The Shitstorm That Is My Brain

Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader MDNI 18+ wc: 11.1k summary: You and Robby have a rhythm that feels unshakable: best friends, across-the-hall neighbors, and partners in every small routine from days off to the walk into the Pitt. But one night, a simple misunderstanding about a dinner date with an old friend tilts your world on its axis. The comfortable safety of "just friends" finally shatters for both of you, leading to an honest confession that changes the gravity of your entire world. It turns out, when you’ve already spent years building a life together, the only thing left to do is finally admit it. c/w: (covers the entire fic, smut in part two) age gap, jealousy, pining, two idiots in love, p i v sex, oral fem receiving, best friends to lovers, medical inaccuracies, not beta read. a/n: if I keep rereading this, I'll just continue to make changes and edits. hope you all enjoy part two. <3 Part One

Robby’s been nursing the same beer for an hour. The TV is blaring some reality show he doesn't care about, but his ears are focused on one thing: the hallway. He’s waiting for the soft sound of her heels, the jingle of her keys, the door closing. He takes a drink, but it doesn't help. He’s completely wired to her frequency.

"Get it together," he mutters to the empty room. He looks at the ceiling as if it’s going to give him a play-by-play. She’s out. She’s with a guy. She’s having a life. It’s normal. Except it feels like the opposite of normal. It feels like he’s holding his breath.

He shifts on the cushions, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. He checks his phone, taps the screen, locks it again. No texts. No "home soon." He swallows against the lump in his throat and tries the beer again. It’s flat.

Time is a blur. He’s just a guy on a couch, trapped in his own head, waiting for the only person who makes the noise stop.

And then, he hears it. The hallway. Her door. The soft click and thud of the door closing sounds like a thunderclap in the quiet apartment. Robby’s breath hitches. His heart starts hammering against his ribs, a frantic, desperate rhythm. It’s like his soul recognizes her presence and finally exhales. He stays on the couch for a split second, eyes glued to the TV, his mind a total blank.

Let her be, he commands himself. Don't be a stalker. But his hand is already tight around his beer, knuckles pale. He sets the bottle down like it’s made of glass and might explode. He’s up. He snatches his keys off the counter, needing the familiar weight of them to keep from shaking. The hallway feels different now. Charged. Expectant.

He covers the distance between their doors in three strides. He’s got his key out, ready to slide it into the lock like he has a thousand times before. It’s second nature.

But his hand freezes.

What if she’s not alone? What if he opens the door and she’s there with him? Laughing. Comfortable. Robby’s stomach turns hard. He can walk into her apartment and recover from a lot of things…  But that? No, he can’t recover from that. His hand drops slowly. He exhales once, rough and controlled, like he’s bracing for something painful. So he does something he hasn’t done in almost four years. 

He raises his knuckles.

And he knocks.

You’re halfway through pouring a glass of wine when the knock hits. It’s not the scuff of keys or the familiar click of Robby letting himself in. It’s a knock. A real one. You pause, bottle tilted, your brows knitting together. Who is at your door this late? You’ve only been home long enough to ditch the green dress for a hoodie and leggings, the "official" uniform of being done with the world.

You set the bottle down, leave the wine glass on the counter, and head for the door with a faint frown, feeling a bit guarded. But then you open it.

There he is. Seeing him makes your heart do a weird, traitorous little skip, the kind Ethan literally just warned you about. “Robinavitch?” you ask, tone laced with amusement, because when does this man knock like a Jehovah’s witness? You open the door wider automatically, already stepping back to let him in. Not waiting for an answer you turn and walk back to the kitchen, calling over your shoulder, “You never knock. Is your dementia acting up again? Couldn’t find your keys?” Behind you, the door shuts. 

Robby doesn’t follow you in like he usually does. He lingers in the kitchen doorway, one shoulder braced against the wall like he needs the support. It looks wrong on him; he’s too still, too awkward. A little prick of unease hits your chest.

“You okay?” you start to ask, but he beats you to it.

“How was your... date?” he asks. It’s not an accusation. It’s just careful, like the word might cut him if he says it too loudly.

You hum, still feeling that post-dinner glow, and reach for a second glass. You pour him one and cross the kitchen, pressing it into his hand. “It was great,” you say, taking a sip of yours. “Really nice, actually.”

Robby’s fingers close around the glass, but he doesn't drink. He just watches you.

You lean back against the counter, staying in the ‘safe’ zone. “Ethan’s in town for a wedding. He texted weeks ago, and we finally made it work. We just caught up. Like old times.” You keep the conversation on the surface, terrified that if you go any deeper, you’ll spill every truth Ethan just dragged out of you.

You leave out the heavy stuff. You don't mention the way your heart did a backflip when Ethan called Robby your boyfriend. You don't mention the way your voice went soft, or how Ethan thinks Robby has been waiting for you for years.

Robby’s looking at you, but it’s like he’s watching a movie he knows has a sad ending.

“He was my absolute best friend in med school,” you say, forcing a smile. “He got me through everything. All the nights I thought I’d end up working at an urgent care in the middle of nowhere.”

Robby’s mouth twitches, but his eyes stay dark.

“We caught up on everything,” you continue, carefully walking the line. “Work, life, his cardiology fellowship. He’s... happy. It was just really good to see him.”

You take a sip of wine, trying to find your footing, and then you really look at him. Your heart sinks. He looks wrecked. Not mad, just... undone. Like he’s watched something he loved float out of reach, and he’s just waiting for the impact.

Your smile fades, replaced by a pull of concern. You set your wine glass down, the clink echoing too loudly. Robby still hasn’t touched his. You step closer, your voice dropping into that soft, instinctive register you only use for him. “Robby? You okay?”

His throat works as he swallows, his eyes flickering to yours. He looks like he’s fighting a war he already lost. Your heart gives a small, uneven thump, Ethan's voice ringing in your ears: I think he already does.

You clear your throat, desperately trying to steer the ship back to shore. “Oh,” you add, casual as an afterthought. “He also showed me a picture of Jamie. His boyfriend.”

Robby’s entire posture shifts. It’s subtle, a tightening of his shoulders, a sharpening of his gaze. Attention snapping back into the room.

“They’ve been together almost a year,” you continue, picking your wine glass back up. “Apparently, they’re looking at buying a place together.”

Robby just stares for a second, and then it’s like someone finally cut the tension wire. His shoulders drop, that hard set of his jaw just vanishes, and he lets out this long, shaky breath he’s clearly been holding since you left. The relief is so obvious it’s almost funny. You stand there, wine in hand, suddenly realizing exactly what you just did. You didn't just give him a name; you gave him his peace of mind back.

“Jamie,” he repeats, his voice a little rough.

“Yeah,” you nod, trying to act like you don't see him literally transforming back into himself. “Jamie. He’s gorgeous, and Ethan is basically obsessed with him.”

Robby’s mouth twitches, a real smile finally trying to break through the gloom. “Good,” he says, and he actually sounds like he means it.

You watch him, your own heart doing a weird little dance. You’d run a test, and the results were loud and clear: the idea of you being "taken" had been sitting on his chest all night. He finally moves away from the door, reclaiming the kitchen like he owns the place again. You tilt your head, a smirk tugging at your lips.

“You know,” you say, keeping your voice light, “you’re acting like I just came home engaged.”

Robby blinks, looking genuinely offended. “I am not.”

You hum, totally unconvinced, and take another sip of your wine. “Mhm. Sure.”

Robby clears his throat, suddenly finding the kitchen tile very interesting. “I was just... checking. Making sure everything was good.”

“Checking,” you repeat, the amusement bubbling up in your chest.

He looks up, his defensive walls going up fast. “It’s a reasonable question to ask a friend!”

“Sure,” you say, your mouth twitching into a grin. “An honest-to-God date. That’s really what you thought was happening tonight.”

Robby’s jaw tightens. “I did not think that.”

“You absolutely did. You were practically vibrating.”

“I asked one question,” he says, as if that solves everything.

You laugh, warm and quiet, and the sound finally seems to loosen the tension in the room. “Okay. Fine. One question.”

Robby takes a small, cautious sip of his wine, looking a bit unsure of himself. You watch him for a second, then lean your hip against the counter. You decide to just go for it before you lose your nerve.

“Ethan asked me about my love life,” you say, keeping it as casual as possible.

Robby’s eyes flick to yours. He’s completely still now. Attentive.

You roll your eyes. “He didn’t even ease into it. Just, boom. Tell me everything.”

Robby makes a quiet sound, maybe sympathy, maybe just an acknowledgment.

“So, I told him I don’t have one,” you continue. “Because I don’t. I told him that between the hospital and you, I don't really have the time or energy to date anyone else.”

Robby goes absolutely still.

“Which is true,” you add quickly, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “We’re always together. Work, dinner, coffee, errands... It’s just us. All the time. And then Ethan did the whole interrogation thing,” you say, leaning back against the counter. “He actually asked if you were preventing me from dating.”

Robby’s brows knit together. “Preventing?”

“I know, right?” You laugh, though your heart is beating like you’re running a marathon. “I told him you don't prevent anything. Then he asked what we even do in our spare time. So I told him the truth. That we basically live in each other's pockets. We trade off making coffee, we get takeout, we spend every day off together because it’s easy. Because you're my favorite person.”

The words hit the air before you can pull them back. Robby’s throat works, and he takes a significantly larger gulp of wine this time.

“And when I was done,” you say, your voice dropping, “Ethan just looked at me and said, ‘I can see how already having a boyfriend would make you not want to look for a new one.’”

The silence that follows is heavy. You watch him brace himself, his face going neutral, or trying to. Then, he clears his throat and blurts out, “I’m not your boyfriend.”

It’s too fast. Too loud. You blink, then a slow, delighted grin spreads across your face. “Ohhhhh?”

Robby closes his eyes for a second, clearly realizing how that sounded. He exhales through his nose, looking like he wants the floor to swallow him.

"I didn't mean..." he starts, then cuts himself off. He tries again, sounding frustrated. "I mean, I did. But not like that."

You take a slow, deliberate sip of wine, watching him over the rim. "You said it like you were correcting a chart, Robby. Very clinical."

His ears go a deep, unmistakable pink. "Stop it."

"Mikey," you say, your voice turning sweet as sugar.

He points a finger at you, looking completely helpless. "Don't. Don't do the voice."

You grin, feeling the power shift. "So... you're not my boyfriend."

Robby’s jaw moves as he stares at his wine like it’s the only safe thing in the room. After taking a genuine drink, he looks up again, and while the awkwardness remains, it's now more stable. Like he’s finally found his footing. "Ethan said that."

You shrug one shoulder. "He did."

Robby’s gaze pins you to the spot. "And you let him."

You blink, letting out a quiet huff of a laugh. "I don't control what people say. But... no. I didn't argue with him."

Robby’s eyes sharpen. "Yeah. I noticed."

"You noticed?"

"I'm not stupid," he mutters.

"Debatable," you hum.

"Trouble," he warns, but his voice has lost its edge.

You smile, the teasing softening. "Okay, okay. Sorry. Continue."

Robby lets out a jagged breath and shifts away from the doorframe, drawing himself up with a vulnerability you’ve never seen. “I came over here to talk to you,” he says, his voice low.

Your stomach flips. You keep your tone light on purpose. “Is that why you knocked like a normal person? I was going to call 911.”

Robby’s mouth twitches. “I was trying to be respectful.”

“Oh,” you say, feigning shock. “Respectful. In my apartment. Crazy.”

He gives you a look that is just him. Dry, fond, and a little tired of your nonsense. “You’re not helping.”

“I am helping,” you argue. “This is my emotional support sarcasm.”

Robby shakes his head, but his eyes don't leave yours. They’re warm, a little wrecked, and completely honest. “I really thought you were on a date,” he says quietly.

The playful air in the kitchen evaporates instantly.

Robby swallows. “I know you said it wasn’t. I know you were catching up, but I still…” He exhales, frustration flashing across his face. “My brain didn’t care.”

Your grip tightens on your glass. “Mikey…”

He looks at you then, and the mask is gone. He’s crossed the line, and there is no going back.

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time,” Robby says.

The world stops spinning. Your breath hitches in your throat. You are frozen, caught in the gravity of him.

“I realized it tonight,” he continues, his voice breaking. “It hit me like a bolt of lightning. I sat in my apartment for ‌hours trying to convince myself to stay put. I was so terrified of losing what we have.”

You stare at him, heart pounding.

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Then I heard your door shut, and I couldn’t do it anymore. I couldn’t sit there and pretend I was fine.”

You swallow. “So you came over...”

“I came over,” he confirms. “And I knocked because I didn’t know if you came home alone. And I didn’t think I could walk in on you with someone and survive it.”

You let out a breath that sounds like a laugh and a sob’s distant cousin. “God.”

Robby’s gaze flicks to your mouth again, then back to your eyes like he’s trying to keep himself under control.

"I'm not your boyfriend," he repeats, the words landing like a vow. "But I want to be."

Your heart skips a beat. Robby's hands tremble against the glass.

"I want the right to look at you like this," he says, his voice a gravelly whisper. "I want to take you out and have it mean something. I want to stop pretending that we aren't everything to each other." He looks at you with a raw, bare honesty. "But you're my best friend. If you don't want this... I'll step back. I will. I'll find a way to be okay. I just can't keep the lie alive. Not after tonight."

You set your glass on the counter, the sound sharp in the quiet room. You look at him, the teasing curve of your lips clashing with the tears shimmering in your eyes. "Mikey," you whisper. "You're in love with me?"

Robby’s expression is a map of hope and fear. "Yeah."

You take a step closer. "And you thought I was leaving you behind."

He nods, his gaze intense. "Yeah."

You let out a shaky breath. "Okay." You pause, then add, "Okay, I think I'm in deep trouble."

Robby’s brows draw together in a worried line. "What do you mean?"

A small, genuine smile breaks across your face, erasing the last of the teasing. “Because I’m in love with you, too.”

For a long heartbeat, Robby just searches your eyes, as if looking for the catch. Then his breath hitches, escaping in a shaky exhale, and his expression transforms. The protective mask falls away, leaving something so tender it’s almost overwhelming. “Trouble,” he breathes, the nickname sounding like a confession in return.

You swallow against the lump in your throat, your pulse a frantic rhythm in your ears. Your fingers white-knuckle the stem of your wine glass, the only thing keeping you grounded as the years of "just friends" finally dissolve between you.

Robby’s hand lifts, hesitant, hovering near your wrist like he’s asking permission without words. You set your glass down first. He follows, setting his down beside yours, the clink small in the silence. And then he’s there. His hand comes up like he’s still not sure he’s allowed. His palm cups your jaw, warm and steady, and his thumb sweeps your cheek in a slow, gentle pass. Like he’s learning you by touch. Like he’s held himself back for so long, he’s scared he’ll ruin it if he moves too fast.

“Can I…” he starts, voice rough, the words catching.

Your heart is hammering so hard you swear it’s visible. You tip your chin up, breath unsteady. “Yes.”

That’s all it takes. Robby leans down, closing the distance between you. At first it’s just a soft press of his lips to yours, but it still makes your whole body come alive. His lips are warm, soft, achingly gentle, and the contact is so real it steals the air out of your lungs. It isn’t frantic or greedy. It’s reverent.

Your eyes flutter shut. There’s a second where your brain tries to catalogue it like you catalogue everything else, tries to make it clinical, tries to keep you safe. It fails the moment he exhales, and you feel the tremor in his breath, the smallest shake that gives him away.

Because it’s Robby. Because you know the sound of his laugh and the cadence of his voice and the way he says your name like it’s something he’s allowed to keep. And now you know this, too. You officially know the way his lips feel against yours. 

Your hands slide up his chest and fist the front of his hoodie, pulling him closer, the fabric bunching under your fingers. His body shifts with yours. His other hand finds your waist, steadying you, holding you like he’s anchoring himself.

His lips move again, a little firmer this time. A careful, testing sweep of his tongue against your lips, that makes heat bloom low in your stomach. Your lips part on instinct, you don’t even try to fight, and Robby makes a quiet sound like he’s relieved, like you just answered him in a language he understands.

The kiss deepens. Not rushed or desperate. Just slow and sweet. His lips are so soft against yours in a way that doesn’t match the rest of him, the sharp edges he wears at work. He tastes like beer and something purely Robby beneath it all. When his tongue brushes yours, it makes your stomach flip, and you let out a soft moan.

It hits you, sudden and undeniable, how long you’ve wanted this. Kissing him feels like coming home. 

Robby’s thumb strokes your cheek again, softer this time, almost absentmindedly, as if he can’t stop touching you now that he’s started. And the tenderness of it cracks something open in you, something you’ve kept sealed behind jokes and routine and the safety of not asking for more. You kiss him like restraint finally ran out. Not the careful kind, not the polite kind. Your grip locks in. You press your body into him and give him your ‘yes’ in the only language that matters right now.

When you finally break apart, it’s only because your lungs demand it. Robby stays right there, so close you can feel the warmth of his body, the faint brush of his breath against your lips. You let out a soft, breathless laugh that sounds more like disbelief than humor. “We’re idiots.”

Robby answers with a low sound that might be a laugh. “Yeah.” You lean in and kiss him again, a shorter sweeter kiss, the kind of kiss that’s less a question and more a promise. A gentle press and a soft parting that makes his breath hitch hard, causes his fingers to tighten just slightly, as if it is unfair that you get to do that to him now, and then pull away.

A quiet, needy sound rumbles in his chest, and it goes straight through you. “Come here,” you murmur, voice soft and playful, and you catch the front of his hoodie to tug him with you, guiding him toward the living room before your brain can start making lists of consequences. He follows like his body decided before his brain had the chance to catch up with it.

You get him to the couch and stop just long enough to look at him. Robby’s breathing a little harder than normal, eyes on your lips like he forgot the rest of the room exists. You splay your palms against his chest and give him a soft push so that he falls back onto the couch. He looks up at you, quiet, wrecked, like he’s trying to be careful and failing. You look down at him with a soft smile before you straddle his lap. Robby lets out a breath that sounds like defeat and surrender, and you can’t help but let out a soft giggle before leaning in and capturing his lips again.

It’s not careful anymore. It’s deep and hungry and a little laughable, the way you both keep chasing the same inch of space. His hands find your hips, and he holds you firmly against him.

Your fingers slip into his hair, tugging just enough to drag a sound from his mouth, low and involuntary. His grip on your hips tightens, thumbs pressing slow circles like he’s grounding himself, like he’s trying to memorize the way you feel.

You shift in his lap without meaning to, and the moment you do, you feel him. Unmistakably hard, and from that one move, you can tell, he’s big. Robby breaks the kiss just long enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s trying to regain some semblance of control.

“Fuck,” he says roughly. Like a warning. Like a prayer.

You cup his jaw, keeping him close. “I’m right here.”

His eyes open, locked on yours. “Tell me to slow down.”

You gasped playfully. “Don’t you dare.”

That gets him. A soft, helpless laugh, like you always do this to him.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and then he kisses you again, and this time there’s nothing uncertain about his hands.

Robby pulls back just long enough to look at you, eyes dark and wrecked and very, very fond. “This is not how I pictured tonight going.”

You lift a brow. “What, you pictured Ethan sweeping me off my feet and you having to pretend you were fine?”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Smartass.”

You shrug and smile at him. “You love me, despite me being a smartass.”

Robby’s eyes drop to your lips. “Yeah,” he admits, and it sounds like it costs him something.

“Good,” you whisper, and steal another kiss.

Then you’re kissing and laughing and kissing again. It’s dizzying, sweet, and reckless, the kind of making out that belongs to teenagers with nowhere to be and not to two attendings who have a 7 a.m. shift at a hospital that never shuts up.

Your fingers slide into his hair and tug, just a little, and Robby shudders like you hit a nerve. The sound he makes is low and rough, and his hands slide up your back, pulling you closer until your chest presses against his. He’s past pretending he can keep space between you.

His mouth moves against yours like he’s starving for it. Like he’s trying to make up for every moment he didn’t do this. Every time he stood too close in a hallway and didn’t. Every time he looked at you and chose ‘friend’ because it was safer.

You rock your hips, barely, more instinct than intention, and Robby goes still for a heartbeat. “Sweetheart,” he says against your mouth, your name coming out like a warning. Like a plea. You pause just enough to look at him. His eyes are blown wide, focused on you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “And I will.”

Your throat tightens at how careful he’s being, even like this. You shake your head. “Don’t stop.” Something in his face shifts. Relief first. Then heat.

“Okay,” he breathes, and kisses you again.

His hands stay at your waist, guiding you, steadying you as you begin rocking your hips against him slowly, until you’re a little more confident, your body finds the rhythm of it, the friction building until your breath turns shaky and you can’t pretend you’re thinking. Robby’s mouth drops to your jaw, then he trails a line of kisses down your neck. He lifts his head, eyes on yours again. “You okay?”

You nod, lips parted. “I’m more than okay.”

Robby’s stare goes dark with it, and he kisses you again, deep and slow, like he wants you to feel every second. His hips roll once, instinctively, and he drags against you in a way that turns your thoughts to static. The sound that slips out of him is low and helpless, more of a groan than a breath, like his body answered before his brain could stop it. His hands tighten at your sides, fingers digging in for half a second like he’s anchoring himself. Like he needs something solid so he doesn’t lose control completely.

Then he goes still, and then he stops himself. Not because he doesn’t want to. You can feel how much he wants to, see it in the way his jaw clenches, in the way his breath keeps catching like he’s forcing it back down. Because he’s Robby, and he’s trying so hard to do this right. It’s abrupt enough that you blink at him, breathless, lips tingling, thighs still hooked around him. Robby’s forehead drops to yours. His breathing is heavy, controlled, like he’s wrestling his own body into behaving while you’re still sitting in his lap.

You squint at him, fingers gliding through his hair. “Mikey?”

He lets out one short laugh, low and strained. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”

You make a sound that’s too close to a laugh. “Oh my God.”

Robby lifts his head, and for a second, he just looks at you. His eyes move over your face with something reverent and wrecked, like he still can’t believe you’re here, like you’re letting him have this. “I want to take you out,” he says, earnest enough to make your throat tighten. “An actual date. I want to do it right.”

Your chest squeezes, warmth blooming so fast it’s almost unbearable. The tenderness of it hits you right in the sternum. 

“An actual date,” you repeat, tipping your chin up with a teasing little hum. “Okay, Grandpa.”

Robby’s eyes narrow, but his mouth twitches. His hands flex on your hips like he has thoughts he’s not saying aloud. “Don’t.”

You grin wider because pushing him has always been your favorite sport. “It’ll have to be on our next day off.”

“Yeah?” he asks, and the way he says it makes it sound like he’s already planning it. Like he’s already planning everything in his head.

“Yeah,” you say, all innocent. Too innocent. You shift in his lap on purpose this time, teasingly grinding yourself against him. “So you’re not up past your bedtime.”

Robby goes still. The shift in him is immediate, like a switch flips. Robby’s expression changes into something dangerous and delightful, the kind of look that makes your stomach dip in a way that has nothing to do with fear. “Oh,” he says softly, voice low enough to raise goosebumps. “You’re dead.”

You gasp, already laughing. “Mikey, don’t you dare.”

