. His reading glasses are still on, crooked now, sliding down the bridge of his nose. One arm is folded across his chest, the other dangling loosely at his side like he just… powered down.

You stare.

For a long moment, you assume this is a trick. That if you move, he’ll wake up and make a comment about how terrible your show is.

He does not move.

The TV murmurs on. The apartment is dim except for the blue glow of the screen and the faint orange light from the streetlamp outside. The radiator clicks. The city breathes.

You lower the volume slowly, bit by careful bit.

Still nothing.

“Well,” you whisper to yourself. “That’s new.”

You shift closer, your movement deliberate. Your lungs cooperate, which feels like a small miracle. You reach out and hesitate, fingers hovering near his face.

You have done harder things than this. You have intubated people. You have held pressure on bleeding arteries. And yet.

You slide the glasses off his face with exaggerated care, holding your breath like that might help. They come away easily. He stirs, brow furrowing slightly, then relaxes again.

Unfair, you think. Completely unfair.

He looks younger asleep. Softer. The perpetual tension in his jaw has eased. His lashes rest against his cheeks, ridiculous in their length. You feel something tug in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs.

You set the glasses on the coffee table. They make the faintest click.

He doesn’t wake.

You stand slowly, joints protesting, and fetch the blanket from the back of the chair. The one you usually reserve for yourself. You drape it over him, adjusting it around his shoulders, tucking it in without thinking.

You freeze halfway through, your hand resting briefly against his chest.

Steady. Warm.

You pull back like you’ve touched something hot.

The TV keeps playing, muted now. You sit on the other end of the couch, knees drawn up, watching the familiar scenes unfold without sound. You’re not really watching, though. You’re watching him, out of the corner of your eye, like this might be temporary and you need to memorize it.

This is nothing, you tell yourself firmly. This is just a tired man on a couch. This does not mean anything.

Your heart does not listen.

Sometime later—hours or minutes, you’re not sure—you drift off too, head tipped to the side, blanket pulled around you, breathing slow and easy.

Morning comes quietly.

Light filters through the blinds, pale and early. You wake to the sound of movement.

Robby is sitting up, rubbing a hand over his face, hair sticking up. The blanket has slipped down around his waist. His T-shirt is rumpled. He looks disoriented, blinking like the world hasn’t quite come into focus yet.

He looks… good. Annoyingly so.

He notices you watching and stills.

“Oh,” he says. His voice is rough with sleep. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, trying for casual and landing somewhere near fondly horrified.

He glances around. At the TV. The blanket. You.

“I, uh,” he says. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

You shrug, already standing. “You looked like you needed it.”

He watches you as you move toward the kitchen, tracking you like this is a new behavior he needs to understand.

“You didn’t wake me.”

“You’re welcome.”

You fill the kettle, set it on the stove. Your movements are practiced, automatic. You do not examine why this feels so natural.

“You have a shift,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah. I should—”

“Sit,” you interrupt, not looking at him. “Coffee first.”

He hesitates, then obeys, slumping back into the couch with a soft exhale.

You make the coffee the way he likes it. You know how he likes it. This is information you did not mean to acquire.

You hand him the mug. Your fingers brush. Brief. Electric.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You nod, pretending very hard that this doesn’t feel like something dangerous. Like something you might want.

He takes a sip, sighs. Smiles at you, small and real.

You turn away before he can see your face.

Domesticity, you think, is a slippery slope.

And you are already halfway down it.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The doors sigh open like they always do, like the building itself is tired of breathing, and for a half-second you stand there wondering if it’s going to let you back in or spit you right back out.

The ER smells the same. Antiseptic and old coffee and the faint trace of blood. The lights are still too bright. The noise still lands a little too sharply in your skull.

Good. Familiar is survivable.

“Look who decided to rise from the dead.”

Samira is on you before you can make a clever remark—arms warm and firm around your shoulders, cheek pressed briefly against your temple. She smells like citrus hand sanitizer and cheap peppermint gum.

“You’re squishing my lungs,” you croak, because of course that’s what you say.

She pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes scanning your face with the clinical precision of someone who has watched you turn blue.

“Still funny,” she says, unimpressed. Then softer: “I’m glad you’re back.”

You swallow. Nod. Do not get emotional in the hallway like a Victorian child with consumption.

From behind her, Trinity appears. "I knew it.”

You blink. “Knew what?”

She grins, wicked and unapologetic. “I had twenty bucks riding on you pulling through.”

You stare at her.

“Wow,” you say. “That’s… touching. Did you at least hedge your emotional investment?”

She shrugs. “I’m an optimist. And a gambler.”

Samira snorts. “She also bet Dana you’d be back within two weeks.”

“That was a reasonable estimate,” Trinity says defensively.

You glance down at your badge, clipped back onto your scrubs like it never left, like none of this happened. Like you didn’t scare the hell out of half the department.

“Well,” you say dryly. “Sorry to disappoint the odds-makers.”

Then the shift starts. No fanfare. No easing in. Just a trauma alert overhead and the familiar surge of motion pulling you forward whether you feel ready or not.

You do. Mostly.

And Robby—

Robby is careful.

Painfully so.

He’s everywhere without being obvious about it. A hand on the gurney rail before you reach it. A quiet, “I’ve got this,” when a patient needs to be boosted. He steps in smoothly, redirects with a tilt of his shoulder, a murmur in your ear meant only for you.

“Let me take that.”

“I’ll grab labs.”

“Why don’t you run point from here.”

You notice every single time.

You hate that you do.

You bristle, a low-grade irritation buzzing under your skin, but you let it slide because the alternative is snapping at him in front of everyone, and that feels worse. Because he’s not wrong. Because your chest still feels like it’s lined with sandpaper some days. Because you don’t want to prove him right by keeling over dramatically next to Room Three.

Still.

You overcorrect.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator. You volunteer for one more consult. You talk too fast, move too much. You make a point of lifting things you absolutely do not need to lift, just to prove that you can.

Your lungs register their disapproval immediately.

Dana notices first. Of course she does. Dana notices everything.

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrow climbing slowly toward her hairline as she watches Robby intercept you again.

Interesting, that eyebrow says. Very interesting.

You pretend not to see it.

Later—much later, when the department settles into that uneasy late-shift rhythm, when the adrenaline dips and the exhaustion creeps in—Jesse sidles consideredly into the break room.

You’re halfway through your coffee. It tastes like mop water with a hint of caffeine. Comforting.

“So,” he says, casual to the point of suspicious. “You dating Robby?”

You choke.

Full-on aspirate coffee like a rookie. It goes down the wrong way, and suddenly you’re coughing hard enough to see stars, slapping the counter as if it personally betrayed you.

“What—no,” you rasp, when you can finally breathe again. “Jesus. Where did that come from?”

Jesse watches you with open amusement. “Just asking.”

“Don’t,” you say hoarsely. “Ask. Ever.”

He raises his hands. “Relax. It’s just… you know.”

You do not, in fact, know.

“He’s hovering,” Jesse continues. “Like a very competent, very intense mother hen.”

You glare into your coffee like it might offer answers. Or poison.

“He’s a colleague,” you say. “And I was sick.”

“Mmm.” Jesse nods. “Sure.”

You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Drop it.”

He grins. Drops it. Obviously files it away for later.

You leave the break room before your face can betray you further.

By hour ten, your chest is tight in a way you recognize too well. Not panic. Not yet. Just that creeping pressure, that subtle resistance when you inhale, like your lungs are quietly renegotiating their contract.

Your hands start to shake.

Just a little.

You tell yourself it’s caffeine. Adrenaline. Dehydration. Everything except what it actually is.

You keep working anyway.

You’re in a trauma bay, charting, when Robby’s voice cuts in softly behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn around. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

There’s a pause. You can feel his eyes on you, assessing, cataloging details you wish he’d miss.

“You’re breathing shallow,” he says. “And your hands—”

You clench them into fists. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not breathing right.”

That one lands.

You straighten, bristling. “I’m breathing fine.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp. “Come with me.”

Before you can argue, his hand is at your elbow—not rough, but insistent—and he steers you down the corridor, past curious glances, past the noise and chaos and beeping life support of the department, until he shoves open a stairwell door.

It slams shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

The stairwell smells like dust and disinfectant and old concrete. It’s quiet in the way hospitals never really are—muffled, sealed-off, like you’ve stepped into a pocket outside of time.

Robby turns on you.

He’s furious.

Not loud-furious. Worse. Tight-furious. His hands are clenched at his sides, shoulders rigid, eyes bright with something sharp and dangerous and very close to breaking.

“What were you thinking?” he demands.

Your hackles go up instantly. Reflex. Survival.

“What was I thinking?” you snap. “I was thinking it’s my first day back and I didn’t want to be treated like a patient.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” you cut in, heat flaring in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs. “You don’t get to manage me like a liability.”

His mouth opens, then shuts. For a second you think he might actually shout.

Instead, his voice cracks.

“I barely survived taking Adamson off ECMO,” he says, words coming out raw, unarmored. “I watched that man hover between here and gone for weeks. Doing that to you—” His breath stutters. “That would destroy me.”

The world tilts.

That stops you cold.

You really look at him then. The red-rimmed eyes he’s been pretending aren’t there. The tension carved into his face like he’s been holding himself together with stubbornness and caffeine. There are tears shining, unshed but very much present, clinging to his lower lashes.

Oh.

This isn’t about protocols.

This is fear. Naked and shaking and standing right in front of you.

Your chest tightens for an entirely different reason.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping closer. Your hands come up without thinking, cupping his face, thumbs warm against his jaw. He leans into the touch like he’s been falling and finally found something solid.

“Look at me,” you murmur.

His eyes flick up, searching.

“You’re not losing me,” you say. Steady. Certain. “I’m still here. I’m stubborn. You know this.”

A broken sound slips out of him—half laugh, half sob—and then he’s kissing you.

It’s not careful.

It’s not polite.

It’s desperate.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding his breath all day and only just remembered how to inhale. There’s anger in it, and fear, and this aching, unspoken don’t leave me that pulses through the contact.

You gasp, startled, and he makes that small, fractured sound against your lips—like something inside him finally gave way—and suddenly your back is against the wall, cool concrete biting through your scrubs as he crowds in close.

You kiss him back.

Hard.

Your fingers fist in his scrubs, dragging him closer, closer, like proximity alone might stitch him back together. His hands are everywhere and nowhere—at your waist, your shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of your head as if afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t keep a hand on you.

Your lungs burn, but you don’t care. You’re dizzy with it—him, the taste of peppermint and coffee and something unmistakably Robby. The way he kisses like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he needs proof you’re real.

When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead presses to yours, breath uneven, yours matching it.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then reality taps politely on the glass.

“We need to get back,” he says, voice rough.

“Later,” you reply immediately, without opening your eyes. “We’re talking later.”

He huffs a weak laugh.

You add, because it feels necessary, “You don’t get to kiss your way out of this.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle and trembling.

“Damn,” he murmurs. “Worth a try.”

You smile despite yourself—soft, tired, resolute.

Yeah. You’re definitely not done with this conversation.

But for now, you straighten your scrubs, take a breath you probably should have taken an hour ago, and open the stairwell door—together.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

After the shift, you talk.

Really talk.

It happens in that strange limbo after sign-out, when the department exhales and the noise dulls to a manageable hum. The lockers clang shut one by one. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall. The world keeps going.

You’re sitting on the edge of a bench in the staff room, shoes kicked off, feet aching, chest finally behaving itself. Robby stands across from you, arms crossed—not defensive, exactly, but contained. Like he’s afraid if he relaxes, something important might spill out.

You break the silence first. Of course you do.

“Okay,” you say. “We need to talk about… all of that.”

His shoulders tense. Then he nods. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks wrecked in the quiet aftermath way—eyes tired, jaw tight, hair flattened from running his hands through it too many times. He’s listening already, which is a good sign. Encouraging.

“You don’t get to act like my—” you search for the right word, then huff softly. “Like my keeper. Especially when we never named whatever this is.”

He flinches, just a little. Not from the words—more from the accuracy.

“I know,” he says quickly. “I crossed a line.”

“You were scared,” you say, not unkindly. “I get that. But fear doesn’t give you ownership.”

His gaze drops to the floor. He nods again, slower this time.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to make you feel… managed. Or trapped. Or like you owed me anything.”

You let that settle. Let him feel the weight of it, because he can handle it.

“Thank you,” you say. “And for the record—I will tell you if I’m not okay. You don’t have to read tea leaves.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting all day to escape.

“I’m still learning,” he admits. “I’m better at protocols than… people I care about.”

You snort. “Shocking.”

That earns you a faint smile. Then he straightens, visibly bracing himself.

He takes a breath.

“I want to take you out,” he says. Clear. Direct. Terrifyingly earnest. “Somewhere not fluorescent. As a date.”

Your heart does a stupid, traitorous little skip.

You pretend to consider it, because you’re not a monster. Or maybe because you enjoy watching him sweat.

“Hmm,” you say thoughtfully. “A date.”

“Yes,” he says, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

Relief flashes across his face so fast it’s almost comical.

“But,” you add, holding up a finger.

He freezes. “Okay.”

“I need a ride home.”

“…Okay.”

“And,” you continue, sweetly, “I need you to kiss me like that again.”

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then color blooms across his cheeks—actual, honest-to-God blush. It spreads fast, like he’s lost a battle with his own circulatory system.

“Oh,” he says. Eloquently.

You grin. “Those are my terms.”

He rubs the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“You’ll survive,” you assure him.

Taglist:

You wake up already tired.

Not oh, the weight of existence tired but the practical, bone-deep exhaustion that settles in your chest before your eyes are even open. Your alarm hasn’t gone off yet. You can tell because the room is still quiet, the city outside your window holding its breath in that narrow hour before morning traffic starts screaming again.

Your lungs feel… tight. Not dramatic. Just wrong. Like someone’s cinched a belt one notch too far and left it there overnight.

Fantastic.

You stare at the ceiling for a moment longer than you should, negotiating with yourself.

Okay. We’re not panicking. We’re not catastrophizing. We are simply acknowledging that breathing is currently a conscious activity.

You swing your legs out of bed anyway.

The floor is cold. You wince, more out of habit than pain, and shuffle toward the kitchen, shoulders already hunched forward like you’re trying to protect something fragile inside your ribcage. Which, rude as it is to admit, you are.

Meds first. Always meds first.

You line them up with mechanical precision, hands steady because they have to be. Inhaled corticosteroid, long-acting beta agonist—the familiar plastic weight of the inhaler fits your palm like muscle memory. You exhale fully, lips tight around the mouthpiece, inhale slow and deep until your lungs protest, then hold it there.

One Mississippi. Two. Three.

Your chest burns faintly, the way it always does. You tell yourself that means it’s working.

Spiriva next. You hate this one—the dry powder catches sometimes, makes you cough if you rush it—so you don’t. You take your time, breathing carefully, deliberately, like your lungs are temperamental animals that might bolt if startled.

Then the pills. The rattle of the bottle is too loud in the quiet apartment. You swallow them with lukewarm water, chasing them down like they might try to escape.

Supplements follow. Vitamin D. Magnesium. The illusion of control.

By the time you drag yourself into the bathroom, your chest has loosened just enough to be functional. Not comfortable. Functional. You’ll take it.

The mirror reflects someone who looks… fine. That’s the infuriating part. No obvious signs of weakness. No visible struggle. Just you, hair pulled back, dark circles softened by fluorescent light, scrubs hanging off your shoulders like armor you’ve worn long enough to forget the weight of.

You brush your teeth while mentally running through the day. Trauma call. Likely understaffed. Definitely overcrowded. The usual.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

By the time you badge in, the ER is already loud.

Not chaotic—not yet—but vibrating with barely contained energy. Monitors beep in overlapping rhythms, stretchers line the hallways because rooms are a luxury you no longer pretend to have, and someone is already arguing with triage about wait times.

You step into it and the noise swallows you whole.

This is the part of the day where you stop noticing your lungs.

You move through trauma bays with practiced ease, voice sharp and steady as you give orders that land clean and precise.

“Two large-bore IVs.”

“Let’s get a FAST exam.”

“Type and cross, now, not eventually.”

Your hands are sure. Your brain is faster. You crack a dry joke at a intern whose gloves are on backward, just to cut the tension, just to keep everyone breathing—metaphorically, at least.

The tightness in your chest is there, a low hum beneath your sternum, but you ignore it the way you ignore a hundred other discomforts. Hunger. Thirst. The ache in your feet. All negotiable. All secondary.

From the corner of your awareness, you feel Robby.

He doesn’t hover. He never does. He stands at the periphery, arms crossed, posture deceptively relaxed, eyes tracking everything—you included. He steps in only when necessary, when something teeters just slightly too close to the edge.

You pretend not to notice the way his gaze lingers a beat longer than strictly professional.

Dana passes you near the med room, voice low as she falls into step beside you.

“You’re gonna burn yourself out, kid.”

You don’t slow down. Don’t look at her. Don’t give the comment the dignity of consideration.

“After sign-out,” you reply, already moving toward the next crisis.

She snorts. “Sure.”

Later—or what feels like later, though time in the ER is elastic and cruel—Robby corners you at the board. Literally corners, planting a hand against the wall so you can’t just slide past him like you usually do.

“You should take a break.”

You don’t look up from the chart. “I’m fine.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

You finally meet his eyes then, irritation flaring sharp and quick. “I didn’t realize this was a therapy session.”

His jaw tightens. Not angry. Concerned. Which is worse.

“You’re running yourself into the ground,” he says quietly. “And you don’t have to.”

You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Funny. Because it feels like I do.”

For a moment, neither of you moves. The space between you hums with unspoken things—looks held a second too long, proximity justified by medicine but charged with something else entirely.

Then a monitor alarms down the hall.

You slip past him. “Duty calls.”

He watches you go.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

That night, the locker room is mercifully empty.

You peel off your scrubs, muscles aching now that adrenaline has finally abandoned you. The quiet presses in, broken only by the distant echo of the ER and the harsh hum of fluorescent lights.

That’s when the cough hits.

Harder than usual. Deeper. It claws its way up from your chest, sharp enough to make you brace a hand against the bench until it passes. You breathe through it, slow and controlled, waiting for your lungs to remember how to behave.

They do. Eventually.

You straighten, grab your bag, and head out.

No one notices.

You prefer it that way.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You call out sick for the first time in years.

The realization lands with a strange, hollow feeling—not guilt, exactly, but disbelief. You stare at your phone after sending the message, half-expecting someone to knock on your door and accuse you of fraud.

Nice try, an imaginary charge nurse says. Get your ass in.

But no one does. The apartment stays quiet. Too quiet.

You’re back in bed, sheets tangled around your legs, your chest buzzing with that low, angry tightness that never fully lets go. Your skin feels too warm, like you’re wrapped in damp wool. Feverish, definitely. Congested. Wheezy in a way you recognize and resent.

Upper respiratory infection, you decide firmly. Unpleasant, inconvenient, but not dramatic.

You’ve treated a thousand of them. You know the script.