He does not hesitate. His hands find your sides, he knows exactly where you’re ticklish, and you squeal as laughter rips out of you. You try to twist away, but you’re still straddling his lap, which means you have nowhere to go. He has every advantage, and he knows it.

“Oh my God,” you wheeze, grabbing at his wrists. “No. No, no, no. Stop.”

“Apologize,” he demands, voice rough with laughter.

“I can’t,” you choke out, breathless and shaking. “You’re ancient.”

Robby makes a sound of pure offended shock. “Ancient?” He doubles down. You squeal again, whole body folding forward, then back, trying to escape and only making it worse. Your legs squeeze around his hips on instinct, like holding on will help. It does not help. It just traps you there while he ruins your life.

“Mikey,” you gasp, laughing so hard you can barely breathe. “Please.”

“Not until you take it back.”

“Never,” you manage, and it’s the worst choice you’ve ever made.

Robby’s grin goes sharp. “Okay.”

He shifts, quick and sure, and the change in position happens all at once. One second you’re on his lap, the next he’s hooking an arm around your waist and tipping you sideways onto the couch like you weigh nothing. You hit the cushions with a laugh that turns into a squeak when he follows, body moving on top of yours.

Robby braces one hand beside your head, the other still at your side, and he keeps tickling like he’s committed to the bit. He’s wedged between your thighs as he leans over you, pinning you in place without even trying.

“Michael!” you wheeze, twisting and failing, your hands pushing at his shoulders. “This is abuse.”

“Nope, it’s a consequence,” he says, and he looks so pleased with himself you want to bite him. You squirm hard, trying to get away, and he leans in to keep you pinned long enough to finish his revenge, forgetting to keep all his weight off you. His body settles heavily on top of yours, warm and solid, and your body reacts instinctively by wrapping your legs around him.

Your laughter stutters. Turns breathless. Robby slows, the tickling faltering as his brain catches up to where you’ve ended up. His hand is still on your side. His chest is rising and falling hard against yours, each breath shallow with restraint. For one charged moment, neither of you moves. Then he shifts, a slow roll of his hips that drags his body tight against yours. Just once.

You both make soft moans of appreciation as your whole body lights up. Every nerve feels like a live wire, the weight of him pressing you into the cushions, the heat of him against your core even through layers of clothes. Robby stills again, but it’s not from hesitation. It’s a calculation. His eyes flick to your mouth, then back up to meet your gaze, and the look there is anything but uncertain.

His smile is slow and curved at the edge. There’s nothing helpless about it now. It’s pure tension and want, tempered only by how much he’s trying to stay gentle. You’re both breathing hard. Cheeks warm. The room is too quiet, like it knows what’s about to happen. He dips closer. His voice is quiet but firm, lips brushing yours. “Hi.”

Your throat tightens. The word barely makes it out. “Hi.”

His gaze drops again, tracking the curve of your lips. “Still okay?”

You nod, sliding your hands up his arms, fingertips gliding over muscle and warmth, keeping him close with purpose. “Yeah.” That’s all he needs. Something in him lets go. He kisses you like he’s done holding back, mouth rougher now, more demanding as his tongue plunges past your lips and sweeps hungrily into your mouth. His hand finds the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, controlling the angle of the kiss like he’s decided this is his now.

You kiss him back, just as hungrily. Your hands fist into his hoodie and yank him closer, trying to pull him all the way down on top of you. He groans into your mouth, and his hips start rolling once more into the heat of your body. The friction hits you just right, and your breath catches hard in your throat. He feels it. He hears it. “Jesus,” you whisper, voice cracking.

His forehead presses to yours for a beat, like he’s steadying the storm behind his eyes. “God, sweetheart.”

You slide your hands under his hoodie, palms skimming his stomach, his back muscles jumping beneath your fingers. His breath hitches hard. You kiss the corner of his mouth. “Please don’t stop.”

His gaze cuts back to yours. Dark. Intense. Focused. “I’m not stopping,” he says, and there’s no softness in it now. “I just want to make sure you’re still mine.”

Your breath stumbles. “I’ve always been yours.”

His eyes flash. That heat in his expression sharpens. One of his hands moves, slow and certain, sliding down your body to grip your thigh. He pulls it higher around his waist, anchoring you in place, keeping you right where he wants you.

He claims your mouth, open and hot, tongue sliding against yours in a way that makes your toes curl. There’s nothing tentative about it now. He kisses you deeply, possessively, like he’s trying to brand it into your body. His hands move faster, skimming up under your hoodie, across your ribs, until his thumbs graze your breasts. You make a sound you don’t recognize. He hears it, pauses there, fingers splayed, and looks down at you because he’s just realized there’s nothing underneath; his breath catches hard. His hands go still. His gaze darkens with something molten and heavy, like he’s just been given a gift he wasn’t expecting.

You nod, not trusting your voice. Robby exhales, sharp and uneven, and pulls the hoodie up and over your head. The air hits your skin, and you shiver, but not from the cold. His eyes drop. The hunger that takes over his face is immediate. Fierce. Possessive in a way that makes your breath hitch. “Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re killing me.” Your throat tightens. You feel exposed in the best possible way. His eyes haven’t left your chest, and the heat in them makes your skin flush everywhere.

But his hands are already moving again, warm and steady, sliding up your bare waist. His palms trace your ribs, fingers curving under your breasts like he needs to learn every inch of you by touch. His thumbs brush over your nipples, teasing, pinching, and the sound that escapes your throat is needy and completely unfiltered.

Robby groans, deep and dark, and lowers his head. He kisses your collarbone first. Then your sternum. His teeth scrape lightly over sensitive skin, and then his mouth closes over one nipple, hot and wet and unrelenting. You cry out, arching into him. His tongue swirls, then sucks, and the drag of his lips makes your entire body tense under him.

He groans again at the way you move, like the way you react turns him on more than he knows what to do with. His hips press down into yours, slow and rough, grinding against you with an urgency that makes your brain stutter.

“Michael,” you gasp, desperate.

His eyes flick up, pupils blown wide. “Still with me?”

You cup his jaw, voice shaky but firm. “Yes.” That’s all it takes. His mouth goes back to your chest, lips sliding over the swell of your breasts, tongue dragging over sensitive skin as he worships you with a kind of focused desperation. It’s messy and hot and completely consuming. 

Your legs tighten around his hips. He doesn’t back off, just grinds into you slowly. He presses a kiss to the center of your chest, slow and deliberate, then lifts his head just enough to crash his mouth back onto yours. The kiss is hot and deep, full of teeth and tongue and the sound of him groaning into your mouth like he can’t get enough.

You cry out and clutch his shoulders, nails digging in. His only answer is another groan, rough and broken. Your legs wrap tighter around his hips. He doesn’t back off. He presses a kiss to the center of your chest, right over your heart, then moves back to your mouth like he’s starving for it. The next grind of his hips is harder. Slower. More dangerous.

“God, Robby,” you gasp, barely able to speak.

He stops instantly, breathing hard, forehead to yours. “Tell me,” he says. His voice is low, wrecked. “Tell me what you need.”

You try to pull yourself together. It’s impossible. “Bedroom,” you manage, barely. “Or I’m not going to survive this couch.”

Robby laughs, rough and breathless. “Okay. Yeah. Bed.” He starts to push himself up, like he’s going to give you space. But you grab the hoodie strings and pull him back down. You kiss him again, deep and greedy and shaking with how badly you need more.

His smile flashes. Not soft. Not sweet. Feral. Then he slides his hands under your thighs and lifts. The movement knocks the air out of you, not from force, from surprise, from the sudden reality that he can do that. That he’s doing that. That he’s carrying you like it’s easy, like he’s been wanting to for years. Your arms wrap around his neck as you laugh breathlessly. “You show-off.”

Robby kisses your jaw and walks you toward the bedroom anyway, steps a little unsteady, like he’s barely holding it together. “Can you blame me?” he murmurs.

No, you really can’t.

Robby gets you to the bedroom like he’s chasing something he’s afraid to lose. The door clicks shut behind him, and his mouth is on yours before you can speak. His hands grip your hips, guiding you backward with single-minded purpose until your knees hit the mattress. You drop onto it, the laughter caught in your throat dying the second his body presses you down.

He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t fumble. He climbs over you, knees nudging your legs apart, bracing one hand beside your head. The other slips under your thigh, pulling you flush to him with practiced ease.

“Look at me,” he says, voice like gravel. You do. His eyes are dark, blown wide, pupils devouring the warm brown until there’s barely anything left. His face is flushed, jaw tight, control hanging by a thread.

“You still want this?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Robby, yes.”

He exhales like the sound of your voice did something to him, then kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s already decided he’s not giving you space to overthink any of it. His mouth is hot, relentless, as he dominates your mouth. There’s nothing polite in it. Nothing soft. Just heat and hunger and the low, broken sound he makes when your body arches into him.

Your hands reach for his hoodie, fingers curling in the fabric, tugging hard. He shifts just enough to help you pull it over his head, both of you fumbling like the thing put up a fight. The shirt underneath follows, peeled away to reveal warm skin and the kind of strength that’s built over years—solid, steady, quietly kept. The kind you only notice when you're this close.

You barely get a second to look before he’s on you again, body pressed tight, mouth at your throat. “Hands,” he says.

You pause.

He grabs your wrists and pins them above your head, pressing them into the mattress with one hand. The other skims down your side, slow and firm, claiming territory like it’s always been his. You gasp, and he smiles against your neck. “There,” he murmurs. “Now you’re listening.”

Your breath catches. “What are you doing?”

“Taking my time,” he says. “So I don’t fuck this up.”

He kisses down your throat, past your collarbone, down to your chest, where you’re already bare for him. His mouth closes over your nipple without warning, tongue flicking once, and the moan that escapes you isn’t something you’ve ever made before. Robby groans against your skin. “That’s it. I want every sound.”

Your hips shift under him, needing friction, but he doesn’t let you get far.

“Stay still,” he murmurs, mouth dragging across to the other breast. “Let me play.” The words send a jolt through you.

You tug at his grip again, breathless. “Robby.”

He lifts his head, eyes burning. “You want more?” You nod, eyes wide. He releases your wrists, but only so his hands can go lower.

“I want these off,” he says, fingers sliding into the waistband of your lounge pants and underwear at once. “Now.” You lift your hips, letting him pull them down in one sharp, fluid motion. The cool air hits you a second before his gaze does. And when he looks at you, spread out on the bed, flushed and breathless and bare for him, his control fractures.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re perfect.” He moves down your body without ceremony, dragging his mouth over your stomach, your hips, your inner thigh, until you’re trembling.

“Spread your legs,” he says, low and steady. “I want to see you.” You obey, pulse pounding in your ears. Robby sits back just enough to drink you in, still half-dressed in his jeans like he forgot or doesn’t care. One hand cups your knee, easing it wider, while the other brushes up your inner thigh, teasing, deliberate.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says, voice rough. “So many times. What you’d sound like. How you’d taste…”

You shiver, the words sinking into your skin. But you are who you are and you can’t help teasing him. “You dirty old man.” 

His eyes flick up to yours, a small tilt at the corner of his lips. “Tell me you want my mouth, Trouble.”

Your throat tightens. “I want your mouth.”

“Good girl.”

And then he lowers his head. His mouth brushes your inner thigh, and your hips twitch without permission. Robby doesn’t rush. He kisses the skin there, soft and maddening, then he nips at your skin before sucking hard. You squirm and let out a needy whine. “Robby.”

“Shh.” His voice is low, calm. “Let me take care of you, baby.” He spreads your legs wider with his hands, thumbs pressing into your thighs, firm and possessive. His breath ghosts over where you want him, and you swear you could cry from how good it already feels, and he hasn’t even…

Then his mouth is on you, his tongue dragging slow and flat up your slit, parting your folds with deliberate precision. Your spine arches, and a gasp rips out of you before you can stop it. The heat of his tongue, the pressure, the way he licks you like he’s been starving, it lands like a jolt of electricity under your skin. He groans against you, the sound sending vibrations straight through your core. “That’s it,” he murmurs between strokes. “You taste so fucking good.”

You reach down, threading your fingers into his hair, trying to ground yourself, to pull him closer, to beg without using words. But Robby already knows, he’s locked in like he isn’t going anywhere. One of his hands slides up, fingers splayed across your stomach to hold you down. Every time you try to lift your hips, he pushes you back into the mattress. “Stay still,” he says again, but this time it’s growled against your clit, and it makes you whimper.

He flattens his tongue against you and then drags it slowly up your slit. Then he does it again. Then he switches to circles, soft and maddening against your clit, before sucking hard enough to make your eyes close as you surrender to the overwhelming feeling of having his mouth on you. His tongue continued to swirl, relentless, and when he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your moan was raw, broken.

“Oh my God! Robby!”

“You’re close,” he says, mouth slick and voice full of pride. “I can feel it.”

“I’m gonna…” You gasp, twisting under his hand.

“You’re gonna come,” he agrees smugly as he slides a third finger inside you. “Right now.”

And then he buries his mouth in you again, merciless, focused. His tongue flicks exactly where you need it, pressure building fast and brutal and overwhelming, while his fingers continue to brush against your G-spot.

You try to hold back, you really do, but you fail spectacularly when his teeth graze your clit and he sucks hard. It’s unnerving how quickly he’s gotten you to this point, your back arching off the bed, hands gripping his hair as you writhe against his mouth letting out little moans and whimpers. Robby groans as you come, like it does something to him, too. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t back off. He keeps licking you through it, steady and hungry, like he wants every last second of it.

When the intensity ebbs you collapse back into the mattress, panting, wrecked. Only then does he slow down. He presses one last kiss to your thigh, then sits back on his knees, mouth shiny, eyes dark and blown.

“Jesus,” you whimper as he drags his fingers out.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes locked on you as he sucks your juices off his fingers. The mere sight of him licking his fingers makes you clench around nothing. His hands move to his jeans, but he keeps his eyes on you as he pops the button and slides the zipper down. You’re more than a little mesmerized as he shoves his jeans and boxers down, allowing you to get your first proper look at him.

Your breath hitches; he’s long, thick, the head is flushed an angry red and pre-cum already leaking from the slit. “Holy shit.” Robby laughs once, but it’s not self-conscious. It’s cocky. A man who knows exactly what he’s working with, and what it’s about to do to you.

“Still okay?” he asks, voice quieter now, even with his cock in his hand. You nod fast, unable to take your eyes off his hand as he strokes himself. He climbs back over you, bare now, skin on skin, and you whimper at the contact. He’s warm and solid, the weight of him pressing you down into the mattress just right. Robby kisses you, slower this time, but it still tastes like want. Like hunger. Like you’re his favorite thing, and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

He lines himself up, the head of his cock sliding through the slick between your thighs, teasing. Letting you feel the stretch that’s coming. You shiver. “Robby!” 

“Tell me when you’re ready,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Tell me you want it.”

You look at him, cheeks flushed, body still trembling from his mouth.

“I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.” Robby’s eyes close like he’s praying. Then he exhales and pushes in slowly, giving just the tip before pulling back. Then the blunt head slips inside before he retreats. He pushes in, pulls out, feeding your pussy his cock inch by devastating inch. The stretch makes you gasp. He’s big, the pressure is intense, he fills you unbelievably slowly. Your nails are digging into his arms, and as you arch your back, he slips all the way inside. “Fuck,” he groans, his jaw clenched as he finally bottoms out. “You feel unbelievable.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “So do you.”

He doesn’t move at first, just holds himself there, buried deep, letting you adjust to his size. He presses his chest against yours, and his breath is warm against your mouth. His eyes search your face like he’s trying to memorize the way you look underneath him. You shift your hips, chasing friction, and he groans. “Don’t,” he warns, voice wrecked. “I’m already on edge.”

You smile, trying to hold in a laugh. “Thought you said you could take your time.”

“I lied,” he groans, and then he moves.

It starts slowly. Deep rolls of his hips, smooth and controlled, like he wants you to feel every inch of him. Every drag and grind. The friction catches just right, and your breath stutters in your throat. He watches your face, watches how every movement affects you. When you moan, his pace shifts. When your fingers clutch tighter at his back, he thrusts harder. You don’t even have to tell him what you want; he just reads it off your body.

“Look at me,” he says, voice low and firm. You do. You can’t look away. His face is flushed, hair damp, muscles flexing above you, and that look in his eyes, possession, reverence, and need, your heart skips. His hand slides under your thigh and hooks it up around his waist. The angle changes, and he hits something deep that makes you cry out.

“There,” he says, dark and satisfied. “That’s it. That’s what I want.” You’re too gone to respond. You just cling to him, letting him set the rhythm, letting him take you apart.

“Feel good?” he asks, mouth at your ear.

You nod frantically. “So good.”

His pace gets rougher. Less patient. He grits out your name between clenched teeth and drops his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “God dammit, we could have been doing this for years.”

Your stomach flips, and everything inside you tightens. “We’re stupid,” you whisper. “Now fuck me, Robby.” He groans like that broke something in him and thrusts harder, every movement punching a moan from your chest. His hand finds yours, fingers lacing together and pressing them into the mattress above your head, locking you in place. His other palm grips your hip, guiding your body into his like he can’t get deep enough. You’re close again. You can feel it. Your body is a live wire of need for him.

“Oh God, oh fuck!” you gasp, desperate.

“I’ve got you,” he says. “You’re gonna come for me again. Let go.”

You do.

That slow hum of pleasure just snaps and spreads throughout your entire body, it’s overwhelming in the best way possible. Your thighs lock around his hips as your hands squeeze his. Your whole body clenches around him, and the sound you make is something raw and real.

Robby swears under his breath and keeps moving, hips jerking unevenly now, thrusts losing rhythm as your pussy begins milking his cock. He buries his face in your neck and groans your name as he thrusts once, twice and the third time he buries himself to the hilt and comes. You feel him twitching inside you, sending little aftershocks of pleasure through you making you whimper. 

For a long moment, neither of you moves an inch,he’s heavy and warm on top of you, and God, does it feel good. Both of you just slowly catch your breath, hands moving tenderly over each other as the weight of what just happened settled in. Then Robby lifts his head, eyes soft and tender, and kisses you again. Slower. Sweeter. Like a thank you. “That was… amazing,” he murmurs.

You nod, smiling, boneless. “Mmm, that’s one word for it.”

He exhales a laugh and brushes your hair back. “I should’ve done that a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “You really should’ve.”

He presses another kiss to your mouth, then your cheek, then your collarbone before he finally pulls out, gentle now, moving slow like he doesn’t want to let you go just yet.

You wince, legs trembling. Robby notices immediately. “Stay there,” he says. “Don’t move.”

He gets up, naked and gorgeous and entirely unbothered, heading for the bathroom. You hear the water run. A few seconds later, he’s back, warm washcloth in hand, and settles between your legs like this is just as intimate. “Let me,” he says quietly.

And you let him.

Robby moves slowly as he cleans you up, careful and focused, like he’s still taking care of you even after everything. His hands are steady, his touch gentle, and he doesn’t speak until he’s done.

“All good,” he murmurs, voice soft.

You hum, content and tired, already half-melted into the bed. “Thank you.”

He leans in and presses a kiss to your knee. “Always.”

You watch him through heavy lashes as he disappears again, the sound of water running briefly before the room quiets. Then he’s back and climbing into bed with you. He slides under the covers and pulls you into him like it’s instinct. One arm wraps around your waist, the other curls under your neck, his chest warm and solid against your back.

You tuck your hand over his, your fingers threading together without thinking. For a moment, there’s nothing but breathing. The steady rhythm of his heart at your back. The occasional brush of his lips against your shoulder, like he doesn’t want to stop touching you, even in sleep.

“You sure you’re good, sweetheart?” he asks again, voice low and quiet now.

You nod, too relaxed to do anything else. “I’m absolutely perfect, Mikey. You’ll stay right?”

Robby lets out a soft breath like the idea he would leave is absurd and nuzzles behind your ear. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good.”

His arm tightens just a little around your waist. Protective. Anchoring. You close your eyes, sleep finds you with his breath on your neck, his body wrapped around yours, and his heartbeat keeping pace with your own. And for the first time in forever, you don’t dream of anything else.

Your alarm goes off, and you flinch awake on instinct, still half-dreaming, and reach for your phone with the practiced precision of someone who has lived by alarms for years. Your fingers fumble across the nightstand, find it, and you push the snooze button until the noise cuts out.

Silence rushes in. For one sweet second, you almost melt back into the pillow. Then a groan rumbles behind you. Low. Rough. Familiar in a way your brain refuses to process at first.

Before you can fully turn your head, a strong arm snakes around your waist and hauls you backward like you weigh nothing. You make a surprised sound as your back hits a solid, very warm body, and Robby buries his face into the back of your neck.

His breath is hot against your skin. His voice, when it comes, is sleep-thick and unreasonably soft. “Five more minutes.”

You freeze for half a heartbeat, and then you laugh, because of course he would. Because, of course, this is happening. Because you can feel his hand splayed over your stomach, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing a slow circle like he’s soothing you back into sleep. “Five?” you repeat, amused.

“Mmhmm,” he murmurs, already nuzzling closer. His nose brushes your hair. His grip tightens just enough to make it clear he’s not letting you go. You tilt your head back a fraction, just enough to catch him with the corner of your eye. He’s got his face half shoved into your pillow, hair a mess, lashes too long for a man who has any right looking that soft.

“Robby,” you warn, but it comes out fond and ruined.

He makes another noise, the kind that says he has no intention of cooperating. “Baby. Please.”

Your chest does something stupid.

You reach over and tap your phone again, mostly to prove you’re in control of something in this room. “Nine minutes,” you tell him, prim as anything. “I hit the snooze button.”

Robby’s arm tightens like he approves of your compromise. “That’s my girl.”

You snort, but you can’t stop smiling. “Oh my God.”

He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder through your shirt, barely there, more warmth than pressure. “Nine,” he repeats, already fading. You let yourself sink back, letting the heat of him seep into you, letting the weight of his arm and the steady rise and fall of his breathing convince your body to stop bracing for impact.

Outside your bedroom, the world can wait. For nine minutes, at least. When those blissful nine minutes are over, you both climb out of bed regretfully. Robby groans like he’s never worked a shift in his life, and you make a noise back that’s definitely not sympathetic. Somehow, you still end up smiling as you shuffle into the bathroom together, shoulder to shoulder. You’re both the sleepy versions of yourselves, trying (and failing) to pretend you aren't absurdly happy.

The weird part is how easy it is. You move around each other without thinking. You reach for your toothbrush, and he shifts out of the way before you even get there. He grabs the mouthwash, and your hand lands on his side to steady yourself like it’s the most natural thing in the world. At one point, you bump hips at the sink, and he mutters, “Excuse you,” like you’re the one invading his space. You roll your eyes as if you haven’t spent years sharing trauma bays and call rooms.

Only now, every brush of skin registers. His fingers skim your lower back as he passes, not a grab, just a quiet touch that says I’m here. As you squeeze by, your shoulder nudges his, and he tips his head down to steal a quick kiss like it’s a habit he’s been allowed to have forever. You stop and blink at him. He gives you a sleepy, wicked little grin. “What?”

“Nothing,” you lie, shoving him lightly with your elbow. He laughs under his breath and kisses your temple before heading back to his place to shower and change.

As you finish getting ready, you realize the very air in your apartment has changed. The world has tilted, and for the first time in years, the floor feels level. You think of all the time wasted being careful, when being brave would have felt this good.

You step into the kitchen and stop. Robby is a vision of casual, domestic chaos. His hair is still wet from the shower, his scrubs rumpled and uneven, as if he’s still dazed from the night before. He looks like a man who has been thoroughly loved, and he isn't even trying to hide the evidence.

Your eyes land on the counter: two thermoses, side by side, steam rising from the coffee he’s already made for you. The simplicity of it is what breaks you. It’s so easy to be cared for by him.

Robby glances over when he hears you. And the look on his face… soft, slow, worshipful, it steals the breath from your lungs. “Beautiful,” he says, like it’s just a fact. Like it’s his first thought every time he sees you. 

You cross the kitchen without even thinking. Your hand finds his waist, fingers curling into his shirt, and you tip up to kiss him. It’s quick, but it lands deep. Warm. Certain. It tastes like mouthwash and sleep and everything ahead of you.

Robby hums against your mouth, hand sliding to your hip, anchoring you like muscle memory.

Like this is what you do now. Like this is how your mornings are supposed to start. And maybe they are.

When you pull back, he looks a little smug. “I made coffee.”

“I see that,” you say, aiming for casual. You miss by a mile. Your voice comes out too soft, too fond.

He nudges one of the thermoses toward you. “Yours. The way you like it.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. Your chest pulls tight in that stupid, warm way again. “You’re setting a dangerous precedent.”

Robby’s eyes roam over your face, equal parts amused and affectionate. “Good.” You shake your head like you’re exasperated, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your mouth. You’re pretty sure it’s going to be permanent now. He steps closer, close enough that his body lines up with yours like it’s instinct. Like he’s meant to fit there. He presses another kiss to your mouth, soft and quick, like it’s his favorite part of the morning routine.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, voice low. “We’re gonna be late.”

 You snort. “We’re never late.”

His gaze drops to your lips again, eyes darkening with something slower, heavier. “We might be today.”

Heat flickers to life low in your belly. Your cheeks warm. You nudge him with your shoulder, trying for stern. “Behave.”

Robby laughs under his breath and reaches past you for his keys. His hand brushes your hip on the way by, light and deliberate, like it’s a secret only the two of you are allowed to keep.

Walking out the door with him isn't a beginning or an ending. It’s just right. The last piece of the puzzle finally clicked. Two people, two coffees, heading exactly where they belong. Together.

The walk to PTMC is almost normal. The air is crisp. The coffee is scalding. Robby’s hand is in yours, warm and steady. You keep looking down at your fingers, waiting for the illusion to break. Waiting for the softness to disappear.

Robby’s thumb strokes your knuckles. Lazy. Sure. He smiles that crooked smile. Don't overthink it, it says. We're okay.

Then the hospital appears. The nerves hit. The Pitt is a world of fluorescent lights and trauma. It's full of coworkers who have watched you both for years. The "almost" couple. The "not yet" pair. And the doors are right there.

You take a breath and let it out. Robby glances over. “You good?”

You lift a brow, mostly to keep from melting. “Are you asking me, or the part of you that still wants to run?”

His mouth curves. “Both.”

You snort and squeeze his hand. “Okay,” you say, voice steady even though your chest is not. “Let’s do it.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he stops you just short of the hospital doors, crowding gently into your space with that quiet, focused intensity that always makes you forget how to breathe.

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours, “if I don’t kiss you right now, I’m going to spend the entire shift thinking about it.”

Your pulse trips. Your grip on his hand tightens. “So kiss me,” you say, softer than you mean to.

He does, right there on the sidewalk, with the scent of coffee in the air and the morning just beginning, Robby leans in and kisses you like the rest of the world doesn’t matter. Like it’s just the two of you and this moment and everything you were too scared to admit before.

It’s warm. Firm. Real.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours for half a second. “Okay,” he says, breath low. “Now I can walk in like a professional.”

You laugh, stunned and dizzy and stupidly, entirely his. “Sure, you can.”

You turn toward the glass doors, fingers interlaced, finally done with the doubts. You don't need to check the reality of it anymore; it’s written in the heat of his palm against yours. The automatic doors part, welcoming you with the scent of sterile floors and tired caffeine.

The lobby is a sea of motion that suddenly hits a dead calm. The air stutters. You watch as the realization spreads through the room like wildfire. You are the center of the storm, and Robby is the anchor, walking beside you with a terrifying, beautiful composure.

At the hub, Dana’s sharp eyes drop to your hands, a small, knowing smirk playing at the corners of her mouth. Santos looks like she’s seen a ghost, her coffee forgotten in mid-air. The world is watching the years of pining finally end. Robby’s voice is a low rumble near your ear, intimate enough to make your toes curl. “They’re going to make it weird.”

You meet his gaze, steady and unafraid. “Let them.”

His thumb traces a slow line over your knuckle. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. To erase any shadow of a doubt, you rise on your toes and press a kiss to his cheek. It isn't a shy touch; it’s a statement. You linger just long enough to feel the heat of his skin against your lips.

Robby’s eyes widen in surprise before a slow, triumphant smirk replaces it. Behind you, the Hub explodes. Dana’s laugh is strangled; Santos is actually applauding.

“Well, well, well.” You turn, already bracing yourself, as Jack approaches. He’s exhausted, but his grin is predatory and entirely too pleased. He zeroes in on your interlaced fingers. “I just won the pool.”

“Oh, God,” you mutter, hiding your face slightly. “Tell me there wasn't a pool.”

Jack gestures to you like you’re a prize-winning exhibit. “Let the record show I never doubted them. Not for a single second.”

Dana’s head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. “That’s because you cheated. You placed that bet last night, the second Robby left the Hub.”

“I didn’t rig anything!” Jack says, looking deeply offended. “I just played to win.”

“You’re a nightmare,” Dana replies, but she’s grinning anyway.

“I hate you all,” you announce, though the flush creeping up your throat betrays the lie.

“You love us,” Santos sings out. Dana nods in silent agreement, a knowing spark in her eyes. “I’m your favorite,” Jack declares, basking in his betting victory.

“You’re all delusional,” you mutter, trying to find your footing.

But before you can turn away, Robby tips your chin up with two fingers, his touch gentle and smug all at once. That look on his face should be illegal, cocky, warm, and completely unbothered by the circus unraveling around you. “What about me?” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to your lips. “Do you hate me, too?”

The air leaves your lungs. The jokes die. In the middle of the fluorescent lights and the beeping monitors, you let the truth fall. “No,” you say, the word a soft, steady vow. “I love you.”

The Hub erupts. Jack clutches his chest like he's been struck; Dana’s eyes crinkle with pure joy.

And Robby? He looks like a man who finally has everything he ever wanted. He smiles, slow and brilliant, as if the universe has finally clicked into place. “Good,” he says, his voice thick with a promise. “I love you, too.”

Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader MDNI 18+ wc: 13.4k summary: You and Robby have a rhythm that feels unshakable: best friends, across-the-hall neighbors, and partners in every small routine from days off to the walk into the Pitt. But one night, a simple misunderstanding about a dinner date with an old friend tilts your world on its axis. The comfortable safety of "just friends" finally shatters for both of you, leading to an honest confession that changes the gravity of your entire world. It turns out, when you’ve already spent years building a life together, the only thing left to do is finally admit it. c/w: (covers the entire fic, smut in part two) age gap, jealousy, pining, two idiots in love, p i v sex, oral fem receiving, best friends to lovers, medical inaccuracies, not beta read.

a/n: Part two is finally here! cross-posted to ao3

Part Two

The light coming through your blinds is too bright, and the air is cool enough that you stay in bed for ten extra minutes purely out of spite. You’re tired, but you know you need to get up. You throw the covers off, stretch, trying to mentally prepare for the day. 

Another shift.

Another day in the Pitt.

In the bathroom, you braid your hair back just tight enough that it stays out of your face for twelve hours. You rinse your face, pat it dry, then run through the same simple routine you could do on autopilot. Moisturizer. Sunscreen. The small stuff that makes you feel a little more human, even when the hospital is doing its best to suck the life out of you. 

Then makeup. Nothing dramatic. Just a few products that make you look awake when you don’t feel it. A dab of concealer, mascara, and a swipe of tinted balm. Enough to make you look like an attending who has her life together. You pull on your scrubs, check your pockets out of habit, and grab your bag, phone, and badge.

As you’re slipping on your jacket, you hear movement outside your door. Soft, familiar sounds coming from the apartment across the hall. The faint thud of a door shutting, followed by the jingle of keys as they lock the door.

Your mouth lifts without permission. Perfect timing, as always. You step into the hallway and pull your door closed behind you. Robby’s there, leaning against the wall, one hand holding his go-to morning thermos, and the other holding yours. He extends it to you without a word, and you take it automatically, warmth seeping into your palm.

“Get enough sleep last night, old man?” you ask, giving him a playful smirk as you flip the lid of the cup.

Robby looks up like he’s offended. “I’m not that old.”

You take a sip and make a satisfied sound. Perfect. Strong. Sweet. Exactly the way you like it. You glance at him over the rim. “You sure about that? I think I heard you make a pained noise when you bent over to pick up your stethoscope yesterday.”

“That was just because of my knee.”

“That’s not the defense you think it is, Robby.”

Robby scoffs, and you see the point he decides to retaliate. “You almost look ready.”

You gasp, feigning offence. “Please. I always look ready.”

“Liar.”

“Excuse you?”

His gaze stays steady, amused. “I’d believe it if your badge wasn’t crooked.” You look down, and sure enough, your badge is, in fact, clipped onto your pocket crooked.

“Shithead,” you muttered under your breath. 

He chuckles as you fall into step beside him, heading for the stairs. Your building is close enough to the hospital that, unless it’s freezing or there’s snow, you walk together. The two of you, side by side, making your way toward the same soul-sucking destination.

The thermos signals your daily routine. Sometimes you make the coffee; sometimes he does. It began as a convenience and quietly became something more, like most things between you. 

Robby glances at you as you step out into the morning air. “You’re quiet.”

You bump his shoulder with yours. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About work?”

“About the best way to steal Dana’s good pen if she leaves it unattended.” You say with a mischievous grin.

Robby’s mouth twitches. “Don’t come crying to me when she slaps you for it.”

“That’s if she finds out,” you say, a hint of mischief in your tone.

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

The hospital looms ahead, and even from outside, you can feel it. The pull. The noise waiting inside. Robby adjusts his grip on his bag and keeps pace beside you, steady as always. Despite everything waiting for you, this is your favorite part of the day, more than the work, adrenaline, or saves. It’s just you two.

The front doors of PTMC slide open, and you and Robby step inside together, like you do most mornings. You pass the front desk first, the waiting room already half-full. Lupe already posted at her station. 

“Morning, you two,” she says warmly.

“Morning, Lupe,” you reply.

Her gaze flicks to Robby, then back to you. The corner of her mouth lifts, “I see you brought your emotional support beverage,” she says, eyes landing on the thermos.

You lift your head toward Robby. “Doctor’s orders.”

Lupe huffs a small laugh and turns back to her screen. “Good luck in there.”

Inside, the day shift staff is already moving. Mateo rolls past with a cart of supplies and gives you a quick nod. Donnie catches Robby’s eye and lifts his chin in greeting before disappearing into the flow of the morning. No one says anything about the two of you arriving together. They don’t have to, because by now it’s so normal it might as well be on the schedule.

The locker room is a short trek away. You and Robby fall into your usual routine there, too. Your lockers are close enough that neither of you has to raise your voice. Jackets get hung up while bags are tucked away. You clip your badge on straight this time and catch Robby watching you with a faint smirk.

“Shut it, Robinavitch,” you warn.

“I didn’t say anything,” he replied, holding his hands up 

“You were thinking it.”

Robby’s mouth twitches, but he lets it go.

You both finish up at nearly the same time, a practiced rhythm. It’s one of those tiny things you don’t notice until someone points it out. How your movements have matched each other over the years. How easy it is. You slide your stethoscope into your pocket and follow Robby back out to the hub for handoff.

Across the pit, the physician sign-out is already forming up the way it always does, night attendings circling with day shift as they trade ownership of the chaos. You spot Jack, Shen, and Ellis in the mix, their voices low and clipped, bodies angled toward the board like it’s a map.

Santos, Whittaker, and Javadi tighten the circle for the handoff, masking their exhaustion with a show of shift-ready focus.

Lena catches Dana’s eye and gets straight to it.

"Dana."

"Hit me," Dana says, a smirk tugging at her mouth.

The handoff is seamless. They skip the intros and move straight into the gritty details, keeping the department on its rails.

You and Robby join the group. Jack catches your eye and nods. "Alright, let's go."

The room divides. Lena talks Dana through the "nursing side" of the mess: staffing and difficult families. Across from them, Jack leads the charge on the medical board.

"Two holds in North," he says, skipping the fluff. "Psych pending. One’s still looking for a spot."

Robby takes it in, his mind already moving to the beds. Jack points to the next name. “South nineteen, cellulitis, IV antibiotics in. Stable. Twenty-one, COPD. She’s better after the nebs, but watch for fatigue.”

You catch the rhythm and slot into it easily. “Any callbacks brewing?”

“Two labs pending,” Jack answers without missing a beat. “Troponin repeat and a blood culture.”

Nearby, Dana murmurs to Lena, “I’ve got staffing?”

“Two calls-outs,” Lena says. “Float’s coming, but not for another hour.”

Dana exhales through her nose. “Of course.”

"North six is a frequent flier, chest pain," Jack says, eyes on the monitor. "He’s being combative with the residents and refusing the EKG, but his history is ugly."

Robby’s expression sharpens. He’s already mentally in the room, de-escalating. "I'll handle him first."

"Naturally," you whisper.

He doesn't look over, but the corner of his mouth twitches. He caught it.

Santos, Whittaker, and Javadi hover at the edge of the circle, finding that narrow gap between being ready and being in the way. Santos’s eyes dart between the board and the doctors, mapping out the morning's chaos.

Jack signs off on the last patient and passes you the tablet. The night shift starts to peel away, finally heading for home and most likely their beds. You don’t waste any time, turning to the residents and students to hand out the morning assignments.

Looking at the interns, you can still feel that panic you had at twenty-six. You remember showing up for your first shift, spinning a pen between your fingers to hide the shakes and feeling like the entire department was a blur of noise and light. You were just as terrified as they are, trying to look like you belonged in all that chaos.

It was Robby who broke the tension back then. He’d seen you standing there, terrified, and told you to remember to breathe. It was the first time the Pit didn't feel like it was swallowing you whole.

Back then, you were just the kid with the endless questions and a pocket full of pens. He was already the guy everyone turned to. Somehow, despite the gap between you, it just clicked.

Robby trusted you before you were ready to trust yourself. During a messy trauma in your second year, you stepped up and made a tough call. When the dust settled, he caught your eye with a look that told you he wasn't worried about you anymore.

Now the title on your badge says Attending. You see yourself in the nervous faces of the students waiting for your lead. This is your floor now, and with Robby beside you, the department actually stands a chance.

Robby’s questions are quick and clinical, helping you tighten up the morning's plan. You finish each other's sentences without thinking about it. Once the last night-shift doc has headed for the exit, the floor is yours.

You turn to the residents and students, tablet in hand. "Alright," you say, handing out the first round of patients. "Let’s get started."

Santos raises a tired hand in salute. Whittaker mutters something that sounds like a prayer. You just laugh under your breath.

Robby finally looks at you. “Try not to steal Dana’s pen.”

You give him your most innocent look. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Robinavitch.”

His mouth twitches. “Sure you don’t.”

Then the Pitt pulls you both under, the morning already lining up its first demands. One minute you're drinking coffee, the next you're surrounded by the usual chaos. Dana is already barking orders, her tone flat and seasoned.

Through it all, you and Robby stay in your own current. No wasted words, no constant updates. Just two people who have spent enough time in the trenches together that the coordination is automatic.

A familiar name pops up on the board. You don’t even think before you say it. “Oh, great.”

Robby’s gaze flicks to the board. “No.”

“Yes.”

He leans in closer, squints like the spelling might change if he stares hard enough. It doesn’t. Robby exhales through his nose. “Of course it’s him.”

You lift your eyebrows. “You want to take this one, or do you want me to?”

Robby opens his mouth.

You already know what he’s going to say. You say it with him. “Rock, paper, scissors,” you both mutter in unison. Robby stops. You stop. You look at each other for half a second, and then you both start laughing.

It’s not loud or disruptive. It’s the type of laugh you keep tucked close to your chest, a shared thing in the middle of a busy room. Quick, bright, and gone just as fast. But it does something to the air.

Robby shakes his head, amused. “Fine. You take him.”

You gasp. “Oh, so generous.”

“Don’t make it weird.”

“You’re already making it weird,” you shot back.

Robby’s mouth twitches, but he just gestures toward the room, his focus already shifting back to the next chart.

You lift your thermos in a small salute and head for the door, tablet in hand. “I’ll try not to get bitten.”

From behind you, Robby calls out, “If you get bitten, you’re filling out your own incident report.”

You throw a hand up without looking back. “Love you too!”

There’s a second where neither of you moves.

Then Robby replies, dry as sandpaper, “Get in there.”

You walk into the room, still smiling. The patient brightens the second he sees you, like the Pitt is a stage and you’re his favorite audience. “Doc,” he says, dramatically. “Finally. Someone competent.”

“Flattery won’t get you narcotics,” you tell him, already checking vitals.

He clutches his chest. “I would never.”

“You would absolutely.”

By the time you’re done, you’ve ordered what you need, redirected him with practiced patience, and left him with a plan that keeps everyone safe. You walk back out to the Hub and catch Robby’s eyes across the track board. He raises his brows in silent question.

You give him a look that says: Same shit, different day. Robby’s shoulders loosen like he can relax slightly now that it’s handled. You don’t notice it. Not consciously. You just keep going.

The day just kept ramping up, one patient out, two more in, the board glowing with an endless list of names. The ED was hungry, and it didn't care that they were tired. Then the emergency line rang, and Dana’s head snapped up.

“Here we go,” she muttered, grabbing the receiver. The air in the room shifted instantly; that ‘quiet before the storm’ feeling they all knew too well. She hung up and looked at the team. “High-speed MVC,” she called out, already moving. “Single passenger, unresponsive. Two minutes out!”

The gurney crashed through the doors, bringing the cold air of the ambulance bay with it. Immediately, the world narrowed down to this one patient and the person across the bed from you. You and Robby were in total sync, a well-oiled machine fueled by caffeine and adrenaline. You were at the head, your voice the only calm thing in the room as you dictated the vitals.

“BP’s dropping,” Mateo calls.

“Don’t wait, get two large bores in!” Robby’s voice was sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.

The monitor was screaming, and the patient's chest was barely moving. "I'm intubating," you said. Robby was already there, passing you the equipment like he could track your thoughts in real time. You worked fast and clean, but you could feel the wet heat of blood pooling under the patient's hip.

While you finished the tube, Robby applied heavy pressure to a massive tear in the femoral artery. For a second, the bay felt suffocatingly crowded, but a single look from Robby locked the plan into place. You both moved in sync to get a clamp on the vessel, and you felt a surge of relief as the patient's vitals finally stopped their downward slide.

As if she’d been waiting in the shadows for that exact moment, Garcia appeared at the bedside. She was just suddenly there, gloved and ready, as if the scent of a trauma had summoned her from the other side of the hospital. “I’ll take over,” she said, her voice steady and firm.

The handoff was seamless, a perfect relay from your hands to Garcia’s. She didn't waste time on small talk, disappearing toward the elevator the second she had the full picture. The trauma bay cleared out in seconds, leaving behind only the mess and the lingering smell of copper and antiseptic.

Once the patient was gone, the room fell silent. You tossed your gloves into the bin and stepped back into the Hub, trying to shake the residual hum of adrenaline out of your hands. Robby took a slow, deep breath to reset, his broad shoulders finally dropping from his ears. He glanced at you, checking in the way he always did after a messy one.

“You good?” he asked.

You forced your voice to stay light and steady, refusing to let the fatigue show yet. “You kidding? That was my cardio for the week. Beats going to the gym.”

Robby’s mouth twitched, that familiar half-smirk appearing as he shook his head. “Sure it was. Let’s see how you feel when the coffee wears off.”

You don't stay in one place long enough for the adrenaline to fully fade. By the time the afternoon hit, a rare silence had fallen over the Pitt, though you knew better than to trust it. You were busy updating charts, the steady tap-tap-tap of the keys keeping you focused. You sighed as you realized your coffee cup was bone dry.

Dana paused behind you, her presence familiar and grounding. She gave your screen a quick once-over, her gaze already jumping to the next problem down the hall.

“So, kid,” she said, her tone light. “What’d you do on your day off? Please tell me you actually left the house.”

“Laundry,” you muttered, not breaking your focus on the charts.

Dana didn't move. She just arched a brow, her silence demanding more than a one-word answer. “And?”

You finally stopped typing, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “And Robby decided I needed to get out of the house, so he made me go grocery shopping. We made some Thai food and ended up down a rabbit hole watching a documentary about people who free-dive in caves.”

Dana let out a huff that could have been a chuckle if she were any other person. “Riveting stuff, kid.”

“It was terrifying,” you told her, shaking your head at the memory. “I was basically screaming at the screen the whole time. Never again.”

You caught the ghost of a smile on Robby’s face as he worked the board. He wasn't even trying to hide that he was listening. Dana just gave a single nod and kept moving. It wasn't news to her; you and Robby spending your days off together was just part of the Pitt’s ecosystem. At this point, you might as well live in the same place. You basically did, just with separate doors and two different sets of keys.

You pushed into your next note, but the quiet talking from the resident station was a distraction. Javadi and Whittaker were hovering, their heads close together. You didn't catch the words, but you felt their eyes flicking back and forth between you and Robby. Once. Twice. It was like they were watching a movie where the ending was obvious to everyone but the lead actors.

The lull didn’t last; it never did

It was the usual afternoon rush: a kid with a high temp, a chest pain that turned out to be nothing but a scare, and an old-timer who was too stubborn to admit they couldn't live alone anymore.

You and Robby divided and conquered like it was second nature. He took the "problem" room, using that quiet, low voice of his to talk a screaming family down off a ledge. You jumped onto the overhead calls, assessing patients and setting plans in motion before the door had even swung shut behind you. It was a well-oiled machine, even if the gears were starting to feel the wear and tear of the day.

The hallways were a blur, but the two of you stayed in sync through a series of unspoken anchors. A quick glance asked if you were holding up. A sharp nod said the back rooms were covered. As you pivoted around a moving gurney, Robby’s hand caught your elbow to guide you out of the way. It was a brief and grounding touch that felt more like steering than affection, yet it resonated through you like a familiar hum. Neither of you said a word because you didn't have to. You just felt the weight of the staff’s eyes tracking the shorthand they weren't part of.

You and Robby finished tag-teaming the patient with the kind of symmetry that had taken years to develop. Dana was already handling the paperwork by the time Mateo caught your eye. He looked done with both of you. “You two are ridiculous,” he said, his voice echoing in the small space.

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you replied, scrolling through your notes.

Robby’s quiet laugh was short and proud, like he wasn't even bothered by the label. Mateo stared at the two of you for a beat, then just groaned. “Sure. Yeah. Whatever,” he muttered as he walked off to find someone else to bother.