Your phone vibrates.

Samira: You okay?

You consider typing a reassuring lie. You settle for something vague.

Yeah. Just wiped.

Another buzz.

Trinity: Don’t die, I don’t want your patients.

You huff out a breath that turns into a cough halfway through. “You’re all heart,” you mutter to the empty room.

Then a private text lights up your screen.

Robby: Check in when you can.

You stare at it longer than the others. There’s no joke. No emoji. Just concern stripped bare of pretense.

I’m fine, you think reflexively. Then, more honestly: I don’t want to be seen like this.

You set the phone facedown on the mattress and close your eyes.

Sleep comes in fragments. Fever dreams and shallow dozing, your breathing loud in your ears, every inhale a little too deliberate. You wake coughing, you wake sweating, you wake convinced you forgot something important—an order, a chart, a patient—before remembering you’re not there.

Good, you tell yourself. You’re allowed to be a person today.

Sometime later—you’re not sure when—you wake up wrong.

Not groggy-wrong or disoriented-wrong. This is sharper. Immediate. Your eyes fly open and your body knows before your brain catches up.

You can’t breathe.

Not it hurts to breathe. Not this is uncomfortable.

You gasp, chest heaving, and nothing comes in. Your lungs feel like they’ve turned to stone, frozen mid-exhale. You suck in air again, harder this time, panic spiking hot and fast—

Nothing.

“Oh,” you rasp, the sound barely audible. “Oh, that’s… bad.”

Your heart is racing now, pounding so hard it shakes your ribs. You fumble for your inhaler on the nightstand, fingers clumsy, vision already starting to blur at the edges. You press it to your mouth, inhale sharply, trigger the dose.

Once.

Twice.

It does nothing.

The wheeze worsens, a high-pitched, traitorous sound you recognize from textbooks and trauma bays—from other patients. You sit up too fast and the room tilts violently.

Okay, you think dimly. We are officially outside the home management plan.

For one dizzying second, a cold, awful thought slices through the fog.

If I pass out before I call for help, this is how people find me.

The idea snaps something into place.

Your hands are shaking as you grab your phone. The screen swims. It takes two tries to unlock it. Dialing 911 feels surreal—like an out-of-body experience, like you’re doing this for someone else. You’re vaguely aware of how bad you must sound. You’re very aware of how little air you’re moving.

The minutes stretch unbearably long. Every breath is work. Your fingers tingle. Your vision tunnels further, the room dimming around the edges like someone’s slowly closing a lens.

Then—distant but unmistakable—sirens.

Relief hits you so hard your eyes burn.

The knock at the door is loud, urgent. You manage to get up, legs weak but functional, and fumble it open.

The paramedics take one look at you and move fast.

“Hey, hey,” one of them says gently, already slipping an oxygen mask over your face. “We’ve got you.”

You nod, or think you do. The cool rush of oxygen feels like mercy, like something you don’t deserve but are taking anyway.

They help you toward the stairs. You make it exactly three steps before your legs betray you completely, buckling without warning.

“Whoa,” someone says, and suddenly you’re being lifted, strong arms cradling you like you weigh nothing at all.

“I can walk,” you protest weakly, mortified even now.

“That’s okay,” the other medic replies, kind but firm. “You don’t have to.”

You cling to that sentence as they carry you down, fear finally punching through the professional detachment you’ve clung to all night.

You’re scared.

Not abstractly. Not clinically.

Viscerally, achingly scared.

And for the first time in a very long while, you’re not the one in control.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You arrive at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center barely coherent, which feels unfair considering you know this place blindfolded.

The automatic doors part and the world assaults you all at once—fluorescent lights drilling straight into your skull, the echoing clatter of gurney wheels, overlapping voices that refuse to separate into anything intelligible. Everything smells like antiseptic and plastic. Your chest tightens again, sharp and panicked.

Great, you think distantly. Dying at work.

Your hands are trembling. You try to slow your breathing, but your lungs refuse to cooperate, shallow and frantic like a bad parody of respiration. Someone says your name. Someone else says your oxygen saturation. Numbers float past your awareness without sticking.

Then—

“Hey. Hey. I’ve got you.”

Robby’s voice cuts through the noise like a blade through fabric.

It’s immediate. Instinctive. Your brain latches onto it with embarrassing desperation. You don’t even have to look to know it’s him—the exact cadence, the low steadiness he uses when everything’s about to go to hell and he needs people to listen.

You turn your head, or try to. The movement makes the room tilt unpleasantly.

There he is.

Robby is suddenly everywhere. One second he’s at your side, crouched slightly so his face is level with yours, the next he’s reaching for an oxygen mask, snapping instructions over his shoulder.

“Non-rebreather. Fifteen liters. Now.”

Someone moves fast. Someone always does when Robby sounds like that.

The mask settles over your face, cool plastic against your skin, elastic snapping into place behind your head. Oxygen floods in, sharp and dry. You suck it down greedily, but it barely helps. Your chest still burns. Your breaths still stutter.

Robby’s hand finds yours. His fingers are warm, solid, anchoring. His thumb brushes across your knuckles in a small, grounding motion that he probably doesn’t even realize he’s doing.

You cling to it anyway.

“Robby—” you manage, voice muffled and pathetic beneath the mask.

“I know,” he says immediately, leaning closer. His eyes flick over your face, sharp and assessing, but his voice stays calm. “Don’t talk. Save your air.”

You want to argue—you always argue—but another wave of breathlessness hits and steals whatever retort you’d planned. You nod instead, which feels like a personal defeat.

You’re dimly aware of IV access being established—a sharp pinch in your arm, the practiced efficiency of someone who’s done this a thousand times. You feel hands adjusting monitors, stickers tugged onto your skin, leads snapping into place. The beeping of the monitor grows louder, more insistent.

Robby glances up at it, then back at you.

“Okay,” he says, mostly to himself. “Okay.”

You don’t like that tone. You’ve heard it before. Usually from the other side of the bed.

Your lungs refuse to improve. The oxygen feels decorative at best.

You see the moment he decides.

It’s subtle—a tightening of his jaw, the way his shoulders square—but you recognize it instantly. The same expression he gets when the plan changes from let’s see to we’re doing this now.

He straightens and speaks clearly, decisively.

“Noninvasive isn’t cutting it. We’re intubating.”

The words land with an odd sense of inevitability. You’re too tired to be scared. Mostly you’re annoyed.

Robby leans back into your space, one hand still holding yours.

“Hey,” he says again, softer now. “Listen to me.”

You force your eyes to focus on his. They’re dark, intent, threaded with something you don’t let yourself name.

“We’re going to help you breathe,” he continues. “I’m going to give you some sedatives. I’ll be right here the whole time.”

You snort weakly despite yourself, which turns into a wheeze.

“Lucky me,” you rasp, then pause to drag in another shallow breath. “Always wanted… the VIP experience.”

His mouth twitches despite the tension.

“That’s you. Always angling for special treatment.”

They tilt your bed back slightly. Gravity is not your friend. The room swims.

As they prepare, you watch with a detached, professional fascination. Laryngoscope. ET tube. Syringes drawn up with practiced speed. It’s surreal, recognizing every step while being utterly powerless to stop it.

Robby takes the laryngoscope from the tray. His movements are precise, economical — no wasted motion. He steps closer, positioning himself at the head of the bed.

You look up at him, at the concentration etched into his face, and the absurd thought occurs to you that he’s very handsome when he’s about to take over your airway. Your brain immediately follows it with: Focus. You are actively suffocating.

He meets your eyes again.

The meds are ready. You feel the cold sting as they push something into your IV. A creeping heaviness starts at the edges of your limbs.

You gather what little air you can manage and murmur, breathless and crooked:

“If you chip my teeth…” you pause, fighting for air, “…pray I don’t survive.”

For half a second, something raw flickers across his face — too fast for anyone else to catch.

His mouth tightens.

“You’re going to survive,” he says, firm, almost fierce.

The room feels farther away now. Sounds dull, like you’re underwater. Robby’s hands come to either side of your face, fingers firm but gentle as he tilts your chin upward, positioning you just right. It’s oddly tender for such a clinical moment.

“You're okay,” he says, voice low and steady, right in your ear. “You’re doing great. Just let it happen.”

You want to tell him you hate that phrase. That nobody ever “does great” while being rendered unconscious.

But the words slip away as the medication deepens its hold.

The last thing you register is his thumb brushing your jaw — a grounding, reassuring touch — and his voice, calm and unwavering, anchoring you as the world dissolves into dark.

“I’ve got you,” he says.

And then there’s nothing at all.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

You wake up the way people always say you do in the ICU—confused, heavy, dragged back into yourself like you’re being reeled in through thick water.

The first thing you notice is the pain.

Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just… everywhere. Your throat feels like you gargled sandpaper. Your chest aches deep, bone-deep, the kind of ache that suggests your lungs are still offended you asked them to do anything at all. Every breath burns, shallow and cautious, like your body doesn’t trust itself anymore.

You blink.

The ceiling is wrong. Too white. Too close. Fluorescent lights hum softly overhead, a sound that feels personal, like it’s mocking you for waking up at all.

Then you realize what’s missing.

The tube.

Your tongue feels huge, your mouth dry, but there’s no plastic foreign object clawing down your throat. You swallow experimentally and immediately regret it. Pain flares hot and raw.

Fantastic, you think. I survived and my reward is feeling like I swallowed a cactus.

You turn your head slowly. Everything feels sluggish, like your brain is still half-asleep.

That’s when you see him.