By the time the clock hit four, the Pitt was a blur of tired faces and short tempers. You were focused on your tablet, trying to finish a discharge note, when a sandwich appeared in your peripheral vision.

“Is this a bribe?” you asked, looking up at Robby.

“It’s fuel,” he corrected.

“I’m fine. I have food in the fridge.”

Robby just stood there, his eyes scanning your face for any sign of a lie. “Do you really?”

You didn't have the energy to argue, so you just took a bite. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” he murmured. He turned and headed back into the fray, his job done now that he’d forced some protein into your system.

Watching him go, you realized that he fed you out of pure instinct. It was just another task in his day, performed so many times that he probably couldn't remember when it began. It was a lot like that old coffee thermos he kept filled for you. It was a habit that had slowly and surely turned into something much more meaningful than just a snack or a drink.

The energy in the department changed as the sun started to dip. The air felt heavier, and the staff moved with the kind of focused speed that only comes when the end of a shift is in sight. Dana’s directions were short and to the point, leaving no room for questions. You watched the residents huddled over their computers, typing furiously to clear their boards so they wouldn't have to explain their unfinished business to the night team.

You finished the last chart and signed off on the final note, leaning back in your chair for a second longer than you probably should have. Robby appeared beside you as if he had some kind of internal compass always pointed in your direction. He waited until you looked up before he spoke.

“You ready?” he asked.

You lifted your eyebrows at him. “To go home? More than anything.”

“For handoff,” he clarified, though the corner of his mouth was clearly threatening a smile.

“That too,” you admitted, finally pushing back from the desk. “But mostly the home part.”

Robby noticed the crumpled wrapper near your tablet and gave a tiny, satisfied nod. “At least you actually ate,” he remarked.

“I was coerced,” you reminded him, leaning back in your chair.

“You were reminded,” he countered, his tone steady and sure. When you looked up at him, the fatigue in your face gave way to something softer. It was a silent admission of how much you appreciated him looking out for you. Robby didn't look away. He held your gaze for a second too long, his expression unreadably warm, before the noise of the Hub seemed to pull him back. He cleared his throat and focused on the patient list. “Let’s get through handoff,” he said.

“Fine,” you said. You followed it up immediately with the next logical step. “Then dinner?”

“Dinner,” Robby echoed. He didn't even have to think about it. It was a given, a part of the day that required no negotiation because the alternative didn't exist.

You stood and stretched, feeling the weight of the long shift finally starting to lift. “What are you in the mood for?”

Robby paused, his expression blank for a heartbeat, like he was rebooting his brain.

“I'm talking about food,” you said, your mouth curving into a smirk. “Don’t go making it weird.”

Robby let out a breathy laugh, the tension in his shoulders finally breaking. “I wasn’t.”

You start rambling through a list of dinner ideas while you walk. "I've got chicken and pasta. Plus that basil that refuses to die. I can whip something up." Robby has that look on his face again, the one where he’s mentally calculating the fastest way to get food without having to make a single decision. You point at him and laugh. "Or we could just be total bums and order Chinese."

"Chinese," Robby says. No hesitation at all.

"Why am I not surprised?"

"It’s just efficient," he says.

You roll your eyes. "It’s lazy."

"It’s a mix of both," he corrects.

You bump shoulders with him while you walk. It's just easy and comfortable, a reminder that you guys are a team no matter where you are. The night shift starts filtered in before long. Lena leads the pack, followed by Jack, Shen, and Ellis. They all have that "predatory" night-shift vibe while the rest of you look like you're running on fumes.

Dana and Lena huddle at the Hub to trade info, and the board officially changes hands. It’s the best part of the day because suddenly all the stress belongs to someone else. You and Robby stand shoulder to shoulder, giving your piece of the report in that quick medical shorthand you’ve both mastered. You keep it tight and useful, which is one of your specialties.

Robby’s handoffs are always the same. He’s super chill and never leaves anything out. He and Jack have this silent language where they just look at each other during the tricky cases, and Jack gives a little nod to show he's got it handled. When handoff finally ends, the day shift starts wandering toward the lockers, and the night shift officially takes over the Hub. You roll your shoulders and feel the tension start to disappear. Robby falls into step with you immediately, and you both head for the locker room at the same time. It’s so natural that it’s almost hilarious how in sync you guys are.

You spot Dana looking at you from across the room. She doesn’t say anything, but she has that look on her face like she’s been waiting years for you two to figure things out. You just ignore it and keep walking. 

Robby murmurs under his breath. "You doing okay?" 

You look up at him, exhausted and ready to go home. "Yeah, I'm good." You really are, mostly because you had him by your side the whole time. 

Robby’s mouth softens into a tiny smile. "Good." 

You guys head into the locker room and then out to the exit. It’s the same old routine of badges coming off, jackets going on, and stethoscopes being shoved into bags.

The air feels amazing once you're out of the building. It’s cool and quiet, and it feels like a total reset.

You and Robby fall into step on the sidewalk like you always do. Same path, same speed. This walk is basically the only thing keeping you sane right now.

“Same place?” you ask, already getting your phone ready.

Robby doesn't even wait for you to unlock the screen. “Same place.”

You laugh. “Same order?”

Robby hums for a second like he’s actually considering a change, then nods. “Yes.”

You breeze through the order on the app. It’s pure muscle memory at this stage.

Orange chicken, fried rice, and kung pao with chow mein. You grab dumplings for you and spring rolls for Robby, since he’d probably have a breakdown if you forgot his side dish.

You hit the order button, timing it perfectly for a post-shower arrival. “It’s handled,” you say, putting your phone away. “We have exactly thirty minutes to try and look like humans again.”

Robby just hums. “That’s ambitious.”

“I’m being optimistic,” you correct.

“You’re being delusional,” he says, but he can’t hide his smile.

You’re finally starting to relax a little by the time you get to your building. You both walk up the stairs together and stop at your doors, keys in hand. Robby looks back at you. “What’s the word on the food?”

You unlock your phone. “Mmm, the app says twenty minutes.”

“Perfect,” he says, already opening his door. “I’m gonna jump in the shower.”

You nod toward your place. “Same here. I’ll start on the drinks after. Just head over whenever you’re set.”

Robby looks at you for a beat, like he’s about to say something else. Then he just nods. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

He disappears into his apartment.

You head inside and close the door. Your shower is fast and steaming hot, just enough to wash away the shift. You scrub your hands and stay under the water until you finally feel the tension leave your shoulders.

Afterward, you wrap your hair up and change into an oversized shirt and soft pants. It feels amazing to finally be out of your work gear. You check the clock in the kitchen and see you’re ahead of schedule.

You get started on the drinks. It’s a habit you’ve had forever, just making something cold and refreshing to help you unwind. The sound of ice hitting the shaker is quiet and familiar. It’s exactly what you need right now.

You hear the lock click, but you don't turn around. Robby always just lets himself in, no knock or heads-up. It’s like your two apartments are just one big space. “Smells way better in here,” he says, wandering into the kitchen.

You reach for the glasses. “So, you’re saying it’s better than the smell of hospital bleach?”

“Definitely,” he says, and you can tell he’s grinning.

You slide the glasses over and give the shaker a good workout, the ice clinking loudly. When you look over, Robby is leaning against the counter, watching you with a relaxed look on his face. He’s wearing that ancient World's Okayest Doctor shirt you gave him as a joke.

His gaze shifts from your hair to your face. He doesn’t look surprised or awkward at all. He’s seen you in every state imaginable, from scrub-stained to sleep-deprived. He doesn’t even blink. “You’re staring,” you tell him, mostly just to break the silence.

Robby’s mouth twitches into a grin. “I’m observing, actually.”

“Sure you are,” you say. “Go sit down before you start reorganizing my cabinets.”

“I would never,” he says, which is a total lie. He wanders into the living room and flops onto the couch. “So, what are we watching?”

“We literally watch the same thing every single time,” you say.

Robby grabs the remote, looking fake-offended. “We do not.”

You look at him, completely serious. “Is your dementia acting up again, old man?”

Robby’s lip curls like he’s trying not to laugh. “You’re honestly so insufferable.”

“You love it, though.”

He exhales a little half-laugh and gives up. His eyes drift back to you instead of focusing on the TV. “Trouble.”

You blink, feeling a flush of warmth, but you just grin at him. “Wait, did you actually just call me Trouble?”

Robby’s grin gets lazy. He shrugs like it’s nothing, but he’s totally watching you. “Maybe.”

“Well, that’s new,” you say, and you're definitely blushing a little. “Are you alright? Do you need medical attention?”

He shakes his head like he’s already over this conversation. “Smartass.”

“Better a smartass than a dumbass,” you say, walking the drinks into the living room.

Robby handles the TV stuff like it’s second nature, flipping to your usual show. It’s basically just background noise, so the apartment doesn't feel too quiet after a busy shift.

You hand over his drink and settle into the couch. Robby sits right next to you, looking completely relaxed. He belongs here, and you both know it.

The doorbell rings, and Robby’s already halfway to the door. “I’ll get it.”

“You’re the best.”

Watching him, you realize how much your lives have just merged over the years. It feels so natural.

He comes back with the food and starts unpacking it all over the coffee table. He drops back onto the couch, sitting just a little bit closer to you than before. He hands you your favorites. Orange chicken, fried rice, and the dumplings.

You lean back against the couch, hip-to-hip with him. It’s a familiar feeling, but your heart still does a little flip. Robby pulls his usual move, acting like he doesn't want the dumplings right before he reaches in and steals one. You snap your chopsticks in his direction. “Excuse you? That was mine.”

Robby doesn't even have the decency to look ashamed. “I don't think so.”

“It was literally sitting in my container, Robby.”

“It’s a dumpling,” he says, chewing away like he’s doing you a favor. “Don't worry about it.”

You narrow your eyes, but you’re secretly loving it. You know for a fact he doesn’t steal food or tease anyone else like this. It’s just a "you and him" thing.

“You’re lucky I’m not more aggressive with these chopsticks,” you tell him.

Robby just smirks at you. “You wouldn’t do it.”

“Try me and see what happens.”

He reaches for another one, moving slowly on purpose and staring you down. You don't hesitate to smack his hand with your chopstick.

“Ow! Seriously?” he yelps.

“I told you I’d do it.”

Robby rubs his knuckles and gives you a fake glare. It’s that same energy that’s been sitting between you guys forever, the stuff neither of you will talk about. Then he doubles down and steals two dumplings at once. You groan. “You’re literally the worst person I know.”

He grins, looking like he just won a prize. “Yeah, but you keep letting me in.”

You hate that he’s right. You give him a look. “Honestly, if we ever stop feeding each other, it's over for both of us.”

Robby reaches for yet another dumpling, completely unbothered. “I’d be fine.”

“Sure you would,” you say, pointing your chopsticks at him. “I’ve literally watched you go all day without food until Dana had to scare you into eating.”

Robby’s mouth twitches. “To be fair, Dana’s threats are hard to ignore.”

“And I’ve gone hours without eating until you slide food toward me like you’re trying to tame a feral cat,” you point out.

Robby snorts because he knows you’re right. This is an old argument by now. You’re both disaster humans when it comes to taking care of yourselves, always working too much and forgetting to eat until you’re running on fumes.

But you have each other. He’s made it his job to keep you alive, and you do the same for him. He gives you a quiet laugh. “You still eat the food, though.”

“Because it works,” you admit. “You make it way too hard to ignore.”

Robby leans back into the cushions, chewing slowly while he watches you. He has that look on his face like he’s biting his tongue. Finally, he just shrugs. “Looks like we’re stuck with each other.”

You wouldn't have it any other way. You roll your eyes, even though you’re feeling all warm inside. The TV is just background noise while you eat, and Robby’s arm is pressed right against yours.

You swallow a bite of orange chicken and grin. “Okay, we have to talk about Dana’s face when that guy in South started screaming about how long he’d been waiting.”

Robby leans back, totally amused. “She was so stone-faced. She just did that slow head tilt she does.”

“The one where she’s deciding if it’s worth the paperwork to ruin his life?”

“It’s definitely the 'you're about to get roasted' look,” Robby says.

You can’t help but laugh. “Seriously, she could end wars if she felt like it.”

“She totally could,” Robby agrees. “And yet, she chooses to spend her time running the Pitt.”

“She’s a masochist,” you decide.

Robby points a chopstick at you. “You are not allowed to diagnose Dana.”

“Just watch me.”

You eat in comfortable silence for a minute while the show hums in the background. Your shoulders finally start to drop as the food and the quiet do their job. You tip your head toward him. “Mateo came to my rescue again today.”

“He has a habit of doing that,” Robby agrees.

“I couldn’t find a BP cuff to save my life, and then he just appeared with one. He’s like a nurse wizard.”

Robby lets out a snort.

“I’m going to start calling him Gandalf from now on.”

“Absolutely not,” Robby says.

“And why is that?”

“Because he will never let it go. He’ll make it his whole personality.”

You give a soft laugh. “Fine. But I’m definitely still telling him he’s magic.”

Robby shakes his head, acting like he’s exhausted by you. “Trouble…”

“Hey, I can’t help who I am.”

“I know,” he says, and the affection is totally obvious.

You swallow a bite and point your chopsticks. “We need to talk about Santos.”

“What did she do now?” Robby asks, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s getting way too good. The guy in South started yelling at her, and she didn't even blink. She gave him the calmest 'sir' ever, even though you could tell she wanted to take it outside.” You laugh. “Then she landed the IV first stick while she was still talking him down. One-handed. I probably would have missed the vein on purpose if it were me.”

Robby lets out a huff. “That’s some impressive multitasking.”

“It’s chaos with actual technique,” you say. “Next, I have to teach her not to argue with patients just because she’s right.”

Robby’s expression softens. “That sounds very familiar.”

You roll your eyes, feeling that easy, light connection between you.

“And,” he adds, like it’s just occurred to him, “she actually kind of reminds me of you. You know, after your intern year.”

“Rude,” you say, unable to hide your grin.

“You’re not exactly telling me I’m wrong,” Robby says, his smile getting wider. He’s clearly loving this.

You point your chopsticks at him like a weapon. “You’re lucky you’re cute, or I’d—”

The word slips out before your brain can filter it. Cute. You feel a massive wave of heat hit your cheeks.

Robby’s eyebrows shoot up, looking slow and smug. “I’m cute, am I?”

You stare at him, your brain totally blanking as you try to find a way to take it back. Since you can't, you just go for the deflection. You set your chicken down and stand up, pointing at him like you're giving him a formal warning. His shirt is just sitting there, mocking you: WORLD’S OKAYEST DOCTOR.

“Shut it,” you order, trying to sound stern and failing. “Your shirt is literally doing enough talking for you.”

Robby’s mouth quirks. “You bought me this shirt.”

“Not the point!” you call out as you retreat toward the bathroom. You hear his low, self-satisfied laugh follow you down the hall. He’s definitely savoring that "cute" comment. You pull the towel off, let your damp hair fall, and quickly twist it into a ponytail. You catch your reflection in the mirror and stay there for a second, trying to act normal. Get it together.

You walk back out to find Robby looking incredibly smug. When you sit down, he gives you a look that is so soft it catches you off guard. You feel a flush of warmth that you definitely didn't ask for. “Okay, look,” you say, focusing on your chicken. “Don't get a big head. I'm still taking a spring roll.”

Robby huffs. “You’re too much.”

“Maybe so,” you say, reaching over.

He grabs your wrist before you can get there. It’s a gentle hold, but it pins you in place. His thumb is resting right over your racing pulse. “Mine,” he says, his voice low.

You raise an eyebrow, trying to act like your heart isn't doing backflips over a side dish. “It’s just a spring roll, Robby. Relax.”

He stares at you for a beat, like he’s thinking about saying something else. Then he sighs and lets go. “I hate you so much.”

“No, you don’t.”

Robby looks at you, and the playfulness is gone. “No. I don’t.”

The honesty in his voice just hangs there between you, warm and real.

When the episode ends, you don’t even ask. You just grab the remote and deliberately queue up the show you both love to hate, that glossy medical drama with the ridiculous cases and the even more ridiculous doctors. You watch it for the same reason you watch bad horror movies. To mock it.

Robby makes a face the second the title card pops up. “Really? This again?”

“You know you want to,” you tease, settling into the couch.

Barely three minutes pass before a doctor makes a choice that would lose them their license in a heartbeat. You and Robby react in perfect unison.

“No way!”

“That’s not right!”

You both crack up, the synchronization feeling totally natural. Robby leans back, pointing a finger at the TV. “I’m sorry, but that is definitely not how you intubate a patient.”

You wave your chopsticks at the screen. “Everything about this is wrong.”

The show is trying to be super dramatic, but the acting is just too much. You and Robby both make a face at the same time, then immediately start laughing at how in sync you are.

“Imagine actually saying that to a patient,” you say.

Robby shakes his head. “If an attending said that on shift, they’d be laughed out of the building.”

“And then everyone would give them a standing ovation,” you add.

You’re finally starting to relax when Robby moves to grab his drink and accidentally punts a sauce cup across the table. It leaves a long, greasy trail as it slides. He looks at the mess with total horror, and that’s all it takes. You burst into a fit of laughter that you just can’t shut off.

Robby tries to look serious. “This is a tragedy, not a comedy.”

“It’s definitely a comedy,” you say, still giggling as you stand up to help.

“I feel judged,” he mutters, grabbing a napkin.

“You should. It’s a sticky mess.”

You grab a cleaning wipe while Robby handles the heavy lifting, stacking the boxes and clearing the table like it’s a surgical field. It’s just what you guys do—one cleans, the other clears. Within two minutes, the living room is reset. You head back to the couch, where Robby has already reclaimed the right side. You sink into the left, pulling a soft blanket over your legs and getting comfortable.

After a few minutes, your feet drift over until they’re resting against his leg. Robby doesn’t pull away; he just nudges you back, looking like he isn't even thinking about it. That small bit of contact feels louder than the TV. Neither of you says a word about it, but he keeps his foot pressed against yours. You’re so tired that your eyes are starting to close.

“We’re a good team,” Robby says quietly.

You give a sleepy hum. “Duh.”

“I’m serious,” he insists.

You turn your head to catch his eye. He looks tired, but there’s a softness there that he usually hides. “I know you are,” you say softly.

He swallows, his expression shifting like he’s finally admitting something to himself. “Good.”

You sink deeper into the couch cushions. “Good shift.”

Robby makes a low sound of agreement. “Yeah. Good shift.”

“By the way,” you murmur, “you’re on coffee duty again tomorrow.”

Robby laughs softly. “I did it today. It’s definitely your turn.”

You give an indignant huff. “It doesn't taste as good when I make it.”

“It’s the exact same machine,” he points out.

“Doesn't matter. It's different.”

Robby sighs, defeated. “Fine. I’ll make the coffee.”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

He looks over at you, his gaze softening. “Anything else I can do for you, Trouble?”

You freeze for a second. That name again. It sounds so natural coming from him. “You could stop calling me that,” you suggest, keeping it casual.

Robby’s smile grows. “No.”

Your stomach does a nervous flip, but you blame the food. “Fine. Okay.” The room goes quiet again, but the air feels a little different now.

An hour later, Robby finally stands. He stretches once and grabs his keys off the table.

“I’m going to sleep,” he says.

“Text me if your knee gives out on that long trek to your bed,” you teased.

Robby points at you. “Don’t start with me.”

You grin. “Night, old man.”

He gets to the door but pauses, glancing back at you with a soft expression. “Night, Trouble.”

Then he’s gone, the click of the door soft in the hallway.

You lock the door, lean your forehead against it for a brief moment, and then head to bed.

Morning arrives far too soon.

You're up and moving, braiding your hair and getting your gear together. When you head out, Robby is right there, timing his exit perfectly with yours. He hands over the coffee, and you give him a smirk. “Morning, old man.”

“Morning, Trouble,” he counters.

The walk to the hospital is quick, and once you’re inside, the chaos has already begun. The waiting room is packed, the phones are ringing, and Dana is already at the board. It’s the usual start, busy and relentless.

You and Robby hit the Hub and just observe the madness for a second.

Between the lacerations and the long-winded consults, it's a standard day. You guys split and converge, hands on the same moving machine, keeping it steady. Just another day in the Pitt. And neither of you notices the way the routine has started to feel like something more. Not yet.

Around four, the Pitt hits that weirdly quiet stretch. You almost let yourself believe the chaos is over for the day. You’re leaning on the counter with your tablet, finishing up notes. The traumas from earlier were a breeze; you and Robby moved in sync, got them stable, and shipped them off to the OR. Dana is half leaning against the counter, eyes on the board like she can will the department into staying calm. McKay is busy pensively chewing her pen while she charts. Perlah and Princess are nearby, whispering in Tagalog and laughing quietly, making the Hub feel almost cozy for a moment.

McKay lets out a heavy sigh. “Friday shifts are specifically designed to break my spirit.”

“That’s because your spirit hasn't been crushed into dust yet,” Dana remarks.

“I’m not an intern anymore!” McKay says, offended.

Princess chuckles. “But you still have that ‘I can save the world’ glow. It’s cute.”

Perlah chirps something in Tagalog that has Princess doubling over. McKay crosses her arms. “Okay, that was definitely about me. You’re roasting me, aren't you?”

“We would never,” Princess says, though she’s still giggling.

Dana finally looks up, amused. “They’re totally roasting you.”

“Traitor!” McKay cries, pointing her pen at the Charge Nurse.

“I’m a neutral party,” Dana says smoothly. Then, she leans on the counter and asks the group, “So, are we all just going home to die, or does anyone have actual plans?”

McKay just blinks. “Plans? Like... outside of the hospital?”

Dana looks casual, but you can tell she’s already plotting. “Look, it’s Friday. If we’re going to blow off steam, we need a plan.”

Princess doesn’t miss a beat. “Drinks.”

Perlah agrees. “Definitely drinks.”

McKay raises an eyebrow. “Is this an official invite?”

“It’s a girls’ night,” Dana says. “Very impromptu. No one is on the hook for anything.”

Princess laughs. “Dana and her fear of commitment.”

“Hey, it works for me,” Dana says, pointing at her.

McKay leans back, a smile tugging at her lips. “I could do it. But I need nachos. Like, a mountain of them.”

Princess’s eyes light up. “Oh, we are definitely getting nachos.”

Perlah and Princess are whispering in Tagalog again, sounding excited and totally conspiratorial. You keep your head down, smiling as you type. Then Dana’s eyes land on you.

“What about you, kid? You joining us?”

You freeze, your fingers still over your tablet.

“Kid?” McKay laughs. “She’s an attending, Dana.”

“She’s still a kid,” Dana says firmly.

“I feel the respect from here,” you joke.

“Good,” Dana says. “So, are you coming?”

“I’m out for tonight,” you say, shaking your head.

Princess makes a face. “Why not?”

“A date?” Perlah asks, leaning in.

McKay’s head snaps up. “Wait, do you actually have a date?”

“Do you have a date?” Dana asks, her eyes narrowing with interest.

“It’s not like that,” you insist, though you know it’s a losing battle.

McKay laughs. “That is the universal phrase for 'it is definitely like that.'”

Princess and Perlah are leaning in now, expectant. “Details,” Princess demands.