Robby is sitting in the chair beside your bed, slumped forward, elbows braced on his knees, hands loosely clasped like he forgot what to do with them. His scrubs are wrinkled, darkened in places like he spilled something hours ago and never noticed. His hair is a mess. Not the intentional, charming mess—this is pure exhaustion. Dark circles are carved deep beneath his eyes, the kind that don’t come from one bad night but from too many strung together.

He looks wrecked.

The word lands with surprising weight. You’ve seen Robby after bad shifts. After codes that went sideways. After paperwork hell. This is different. This is hollowed-out.

For a moment you just watch him, stupidly fixated on the rise and fall of his chest, on the way his shoulders seem permanently braced for impact. You wonder how long he’s been there. The answer, you suspect, is too long.

Your fingers twitch weakly against the sheets. The movement must register somewhere in the universe, because his head snaps up immediately.

“Oh—” He’s suddenly alert, halfway out of the chair before he seems to remember he’s human. “Hey. Hey.”

His voice is rough, like he hasn’t used it properly in a while.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

You try again, forcing sound past the burn. “Hh—”

He’s already moving. “Don’t push it. Easy. You were intubated for a bit, your throat’s going to be angry.”

Angry is a generous word, you think.

You take a shallow breath, gather whatever dignity you have left, and mutter, “Hope… You didn’t chip any teeth.”

There’s a split second where he just stares at you, eyes wide, like he’s not sure he heard that correctly.

Then he lets out a startled laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving. It cracks out of him before he can stop it. He scrubs a hand over his face, shaking his head.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You wake up extubated and that’s your first concern?”

You try to smile. It probably looks terrible.

His laughter fades almost as quickly as it came, like it burned through its fuel and left ash behind. He sobers, eyes dropping back to you, expression tightening.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone?” he asks quietly.

The question isn’t accusatory. It’s worse than that. It’s hurt.

You stare up at the ceiling again, suddenly very interested in the fine cracks in the paint.

Your throat hurts. Your chest hurts. Answering hurts most of all.

“I didn’t want to be…” You pause, swallow, wince. “That story.”

He waits.

“You know,” you continue softly. “That inspirational story. Look at her, she’s so brave, living with chronic illness.” Your lips twitch. “Simply existing, but make it motivational.”

Robby exhales slowly through his nose.

“I didn’t want the pity,” you say. “The looks. The careful voices. People pretending they don’t see you counting your breaths.” You glance at him. “Didn’t want to be fragile.”

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” he says, not harshly—but firmly.

“I know.”

Silence settles between you, thick and humming with machines you don’t bother looking at. You already know what they’re doing. You don’t need the reminder.

Robby leans back in his chair, dragging a hand down his face. When he speaks again, his voice is lower.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” he says, “to intubate someone you care about.”

That word lands hard.

Care.

It hangs there between you, heavy and unignorable. You feel it press against your ribs, right where breathing already hurts.

“I’m sorry,” you say, immediately. Too immediately. “I didn’t— I never wanted you to—”

“I know,” he interrupts, softer now. “I know.”

He reaches out, hesitates, then sets his hand over yours where it lies on the bed. His fingers are warm. Solid. His thumb rests lightly against your knuckles, not moving yet, like he’s afraid to assume permission.

“But,” he adds, eyes locking onto yours, “never do that again.”

It’s not a request.

You nod. “Okay.”

He watches you for a second longer, like he’s making sure you mean it. Then, with infinite care, he lifts his other hand and smooths two fingers back through your hair, tucking it away from your face. The touch is so gentle it almost hurts more than the illness. Like he’s afraid you might disappear if he presses too hard.

Your eyes burn unexpectedly. You blink it away, annoyed.

“Hey,” you murmur, voice still rough. “If you’re going to hover, you could at least pretend I’m not your worst nightmare.”

A faint huff of a smile pulls at his mouth. “You already were,” he says. “This just confirmed it.”

You breathe—carefully—and let the quiet stretch again.

“I was twenty-five,” you say suddenly.

He stills, thumb beginning its slow, absent sweep over your knuckles.

“Halfway through med school,” you continue. “Finally felt like my life was… moving forward.”

You swallow.

“Then I got diagnosed.”

Hospitals. Tests. More hospitals. You list them clinically, like reciting labs. Pneumonia that didn’t respond to antibiotics. A lung that decided it was done participating. Surgery. Recovery. Rehab. Months of learning how to breathe without panicking. Months of medication adjustments, side effects, alarms, inhalers, checklists.

“And now,” you finish quietly, “I’m here. Years later. And my lungs are still trying to kill me.”

Robby doesn’t interrupt once.

He doesn’t tell you you’re strong. He doesn’t say everything happens for a reason. He doesn’t offer platitudes or statistics or false reassurance.

He just listens.

His thumb keeps moving, slow and steady, grounding. When your voice falters, his grip tightens just a fraction, like an anchor.

“I’m tired,” you admit. “Of being careful. Of pretending this isn’t always in the background.”

“I know,” he says again.

For the first time since you woke up, you let yourself believe him.

The monitors hum. The lights buzz. The ICU breathes around you.

And Robby stays, hand in yours, like leaving was never an option.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

They move you out of ICU on a Tuesday that smells faintly of antiseptic wipes and rain.

The step-down unit is quieter, but only in the way a library is quieter than a nightclub—still full of noise, just less obvious. The monitors are fewer. The alarms less dramatic. No one is hovering over you like you might spontaneously decide to die out of spite.

Progress, apparently.

You sit propped up in bed, lungs still sore, ribs, staring at a beige wall that has absolutely nothing to say for itself. There’s a window, but it looks out onto a brick wall and the vague suggestion of Pittsburgh weather. Today’s forecast appears to be gray.

You are contemplating whether pudding counts as breakfast when there’s a knock—not a polite one, not a formal one, just a quick tap like the person on the other side already knows the answer.

Robby slips in anyway.

Of course he does.

He’s not in scrubs today. Jeans, hoodie, sneakers that have definitely seen things. He looks… off-duty, which feels illegal somehow. Like spotting a teacher at the grocery store buying frozen pizza.

“Good,” he says immediately, scanning you with his eyes in that clinical-not-clinical way. “You’re sitting up. They finally trusted you with gravity again.”

“Barely,” you say. “I could still topple. It would be dramatic.”

He smirks, then lifts the brown paper bag in his hand.

“I come bearing gifts.”

You eye it suspiciously. “If that’s hospital pudding—”

“It is not,” he says, affronted. “I have standards.”

He sets the bag on your tray table and pulls out a small plastic cup with a peel-off lid. Chocolate pudding. The good kind. Smooth. Dark. Definitely not something that came from the nutrition department.

You feel something warm and traitorous bloom in your chest.

“Oh,” you say weakly. “Real pudding.”

“Real pudding,” he confirms. “Procured legally. No bribes were involved. Probably.”

You laugh before you can stop yourself, a short sound that immediately turns on you. Your chest tightens. A cough claws its way out.

Robby’s smile vanishes.

“Hey—easy,” he says, already moving closer. His hand hovers, uncertain, like he’s trying to remember which version of you he’s allowed to touch. “Slow breaths. In through your nose.”

You obey, because apparently your autonomy packed up and left sometime during intubation. The cough passes, leaving you annoyed and vaguely embarrassed.

“Congratulations,” you mutter. “You made me laugh. This is your fault.”

“I’ll live with that,” he says, but his brow is still creased. He watches you for another few seconds, like he’s waiting for the universe to take another swing.

When it doesn’t, he relaxes a fraction.

He pulls the visitor chair closer, spins it around, and sits on it backward, arms folded over the backrest. It’s casual. Too casual. Like this is just something he does—drops by your hospital room with contraband pudding and concern he pretends is professional.

“So,” he says. “Step-down unit. Big milestone.”

“I miss ICU,” you say solemnly. “The constant surveillance. The thrill of wondering which alarm is for me.”

“Ah yes,” he deadpans. “Very relaxing.”

You peel the lid off the pudding. The smell alone is enough to make your eyes close for a second. When you take the first bite, you make an involuntary sound that is frankly undignified.

Robby grins.

“There it is,” he says. “That’s the reaction I was hoping for.”

You swallow. “I could cry.”

“Please don’t,” he says. “I don’t think I’m equipped to handle that.”

You eat slowly, savoring it, aware of him watching you like this is the highlight of his day. Which is ridiculous. He is a grown man with a job and a life and approximately eight million other things he could be doing.

And yet.

“So,” he says, leaning back slightly. “You want to hear something incredibly stupid?”

“Always,” you say. “I’m bored and medically fragile.”

“Matteo tried to flirt with a patient,” he says.

You pause mid-spoonful. “He what now?”

“This one was actively vomiting,” Robby adds.

You choke on pudding this time. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me Dana saw.”

“Oh, Dana saw,” he says with relish. “Dana nearly murdered him. I thought she was going to use the IV pole.”

You laugh again, softer this time, more careful. Your chest protests but allows it.

“What did he say?” you ask.

“He told the patient she had ‘beautiful eyes.’”

“While she was vomiting.”

“While she was vomiting.”

You shake your head. “Bold strategy.”

“He’s lucky she didn’t throw up on him out of spite.”

“Or attraction,” you say. “Who can tell.”

Robby snorts. The sound surprises both of you. He looks down, like he’s embarrassed by his own amusement.

For a moment, it’s just that. You. Him. Pudding. Ridiculous ER gossip. It feels… normal. Too normal.

Domestic, your brain supplies unhelpfully.

Dangerous follows right behind it.

You shift slightly, the sheets rustling. You’re painfully aware of how small you feel in this bed, how your body still doesn’t quite feel like yours. How he’s seen you at your worst—gray-skinned, gasping, unconscious.

And still he’s here, telling you stories like this is just another shift overlap.

“Why are you really here?” you ask lightly, because if you don’t make it a joke it will sound like something else.

He doesn’t answer right away.

He tilts his head, considering you in that careful way he has.

“I was nearby,” he says finally. “Thought I’d check in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Nearby.”

“Very nearby,” he admits. “Okay, I came on purpose.”

There it is.

Your stomach flips, traitorous again.

“Well,” you say. “Good thing you had a medically relevant excuse.”

“Nutrition is essential care,” he agrees.

Another silence settles, not awkward, just… full. You can hear the soft beep of a monitor down the hall. The murmur of voices at the nurses’ station. Life going on without your permission.

Robby shifts closer without realizing it, his knee nearly touching the bed. His voice drops.

“You scared the hell out of us,” he says.

Us.

You look at him, closely. The faint shadows under his eyes. The tension he hasn’t quite shaken. The way his hands are clasped together, tight.

“I know,” you say quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” he asks.

“For being dramatic,” you say. “For making you all work so hard.”

He exhales, something like a laugh, something like a sigh.

“Don’t do that,” he says. “Don’t apologize for almost dying.”

“Fine,” you concede. “I’ll apologize for the coughing.”

“That I’ll accept.”

You finish the pudding. He takes the empty cup without comment, like this is a routine you’ve done a hundred times.

Something domestic. Something dangerous.

He stands, lingering.

“I’ll come by again,” he says. It’s not a question.

You nod. “Bring vanilla next time.”

He smiles, soft and genuine, and for a moment you forget you’re in a hospital at all.

“Rest,” he says.

“You say that like it’s optional.”

He hesitates at the door, then glances back.

“I’m glad you’re still here,” he says simply.

So am I, you think.

You don’t say it out loud.

He leaves, and the room feels quieter without him—like something essential has stepped out and taken the oxygen with it.

You lie back against the pillows, heart a little too full, lungs a little too tight, and think, not for the first time, that this is going to complicate everything.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Robby’s arrival announces itself with the unmistakable crinkle of plastic and the soft, conspiratorial thunk of a bag being set down like contraband.

You don’t even look up at first.

“I swear to God,” you say, staring at the television that’s muted and playing a cooking show you cannot hear and would not watch even if you could, “if that’s another pudding—”

“It’s not pudding,” he says, far too pleased with himself.

That gets your attention.

You turn your head slowly, suspiciously, and there he is—leaning against the doorframe like he belongs there, hoodie half-zipped, badge flipped backward, holding a clear plastic sleeve of brightly colored popsicles.

Popsicles.

Your brain takes a moment to reboot.

“…Robby,” you say carefully. “Where did you get those.”

He grins. Not sheepish. Not apologetic. A victory grin.

“Pediatrics.”

You stare at him.

“You stole from sick children,” you say flatly.

“I liberated,” he corrects. “Two. Maybe three. They won’t miss them.”

“They’re children,” you hiss. “They’re ill. They’re tiny.”

He shrugs, entirely unrepentant, and steps farther into the room, already tearing open the sleeve.

“Worth it.”

You snort before you can stop yourself. “You’re going to hell.”

“Yeah,” he says easily. “But I’ll be warm.”

He hands you one—red, still frosty, the plastic already slick with condensation. It’s absurdly cheerful against the sterile beige of the room.

You take it. Of course you do. You are weak and cold things taste good.

“You’re lucky I’m not strong enough to report you,” you say.

“You are absolutely strong enough,” he counters. “You’re just morally flexible.”

You peel the plastic open and take a tentative lick. Cherry. Artificial in the best way.

Your eyes close for half a second.

“Oh no,” you murmur. “This is good.”

“Told you,” he says, smug. He pulls a chair closer but doesn’t sit, perching on the edge like he might bolt at any moment. “Ice helps with inflammation.”

“You stole medical supplies,” you accuse.

“I practiced medicine creatively.”

You take another lick. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

He watches you with a soft, fond expression that makes your stomach do something unnecessary and unhelpful.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks, quieter now.

You roll your shoulders experimentally. “Like my lungs were sandpapered. But upright. Which feels like winning.”

He nods. “Good.”

There’s a beat. Comfortable. The unit hums around you—distant call bells, a cart rattling past, the low murmur of voices. Normal hospital life. You are still here to hear it.

“So,” he says, leaning in slightly. “Want to hear the stupidest thing that happened last night?”

You sigh happily. “Desperately.”

He rubs his hands together, already gearing up.

“Okay. So. We get this patient—middle-aged woman, chest pain, nothing dramatic at first. Comes in clutching this carrier.”

You frown. “Carrier.”

“Carrier,” he confirms. “She tells triage it’s her emotional support animal.”

“Please tell me it wasn’t a ferret.”

“Worse,” he says solemnly. “A pigeon.”

You freeze. Popsicle halfway to your mouth.

“No.”

“Yes.”

You stare at him. “Like. A city pigeon?”

“Like,” he says, nodding, “a full-grown, extremely confident pigeon.”

“Oh my God.”

“We’re trying to get her settled,” he continues, eyes bright now, clearly relishing this. “Dana asks her to keep the carrier closed. The woman says he gets anxious.”

You already know where this is going.

“She opens it,” Robby says.

You cover your mouth. “Oh no.”

“And the pigeon,” he says, gesturing broadly, “immediately launches.”

You laugh—a sharp bark of a sound that surprises you.

“He starts flying around the trauma bay,” Robby says. “Wings everywhere. Feathers. One of the interns screamed. I think Matteo ducked.”

“I would have paid money to see that.”

“Dana tried to shoo it with a clipboard,” he adds. “Like that was going to help.”

You laugh again, harder this time. “What did security do?”

“They refused,” he says. “Said it was a ‘personal boundary.’”

That does it.

You laugh properly now—head tipping back, chest shaking, a real laugh that feels good for exactly half a second before your lungs decide to revolt.

The sound catches. Breaks.

Your chest tightens abruptly, breath stuttering. The laugh turns into a cough, sharp and uncontrollable, each one scraping your throat raw.

Robby is on you instantly.

He drops down into a crouch beside the bed, all humor gone, one hand firm and warm against your back. His palm settles between your shoulder blades like it’s always belonged there.

“Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got you. Easy.”

He rubs slow, steady circles, grounding, instinctive. Not rushed. Not panicked. Just there.

“Breathe with me,” he murmurs. “In through your nose. Out slow.”

His touch doesn’t waver, pressure consistent, reassuring.

“Sorry,” you rasp between breaths. “Stupid—laughing—”

“Shh,” he says. “Not stupid. Just breathe.”

You follow his lead, inhaling carefully, counting it out. The fit eases, leaving you shaky and embarrassed and painfully aware of how close he is.

His thumb presses gently, grounding you back into your body.

“There you go,” he says quietly.

When the coughing finally subsides, you sag back against the pillows, exhausted. He doesn’t move his hand right away. You don’t ask him to.

“Pigeon got caught eventually,” he adds softly, like an afterthought. “Landed on the crash cart. Refused to move.”

You huff weakly. “Of course he did.”

Robby smiles, still crouched there, still rubbing your back like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… lungs throwing a tantrum.”

“They do that,” he says.

You look down at him then. The concern in his eyes. The care he’s pretending isn’t personal.

“You’re going to get caught stealing popsicles,” you say faintly.

“Worth it,” he repeats.

You believe him.

And that, somehow, is the scariest part.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Robby shows up this time with coffee.

Real coffee.

You know it’s real before you even see it—the smell hits first, rich and dark and almost obscene against the sterile hospital air. It cuts through disinfectant and plastic and the faint sadness of overcooked vegetables like a promise.

You lift your head slowly, wary. Hope is dangerous.

He nudges the door shut behind him with his foot, both hands occupied: one paper cup, double-lidded, and a small tower of sugar packets tucked precariously under his arm like an offering.

Your eyes narrow.

“…Is that,” you say, “actual coffee?”

“Actual,” he confirms solemnly. “From the cafeteria. Not the vending machine one that tastes like mop water.”

You push yourself a little more upright, interest thoroughly piqued. “And the sugar?”

He dumps the packets onto your tray table. There are… many.

You count automatically. One. Two. Three. Four—

“Robby,” you say faintly. “This is enough sugar to kill a small horse.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t know your dosing.”

“I am not a hummingbird.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” he says, already popping open packets. “You look fragile.”

“You’re trying to kill me,” you accuse.

“I’m trying to make you happy,” he corrects. He stirs, hands you the cup.

It’s warm. Solid. Comforting in a way that borders on emotional manipulation.

You take a careful sip.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh,” you breathe. “Oh wow.”

“Yeah?”

“That’s… aggressively sweet.”

He grins. “Good.”

You sip again, slower this time, savoring it. It tastes like mornings you don’t have anymore. Like being awake on purpose. Like normalcy.

You sigh. “I might cry.”

“Please don’t,” he says. "I'll panic."

He pulls the chair close again, this time actually sitting, stretching his legs out beneath the tray table like he’s planning to stay awhile.

He watches you drink, something gentle in his expression, something that makes your chest feel tight in a different, quieter way.

“You know,” he says casually, “doing ER residency with your FEVs is either very bold or very stupid.”

You choke on the coffee slightly—not coughing, just sputtering in surprise.

“Wow,” you say. “Good morning to you too.”

“I mean,” he rushes on, holding up a hand, “respectfully.”

“Ah yes. Respectfully calling me an idiot.”

He smirks. “I prefer ‘optimist.’”

You lean back against the pillows, cradling the cup. “In my defense, becoming a pulmonologist felt a little too on the nose.”