“It’s dinner with a friend from med school,” you explain. “We haven’t seen each other in months.”

“Mmhmm. A 'friend,'” McKay teases.

Dana doesn't look away. “What’s the name?”

“Dana, come on,” you protest.

“Name,” she repeats.

You sigh and give in. “Ethan.”

McKay’s eyebrows shoot up. “Ethan.”

Princess sighs dramatically. “Ethan.”

Perlah says it too, softer, and then she murmurs something in Tagalog that makes Princess’s eyes go wide. Princess answers back, quick and excited. You catch a word that sounds suspiciously like gwapo and narrow your eyes. “Are you two calling him hot in another language?”

“Maybe,” Princess says with a shrug. “Possibly,” Perlah adds, grinning.

McKay settles in, ready for the gossip. “Med school friend Ethan. Give me the details.”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a doctor.”

McKay’s eyes widened comically. “Of course he is,” she replies sarcastically.

Dana interjects, “Where are you going? 

You answer automatically. “Alla Famiglia.”

Dana nods. “Good food.”

McKay’s smile turns wicked. “So, have you guys hooked up?”

“Cassie!” you bark, your face turning a bright shade of red.

Dana’s lack of a reprimand is basically a green light for the interrogation to continue. Princess and Perlah are practically vibrating with curiosity.

“I am telling you, we are just friends,” you say, though you can hear how defensive you sound.

McKay isn't buying it. “People don't go to Alla Famiglia for ‘just’ anything.”

“Do you think he’s going to make a move?” Princess asks, her voice dropping to a whisper.

You bury your face in your hand. “Can we talk about literally anything else?”

“Do you want him to?” Dana asks.

The air feels a little thinner. You try to laugh it off, but your heartbeat is suddenly very loud. “It’s literally just dinner. Let’s drop it.”

You’re trying to focus on your notes, but the Hub is vibrating with "Ethan" energy. Then Robby’s voice cuts through the chatter from right behind you. “Big plans tonight?”

You look up to see him leaning back, looking totally unfazed. You know better, though. You see the way he’s watching you. “Just catching up with a friend from med school,” you say.

“A date, then?” Robby asks. His voice is flat, almost clinical, but the question hangs in the air like a lead weight.

The Hub goes dead quiet. It’s the kind of silence that usually precedes a trauma code. Dana is watching the exchange like it’s a tennis match. McKay looks like Christmas came early.

You let out a dry laugh, trying to break the tension. “No, Robby. It’s just a meal between friends. Relax.”

"Just checking," Robby says, his voice dropping back into its usual professional register. The tension in his frame evaporates, but the awkwardness stays behind.

McKay rolls her eyes at the missed drama, while Dana just watches Robby walk away with a knowing look. You focus on your screen, trying to make the Italian food sound like a chore. "It's just pasta, guys. I'll be back in my pajamas by ten."

Robby lingers for a heartbeat, his thumb hovering over his tablet screen, before he finally turns away without another word. You watch him go out of the corner of your eye. The Hub returns to its usual hum, but you're suddenly very aware of the clock. It's just dinner. It has to be.

The final stretch of the shift is a blur of tied-off loose ends and signed notes. Patients are discharged with follow-up instructions they’ll probably ignore, and the board stays just busy enough to keep you on your toes without sparking a crisis.

As the night shift starts filtering in, the atmosphere in the Pitt shifts. The department takes a collective breath, bracing for the evening's unique brand of chaos.

Dana and Lena take over at the Hub with practiced, efficient hand-offs. They cycle through room assignments and lab results while everyone acknowledges the usual psych holds with a weary nod. You deliver a clean, organized report, and as soon as the responsibility is transferred, your mind pivots away from the hospital.

You shoot a text to Ethan: Heading home to change now, then I’ll meet you there.

Dana catches your eye as everyone starts to head their separate ways. “Alright, Kid,” she says easily. “Enjoy yourself tonight.”

Princess flashes a grin. “Have fun, be safe.”

Perlah’s expression is soft and kind. She says something quick in Tagalog that makes Princess snort, then switches to English: “Actually eat something. Don't just settle for breadsticks and flirting.”

You let out a groan. “Perlah, come on.”

McKay leans in, looking way too excited. “I expect a full report later.”

“You’re not getting a report of any kind,” you say, pointing her way.

McKay points back, unfazed. “Oh, you’re definitely giving me the full report.”

Dana gives you a little shooing gesture. “Go. Before you change your mind and end up taking another patient.”

You laugh, feeling the day's fatigue but smiling anyway, and step back from the Hub.

Robby is still there, finishing one last thing on his tablet. He’s changed into his Beers of the Burgh hoodie, the worn blue one you’ve seen a thousand times. It hangs off him in that comfortable way, sleeves pushed up, hood bunched at the back of his neck. He looks up when you approach, eyes steady. “You taking off?”

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m going home to change for dinner.”

Robby nods like he’s processing the information. “Text me when you’re back later.”

You pause, looking at him curiously. “Why's that?”

He hesitates, like he hadn’t really thought about why he said it in the first place. “Just so I know you’re home safe.”

You have a dozen smart comments ready to go, and you almost let one fly. But something stops you. You just give him a soft smile. “Okay. I will.”

You notice Robby’s hoodie strings are all tangled, one side hanging way lower than the other. It’s the kind of thing that usually drives you crazy, so you reach up to straighten him out. Your fingers smooth the fabric and untwist the knot near his neck, but for a heartbeat, you just leave your hands there. You can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat and the heat radiating through the black fabric.

Robby goes completely rigid under your hands. Suddenly aware of the silence from the rest of the staff, you finish up quickly. You give him a light tap on the chest, a "good job" gesture that feels a little too frantic. “All fixed,” you say, already turning on your heel. “Goodnight, everyone!”

Princess waves goodbye while Perlah just smiles, looking like she’s still thinking about those breadsticks. Dana doesn't say anything, but the look in her eyes tells you that you aren't off the hook yet. You sling your bag over your shoulder and make a break for the exit. By the time you hit the hallway, you're already planning your outfit and praying you have time for a shower so you don't smell like the ER all night.

Behind you, Robby doesn’t move. It’s like someone hit pause on the whole world. His heartbeat is loud in his ears, steady and heavy. He can still feel you even after you’re gone. The quick tug on the strings of his hoodie. The way you straightened them out like it was nothing, like you’ve done a hundred times before. Your hands on his chest for a second. That soft little pat right over his heart when you finished, absentminded and familiar, like you were claiming that space without even realizing it.

He’s standing there in the middle of the Hub, clutching his tablet like a lifeline while his brain just… stalls. Total system failure. It’s not even a slow burn anymore; it’s more like a door being kicked off its hinges. He doesn't just like having you around; he’s functionally dependent on it. He finds himself looking for you in every room without even thinking about it. When you reach out to touch him, so easy and familiar, it’s like a physical ache finally letting go. Like he’s been holding his breath for years, and you finally gave him permission to let it out.

It’s you. It’s always been you. Every morning, every walk, every time you let yourself into his apartment. You were his oxygen. And god, he’s so in love with you. He’s been in love with you for so long, and he’s only just now figuring it out. The epiphany hits him so hard it’s dizzying. He lets out this strangled, broken noise, the kind of sound you make when the floor drops out from under you. Jack’s head snaps up instantly. He’s halfway down the Hub with his coffee, talking to Shen, and then he’s staring at Robby like Robby just sprouted a second head.

Robby hasn’t moved. He hasn’t even blinked. Jack turns and walks back toward him. He’s moving slowly, like he’s approaching a possible disaster. “Hey,” Jack says. “Robby.”

No response. Jack stops right in front of him and waves a hand in his line of sight. “Earth to Robinavitch.”

Robby’s throat works. When he finally speaks, his voice comes out like sandpaper. “Yeah.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. He looks Robby up and down. He glances toward the exit you just disappeared through and then looks back at his friend. Understanding hits his face so fast that it is almost funny. Jack’s mouth quirks. “Oh,” he says. “Oh, wow.”

Robby doesn’t have it in him to argue. He just stands there, still wrecked, still trying to remember how lungs work. Jack lets out a quiet laugh, sharp and pleased, like he’s been waiting for this moment for years. “You’re kidding,” Jack says. “That’s what did it? The hoodie strings?”

Robby finally drags in a breath. Jack leans in, voice dropping, playful and merciless. “Took you long enough, brother.”  Robby blinks, slowly. It feels like his systems are rebooting. Jack claps him on the shoulder, grinning now. “Whole damn hospital’s been watching you two dance around each other for years, and you get taken out by a pat on the chest.”

Robby’s face tightens. “Shut up.”

Jack just grins wider. "Nah." He points his coffee toward the door. "Go get her." Robby just stares at him.

Robby just stares at him.

Jack makes it sound way too easy.

Like it’s just a typo you can fix. Like you can just walk out there, say the words, and stop the world from spinning out of control. Jack waits, his expression softening. "You're still buffering."

Robby groans into his hand. "I’m not..." He stops. He totally is. He exhales. "I can't just... go get her."

Jack tilts his head. "Why not?"

Robby lets out a short, hollow laugh. "Because she’s my best friend, Jack."

Jack’s grin turns into something a little too honest. "Yeah. That’s usually the origin story."

Robby glares. "I’m being serious."

Jack meets his eyes, totally steady. "So am I."

Robby’s jaw works. He’s still gripping his tablet. He lowers it to the counter slowly, like he’s handling a live grenade.

"I can't ruin this," he says quietly. "She's everything. She's the best thing I've got, and I didn't even realize I was taking it for granted."

Jack grunts. "It was never normal."

Robby’s eyes snap to his. "Don't start."

Jack shrugs. "I'm not being a dick."

"You're always a dick," Robby mutters.

"Occupational hazard," Jack says with a smirk.

Robby’s shoulders rise and fall. He looks at the exit, then back at the counter. "She has dinner plans."

Jack stares at him. "So?"

"So... it's with some guy from med school."

Jack gives him a long, unimpressed look. “Robby. You are a grown man.”

Robby’s jaw sets. “I’m aware of my age, Jack.”

“Then act like it,” Jack says, sounding bored. “It’s a dinner date. Not an elopement.”

Robby opens his mouth to snap back, but he's got nothing. He hates that Jack is the voice of reason right now. Jack leans against the counter, watching him spiral like it’s a spectator sport.

“How long?” Jack asks.

Robby blinks, lost. “How long what?”

Jack tilts his head, eyes narrowing. “How long have you been in love with her?”

Robby swallows, the truth rising up before he can stop it. “Years,” he admits.

Jack nods slowly. “Yeah. Obviously.”

Robby’s throat aches. “It wasn't supposed to happen. She was just my friend. Then she was just… there. And it kept growing. I didn't realize how much space she took up until I couldn't…” He trails off, frustrated.

Jack’s eyes are sharp. “Until you couldn’t imagine a single day without her.”

Robby just gawks at him.

Jack takes a slow sip of coffee like he’s won a prize. "That’s the mistake you guys always make. You get used to the 'good thing.' You call it a routine because admitting it's love is too scary."

Robby scowls. "When did you become a philosopher?"

Jack’s grin is sharp. "The second I realized I was right."

Robby groans, dragging a hand down his face. "She’s just… incredible. She makes everything better just by showing up. I’m always looking for her. It’s like a reflex."

Jack nods knowingly. "Yeah. Newsflash: she looks for you, too."

Robby’s eyes go wide. "Wait. You think she feels…?"

Jack cuts him off with a pointed look. "Nope. Do not start spiraling on me."

"I am not spiraling," Robby insists, his jaw tight.

Jack just stares. "You literally made a sound like you’d been stabbed. That’s the definition of spiraling, man."

Robby shoots him a lethal glare.

Jack just shrugs. "Look, I’m not telling you to go pull some big romantic gesture right now. Let her have her dinner. But you gotta make a move. She isn't gonna sit in the apartment next door forever pretending she doesn't want more."

Robby’s chest tightens. He hates that Jack is saying exactly what he’s been trying to ignore. Jack’s voice gets a little gentler. “Talk to her tonight. Not about the date. About you.”

Robby looks down at the counter. “What if I ruin everything?”

Jack snorts. “Dude, you already ruined it.”

Robby looks up, shocked. Jack just gestures between them. “You’re miserable because she’s making plans with other guys. You’re standing here looking like you forgot how to breathe just because she touched your hoodie. This isn't working anymore.”

Robby’s face goes bright red. “Jesus.”

“Yeah,” Jack grins. “No kidding.”

Robby sighs, looking at the door like she’s still standing there. He can still feel the ghost of her touch. “I can't lose her,” he says, sounding wrecked.

Jack’s eyes soften. “Then stop acting like being ‘just a friend’ is the only way to stay in her life.”

Robby swallows past the lump in his throat.

Jack tips his coffee cup toward him. “Go home. Shower. Take a breath. Then go next door and just tell her the truth.”

“What if she says no?” Robby asks, his voice low.

Jack looks him dead in the eye. “Then it sucks. It’ll hurt like crazy, but you’ll get through it.” He adds a smirk. “But honestly? That's not the problem.”

Robby’s heart thumps against his ribs.

“The problem,” Jack says, “is that you’ve been in denial for five years.”

Robby lets out a jagged breath that might be a laugh.

Jack straightens and taps Robby’s shoulder again. “Now go. Before I start charging you for therapy.”

You shower in record time.

Hot water, quick rinse, done. Skincare is a blur, but you take your time with your makeup. You do a little more than usual. You want to feel a little more put together. New version, new night.

You find an old green dress in the back of your closet. Simple, classic. You’d bought it for something years ago and forgot it existed. It still fits. You catch your reflection and blink, liking the change. “Okay,” you tell yourself.

Bag, keys, Uber. The city streaks past the window in a haze of lights. Princess texts you a row of green hearts, making you laugh as you slide the phone into your bag. The restaurant is glowing when you pull up. Soft lights, cozy vibes, and the smell of garlic hitting you before you even open the door.

And then you see him.

Ethan is standing there like a scene from a movie; hands in his pockets, hair a bit messy, looking way too comfortable. He’s changed, but he’s still Ethan. More polished, more ‘grown-up.’ Your heart gives a little skip, and you find yourself grinning. “Ethan!”

His eyes find yours and stay there. “There she is.”

You crash into a hug, and it’s just easy. Familiar. Your body just knows where to go.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his smile widening. “Wow.”

You huff a laugh, rolling your eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what? Tell the truth?” he asks. “You look incredible.”

“Thanks,” you say, feeling that familiar warmth in your chest. “You look good, too. Less like a zombie than you did in med school.”

He chuckles. “I eventually discovered sleep. It’s a game-changer.”

“Liar.”

“Fine. I’m just better at hiding the dark circles now.”

You both share a grin, and he gestures to the entrance. “Table’s waiting. I actually managed to make a reservation.”

“Always the overachiever,” you joke, following him into the warmth of the restaurant.

The hostess leads you to a secluded table. Ethan pulls your chair out like it's second nature. “Still such a gentleman,” you tease.

“I have to be, to make up for finding you mid-meltdown in the anatomy lab,” he jokes.

You mock-glare at him. “You swore that was a secret!”

“I’m a doctor, not a saint,” he says, and you both laugh like no time has passed.

You settle into the booth, the air between you feeling warm and familiar.

“So,” Ethan says, leaning back. “How are you? Really?”

You let out a long breath, a smile playing on your face. “It’s a lot. It’s tiring. But it’s good.”

“Still saving lives in the ER?”

“Still at it,” you confirm.

He nods once. “And what about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah,” he says, looking at you intently. “Not the shift work. Not the hospital. How are you doing?”

You look at the menu, then back at him, feeling a bit exposed. “I’m… doing okay. Better than I used to be. I think I’m figuring it out.”

Ethan’s smile turns gentle. “I like the sound of that.”

The server grabs your drink orders, breaking the moment. Ethan taps his menu with a grin.

“Serious question. What are you eating?”

You squint at the options. “I don’t know yet.”

“Liar. You’re going to stare at that for ten minutes and then order whatever I’m having.”

“I would never.”

Ethan just waits. Two seconds later, you cave. “Fine. What are you having?”

The next hour is a blur of easy laughter. It’s that comfort you only find with people who knew you 'back when.' Between bites of dinner, you tell him about the fellowship and the weirdness of finally being the one with the answers.

“I still feel like someone’s going to tap me on the shoulder and tell me I’m not allowed to be the boss,” you admit, swirling pasta around your fork.

Ethan snorts. “You were born allowed.”

“Wrong,” you say. “I was born anxious.”

He laughs, lifting his glass. “An attending. In the ER. That’s a big deal.”

You smile. “Yeah. It feels like one.”

Ethan catches you up on his life in Chicago. His cardiology fellowship sounds absolutely brutal, even when he tries to make it sound chill. “It’s… a lot,” he says, rubbing his face with a grin. “But it’s good. I’m learning. I’m surviving. Mostly.”

“And you’re back in town because…?” you prompt, enjoying the banter.

Ethan groans. “My cousin’s wedding. My mom literally would’ve flown to Chicago to drag me back by my hair if I tried to skip it.”

You laugh. “Yeah, that sounds like her.”

Dinner keeps moving. You swap the small stories, the ones that don't make it onto a resume. The dumb mistakes you made on three hours of sleep, the professors you couldn't stand, the way med school felt like drowning while you both just kept swimming.

At some point, your plates are mostly empty, and the conversation slows into something softer. You take a sip of water, then tilt your head. “Okay. Important question.”

Ethan’s brows shoot up. “I’m scared.”

“Is there anyone special? You know, romantically?”

The change in his face is instant. A total 180. It’s like someone just turned on a light behind his eyes.

Ethan smiles, looking totally bright and unguarded. “Yeah.”

Your own smile grows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says again, like he can’t even help it. “Jamie.”

You lean in automatically. “Jamie, huh?”

Ethan’s grin turns all soft and fond. “We met through a friend. I was basically half-dead after a shift and got dragged to this backyard thing I didn’t even want to go to. And Jamie was there.”

“Of course,” you say, totally delighted. “The classic ‘I didn’t want to go, and then I met the one’ story.”

Ethan points at you. “Exactly. We talked for… hours. I kept thinking I should probably leave, but I just couldn’t.”

“A total trap,” you declare.

“The best trap,” Ethan agrees. “We’ve been together almost a year now.”

Your heart melts a little. “Ethan, that’s amazing.”

“I know,” he says, looking almost embarrassed by how happy he is. Then his mouth quirks. “And… we’re actually looking at buying a place together.”

Your eyes go wide. “Shut up!”

“I’m dead serious.”

“That’s huge,” you say, your voice warm. “That’s really, really big.”

Ethan nods, then grabs his phone with a grin that says he's about to overshare. “Okay, wait. I have to show you.” He unlocks it and flips the screen around.

The background is a photo of Ethan and Jamie, arms wrapped around each other. Jamie is a very attractive blonde guy with a chest so broad he looks like he could carry a gurney with one hand. They both look so happy. Ethan has a relaxed look you rarely saw back in med school.

You stare for a beat. Then you just burst out laughing.

Ethan’s eyebrows shoot up. “What?”

“You…” You’re wheezing now, covering your mouth. “Ethan, you did not just pull a boyfriend who looks like he bench-presses refrigerators out of thin air and keep him for yourself.”

Ethan’s grin goes totally smug. “I did, actually.”

“Sir,” you say, still catching your breath. “Respectfully, you are punching so far above your weight class I’m surprised your arms didn’t fall off.”

Ethan makes a mock-offended noise. “Excuse you? I am a catch!”

“Oh, you’re a total catch,” you say quickly, pointing at the phone. “I’m just saying… Damn. Nice work, Dr. Miller.”

Ethan’s smile softens as he looks at the screen, then back at you. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say, and you mean it. “You look really happy, Ethan.”

His expression warms, like he’d been waiting for your seal of approval. “I am.”

Your laughter fades into something quiet and steady. You lift your glass for a small toast. “To Jamie.”

Ethan clinks his glass against yours. “To Jamie.”

“Okay,” Ethan says, his grin turning predatory in a friendly way. “My turn.”

You eye him suspiciously. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

“Love life. Now. Go.”

You recoil like he just suggested you eat glass. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on,” he laughs. “I showed you Jamie!”

“There’s nothing to show!” you insist, hiding behind your water glass. “Between work and Robby, I’m lucky if I remember to eat. I don’t have room for a love life.”

Ethan goes quiet for a second. “Robby?”

You freeze. “What about Robby?”

“You’ve been talking about him forever,” Ethan says, leaning back. “So. Give me the tea.”

You nearly sputter into your drink. “There is no tea!”

“Tell me more about him then,” he says, acting way too casual.

“Why are you obsessed with him?” you demand.

Ethan just smirks. “Because you just grouped him in with your job. Like he’s a fixed part of your schedule. That’s a pretty big deal, don't you think?”

“It’s just... how it is,” you say, sounding less sure of yourself by the second.

Ethan tilts his head. “Is it?”

“I mean, he’s my best friend. And my coworker. We’re both attendings on the same shift. We basically run the floor together. It’s just… a lot.”

Ethan nods slowly, looking way too unconvinced. “Uh-huh. And how does that stop you from dating, exactly?”

“It doesn’t stop me,” you say, a little too quickly. “It’s just… I don’t know. I’m busy. And when I’m not busy, I’m exhausted.”

Ethan makes a soft sound, like he’s totally humoring you. “Okay. Walk me through what you do when you’re tired.”

You frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

Ethan’s smile just grows. “When you’re not at the hospital. What are you doing?”

You shift in your chair, feeling the trap closing in. “Normal stuff.”

“Like what?” he prompts.

You sigh, feeling like he’s pulling teeth. “Like… dinner.”

“And who,” Ethan asks, his voice dripping with sweetness, “do you usually eat dinner with?”

You roll your eyes and give him a look. “Robby. Sometimes.”

Ethan nods. “Sometimes.”

“And sometimes I eat alone!” you add defensively.

Ethan doesn’t budge. “How often is ‘alone’?”

“Ethan,” you warn, glaring at him.

He just holds up a hand. “Hey, I’m just gathering data.”

You huff, giving in. “Fine. A few years ago, the place across from Robby opened up, so I moved in. It just made life easier. Close to work. Close to… my support system.”

Ethan’s eyes narrow. “Support system. Right.”

You keep going, getting into the rhythm of the story despite yourself. “We just… fell into a routine. We take turns cooking. Or if it’s been a killer shift, we just grab takeout and crash in front of the TV.”

Ethan’s lips twitch. “Together.”

“Yes,” you say, feeling the need to be defensive. “Together.”

He nods, looking way too satisfied. “Go on.”

You wave your hands around, like more talking will make this sound less like a marriage. “We trade off making coffee in the morning when we’re on the same shift. It’s not romantic or anything. It’s just… efficient.”

Ethan’s eyes are practically sparkling. “Efficient. Right.”

“It is!” you insist. “And we spend most of our days off together because, I mean, why wouldn’t we? We’re friends. We like each other.”

Ethan hums. “And what do you do on these days off?”

You hesitate, then shrug. “Normal stuff. Groceries. Laundry. He helps me fix things because I literally can’t own a toolbox without losing half the pieces. We go for walks. Grab food. Sometimes we just… sit.”