He laughs. “Fair.”

He tilts his head, studying you. “So why emergency?”

You hesitate, just a beat. The question isn’t invasive. It’s curious. Genuinely so.

“I was almost done with it,” you say finally. “My internal medicine specialty.”

He nods. “Almost.”

“I wasn’t happy,” you admit. “I was good at it. But it didn’t… fit.”

He waits. Doesn’t rush you. You appreciate that more than you should.

You stare into the coffee, watching the surface tremble slightly with each breath you take.

“You know what they tell you when you’re thinking about putting your dog down?” you ask.

He blinks. “That took a turn.”

“Quality of life matters more than quantity,” you say. “They tell you to stop counting days and start looking at joy.”

He exhales slowly. “That’s bleak.”

“No,” you say, immediately, more firmly than you expect. You look up at him now. “Think about it.”

He does. You can see it on his face.

“Dogs don’t know,” you continue. “They don’t sit around catastrophizing. They just… wag their tails. They go full tilt for every scrap of joy they can find.”

He smiles despite himself.

“A sandwich crust,” you say. “A good walk. Someone coming home.”

You gesture vaguely with the coffee cup, sloshing a little dangerously.

“I want to live like that,” you say. “Like I don’t know when it ends, but it could be soon, so I better enjoy the sandwich crust.”

Robby’s smile fades into something softer. Something more careful.

“I want to treat every day like it’s the last good one,” you add quietly. “Like I’ve still got time to chase a ball.”

The room feels very still.

He looks at you like you’ve just said something important and he’s afraid to mishandle it.

“You’re making me sad about an imaginary dog,” he says finally.

You laugh.

A real laugh.

It comes out smooth and unbroken, no coughing, no sharp edge afterward. It startles you both.

You pause, blinking. Then you laugh again, just because you can.

“Oh my God,” you say. “Did you hear that?”

“I did,” he says, eyes bright. “Small miracles.”

You grin at him. “I've always suspected you had a soft spot for animals.”

He scoffs lightly. “Untrue.”

“Mm,” you hum. “This feels like confirmation.”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Your secret’s safe,” you say, lifting the cup in a mock toast.

For the first time in days, you don’t feel like you’re waiting for something bad to happen.

You feel like you’re just… here.

Chasing the ball while you still can.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Discharge planning happens the way everything in hospitals happens: abruptly, between alarms, with a clipboard shoved gently but firmly into the space of your life.

The nurse perches on the edge of the chair, pen poised, eyes kind but efficient. She has the voice of someone who has learned to ask difficult questions without sounding like she’s asking anything at all.

“So,” she says, glancing down the checklist. “Who’s helping you at home for the first few days?”

The room hums. Ventilation. Footsteps in the hall. A cart rattling past with a tray of untouched Jell-O cups.

You look down at your hands because they are safe and familiar and currently doing nothing incriminating. Your IV tape is peeling at the edges. There’s a faint bruise blooming underneath, yellow and purple like a bad watercolor.

“My family’s…” You pause, because the sentence wants to end dramatically and you refuse to give it the satisfaction. “…far.”

Geographically far. Emotionally far. Functionally useless in a crisis. Take your pick.

The nurse nods, already writing something, and for half a second you think that’s going to be it. That she’ll circle home health consult and move on. That this will be solved with pamphlets and a phone number and the gentle implication that you are, technically, an adult.

“I’ll drive her.”

Robby’s voice lands in the room like it’s always been there.

You look up.

He’s leaning against the counter, arms crossed, wearing the same hoodie he’s been wearing for three days straight, the one with the frayed cuff he never notices. He looks tired in that specific ER-doctor way—wrung out but alert, eyes sharp, posture deceptively relaxed. Like he’s braced for impact even while offering help.

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He looks at the nurse. Calm. Certain. No qualifiers.

The nurse blinks once, then smiles. “Okay,” she says easily. “That works.”

Of course it does. Of course the universe accepts this without question. Of course Robby saying it makes it real.

You open your mouth, ready to object on principle—something about independence, something about being fine, something deeply unconvincing—and then you close it again.

Because you’re tired.

Because you don’t want to navigate stairs alone.

Because your lungs still feel like they’re negotiating with you rather than cooperating.

Because a small, traitorous part of you wants to see what happens if you don’t push him away this time.

Robby glances at you then, just briefly. His mouth tilts, not quite a smile.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says quietly, like this is already settled.

You swallow. Nod once.

The nurse finishes her notes, explains medications you already know by heart, gives you the look that says don’t be brave at home, and disappears back into the controlled chaos.

When the room finally empties, the silence feels louder than the alarms ever did.

“You didn’t have to—” you start.

“I know,” he says immediately. “I wanted to.”

There it is. No argument. No martyrdom. Just a fact.

You sigh. “You’re going to get sick of me.”

He snorts. “Bold of you to assume I’m not already.”

You roll your eyes, but it comes out weak. He steps closer, reaches for the bed rail, steadying it while you shift. His hand brushes your wrist—accidental, probably—and you hate how much you feel it.

He keeps showing up after that.

Not in grand gestures. In quiet invasions.

The first time you come home, your fridge is empty in that way that feels more like an accusation than a fact. You sit on the couch, breathing carefully, cataloging all the things you should do and won’t.

The next morning, there are groceries.

Not dropped dramatically on your counter. Not announced. Just… there.

Soup you actually like. Crackers that don’t taste like despair. Fresh fruit. A stupidly expensive brand of electrolyte drink you once mentioned offhand in the break room.

You stare at the bags for a long time.

You do not text him.

He doesn’t mention it.

Later, when he stops by “to check in,” he pretends not to notice you eating the soup. You pretend not to notice him checking your breathing without looking like he’s checking your breathing.

Nothing is said.

Everything is understood.

He sits in the armchair like he belongs there, scrolling through his phone, telling you about a patient who insisted on keeping a lizard in his hoodie pocket. You listen, half amused, half exhausted, your body slowly unclenching in ways you didn’t realize it had been holding.

Your breathing gets easier.

Not perfect. But easier.

You catch yourself taking deeper breaths without thinking about it. Laughing without immediately coughing. Sleeping for more than two hours at a stretch.

Emotionally, too.

That’s the part that scares you.

Because illness is familiar. You know how to be sick. You know the rules. You know the exits.

This—being cared for, quietly, without obligation or expectation—this feels dangerous.

You watch him from the couch, the way he moves around your kitchen like he’s already memorized it. The way he washes his hands automatically. The way he glances back at you every few minutes, like a reflex.

You think, dryly, Ah. This is how people get into trouble.

Your chest tightens—not from bronchospasm this time, but from the creeping realization that you’re letting this happen. That you’re not stopping it.

That you don’t want to.

Robby looks over. “You okay?”

You force a shrug. “I feel like someone who was discharged from the hospital less than a week ago.”

He smiles, soft and knowing. “Fair.”

You lean back, close your eyes, let yourself breathe.

And for the first time since you landed in that trauma bay, the fear isn’t about whether your lungs will hold.

It’s about what happens if your heart does.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The sink chooses that moment to betray you.

It doesn’t do anything dramatic—no geyser, no catastrophic failure—but there’s a steady, petulant drip from the cabinet below, the kind that suggests it’s been happening for a while and you’ve been politely ignoring it out of mutual disrespect.

You notice it because Robby notices it.

He pauses mid-sentence, head tilting. “Do you hear that?”

You do not look toward the sink. You know better. “Hear what.”

“That,” he says, already crouching.

“Robby.”

He opens the cabinet door. The drip becomes visible, obscene in its persistence. A slow bead of water gathering, falling, splashing into a warped plastic container you shoved under there weeks ago with the full intention of dealing with it eventually.

He straightens slowly. Looks at you.

“How long has this been leaking?”

You consider lying. Decide you are too tired to construct a believable narrative.

“A while.”

“A while as in—”

“Time perception is subjective,” you say mildly.

He stares at you.

You add, “I was going to call someone.”

“When?”

“When I could breathe without bargaining with my alveoli.”

He exhales through his nose, already rolling up his sleeves. “I’m fixing it.”

“You absolutely do not have to—”

“I’m fixing it,” he repeats, firmer this time, like he’s announcing a trauma protocol.

You push yourself up from the couch, wobble slightly, and immediately regret it.

“Sit,” he says without looking at you. “Actually—no. Sit on the floor. I don’t want you passing out and cracking your head open.”

“That’s very romantic of you.”

He shoots you a look over his shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”

You sink down onto the kitchen floor, back against the cabinet, legs stretched out. The tile is cool through your sweatpants. You tell yourself this is fine. You tell yourself you are absolutely not watching the way his forearms flex as he reaches under the sink.

You are offering moral support. This is a noble position.

“You know,” you say, “I could call a plumber.”

“And wait three weeks while it turns into a mold ecosystem?” He reaches into the cabinet. “No.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“I’m a man with YouTube and a basic sense of spite.”

Water drips onto his knuckles. He hisses quietly.

“See,” you say. “This is where I’d stop.”

He glares at the pipe. “I’m not losing to a sink.”

You tilt your head back against the cabinet, watching him out of the corner of your eye. His hoodie has ridden up slightly, a sliver of skin visible at his waist. You think, unhelpfully, This is how people end up emotionally compromised.

“You really don’t have to do this,” you try again, softer.

He pauses. Crawls back out from under the sink and sits on his heels, looking at you properly now.

“I know,” he says. “I still want to.”

Something in your chest shifts. Not tight. Not painful. Just… exposed.

You clear your throat. “Well. I’m here for… encouragement.”

He snorts. “Thrilling.”