Ethan just watches you, like a picture is finally coming into focus for him.

You realize you’re talking faster now, like you’re trying to convince him, or maybe yourself.

“And he’s just… there,” you finish, your voice dropping. “Always.”

Ethan’s grin is slow and absolutely devastating. “Yeah.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What?”

Ethan takes a casual sip of his drink, then sets it down like he’s about to deliver a medical diagnosis. “I can see how already having a boyfriend would make you not want to look for a new one,” he says mildly.

The words hit. Your brain just… stops. You blink. Once. Twice.

“I don’t have a boyfriend,” you say, but it comes out way smaller than you intended.

Ethan just lifts his brows. “Oh? Really?”

You stare at him, suddenly hyper-aware of every single detail you just listed. The dinners. The coffee. The keys. The way Robby is just… there, like a constant, unmovable thing in your life. Your stomach does a literal flip.

Ethan leans in, his voice a little gentler now but still teased with amusement. “Sweetheart, you just described a full-blown relationship.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Half of you wants to laugh. The other half wants to sit perfectly still and re-evaluate your entire existence.

Ethan’s smile turns sly. “Also.”

You squint at him. “Also, what?”

He gestures at you with his fork. “You should’ve seen your face while you were talking about him.”

You frown. “My face was perfectly normal.”

Ethan’s eyes sparkle. “Girl. You literally swooned.”

You actually choke. “I did not swoon!”

"You practically glowed," he says, sounding totally delighted. "You got all soft. Your voice literally changed. You started saying 'Robby' like he was your favorite comfort blanket."

You hide your face in your hands for a second, absolutely mortified. "Oh my God."

Ethan’s laugh is kind. "Hey, it's okay. I'm just pointing out that you've already found your person."

You lower your hands slowly, staring at the table like the answers are printed in the wood. Your mind drifts back to this morning. Robby’s thermos. His hoodie. The way he looks at you when he thinks you aren't watching. Your throat feels tight.

"Do you want him?" Ethan asks softly.

You open your mouth, but for once, there isn't a joke ready to save you. You stare at your plate like it has the answer. "I..." You let out a slow, shaky breath. "Maybe."

Ethan doesn't pounce. He just waits.

You swallow hard. "Yes. I don't know." Your fingers curl around your water glass, the cold condensation grounding you. "It’s not a simple yes," you admit, your voice dropping. "It’s not just a crush. It’s... work. It’s history. It’s years of being..." You stop, frustrated, searching for the word. "It’s just him."

You rush on before you can chicken out. “He’s my best friend. The person I trust most. He’s just there when everything feels like too much, and I don't even have to ask.”

Your voice wobbles, and you hate it, so you press your lips together for a second.

“If I told him,” you say, your voice barely a whisper, “and he didn’t feel the same... I don’t think we could ever go back. We couldn't just pretend it never happened.”

Ethan’s gaze stays steady on you.

“And I can’t lose him,” you finish, your throat tight. “I can’t. His friendship is the most important thing in my life.”

Ethan’s expression shifts into something warm and firm. “Girl, do you hear yourself?” he asks softly.

You blink at him, lost.

Ethan leans in a little. “You just called him the most important thing in your life.”

You swallow hard, your heart beating way too fast for a restaurant table.

“That’s not nothing,” Ethan continues, his voice calm and supportive. “That’s not some little crush you can just ignore. That’s... real. That’s the kind of thing people spend their whole lives hoping they’ll find.”

You look away, feeling totally overwhelmed.

Ethan reaches across the table and taps your knuckles, a steady anchor. “I’m not saying you have to blow up your life tomorrow,” he says. “But you at least owe it to yourself to think about it.”

You look back at him, feeling helpless. “What if I’m wrong?”

Ethan’s mouth tilts into a soft smile. “What if you’re not?”

A breath you didn’t even know you were holding finally escapes.

“You deserve to try, okay?” Ethan says, his eyes kind. “You deserve the chance that this could be the best thing that ever happened to you.”

Your chest actually aches because some part of you totally believes him. Ethan gives your fingers a quick squeeze before letting go, giving you space to breathe.

“And if you’re scared,” he adds, his voice dropping, “that’s fine. Be scared. Just don't let fear be the only reason you never find out.”

You stare at the table for a long moment, the restaurant noise just a blur in the background. Then you whisper, almost to yourself, “I don't even know if he could ever...”

Ethan lifts his brows. “Could ever what?”

You swallow hard. “See me that way.”

Ethan looks thoughtful for a second, then totally knowing. “You want my honest opinion?”

You hesitate. “Yes.”

Jack Abbot x F!Reader MDNI 18+ wc:5.5k summary: It’s your birthday, and you’re out with the only people who really matter. The night is a blur of drinks and music until a stranger gets too close, and Jack has seen enough. He steps in, cuts your night short, and pulls you out to his truck. You’re ready to lay into him for ruining your party, but the heavy silence in the cab says everything. Looking at him, you realize he was jealous. The realization shifts the air between you instantly. You’re done waiting for him to catch up, so you close the gap and finally make the first move. c/w: language, p in v, dirty talk, riding abbot in his truck ;) cross posted on ao3

It’s your birthday, and the Pitt has officially taken over the bar. You’re tucked into a corner of the counter between Santos and Mohan, feeling the vibrations of the music through the soles of your shoes. Santos is in rare form tonight, acting out a play-by-play of the morning’s most chaotic patient while Samira tries her best to shut her down with the actual facts. It’s a losing battle, though, because Santos is already three beers deep and committed to the story. You find yourself caught in the middle of their leaning shoulders and loud voices, but you don't mind the lack of personal space. The drink in your hand has done its job of taking the sting out of the day, leaving you in that sweet spot where the room feels bright and the laughter feels genuine. You’re not quite at the point of being tipsy yet, but you’re definitely happy to let them do all the talking.

Behind you, the rest of the group is making enough noise to rival the jukebox. Dana’s laughing so hard her hair is practically glowing under the bar lights, while Cassie has long since abandoned her shoes under the table. Robby looks totally at home, lounging back with one arm over his chair and a smirk that says he’s enjoying the show. Jack sits nearby, looking like he’s still waiting for his pager to go off. Whittaker is mid-story again, gesturing wildly to emphasize a point. It gives you a warm, tight feeling in your chest to see them all there together. They actually showed up for you, even the ones who usually stay home.

Santos bumps her shoulder into yours and says, "You realize this is your fault, right?"

"Wait, my fault?"

"Yeah, you’ve created a monster. Dana’s already talking about making this an annual tradition."

"Absolutely not," you groan, though you aren't really complaining.

"It’s totally happening," Samira says, lifting her glass. "To the birthday girl. May her trauma bays be calm and her patients be compliant."

"You've got to dream bigger than that," you tell her, but you still clink your glass against theirs anyway.

Time just sort of slips away when the drinks are flowing, and before you know it, Santos is handing you a shot of tequila that you don't recall ordering. You knock it back anyway, ignoring the burn while she celebrates the feat, and then you find yourself tucked back at the table between Cassie and Robby. Cassie is in a particularly loving mood, leaning into your side and telling you how great you are in a "whisper" that half the bar can probably hear. Beside you, Robby keeps bumping his knee against yours whenever you get particularly loud, his quiet way of checking in while he watches the chaos with that lazy grin. 

You aren't sure if you've had three or four drinks, but you definitely feel the sway of the room when you eventually get up to find some space. You end up back at the bar, enjoying the quiet for a moment until the bartender asks if you're ready for another. Your cheeks are flushed, and you feel good, but you can tell you're right on the line between a fun buzz and a rough morning. Instead of pushing it, you decide to play it safe and ask for water. The bartender doesn't even look surprised as he starts filling a glass for you.

You rest your forearms on the bar again, exhaling slowly. The coolness of the wood feels good against your skin. You can still hear your table behind you, Robby’s low voice cutting through the noise, Dana’s unmistakable laugh following right after.

A gentle, familiar hand on your back brings you out of your thoughts. You turn to find Dana beside you. She looks a little tired, her lipstick worn, but she’s still got that steady presence that makes her the backbone of the unit.

“Hey, birthday girl,” she says with a firm squeeze to your shoulder. “I’m heading out. I wanted to say goodnight.”

“Already?” You turn your stool to give her your full attention.

Dana gives you a weary, knowing smile. “Some of us are not twenty-five anymore.”

“You’re not old,” you remind her.

“I didn’t say I was old,” she says smoothly. “I said I’m tired.”

You smile and squeeze her hand. “Thanks for being here. I know the bar scene isn't exactly your favorite.”

She softens, the professional mask slipping for a second. “Of course I’m here. It’s your birthday. That’s not optional.”

Your throat feels a little tight at the sincerity in her voice. “I’ll see you the day after tomorrow,” you say.

“Bright and early. Try not to come in hungover; I won’t save you.”

“You always save me.”

Dana huffs, unimpressed. “Go drink your water.” She leans in, presses a quick kiss to the top of your head, and then weaves her way toward the exit. You watch her purposeful stride until the door swings shut, leaving you with that warm, full feeling in your chest again.

Then it’s back to just you. The bartender slides your water a bit closer, and you take a long sip, letting the coldness settle the buzz under your skin. The bar noise is still everywhere, but the laughter and the music feel a little further away now, like you’re just hovering over the scene. 

Another year older. You let the thought sit there for a minute, realizing you don’t feel old, just a lot more solid than you used to. You know how fragile life is and how fast it can go sideways, especially after holding so many hands in those bright hospital rooms. But looking around, you realize you’ve actually built a life. You glance back at the table, and you can’t help but smile.

Mohan is leaning in close, clearly deep in a story with her hands moving as she talks. Santos is right there egging her on, nodding with a look of exaggerated seriousness that has Cassie covering her mouth to keep from losing it. Whatever they’re saying has picked up momentum now, and the three of them are locked in with that shared mischief that always means someone is about to get called out.

Robby throws his head back and laughs, loud and unrestrained, like he doesn't have a care in the world. It carries over the music so easily that he has to wipe at his eyes, looking like the laughter actually hurts.

Whittaker, on the other hand, looks like he’s reconsidering every life choice that brought him here. His face is flushed, and his jaw is set, one hand dragging down his cheek in a slow swipe of secondhand humiliation while he stares at the table as if he’s hoping it opens up and swallows him whole.

Santos points a finger at him.

Cassie leans across the table, saying something you can’t quite hear over the noise.

Mohan finishes the story, and Robby nearly chokes on his drink because he's laughing so hard.

Whittaker just drops his head into his hands.

They showed up for you.

Not because they had to, or because it was the expected thing to do, but because somewhere between the codes and the chaos and all those cups of shared coffee, you became theirs and they became yours.

Found family feels a little dramatic when you think about it, but there’s no better way to describe it. These are the people who’ve been there for the worst of it, seeing you covered in blood or holding it together after a call. They're the ones you've laughed with in a supply closet because you knew if you didn’t, you might just crack. You never expected to find this, or to feel this lucky to have them. Your chest tightens, but in a good way. 

You turn back to the bar.

“You celebrating something?”

The voice comes from your right. You look over to find a stranger leaning against the bar, angled toward you as if he’s been waiting for a chance to speak. He looks to be in his late twenties, well-dressed and carrying himself with a practiced, easy sort of confidence.

“Something like that,” you say, your voice polite but neutral.

He smiles, looking amused. “You don’t sound very convinced.”

“It’s my birthday.”

His eyebrows lift. “No way. Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Well,” he says, straightening up from the bar. “That’s a crime.”

“A crime?”

“Yeah. A birthday girl shouldn’t be sitting alone at a bar.”

You look down at your water and then back up at him. “I’m not alone. My friends are here.”

He follows your gaze toward the loud table of medical professionals who look like they could handle a mass casualty event, despite every one of them being in different states of inebriation.

“Ah,” he says, nodding slowly. “So I’ve got competition.”

You don't say a word, opting to take another sip of water instead.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

You hesitate for a beat. You aren't interested, you're just busy calculating how much energy you want to waste on this. He shifts a little closer, close enough that his sharp, clean cologne fills the air between you.

“Come on,” he says, flashing that practiced smile again. “It’s your birthday. Let me at least buy you a drink.”

You give him the small, polite smile you save for pharmaceutical reps who won't leave the nursing station.

“That’s nice of you,” you say, lifting your water slightly. “But I’m good.”

He looks at your glass like it’s a personal affront. “That doesn’t count. It’s your birthday. Let me upgrade you.”

“I don’t need an upgrade.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to order you.”

You huff a quiet, tired laugh. “Exactly.”

He doesn’t take the hint at all. He just leans in, bracing his elbow on the wood and looking relaxed, though there's a stubbornness in his eyes now.

“So what? You’re just going to sit here with a water all night?”

“I’ve had plenty,” you answer.

“Come on. One more drink won’t hurt.”

You can feel the moment the conversation turns. The charm is disappearing, replaced by a pushiness that makes your skin crawl. His smile tightens because you aren't following the script, and he treats your boundaries like they're just obstacles to get past.

“I said I’m good,” you say again. You keep your voice steady, refusing to give him any more than that.

He just tilts his head. “You always this hard to convince?”

You turn toward him, keeping your tone light but very clear. “I’m not being convinced. That’s the whole point.”

Behind you, your friends are still laughing, and the music hasn't stopped, but your internal alarm is officially going off.

He signals the bartender anyway.

“Hey,” you say quickly. “Seriously, don’t.”

“It’s fine,” he says, dismissive as he looks at the bartender. “You don’t even have to drink it. Just let me buy it.”

“I don’t want you to.”

That finally hits home. His jaw tightens, but he doesn't quit. He tries one more time, keeping his voice soft. “Okay. Then how about you just give me your name? We can start there.”

You hesitate, but your patience is gone. You don't owe this guy anything, not your name and definitely not a fake smile to ease the tension. “I’m actually going to head back to my friends,” you say, sliding off the stool and ending the conversation.

You don’t wait for him to reply. You grab your bag and turn around, but you don't get more than a step before you walk right into someone. Your hands hit a broad, solid chest, and you stumble back slightly.

“Sorry, I didn’t see, I…”

You look up and see Jack. He’s standing closer than usual, his jaw tight and a muscle ticking in his neck. His eyes are sharp, locked on you for a split second before they flick over your shoulder to the man at the bar. You don't have to look back to feel the temperature in the room drop.

His hand finds yours, gripping it with a firm, possessive heat. “Ready to go, babe?”

His voice is so calm it’s almost scary, and it’s low enough that only you can hear it. You just stare at him, your heart thumping against your ribs. “What?”

Jack doesn't blink. He’s looking right over your head at the guy behind you, his jaw tight and his eyes sharp. “Thought you were finished here,” he says easily. “I’m taking you home.”

The guy at the bar goes dead silent. You can feel the predatory energy Jack is putting off, and when his thumb presses into your wrist, you realize he’s waiting for you to jump in. You take a breath and force a smile. “Yeah, okay. I’m ready to go.”

Jack nods, looking satisfied for the first time all night. He ignores the stranger entirely and guides you through the small crowd near the bar, acting like a human shield. It isn’t until you’re outside in the crisp night air that he lets out a breath. His grip loosens a little, but he keeps his hand in yours as the door shuts, muffling the music until it’s just a distant thud.

Jack doesn't let go of your hand even after you've cleared the bar's exit. He keeps walking with a purpose, leading you toward the back of the parking lot while you scramble to keep up with his long strides.

“Hey,” you say gently. “Thank you, really.”

He stays quiet for a moment, his eyes scanning the cars around you.

“For stepping in,” you clarify. “You didn't have to go that far.”

His jaw tightens. You catch the movement under the streetlights, that look he gets when he’s holding something back. “I did,” is all he says.

“He wasn’t actually going to do anything,” you say, trying to lighten the mood.

Jack’s hand gives yours a firm squeeze. Not enough to be rough, but enough to make you stop talking. “You don’t know that.”

When you reach his truck, he opens the passenger door and waits for you to get in. He shuts it quietly, almost carefully, before rounding the front and climbing into the driver’s side. The cab feels tight and warm, the engine's low hum the only sound in the silence.

“Jack,” you say, turning in your seat to look at him.

He puts the truck in gear, but he doesn't look over. He’s staring out at the road like it’s the only thing that matters.

“I really do mean it,” you say. “I appreciate you. That guy was definitely starting to get on my nerves.”

You notice it immediately when his knuckles go white against the steering wheel. “You shouldn’t have had to deal with that,” he says, his tone clipped.

“I was dealing with it fine.”

“You were being polite,” he counters, and there’s a weight to the way he says it that feels personal.

You watch him as he navigates out of the parking lot. His jaw is set so hard it looks painful, and his whole body is tense. “Jack,” you say, leaning toward him a little. “It honestly wasn't a big deal.”

He takes a slow, steady breath. “It was to me.”

You let that sink in for a moment, watching him flex his hands against the leather. He keeps checking the mirrors, his protective instincts still dialed all the way up. Deciding to poke at the tension, you add, “You didn’t have to go the full 'babe' route, you know.”

He doesn't laugh. If anything, his jaw just gets tighter.

The truck continues down the dark road, the rhythmic flash of the streetlights illuminating the frustration etched into his features. You swallow hard, feeling the air in the cab grow thick.

“Jack,” you try again, your voice barely a whisper. “Talk to me.”

He doesn’t say a word. The only sound is the faint creak of the steering wheel as he grips it even harder. He isn't relaxing, and the silence between you is starting to feel very pointed.

You shift in your seat, studying him. His jaw is clenched, you can see tension in his shoulders, and his hands are practically fused to the steering wheel. It clicks then, this isn't just adrenaline. It’s jealousy.

You lean back, crossing your arms over your chest. “You’re being weird.”

“I’m driving,” he says, his tone flat.

“No. You’re sulking.”

His mouth thins. “I’m not sulking.”

“You are 100% sulking.”

He doesn't say a word, just hits the blinker and turns the truck. You stare at him, feeling the heat of frustration rising. “It’s not my fault some guy walked up to me.”

“I didn’t say it was your fault.”

“You’re acting like it is, though.”

He flexes his fingers on the leather of the wheel. “I’m not.”

“You kind of are, Jack.”

He exhales through his nose, a sharp, controlled sound. “He wasn’t taking the hint.”

“I was handling it,” you insist.

“The guy ordered you a drink after you said no.”

“And I told him not to!” you say, matching his intensity.

“And he did it anyway,” Jack says, finally looking at you for a split second before hitting the brakes at a red light.

“And I was two seconds away from walking back to the table.”

“You shouldn’t have had to.”

You let out a long, frustrated sigh. “That’s not how the real world works, Jack. You can’t just shield me from every annoying guy.”

The truck goes silent again, but the air feels different now… charged and tight. You look out at the passing streetlights then back at him. “You didn’t even check to see if I wanted to leave yet.”

His jaw tightens.

“You just grabbed my hand and hauled me out of there,” you say. “I didn’t even say goodbye to everyone.”

“I told them,” he says, his tone clipped.

You blink at him, confused. “Wait, what?”

“I told them I was taking you home.”

“You told them that while I was still standing at the bar?”

“Yes.”

You stare at him, feeling a wave of disbelief. “So you just decided that was it? For everyone?”

“You were done,” he says, his tone clipped and final.

“I was just getting some water.”

“You’d had enough for the night.”

“That doesn’t mean I was done celebrating my birthday,” you snap back. The word birthday hangs in the air, making the tension feel even more pointed.

His grip on the wheel is so tight the leather actually creaks.

You shake your head, letting your irritation show. “I basically disappeared from my own party without even saying a real goodbye.”

“You didn’t disappear,” he says, his voice rising. “You left with me.”

“That’s not the point and you know it.”

He finally glances at you, and there’s a look in his eyes you’ve never seen before... raw, unmeasured, and completely reactive. “I saw him step up to you,” he says, his voice low and dangerous. “I saw how close he got. I saw that he wouldn’t back off.”

“I told you, I had it handled.”

“He kept pushing you.”

“Yes, and I kept saying no!”

“And he kept standing there,” Jack says, his voice thick with a frustration he can't seem to shake.

The only sound in the cab is the engine and the tires on the asphalt. You watch the side of his face, the hard line of his mouth, the way his shoulders haven't relaxed an inch. He didn't think; he just saw you with someone else and reacted on instinct.

“You didn’t even think,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

His jaw ticks. “No,” he admits. “I didn’t.”

The honesty helps, but you're still frustrated. “You don’t get to make those calls for me. I can handle a pushy guy at a bar.”

“I know you can,” he repeats.

“Then prove it.”

He keeps his eyes on the road, his pulse visible in his neck. “I didn’t like it,” he says finally, the words sounding forced.

“Didn’t like what, Jack?”

“The way he was looking at you.”

There it is. No more excuses. It’s just jealousy, plain and simple. He’s still bracing himself against the steering wheel, his knuckles white.

“And your big solution was calling me babe and dragging me to the parking lot?” you ask, still feeling the heat of the argument.

He doesn’t even look ashamed. “It worked.”

You stare at him for three beats. “Pull over.”

He looks at you like you’ve lost it. “What?”

“Pull the truck over, Jack.”

“We’re two minutes from your place.”

“Pull. Over.” You aren't yelling, but you're firm. You've made up your mind.

“Why?” he asks, but he’s already slowing down.

“Just do it.” You can see him wanting to fight it, wanting to maintain that stoic control he always has.

“Jack,” you say, sharper now.

He huffs a breath through his nose and turns into a quiet, dark parking lot off the main road. He shifts into park but leaves the engine running. “Well? What is it?”

Instead of saying anything, you unbuckle your seatbelt.

His eyes drop to the belt and then back to your face. “What are you doing?”

You turn toward him, feeling the adrenaline spike. “You were jealous.”

“I was not,” he says, though his jaw tells a different story.

“You were.”

“I was making sure you were safe.”

“No,” you counter. “You were marking your territory.”

That hits home. He goes motionless, his hands finally loosening on the wheel as he stares at you.

You don’t give him time to recover. You push yourself up from your seat and climb across the console in one smooth movement. His hands come up instinctively, gripping your waist to steady you, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hip bones. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of your dress, his chest rising and falling faster than it was a second ago.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “What are you…?”

You settle in his lap, straddling him. The words die in his throat.

His hands are still on you. Warm. Solid. Not pushing you away. Your knees press into the seat on either side of his hips. You can feel the tension in him up close now, in his chest, the way he’s breathing a little heavier.

You reach up and grab his face, fingers curling along his jaw. “Don’t you dare act like I did something wrong,” you tell him quietly.

His eyes darken. “I didn’t.”

“You did.”

He opens his mouth to argue, but you cut him off by pressing your lips to his. It’s not gentle. Not soft. Not tentative. It’s not sweet. It’s heat and frustration, teeth and tongues, and something that’s been simmering under the surface for longer than either of you has admitted. He groans into your mouth, low and rough. His hands slide down to grab your ass hard enough to make you gasp, hard enough to rock your hips forward without meaning to. 

The first grind is accidental; the second isn’t.

His cock is already half-hard beneath you, thickening fast as you roll your hips, the friction of the denim against cotton making your clit throb. You break the kiss just long enough to drag in a ragged breath, and his mouth finds your neck, his teeth scraping over your pulse point before he sucks hard, leaving a mark you’ll feel for days. 

“Fuck, baby,” he growls against your skin, his voice thick with want. 

You laugh, breathless, and grind down again, the wet heat between your thighs making the fabric of your panties stick to you.

His hands tighten on your ass, fingers digging in as he pulls you flush against him. The ridge of his cock is right there, trapped between your bodies, and when you rock forward, the friction makes your toes curl in your boots.

“Jack,” you whine, the sound high and needy even to your own ears.

“Yeah?” His mouth is on your collarbone now, his tongue tracing the line of it before he bites down just enough to sting. “Tell me what you want.”

You don’t hesitate. Your fingers fumble with the button of his jeans, the zipper coming down with a sharp snick that sounds obscene in the quiet truck. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the head flushed dark, a bead of precum already welling at the slit. You wrap your fingers around the base, marveling at the weight of him, the heat. Jack groans, his head falling back against the seat as you stroke him, your thumb swiping over the wet tip. You stroke him again, and again, just to watch his eyes darken, just to feel the way his breath hitches.

“Push my panties aside,” you order, lifting your hips just enough to give him access.

He doesn’t waste time. His fingers hook into the lace, dragging it to the side before his thumb finds your clit, already swollen and slick. He circles it once, twice, his touch maddeningly light.

“Jack,” you snap, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“Patience,” he murmurs, but his voice is strained, his cock jerking in your grip. He’s not as in control as he pretends to be.

You don’t give him the chance to prove it.

Rising up on your knees, you position him at your entrance, the broad head of his cock pressing against your folds. You’re soaked, dripping down your thighs, but he’s big, and the stretch burns as you sink down, inch by slow inch, your breath coming in sharp little gasps.

“Fuck, fuck…” His hands move to your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh as he tries to still you, but you don’t stop, not until you’re fully seated, his cock buried to the hilt inside you, the stretch of him making your vision blur at the edges.

His thumbs rub slow circles through the fabric of your dress. “Breathe, baby.”

In your rush to take him all at once, to feel every inch and prove you could, you hadn’t realized you were holding your breath until your lungs started to burn. You let it out in a shaky exhale, forehead dipping to his shoulder as you force yourself to inhale slowly this time, filling your lungs the way he told you to.

For a second, neither of you moves. You can feel his pulse in his cock, the way his chest heaves against yours, the way his breath is hot against your neck.

Then you move.

It’s slow at first, a testing roll of your hips, but the second his thumb finds your clit again, all pretense of control shatters. You ride him in earnest, your dress bunched around your waist, your tits bouncing with every downward stroke. The truck creaks beneath you, the leather seats squeaking in time with the wet, obscene sounds of your body taking his.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice rough as gravel. “Fuck, you take my cock so good.”

His free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair as he pulls you down for another kiss, this one filthy and open-mouthed, his tongue fucking into your mouth in time with your hips. You can taste whiskey and something darker, something him, and when his teeth graze your lower lip, you moan into his mouth, your nails raking down his chest.

“Harder,” you demand, your voice breaking. “I want it harder.”

He growls, low and primal, and his grip on your hip tightens, bordering on too rough as he slams you down onto his cock, the impact driving a broken cry from your throat. His thumb works your clit in tight, relentless circles, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in your belly, your thighs trembling with the effort of keeping up the pace.

“C’mon,” he urges, his voice a dark murmur against your ear. “Be a good girl and come on my cock. Let me feel that tight little cunt milking me.” He punctuates that by giving your ass a sharp slap on one cheek. 

The words send a jolt of heat straight to your core, and when his teeth sink into the sensitive skin where your neck meets your shoulder, the pain and pleasure collide, sending you tumbling over the edge. The orgasm that’s been building slowly hits you full force, your back arching, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders as you scream, the sound raw and unfiltered in the confined space of the truck.

Jack doesn’t let up. He keeps fucking you through it, his cock pistoning up into you as your walls clamp down around him, milking him for every last drop of pleasure. 

Your thighs start to tremble before you want to admit it. The stretch, the effort of keeping yourself steady, the slow burn building higher and higher until it’s impossible to ignore. You try to push through it, stubborn, determined not to lose the rhythm you set.

Jack notices immediately. His hands slide more firmly onto your hips, fingers spreading wide, thumbs pressing into the soft curve of you like he’s grounding you there. His grip tightens when your movements falter. “You’re shaking,” he says, voice low, almost a warning.

“I’m fine,” you manage, breath uneven.

His jaw shifts, eyes dark and focused on your face. He doesn’t argue with you. He just takes over. His hands anchor you, guiding your hips with deliberate control when your thighs start to burn too badly to keep up. He adjusts you without hesitation, setting a new pace, one that’s all him. Steady. Certain. Strong.

You gasp at the shift, the sudden loss of control, mixing with the relief of it.

“Let me,” he murmurs, thumbs digging in just enough to remind you who’s moving you now.

Your muscles finally get a break, but the intensity doesn’t lessen. If anything, it deepens under his hands, every movement measured and intentional as he keeps you exactly where he wants you. He keeps driving his hips up into you, controlled but relentless, working with the cramped space of the driver’s seat and refusing to let it slow him down.

He leaned in closer, his stubbled jaw brushing against your neck as he nipped and sucked at the sensitive skin. “You’re doing so fucking good, sweetheart,” he praised as he continued to thrust up inside your tight heat. 

You can feel him swelling inside you, his breath coming in sharp, stuttering gasps as his own release crashes over him. “Fuck!” His voice is a guttural groan, his body going taut beneath you as he thrusts deep one last time, his cock pulsing inside you, filling you with thick, hot spurts that make you whimper at the sensation.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You’re draped over him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, your breath coming in ragged little pants. His heart hammers against your chest, his cock still twitching inside you, his cum leaking out around him, slick and warm against your thighs.

Then his hand is in your hair again, tilting your face up so he can press a slow, filthy kiss to your swollen lips.

The kiss isn’t frantic anymore. The sharp edge from earlier has dulled into something deeper, something that lingers. His mouth moves against yours with unhurried intent, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you. Like he needs the reminder that you’re right here.

When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He keeps his forehead against yours, his breathing still rough and jagged.

“What do you say, babe?” he murmurs. This time, the name sounds right. It sounds like it belongs to you. “Can I take you home with me?”

You study his face. His eyes are dark, but the wild look from the bar has been replaced by something vulnerable and honest.

“You’re still jealous,” you say softly.

His jaw ticks, but he doesn't flinch.

“Yeah.” The word is an admission that feels warm and heavy in the small space.

You trace your fingers down the front of his shirt, feeling his chest heave. “Next time,” you tell him, “just ask me if I need a rescue.”

His hand moves from your hair to your hip, his thumb pressing in with a slow, deliberate pressure.

“Next time,” he says, his voice low and absolutely certain, “I won’t be pretending you’re mine.”

It isn’t a loud declaration. It isn’t a dramatic scene. It’s worse.

Your pulse jumps.

Carefully, you move back to your side of the truck, settling into the passenger seat and smoothing your dress. You try to look like you're steady, even though his last words are still echoing in your head.

Jack stays still for a second, resetting himself with a hand through his hair before his fingers find the steering wheel. Before the truck can move, you lean in one last time. You brush a soft kiss against his cheek, your hand resting at the nape of his neck, letting the touch linger.

“Okay, Jack,” you whisper. “Take me home with you.”

The hitch in his breath tells you everything you need to know.

Robby x F!Reader MDNI 18+ wc:3.5k summary: After shift, you expect to go home. Instead, Robby sends you a dropped pin inside the hospital with three words: come find me. You track him down to a deserted wing, expecting a work-related emergency, but find something entirely different. He’s officially off the clock, the doors are locked, and he’s finally showing you exactly what happens when he stops playing the professional. c/w: smut, shameless smut, hospital quickie, dirty talk fingering, oral-fem receiving, piv sex.

The locker room is quieter than usual when you step inside, the rush of handoffs finally over and the Pitt settling into that brief, fragile lull before the next wave hits. Your brain is still half in it, replaying labs and consult notes while your hands move on autopilot. Twelve hours of organized chaos does not shut off just because the clock says you are done.

You strip out of your scrub top and trade it for a soft T shirt and jeans, rolling your shoulders to work out the ache that has settled there. You and Robby finished sign out together not twenty minutes ago, walking out of the trauma bay side by side like you always do. He had squeezed your hand and told you to meet him at the car. As far as you knew, you were both done for the day.

Your phone buzzes against the bench.

You expect something simple and familiar. A where are you. A hurry up. Maybe a joke about you taking forever to change.

Instead, it is a dropped pin.

You blink at it. The location is still inside the hospital.

Specifically, one of the older wings that is technically still in use but rarely visited unless you have a reason.

You type back immediately.

What is this?

The typing bubble appears almost at once. Disappears. Comes back.

Come find me.

You stare at the message, lips pressing together despite yourself. He is many things, but vague is not one of them. If he needs something, he says it. If he wants you, he usually says that too, in a tone that leaves very little room for interpretation.

You try again.

Are you okay?

A pause.

Then: Just come find me.

Your pulse shifts, not panic exactly, but something warmer, heavier. You were just with him. Nothing felt off. And yet he doubled back into the building without saying a word.

You shove your bag back in your locker, abandoning the plan to head straight home. Whatever this is, it is intentional. And if your boyfriend is sending you cryptic pins from inside the hospital after shift, you are absolutely going to find out why.

The older wing is quiet in a way the Pitt rarely is. The lights are dimmer here, the hallway long and mostly empty, patient rooms dark except for the occasional soft glow from a monitor. Your footsteps echo as you follow the pin on your screen, glancing into open doorways, half expecting him to be leaning casually against a counter with that infuriatingly calm expression he wears when he knows something you do not.

“Robby?” you call softly, not wanting to carry your voice too far.

You take a few more steps, squinting at the room numbers, when a hand suddenly catches your wrist.

You barely have time to gasp before you are tugged sideways into a room, the door clicking shut behind you with quiet finality.

“Jesus, Rob—”

The words die in your throat.

He is already crowding you, guiding you back until your shoulders brush the wall. His palms plant on either side of your head, bracing against the paint, effectively boxing you in. There is nowhere to go, not that you are trying very hard to escape.

His chest rises and falls once, heavy, like he has been holding something in.

Then he bends.

His nose drags slowly up the column of your neck, inhaling like he is committing you to memory. The sound that leaves him is low and rough, something between a groan and a growl, vibrating against your skin. It sends a sharp, electric shiver down your spine.

“Robby,” you breathe, hands instinctively landing on his sides.

He doesn’t answer. His mouth replaces his nose, warm and insistent as he presses open mouthed kisses along your neck, just below your ear, then lower. His stubble scrapes lightly against your skin. It’s deliberate. Unhurried. Possessive in a way that makes your knees feel suspiciously weak.

You are completely thrown.

“Uh, Robs, what’s going on?” you ask softly, even as your head tips to the side to give him better access, because you are only human and, after all this time, still painfully weak for Michael Robinavitch.

His mouth does not leave your skin.

“Apartment’s too far away, baby,” he murmurs against your throat, voice rough and low, the vibration of it sinking straight into you. His lips move as he speaks, brushing, pressing, not stopping for even a second. “I need you right now. Needed you all day, actually.”

You go completely still.

It is not the words themselves that stun you. It is where you are.

Michael Robinavitch does not fool around at work. Not ever. Not even a little. You have thrown Grey’s Anatomy in his face more than once, usually with a pointed look and a suggestion that on-call rooms exist for a reason. Every single time, he has met you with that steady, unshakable expression and a firm reminder that it is a television show, not a real hospital.

He has never wavered.

And now he is pinning you against a wall in an unused wing, breathing you in like he has been starving.

“Robby…” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper.

He exhales against your pulse point, hands flexing slightly against the wall beside your head. “You have no idea how hard it was all day,” he mutters, almost frustrated, like he is confessing something he should have said hours ago. “Watching you work. Listening to you. Every time you touched me, I nearly lost it.”

Your brain struggles to catch up with your body’s reaction. Heat floods low and heavy, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt without conscious permission.

“You’re the one who said we don’t do this here,” you remind him softly, though there is no real resistance in it.

“I know,” he says, mouth dragging slowly along the curve of your neck again. “I know. But I’m done being reasonable for the day.”

That might be the most shocking part of all.

You stare at him for another second, trying to reconcile this version of Michael Robinavitch with the man who once lectured you for a full five minutes about “professional boundaries” because you kissed him in an empty stairwell.

He is still kissing your neck.

Still crowding you.

Still very much not being reasonable.

A slow, wicked little smile pulls at your mouth.

“Well,” you say lightly, even as your hands slide up his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, “this is interesting.”

He pauses just enough to glance up at you, hazel eyes darker than they were a minute ago. “Interesting?”

“Mm.” You tilt your head back against the wall, studying him like he is the anomaly here. “Because if I remember correctly, Dr. Robinavitch, hospitals are for medicine. Not… this.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” you ask sweetly.

“Quote me at me.”

You bite back a grin. “That’s a television show, not a real hospital,” you mimic under your breath.

His eyes flash, a warning wrapped in heat. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Just a little,” you admit. “I mean, you have been very firm about not fooling around at work. Very serious. Very principled.” Your fingers trail down his abdomen slowly, deliberately. “I was starting to think you didn’t have it in you.”

The reaction is immediate. His hands leave the wall long enough to grab your hips, pulling you flush against him so you can feel exactly how wrong that last statement was.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and edged. “You’re pushing your luck.”

“Am I?” you whisper back, lashes lowering just enough to be provocative. “Because from where I’m standing, it seems like I finally found the one place you can’t resist me.”

His grip tightens, not enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch.

“You think this is about resisting you?” he asks quietly.

You shrug as best you can while pinned between him and the wall. “You’re the one who said you needed me all day. Sounds like a self control issue.”

A rough sound leaves him, half laugh, half warning.

“You have no idea,” he says, leaning in until his mouth is just barely brushing yours, not quite kissing you. “How much I’ve been exercising self control.”

You hum softly, fingers sliding into his hair. “Prove it.”

His eyes darken at that, something sharp and intent settling there. For a second he just looks at you, like he’s deciding how far he’s willing to go.

“Prove it?” he repeats quietly.

You nod once, barely, your fingers still threaded in his hair. “You’re the one who dragged me into a room, Robs. I’m just trying to understand the sudden personality shift.”

A slow breath leaves him, controlled but strained. His hand slides from your hip to your lower back, fingers splaying there as he presses you more firmly against him. 

“You think I don’t have it in me,” he murmurs, brushing his mouth along your jaw instead of claiming your lips. “You think I’ve been immune to you walking around in those scrubs all day.”

“I did not say immune,” you counter softly, though your pulse is racing now. “I said you’ve been very disciplined.”

His lips twitch, but there’s no real humor in it. Just heat. “Fuck discipline.”

The words land like a spark on kindling. You blink. Robby: methodical, disciplined Robby, doesn’t swear like that. Not unless he’s already halfway to losing it. And the way he’s looking at you, like you’re the last drink of water in a desert… yeah. He’s gone.

You tilt your head, playing at innocence even as your body reacts, nipples tightening under your shirt, heat pooling between your thighs. “You’ve turned me down plenty of times when I’ve suggested the on-call room. Since when do you break your own rules?”

“Since you,” he growls, his breath hot against your ear. “Since you walked out of the bedroom this morning in those fucking scrubs that hug your ass like a second skin. Since you bent over to grab your bag and I nearly came in my pants like a goddamn teenager.” His other hand tangles in your hair, tilting your head back just enough to force your gaze to his. “Baby, I’ve spent months telling myself no. Not here. Not at work. But you’re a fucking drug, and today… Well today I’m done pretending I can resist.”

A laugh bubbles up in your throat, breathless and disbelieving. “So this is my fault?”

“Damn right it is.” His mouth crashes onto yours before you can retort, his kiss all teeth and tongue, desperate and filthy. You moan into it, your hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging in through the thin fabric of his scrubs. He tastes like black coffee and something darker, something feral, and when his tongue sweeps against yours, you melt into him, your body already aching, already his.

His hands are everywhere; gripping your waist, sliding down to cup your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp. Then they’re at your jeans, fumbling with the button, the zipper, his fingers rough with urgency. You break the kiss just long enough to suck in a breath, but before you can tease him again, he’s shoving your jeans down your thighs, taking your panties with them in one sharp tug. The cool air of the abandoned wing hits your bare skin, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of Robby’s gaze as he drops to his knees in front of you.

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands sliding up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing the sensitive skin just beneath your ass. “Look at you. Already wet for me.” His fingers glide through your folds, parting you, and you whimper, your hips jerking forward involuntarily. “My girl… always so ready for me.”

You should protest. You should tell him to slow down, to at least let you catch your breath. But the words die in your throat when he leans in, his breath ghosting over your soaked lips before his tongue drags up your slit, slow and deliberate. Your knees nearly buckle. “Robby! fuck…”

“Shh.” His voice is a dark chuckle against your skin. “You’re gonna have to be quiet, baby. Wouldn’t want anyone hearing how badly you need my cock, would we?”

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper, but it does nothing to stifle the moan that tears out of you when his mouth seals over your clit, sucking hard. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him there, grinding against his face like the desperate slut he always seems to turn you into. He groans, the vibration making your toes curl, and then his fingers are inside you, two of them, curling up to hit that spot that makes your vision white out.

“You’re dripping,” he murmurs against your thigh, pumping his fingers in and out, his beard scraping deliciously against your inner thighs. “Have you been thinking about this all day, baby? About my cock stretching this tight little pussy open?” Another sharp thrust of his fingers, and you cry out, your free hand slapping over your mouth to muffle the sound.

“Yes, yes,” You’re babbling, your hips rolling in time with his fingers, chasing the orgasm that’s coiling tight in your belly. “Please, Robby, I need…”

“I know what you need, honey.” He stands abruptly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes dark with lust. Before you can process the loss of his touch, he’s lifting you, his hands under your ass, and pinning you against the wall. The cold press of the tiles against your bare back does nothing to cool the fire burning through you. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him closer.

His mouth is on yours again, his kiss bruising, his tongue claiming you like he owns you. And right now, he does. You can feel the hard ridge of his cock through his scrubs, pressing against your bare pussy, the friction maddening. You rock against him, needing more, needing everything.

“Patience,” he murmurs against your lips, but his voice is strained, his control fraying. His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up, and then he’s tugging your bra down, freeing your breasts. The cool air hits your nipples, making them pebble even harder, but it’s nothing compared to the heat of his mouth when he latches onto one, sucking hard.

“Oh god!” Your head falls back against the wall with a thud, your fingers tangling in his hair again, holding him to you. He switches to the other nipple, lavishing it with the same attention, his teeth grazing the sensitive bud before soothing it with his tongue. You’re a mess of need, your pussy clenching around nothing, your thighs trembling where they’re locked around him.

“Robby, please.” You’re begging now, and you don’t even care. “I need you inside me. Now.”

He groans, the sound vibrating against your skin, and then he’s reaching between you, fumbling with his scrubs, and then his cock is free, thick and heavy in his hand. You barely have time to register the sight of him, veiny, flushed, the tip already glistening with pre-cum, before he’s lining himself up, the broad head pressing against your entrance.

“You sure?” His voice is a rough growl, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in sharp pants. 

You don’t hesitate. “Do it.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

In one sharp thrust, he’s inside you, stretching you open, filling you so completely you see stars. You cry out, the sound muffled against his shoulder as he buries his face in your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender skin just below your ear. “Fuck, always so tight for me.” His voice is a guttural groan, his hips already snapping forward, driving into you with a rhythm that’s anything but gentle.

You cling to him, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him. He’s always been big, but like this; pinned against a wall, his cock hitting depths you didn’t know you had, it’s overwhelming. In the best possible way.

“More,” you gasp, your voice barely a whisper. “Harder, Robby, fuck me.”

He groans, his grip on your hips tightening bruisingly as he pulls back and slams into you again, his balls slapping against your ass with each thrust. The sound of skin on skin fills the abandoned hallway, obscene and perfect, and you can feel your orgasm building, coiling tighter with every punishing stroke.

He starts to rut into you, hard and deep, each thrust deliberate and unforgiving. The wall presses cool against your back while his body pins you in place, the impact of him driving into you knocking the breath from your lungs in broken little pulls. You try to rock against him, to meet him halfway, but his grip is iron at your hips, fingers digging in just enough to keep you exactly where he wants you. You barely move at all. He controls the pace, the angle, the depth, every snap of his hips measured and claiming. He is in charge right now, utterly and completely, and the surrender of it makes heat curl low in your stomach as you let him take what he needs.

“That’s it,” he growls, his lips finding yours again, his kiss just as brutal as his fucking. “Take my cock, baby. Take all of it.” His hips piston against you, his cock dragging against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. You’re so close, so fucking close.

“Robby, I’m gonna…”

“Come for me.” His voice is a command, his teeth sinking into your bottom lip as his thumb finds your clit, circling it with just the right pressure. “Now, fucking now.”

Your orgasm hits you so suddenly, your body locking up as pleasure tears through you, your pussy clenching around his cock so hard you see stars. You cry out, the sound torn from your throat, your nails raking down his back as wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over you. Robby groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own release barreling toward him.

“Fuck, fuck,” His voice is a broken growl, his cock swelling inside you as he buries himself to the hilt, his cum spilling into you in hot, thick pulses. You can feel it, feel him filling you, and the sensation sends another aftershock of pleasure rippling through you, your inner walls milking him for every last drop.

He collapses against you, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Jesus Christ,” he pants, his cock still twitching inside you. 

You laugh breathlessly, your body still humming with the aftermath of your orgasm, your pussy throbbing around him. “Worth it?”

He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes dark and satisfied, a smirk playing at his lips. “Every fucking second.”

He stays there for a second longer, forehead resting against yours, breath still uneven. Then reality starts to settle back in. The hum of the hospital. 

Robby exhales slowly and carefully pulls back, his hands sliding to your hips as he lowers you back down to the floor. The shift is subtle but unmistakable. The urgency drains from his expression, replaced by something softer, more grounded. The familiar man you know so well.

“You okay?” he asks quietly, brushing a strand of hair away from your face.

You nod, still catching your breath. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He studies you for another second like he is double checking, then bends to retrieve your panties from where they ended up. He helps you step into them without a word, steadying you with one hand at your waist. There is nothing rushed about him now. He smooths the fabric up your thighs, adjusts it gently, then reaches for your jeans.

You brace a hand on his shoulder as you step into them, and he guides them up your legs, fingers careful, almost reverent. Once they are buttoned, he tugs your shirt back into place and straightens it like he is resetting the world.

The contrast makes you smile.

He leans in and presses a soft kiss to your lips, nothing heated, just warm and lingering. “Thank you,” he murmurs against your mouth. “For indulging me.”

You laugh softly, cupping his jaw. “Anytime, baby.”

That earns you a faint, embarrassed huff and a shake of his head, but his hand finds yours immediately.

He checks the hallway through the narrow window in the door before opening it, instinctively protective as always. The older wing is still quiet. No footsteps. No voices.

Together, you slip back into the corridor, fingers laced, walking side by side toward the locker room like nothing at all happened. If anyone passes you, they will see two doctors heading out after shift, tired and composed.

Only the small, secret smile tugging at Robby’s mouth gives anything away.

You grab your bags from the lockers, exchange one last knowing look, and head for the exit together.