“I can say things like ‘good job’ and ‘wow, you’re so capable.’”

“That would help tremendously.”

He goes back under the sink. You watch his legs stretched out behind him, the ridiculous domesticity of it all. This is not an ER. There are no alarms. No urgency. Just a man fixing your sink because he decided you shouldn’t have to deal with one more broken thing.

Your brain tries to make a joke out of it. Your heart does something quieter and more dangerous.

“How’s it going?” you ask.

“Ask me again in five minutes.”

“I’m very good at waiting.”

He laughs, muffled by the cabinet. The sound warms the room more than the radiator ever has.

You rest your chin on your knees, breathing slow and steady. The drip stops.

“Hey,” he says. “I think I got it.”

You lean forward, peering into the cabinet like you have any idea what you’re looking at. “I never doubted you.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, I doubted you briefly.”

He emerges, wiping his hands on a towel, hair slightly mussed. He looks… pleased. Ridiculously so.

“Fixed,” he declares.

You smile up at him. Real. Unguarded.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

He shrugs, suddenly a little shy. “Anytime.”

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

Eating together becomes a thing without either of you ever calling it that.

At first it’s practical. Necessary. You need calories; your lungs are burning through them like they’re fuel in a failing engine. Robby insists, in the same tone he uses to insist patients take their antibiotics, that soup alone does not constitute a meal.

“This,” he says one evening, setting a container on your table, “is not dinner.”

“It’s warm and it has sodium,” you counter. “What more could a woman want.”

“Protein.”

“I had crackers.”

He just looks at you. That look. The one that says I will absolutely die on this hill.

So you eat together.

Sometimes it’s takeout he brings under the pretense of having “ordered too much.” Sometimes it’s something embarrassingly domestic—pasta, scrambled eggs, toast with peanut butter because that’s all either of you has the energy for. You sit at the small table by the window, knees occasionally knocking under it, your apartment dim and soft in the evenings, the city humming faintly outside like background noise you’re both too tired to notice.

Sometimes you talk.

Sometimes you don’t.

On quieter nights, you chew slowly, deliberately, focusing on breathing between bites. Robby doesn’t fill the silence. He just eats, glancing at you now and then like he’s monitoring something important but invisible.

It’s comforting. And irritating. Mostly comforting.

Then there are the nights with the TV.

It starts innocently enough. You’re curled on the couch, blanket tucked around your legs, when he flips through channels with the vague indecision of someone who has opinions but no solutions.

“You can put something on,” he says.

“I did.”

He squints at the screen. “Is this… Grey’s Anatomy?”

“Yes.”

He looks at you like you’ve admitted to a minor crime. “You don’t even like hospital shows.”

“I like this hospital show.”

“They defibrillate asystole,” he says flatly.

You smile sweetly. “I don’t watch it for accuracy.”

“What do you watch it for?”

“The drama.”

He groans, dropping back against the couch. “They’re all sleeping with each other.”

“That’s the point.”

“That’s not a point.”

“It’s a soap opera with scrubs,” you say. “Let people live.”

He gestures at the screen as Meredith Grey launches into a monologue about love, loss, and something metaphorical involving elevators. “This is ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you say, spooning another bite of food into your mouth, “you’re still sitting here.”

“I’m eating.”

“You could eat anywhere.”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Scowls faintly.

You hide a smile behind your fork.

You argue about it the way you argue about everything—half serious, half performative. He complains about the medical nonsense; you complain about his lack of imagination. He insists real life is dramatic enough; you tell him real life is exhausting and fictional drama is safer.

“At least on TV,” you say, “the worst thing that happens is someone gets amnesia or married to the wrong person.”

He snorts. “That’s not the worst thing.”

“You’ve clearly never been married to the wrong person,” you say dryly.

He quiets at that, just for a moment. Then the show cuts to commercial and he clears his throat.

“You want dessert?” he asks, like an offering.

You glance at the clock. At your half-empty plate. At the way your chest feels—tired but steady.

“Sure,” you say. “If you don’t judge me.”

“I will absolutely judge you,” he says, already standing. “But quietly.”

He brings back ice cream. You eat it straight from the container, knees tucked up, the spoon clinking softly. He leans back, one arm along the back of the couch, close enough that you can feel his warmth without touching.

You realize, distantly, that this has become routine.

That you expect him now.

That when he doesn’t show up until later than usual, you feel it like a skipped heartbeat.

You tell yourself this is temporary. Recovery-adjacent. A kindness with an expiration date.

You also tell yourself a lot of lies.

The episode ends. Another starts. You breathe easier than you have in weeks—physically, yes, but also in the quieter, more treacherous way.

Robby glances down at you. “You good?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

And for once, you mean it.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

It happens on a Thursday, which feels important only in retrospect.

You’re halfway through an episode you’ve seen before—something dramatic is happening, someone is crying attractively in a stairwell—when you notice the silence beside you has shifted. Not the comfortable kind. The heavy kind.

Robby’s head has tipped back against the couch cushion, mouth slightly open, breath slow and even. His reading glasses are still on, crooked now, sliding down the bridge of his nose. One arm is folded across his chest, the other dangling loosely at his side like he just… powered down.

You stare.

For a long moment, you assume this is a trick. That if you move, he’ll wake up and make a comment about how terrible your show is.

He does not move.

The TV murmurs on. The apartment is dim except for the blue glow of the screen and the faint orange light from the streetlamp outside. The radiator clicks. The city breathes.

You lower the volume slowly, bit by careful bit.

Still nothing.

“Well,” you whisper to yourself. “That’s new.”

You shift closer, your movement deliberate. Your lungs cooperate, which feels like a small miracle. You reach out and hesitate, fingers hovering near his face.

You have done harder things than this. You have intubated people. You have held pressure on bleeding arteries. And yet.

You slide the glasses off his face with exaggerated care, holding your breath like that might help. They come away easily. He stirs, brow furrowing slightly, then relaxes again.

Unfair, you think. Completely unfair.

He looks younger asleep. Softer. The perpetual tension in his jaw has eased. His lashes rest against his cheeks, ridiculous in their length. You feel something tug in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs.

You set the glasses on the coffee table. They make the faintest click.

He doesn’t wake.

You stand slowly, joints protesting, and fetch the blanket from the back of the chair. The one you usually reserve for yourself. You drape it over him, adjusting it around his shoulders, tucking it in without thinking.

You freeze halfway through, your hand resting briefly against his chest.

Steady. Warm.

You pull back like you’ve touched something hot.

The TV keeps playing, muted now. You sit on the other end of the couch, knees drawn up, watching the familiar scenes unfold without sound. You’re not really watching, though. You’re watching him, out of the corner of your eye, like this might be temporary and you need to memorize it.

This is nothing, you tell yourself firmly. This is just a tired man on a couch. This does not mean anything.

Your heart does not listen.

Sometime later—hours or minutes, you’re not sure—you drift off too, head tipped to the side, blanket pulled around you, breathing slow and easy.

Morning comes quietly.

Light filters through the blinds, pale and early. You wake to the sound of movement.

Robby is sitting up, rubbing a hand over his face, hair sticking up. The blanket has slipped down around his waist. His T-shirt is rumpled. He looks disoriented, blinking like the world hasn’t quite come into focus yet.

He looks… good. Annoyingly so.

He notices you watching and stills.

“Oh,” he says. His voice is rough with sleep. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you reply, trying for casual and landing somewhere near fondly horrified.

He glances around. At the TV. The blanket. You.

“I, uh,” he says. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

You shrug, already standing. “You looked like you needed it.”

He watches you as you move toward the kitchen, tracking you like this is a new behavior he needs to understand.

“You didn’t wake me.”

“You’re welcome.”

You fill the kettle, set it on the stove. Your movements are practiced, automatic. You do not examine why this feels so natural.

“You have a shift,” you say.

He nods. “Yeah. I should—”

“Sit,” you interrupt, not looking at him. “Coffee first.”

He hesitates, then obeys, slumping back into the couch with a soft exhale.

You make the coffee the way he likes it. You know how he likes it. This is information you did not mean to acquire.

You hand him the mug. Your fingers brush. Brief. Electric.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

You nod, pretending very hard that this doesn’t feel like something dangerous. Like something you might want.

He takes a sip, sighs. Smiles at you, small and real.

You turn away before he can see your face.

Domesticity, you think, is a slippery slope.

And you are already halfway down it.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The doors sigh open like they always do, like the building itself is tired of breathing, and for a half-second you stand there wondering if it’s going to let you back in or spit you right back out.

The ER smells the same. Antiseptic and old coffee and the faint trace of blood. The lights are still too bright. The noise still lands a little too sharply in your skull.

Good. Familiar is survivable.

“Look who decided to rise from the dead.”

Samira is on you before you can make a clever remark—arms warm and firm around your shoulders, cheek pressed briefly against your temple. She smells like citrus hand sanitizer and cheap peppermint gum.

“You’re squishing my lungs,” you croak, because of course that’s what you say.

She pulls back just enough to look at you properly, eyes scanning your face with the clinical precision of someone who has watched you turn blue.

“Still funny,” she says, unimpressed. Then softer: “I’m glad you’re back.”

You swallow. Nod. Do not get emotional in the hallway like a Victorian child with consumption.

From behind her, Trinity appears. "I knew it.”

You blink. “Knew what?”

She grins, wicked and unapologetic. “I had twenty bucks riding on you pulling through.”

You stare at her.

“Wow,” you say. “That’s… touching. Did you at least hedge your emotional investment?”

She shrugs. “I’m an optimist. And a gambler.”

Samira snorts. “She also bet Dana you’d be back within two weeks.”

“That was a reasonable estimate,” Trinity says defensively.

You glance down at your badge, clipped back onto your scrubs like it never left, like none of this happened. Like you didn’t scare the hell out of half the department.

“Well,” you say dryly. “Sorry to disappoint the odds-makers.”

Then the shift starts. No fanfare. No easing in. Just a trauma alert overhead and the familiar surge of motion pulling you forward whether you feel ready or not.

You do. Mostly.

And Robby—

Robby is careful.

Painfully so.

He’s everywhere without being obvious about it. A hand on the gurney rail before you reach it. A quiet, “I’ve got this,” when a patient needs to be boosted. He steps in smoothly, redirects with a tilt of his shoulder, a murmur in your ear meant only for you.

“Let me take that.”

“I’ll grab labs.”

“Why don’t you run point from here.”

You notice every single time.

You hate that you do.

You bristle, a low-grade irritation buzzing under your skin, but you let it slide because the alternative is snapping at him in front of everyone, and that feels worse. Because he’s not wrong. Because your chest still feels like it’s lined with sandpaper some days. Because you don’t want to prove him right by keeling over dramatically next to Room Three.

Still.

You overcorrect.

You take the stairs instead of the elevator. You volunteer for one more consult. You talk too fast, move too much. You make a point of lifting things you absolutely do not need to lift, just to prove that you can.

Your lungs register their disapproval immediately.

Dana notices first. Of course she does. Dana notices everything.

She leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyebrow climbing slowly toward her hairline as she watches Robby intercept you again.

Interesting, that eyebrow says. Very interesting.

You pretend not to see it.

Later—much later, when the department settles into that uneasy late-shift rhythm, when the adrenaline dips and the exhaustion creeps in—Jesse sidles consideredly into the break room.

You’re halfway through your coffee. It tastes like mop water with a hint of caffeine. Comforting.

“So,” he says, casual to the point of suspicious. “You dating Robby?”

You choke.

Full-on aspirate coffee like a rookie. It goes down the wrong way, and suddenly you’re coughing hard enough to see stars, slapping the counter as if it personally betrayed you.

“What—no,” you rasp, when you can finally breathe again. “Jesus. Where did that come from?”

Jesse watches you with open amusement. “Just asking.”

“Don’t,” you say hoarsely. “Ask. Ever.”

He raises his hands. “Relax. It’s just… you know.”

You do not, in fact, know.

“He’s hovering,” Jesse continues. “Like a very competent, very intense mother hen.”

You glare into your coffee like it might offer answers. Or poison.

“He’s a colleague,” you say. “And I was sick.”

“Mmm.” Jesse nods. “Sure.”

You shoot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “Drop it.”

He grins. Drops it. Obviously files it away for later.

You leave the break room before your face can betray you further.

By hour ten, your chest is tight in a way you recognize too well. Not panic. Not yet. Just that creeping pressure, that subtle resistance when you inhale, like your lungs are quietly renegotiating their contract.

Your hands start to shake.

Just a little.

You tell yourself it’s caffeine. Adrenaline. Dehydration. Everything except what it actually is.

You keep working anyway.

You’re in a trauma bay, charting, when Robby’s voice cuts in softly behind you.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn around. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

There’s a pause. You can feel his eyes on you, assessing, cataloging details you wish he’d miss.

“You’re breathing shallow,” he says. “And your hands—”

You clench them into fists. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not breathing right.”

That one lands.

You straighten, bristling. “I’m breathing fine.”

He exhales through his nose, sharp. “Come with me.”

Before you can argue, his hand is at your elbow—not rough, but insistent—and he steers you down the corridor, past curious glances, past the noise and chaos and beeping life support of the department, until he shoves open a stairwell door.

It slams shut behind you, the sound echoing like a gunshot.

The stairwell smells like dust and disinfectant and old concrete. It’s quiet in the way hospitals never really are—muffled, sealed-off, like you’ve stepped into a pocket outside of time.

Robby turns on you.

He’s furious.

Not loud-furious. Worse. Tight-furious. His hands are clenched at his sides, shoulders rigid, eyes bright with something sharp and dangerous and very close to breaking.

“What were you thinking?” he demands.

Your hackles go up instantly. Reflex. Survival.

“What was I thinking?” you snap. “I was thinking it’s my first day back and I didn’t want to be treated like a patient.”

“That’s not—”

“You don’t get to decide what I can handle,” you cut in, heat flaring in your chest that has nothing to do with your lungs. “You don’t get to manage me like a liability.”

His mouth opens, then shuts. For a second you think he might actually shout.

Instead, his voice cracks.

“I barely survived taking Adamson off ECMO,” he says, words coming out raw, unarmored. “I watched that man hover between here and gone for weeks. Doing that to you—” His breath stutters. “That would destroy me.”

The world tilts.

That stops you cold.

You really look at him then. The red-rimmed eyes he’s been pretending aren’t there. The tension carved into his face like he’s been holding himself together with stubbornness and caffeine. There are tears shining, unshed but very much present, clinging to his lower lashes.

Oh.

This isn’t about protocols.

This is fear. Naked and shaking and standing right in front of you.

Your chest tightens for an entirely different reason.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping closer. Your hands come up without thinking, cupping his face, thumbs warm against his jaw. He leans into the touch like he’s been falling and finally found something solid.

“Look at me,” you murmur.

His eyes flick up, searching.

“You’re not losing me,” you say. Steady. Certain. “I’m still here. I’m stubborn. You know this.”

A broken sound slips out of him—half laugh, half sob—and then he’s kissing you.

It’s not careful.

It’s not polite.

It’s desperate.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s been holding his breath all day and only just remembered how to inhale. There’s anger in it, and fear, and this aching, unspoken don’t leave me that pulses through the contact.

You gasp, startled, and he makes that small, fractured sound against your lips—like something inside him finally gave way—and suddenly your back is against the wall, cool concrete biting through your scrubs as he crowds in close.

You kiss him back.

Hard.

Your fingers fist in his scrubs, dragging him closer, closer, like proximity alone might stitch him back together. His hands are everywhere and nowhere—at your waist, your shoulders, sliding up to cradle the back of your head as if afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t keep a hand on you.

Your lungs burn, but you don’t care. You’re dizzy with it—him, the taste of peppermint and coffee and something unmistakably Robby. The way he kisses like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he needs proof you’re real.

When he finally pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead presses to yours, breath uneven, yours matching it.

For a second, neither of you speaks.

Then reality taps politely on the glass.

“We need to get back,” he says, voice rough.

“Later,” you reply immediately, without opening your eyes. “We’re talking later.”

He huffs a weak laugh.

You add, because it feels necessary, “You don’t get to kiss your way out of this.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, gentle and trembling.

“Damn,” he murmurs. “Worth a try.”

You smile despite yourself—soft, tired, resolute.

Yeah. You’re definitely not done with this conversation.

But for now, you straighten your scrubs, take a breath you probably should have taken an hour ago, and open the stairwell door—together.

⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖ ⋆⭒˚.⋆☾.𖥔 ݁ ˖

After the shift, you talk.

Really talk.

It happens in that strange limbo after sign-out, when the department exhales and the noise dulls to a manageable hum. The lockers clang shut one by one. Someone laughs too loudly down the hall. The world keeps going.

You’re sitting on the edge of a bench in the staff room, shoes kicked off, feet aching, chest finally behaving itself. Robby stands across from you, arms crossed—not defensive, exactly, but contained. Like he’s afraid if he relaxes, something important might spill out.

You break the silence first. Of course you do.

“Okay,” you say. “We need to talk about… all of that.”

His shoulders tense. Then he nods. “Yeah.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He looks wrecked in the quiet aftermath way—eyes tired, jaw tight, hair flattened from running his hands through it too many times. He’s listening already, which is a good sign. Encouraging.

“You don’t get to act like my—” you search for the right word, then huff softly. “Like my keeper. Especially when we never named whatever this is.”

He flinches, just a little. Not from the words—more from the accuracy.

“I know,” he says quickly. “I crossed a line.”

“You were scared,” you say, not unkindly. “I get that. But fear doesn’t give you ownership.”

His gaze drops to the floor. He nods again, slower this time.

“You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry.” He swallows. “I didn’t mean to make you feel… managed. Or trapped. Or like you owed me anything.”

You let that settle. Let him feel the weight of it, because he can handle it.

“Thank you,” you say. “And for the record—I will tell you if I’m not okay. You don’t have to read tea leaves.”

He lets out a breath that sounds like it’s been waiting all day to escape.

“I’m still learning,” he admits. “I’m better at protocols than… people I care about.”

You snort. “Shocking.”

That earns you a faint smile. Then he straightens, visibly bracing himself.

He takes a breath.

“I want to take you out,” he says. Clear. Direct. Terrifyingly earnest. “Somewhere not fluorescent. As a date.”

Your heart does a stupid, traitorous little skip.

You pretend to consider it, because you’re not a monster. Or maybe because you enjoy watching him sweat.

“Hmm,” you say thoughtfully. “A date.”

“Yes,” he says, hopeful and terrified in equal measure.

You nod slowly. “Okay.”

Relief flashes across his face so fast it’s almost comical.

“But,” you add, holding up a finger.

He freezes. “Okay.”

“I need a ride home.”

“…Okay.”

“And,” you continue, sweetly, “I need you to kiss me like that again.”

He blinks.

Once.

Twice.

Then color blooms across his cheeks—actual, honest-to-God blush. It spreads fast, like he’s lost a battle with his own circulatory system.

“Oh,” he says. Eloquently.

You grin. “Those are my terms.”

He rubs the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“You’ll survive,” you assure him.

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