The apartment might not have been close enough earlier.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader MDNI 18+ wc: 1.9k summary: You’re still asleep when Jack wakes. He doesn’t rush you—just takes his time, guiding you from dreaming into desire the way you’ve already agreed he can. By the time your eyes open, you’re already his. Between sleep and want, you belong to him. c/w: not beta read, consensual somnophilia, piv sex, wake up sex.

You lie sprawled across the bed, the morning sun a pale intruder through the sheer curtains, its feeble light doing little to disturb the deep sleep that has claimed you. The sheets are a tangled mess, clinging to your legs like a second skin, while your oversized shirt rides up, baring a tantalizing sliver of skin at your waist. Your chest rises and falls in a steady, hypnotic rhythm, the only sound in the room the soft hum of the air conditioner, a white noise lullaby. Jack’s prosthetic leg rests against the nightstand, a silent testament to his strength and resilience, while his own breathing is deep and even, his body mirroring your exhaustion from another grueling night shift at the hospital. The chaos of the ED feels a world away, replaced by the quiet sanctuary of your bedroom.

But as the clock ticks relentlessly closer to noon, Jack stirs. His hazel eyes blink open, adjusting to the dim light as he turns his head to look at you. A small, knowing smile plays on his lips, his gaze lingering on your relaxed features. He watches you for a moment, drinking in the way your hair spills across the pillow like a dark cascade, the rise and fall of your chest, the way the sunlight catches the curve of your shoulder, casting a golden glow on your skin.

Slowly, deliberately, Jack reaches out and pulls the blanket down, his fingers brushing against your skin as he tugs the fabric lower, exposing more of your body. His touch is feather-light, almost reverent, as he reveals the tiny sleep shorts and the hem of your shirt. He pauses, his eyes tracing the lines of your body, the way your hips curve, the hint of your thighs where the shorts end. There’s a hunger in his gaze now, a quiet intensity that contrasts sharply with his usual calm demeanor.

With a gentle hand, Jack lifts the bottom of your shirt, pulling it up until your chest is exposed. The cool air hits your skin like a whisper, and almost immediately, your nipples tighten, causing Jack’s breath to hitch slightly as he watches this, his eyes darkening with desire. He leans closer, his gaze fixed on the way your breasts rise and fall with each breath, the way your nipples harden further under his scrutiny, as if they’re responding to his unspoken command.

His own body responds in kind, his cock stirring to life as he takes in the sight of you. He shifts slightly, adjusting himself under the sheets, his hand moving down to rest on the bulge that’s forming in his boxers. His fingers brush against the fabric, his touch light but purposeful, as he begins to stroke himself slowly, his eyes never leaving your body. It’s a primal, unspoken dialogue between you both, a silent acknowledgment of the desire building in the room.

Jack’s movements are deliberate, calculated, as if he’s savoring the moment, drawing out the anticipation. He reaches down and hooks his fingers into the waistband of your sleep shorts, pulling them down your legs with a slow, steady motion. The fabric slides over your skin like a lover’s caress, leaving you exposed from the waist down. He spreads your legs slightly, his gaze dropping to the spot where your thighs meet, his breath catching at the sight of your pussy, soft and inviting, a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

He pauses, his hand hovering just above your skin, making sure you’re still asleep. Your breathing remains steady, your body relaxed, oblivious to his actions. Satisfied, Jack’s hand moves down, his fingers brushing against your folds, testing your wetness. You’re already slick, your body responding even in your sleep, and he smirks, a silent acknowledgment of the effect he has on you. It’s a power he wields with care, a secret he cherishes.

His cock is fully hard now, throbbing in his hand as he strokes himself, his eyes fixed on your pussy. He leans down, positioning himself between your legs, his breath ghosting over your skin as he teases you with the head of his cock. He rubs it against your lips, spreading your wetness, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he’s savoring the anticipation, drawing out the moment until it’s almost unbearable.

You remain still, your body oblivious to his actions, and Jack takes his chance. He presses forward, the head of his cock sliding between your folds, pushing gently into you. He groans softly as he feels your body welcome him, your warmth enveloping him even as you sleep. He moves slowly, careful not to wake you, his hips rocking gently as he pushes deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried inside you.

“Fuck,” he whispers, his voice rough with need, as he bottoms out, his cock fully seated within you. He holds himself there for a moment, savoring the tightness of your body, the way you grip him even in your sleep, as if your pussy has a mind of its own. Then, he begins to move, his thrusts slow and controlled, his hips rolling as he fucks you gently, his eyes never leaving your face. It’s an intimate, almost tender invasion, a silent conversation between your bodies.

Jack reaches up, his hand brushing against your breast, his fingers circling your nipple. He pinches it lightly, rolling it between his fingers, his touch sending a jolt of pleasure through your body. You shift slightly in your sleep, a soft moan escaping your lips, but you don’t wake. Jack smirks, his thrusts becoming slightly more insistent as he continues to play with your nipple, his other hand gripping your hip to steady you. He’s fully in control now, his movements deliberate, his body moving in a steady rhythm as he fucks you, his cock sliding in and out of your wet heat. His breath quickens, his chest rising and falling with each thrust, his eyes fixed on your face, watching for any sign that you might wake. But you remain asleep, your body responding to his touch, your pussy clenching around him as he moves, milking his cock with each stroke. 

Then, he thrusts harder, his hips snapping forward with more force, his cock driving deep into you. You moan again, louder this time, your eyes fluttering open as you become aware of the sensation. Your gaze focuses, and you realize Jack is balls deep inside you, his body moving in a steady rhythm as he fucks you. Your eyes widen, a mix of surprise and arousal flashing across your face as you take in the situation. You’re still half-asleep, your mind foggy, but your body is already responding, your pussy clenching around his cock as you become fully aware of what’s happening.

“Morning,” he murmurs, his voice husky with desire, a smirk playing on his lips as he watches you come awake. His thrusts don’t falter, his cock continuing to slide in and out of your wetness, filling you up with each stroke.

Your eyes widen further, a flush creeping up your chest as you realize what’s happening. “Jack…” you breathe, your voice soft but laced with need, your hands reaching up to grip his shoulders. Your fingers dig into his skin, anchoring yourself to him as the fog of sleep lifts, replaced by a sharp, urgent arousal.

He smirks, his thrusts becoming harder, more urgent now that you’re awake. “You’re so fucking wet,” he growls, his voice low and rough, his hips snapping forward as he fucks you with purpose. His cock slides deep inside you, hitting that spot that makes you gasp, your walls clenching around him like a vice. “Like this in your sleep. Always ready for me, aren’t you, baby girl?”

You moan, your head falling back into the pillow as you arch your back, meeting his thrusts with your own. “Fuck, Jack… yes…” Your voice is a breathless whisper, your body on fire, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure. Your pussy is dripping, your juices coating his cock as he moves, the sound of your bodies meeting filling the room with a raw, primal rhythm.

Jack’s hands grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin as he holds you steady, his cock pounding into you with relentless force. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath hot against your skin as he whispers, “You’re so tight… so fucking perfect.” His words send a shiver down your spine, his cock driving deeper with each thrust, filling you up completely.

Your body is on fire, every nerve ending screaming with pleasure as he fucks you. Your pussy is dripping, your juices coating his cock as he moves, the sound of your bodies meeting filling the room with a wet, slick rhythm. You’re moaning, your voice loud and uninhibited, your hands gripping his shoulders as you ride out the pleasure, your body moving in perfect sync with his.

Jack’s thrusts become faster, more desperate, his body driven by the need to find release. He’s close, his cock throbbing inside you, and he can tell you’re not far behind. “Cum for me,” he commands, his voice a rough growl, his hips snapping forward as he fucks you hard. “Cum on my cock, baby. Let me feel you squeeze me.”

You’re teetering on the edge, your body trembling with anticipation, and his words push you over. Your pussy clenches around him, your walls tightening as you cry out, your orgasm crashing over you like a wave. “Jack… fuck… yes…” Your voice is a desperate plea, your body shaking as you cum, your juices flooding around his cock, coating him in your wetness.

He feels you cum, your body shaking around him, and it sends him over the edge. His cock twitches, his balls tightening as he groans, his release spilling into you, his cum filling you up. “Fuck… so good…” His voice is a hoarse whisper, his body still trembling as he rides out his orgasm, his cock pulsing inside you, emptying himself into your waiting pussy.

He holds himself there, his body still trembling, as he rides out his orgasm, his cock pulsing inside you. You’re both breathless, your bodies slick with sweat, your hearts pounding in your chests. Jack collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms, his hand stroking your hair as you catch your breath. The room is heavy with the scent of sex, your bodies still buzzing with the aftermath of pleasure.

“Morning sex,” he murmurs, a satisfied smile on his lips, “is definitely the best way to start the day.” His voice is warm, his breath ghosting over your skin as he holds you close.

You laugh, a soft, breathless sound, as you snuggle into his side, your body still buzzing with pleasure. “Definitely,” you agree, your voice laced with contentment. “Though next time, maybe wake me up first?”

Jack chuckles, his hand moving down to squeeze your ass playfully. “Where’s the fun in that?” His voice is teasing, his fingers lingering on your skin, a silent promise of more to come.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader wc: 3.8k MDNI 18+ summary: after a long shift, you just wanted one quiet drink with your friends. instead, jack abbot walks in and ruins everything. two years of glares, snide comments, and unresolved tension finally snap in a neon-soaked parking lot confrontation that’s equal parts fury and fire. you say you hate him. he says you’re lying. and somewhere between the insults and the sparks, it becomes very clear that indifference was never the problem. c/w: dark-ish jack abbot, dub con, hair pulling, spanking, fingering, piv sex, dirty talk, slight degradation, rough sex, hate sex. a/n: this is pure filth and I make no apologies cross-posted to ao3

The bar is packed, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and fried food, the hum of conversation and laughter pressing in from all sides. You’re squeezed into a corner booth with Robby, Dana, Trinity, and the rest of the usual crew. Donnie is cracking some obnoxious joke, Frank is already three drinks deep and laughing too loud, and Perlah and Princess are shoulder to shoulder, trading quick Tagalog back and forth like their own private channel. Jesse and Mateo are deep in debate too, but for once it has nothing to do with sports, their heads bent close over some completely unrelated argument with the same life-or-death intensity. Dana, ever the peacemaker, keeps trying to steer the conversation away from full chaos. Neon signs buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly green glow, and the jukebox is blaring some classic rock anthem that makes the floor vibrate under your boots.

You take a long pull from your whiskey sour, the sharp bite of the alcohol cutting through the noise, and lean back against the worn vinyl of the booth. The dress you threw on after your shift, a snug, black sundress with thin straps and a hem that rides just high enough to be tempting, clings to your skin, the fabric damp in places from the summer heat and the press of bodies. You’re exhausted, the kind of bone-deep tired that comes from a twelve-hour shift where every patient felt like a crisis, but the alcohol is doing its job, loosening the knots in your shoulders, dulling the edge of your frustration.

And then there he is.

Jack Abbot stands in the doorway for a second, scanning the room with those sharp hazel eyes of his, like he’s assessing a fucking trauma bay instead of a dive bar. His salt-and-pepper hair is slightly tousled, like he’s been running his hands through it all day, and his jaw is shadowed with that perpetual light stubble that somehow makes him look more like a grizzled war hero than a doctor. He’s wearing dark jeans and a fitted black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders, the fabric stretching just enough over his chest to hint at the lean muscle underneath. His right leg, his prosthetic, is hidden under the denim, but you know it’s there. You’ve seen the way he moves, the barely perceptible hitch in his gait when he’s tired, the way he sometimes braces a hand against a wall or a counter when he thinks no one’s looking.

Fuck, you hate that you notice these things.

Robby’s face lights up. “Jack! Over here, brother!”

No. Fuck no.

You down the rest of your drink in one go, the whiskey burning your throat, and slide out of the booth before Robby can even turn back to you. “I’m out,” you announce, grabbing your denim jacket from the back of the chair. “Early shift tomorrow.”

Dana pouts. “Aw, come on, you just got here!”

“Yeah, and now I’m leaving,” you say, shrugging into your jacket. Trinity snorts, taking a sip of her beer, but doesn’t try to stop you. She knows the deal, she’s been your friend long enough to know exactly how much you can’t stand Jack Abbot. 

Robby’s already half out of the booth, his brow furrowed. “What? Why? Jack’s here now.”

“Exactly.” You cut him off, tossing a twenty onto the table. “Tell Frank he owes me for that last round.”

Jack reaches the table just as you’re slipping your phone into your jacket pocket. His presence is like a physical force, the air around him charged with that quiet, controlled energy he carries everywhere. He smells like leather and something woodsy, like cedar or pine, and it’s infuriating how good it is, how it makes your traitorous pulse kick up just a little.

“Leaving so soon, Doc?” His voice is low, rough around the edges, the kind of voice that belongs in a dark room with the door locked. He leans one hand against the back of the booth, the movement casual, but his eyes are sharp, assessing. “Didn’t even say hello.”

You meet his gaze head-on, refusing to flinch. “Didn’t see a reason to.”

Robby groans, rubbing his temples like you’re giving him a headache. “Jesus Christ, you two. Can we not do this tonight? We’re supposed to be having fun.”

Jack’s mouth quirks, just barely, like he finds this whole thing amusing. “I’m fun.”

You bark out a laugh, harsh and humorless. “Yeah, if your definition of fun is a root canal.”

His eyes darken, something flickering in their depths, annoyance, maybe, or challenge. “You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? Since you’re so experienced with things going deep.”

The innuendo hangs in the air, thick and deliberate, and for a second, you’re too stunned to react. The table goes quiet. Dana chokes on her drink. Trinity lets out a low whistle.

Your face heats, but you shove down the embarrassment, replacing it with cold fury. “Fuck you, Abbot.”

Jack’s smirk deepens, like he’s won some kind of point. “Promises, promises.”

You’re done. Without another word, you turn on your heel and storm toward the exit, the soles of your boots thudding against the sticky floor. You can feel Jack’s gaze on your back, burning like a brand, but you don’t look back. The night air hits you like a slap as you push through the door, the noise of the bar cutting off abruptly behind you. The parking lot is bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights, the asphalt still radiating heat from the day, and you take a deep breath, trying to steady yourself.

You don’t make it two steps before the door swings open again.

Jack follows you out, making almost no noise as he moves with that easy, predatory grace of his. “You’re really gonna walk away just because I showed up?”

You spin around, your hands clenching into fists at your sides. “Yes. Because I don’t like you, Jack. I don’t want to be around you. I don’t want to breathe the same air as you.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, the movement pulling his t-shirt tight across his shoulders. “That’s a lot of energy to spend on someone you claim not to give a shit about.”

“Oh, I don’t give a shit about you,” you snap. “I just don’t want to deal with your bullshit. You’re insufferable. Arrogant. A know-it-all who thinks he’s God’s gift to medicine, and apparently to women, too, if that little comment in there was anything to go by.”

Jack’s expression doesn’t change, but something shifts in his stance, like a predator sensing weakness. “You’re the one who started it, sweetheart. Or did you forget the way you’ve been glaring at me every time I walk into a room for the past two years?”

“I glare at you because you deserve it,” you fire back. “You waltz in like you own the place, act like you’re better than everyone else, and then you…”

“And then I what?” He takes a step closer, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “Say it.”

You swallow hard, your pulse hammering in your throat. “You ignore me. Like I’m not even there. Like I don’t matter.”

For a second, something flickers across his face, something almost like guilt, but it’s gone before you can be sure. “You think I ignore you?”His voice drops, rough and low. “Trust me, I notice you.”

The way he says it sends a shiver down your spine, something dark and electric coiling low in your gut. You hate it. You hate that your body reacts to him at all. “Yeah, well, I’d rather you didn’t.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s losing patience. “You’re being a brat.”

“Excuse me?”

“A brat,” he repeats, unfolding his arms and taking another step forward, crowding you. “You’re throwing a tantrum because I showed up. Because I exist. And now you’re standing out here, all pissed off, like the world’s ending because you had to share a booth with me for five minutes.”

Your breath comes faster, your chest rising and falling with the force of it. “I am not throwing a tantrum.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” His voice is a growl now, his eyes dark with something that looks suspiciously like lust. “You’re acting like a spoiled little girl who didn’t get her way.”

Something inside you snaps. “Fuck. You.”

Before you can blink, his hand shoots out, gripping your wrist hard enough to bruise. “If you’re gonna act like a brat,” he says, his voice a dark promise, “I’ll treat you like one.”

“Let me fucking go before I knee you in your good leg.”

For a second, something flashes in his eyes, something dark, almost hungry. Then it’s gone, replaced by that maddening calm. “Or what? You’ll tattle to Robby?” He steps closer, crowding you. “You’ll cry?”

“I don’t cry,” you hiss.

“No?” His voice is a rough murmur now, his breath warm against your cheek. “Could’ve fooled me. The way you storm out every time I walk into a room, you’d think I broke your heart.”

You scoff. “Please. You couldn’t break my heart if you tried.”

“Yeah?” His hand lifts, his knuckles brushing your jaw before you can jerk away. “Then what’s the problem, baby?”

Your breath hitches. Hate him. You hate him. But the way he says baby, slow and deliberate, like he’s tasting the word, sends a traitorous heat pooling low in your stomach. “The problem is you’re an insufferable, self-righteous asshole,” you snap. “And I’d rather spend my night doing literally anything else than dealing with you.”

His lips twitch. “Liar.”

Before you can retort, his hand darts out again, but this time, he doesn’t just grab your arm, he hauls you forward, his fingers tangling in your hair as he yanks you off-balance. You gasp, your hands flying up to his chest, but he’s already turning, dragging you with him toward the parking lot. “Jack! Fuck, let go of me!”

He doesn’t let go. Instead, he shoves you up against the side of the truck, his body pressing into yours, caging you in. The metal is cold against your back, the heat of him searing through the thin fabric of your dress. You can feel the hard ridge of his cock against your hip, thick and unmistakable, and your traitorous body reacts, a pulse of heat flooding between your thighs.

“You don’t get to walk away from me,” he growls, his mouth so close to your ear that his breath sends a shiver down your neck. “Not when you’re the one who started this.”

“I didn’t start anything!” you snarl, shoving at his chest. It’s like pushing against a brick wall.

His eyes darken. “You’ve been a little shit since the second you started at the Pitt. Every shift. Every fucking meeting. You think I don’t notice the way you roll your eyes when I speak? The way you ‘accidentally’ take the cases I call dibs on?” His voice drops, his mouth so close to your ear you feel his lips brush the shell. “You wanna act like a brat, I’ll treat you like one.”

A shiver runs down your spine, but you clamp down on it. “Fuck you.”

His hand tightens in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to force you to meet his gaze. “That’s the idea.”

Before you can process what he means, he’s moving, wrenching open the truck door and all but throwing you into the back seat. You land tangled and breathless, your dress riding up your thighs as you scramble to right yourself. “Are you serious?”

The door slams. The locks click.

Jack climbs in after you, controlled and deliberate, filling the space like he owns it. The truck smells like him, leather, motor oil, that damn cologne, and the cabin is suddenly too small, the air too thick. You shove at his shoulder as he turns in the seat, but he catches your wrist, twisting it behind your back before you can blink. Pain flares, sharp and bright, and you hiss, “Get your hands off me!”

“Make me,” he challenges, his voice a dark purr.

You lunge for the door handle, but he’s faster, his arm banding around your waist as he hauls you across his lap. You land with a grunt, your stomach pressed against his thighs, your ass in the air. The position is humiliating, infuriating, and before you can buck him off, his palm comes down on your upturned ass hard.

The crack of his hand against your flesh echoes in the cab. Pain blooms, hot and stinging, and you scream, more from shock than anything. “You bastard!”

“Quiet,” he orders, his voice a low growl.

Another smack. Your dress rides up further, the hem bunching around your hips, and you kick, your heels digging into the seat. “Jack! Fuck!”

“You had your chance to be civil,” he says, his hand coming down again, this time on the other cheek. The sound is obscene, sharp, and you hate the way your breath hitches. “You chose this instead.”

“This?” you spit, twisting to glare at him over your shoulder. “You’re spanking me, you psycho!”

His hand lands again, right over the first strike, and you yowl, your fingers clawing at the leather seat. “I hate you!”

“I know,” he murmurs, and then his fingers are hooking into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down to your knees.

The cool air hits your bare ass, and you freeze. “Jack…”

“Shut up.”

His palm comes down again, this time on naked skin, and the burn is worse, sharper. You whimper, your hips jerking, but his arm is a steel band around your waist, holding you in place. “You’ve been asking for this for months,” he growls, his hand cracking down again. “Every eye roll. Every snide comment. Every time you’ve tried to undermine me in front of the staff.” Smack. “You want to be treated like a child?” Smack. “Fine.” Smack. “Act like one.”

Tears prick your eyes, but you refuse to let them fall. “Fuck. You.”

His hand stills, his fingers spreading over the heated skin of your ass. You can feel the imprint of his palm, the way your flesh throbs under his touch. Then his fingers slide lower, tracing the crease of your thighs, and you freeze.

“What’s the matter, baby?” His voice is a dark tease, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “Cat got your tongue?”

You try to buck him off again, but his grip tightens, his fingers digging into your hip. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” His other hand slides between your legs, his knuckles brushing the damp heat of your pussy. You gasp, your thighs snapping together, but he just chuckles, low and rough. “Do this?”

His fingers spread you.

Two thick digits drag through your folds, and the sound that tears from your throat is embarrassing, a broken, needy whine. You’re soaked. Not just from the spanking, not just from the humiliation, but from the way he’s touching you, like he owns you. His fingers circle your clit, slow and deliberate, and your hips jerk, a traitorous roll into his touch.

“Fucking liar,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re dripping.”

“I hate you,” you gasp, but your voice is thin, breathless, and he knows it.

“Yeah?” His fingers press harder, rubbing tight circles over your clit, and your nails dig into the leather seat. “Hate this?”

You bite your lip to stifle a moan, but it escapes anyway, high and desperate. His chuckle is dark, triumphant, and then his fingers are gone, leaving you aching, empty. You whimper, your hips lifting, but his hand slams down on your ass again, hard, and you scream.

“Didn’t say you could come,” he growls.

“You!” You don’t even know what you’re trying to say. Your brain is short-circuiting, your body a live wire, every nerve ending screaming for more. His hand comes down again, and you sob, the sound raw and broken.

Then his fingers are back, two of them this time, shoving inside you without warning.

You arch, a choked cry tearing from your throat as he fucks you with his fingers, rough and deep. His thumb presses against your clit, rubbing in tight, punishing circles, and your vision blurs for a second. “N-no…”

“Yes,” he snarls, his fingers curling inside you, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl. “You’re gonna take it, and you’re gonna like it.”

“I hate you,” you gasp, but your body betrays you, your hips rocking back against his hand, your pussy clenching around his fingers.

“Liar,” he repeats, his voice a dark purr. His fingers scissor, stretching you, and you whine, your nails raking over the leather. “You love this. Love how much it pisses you off that you’re soaking for me. You say you hate me, but you love my fingers in your cunt, don’t you?” His thumb flicks your clit, hard, and you jolt, a broken sound tearing from your throat. “You love how I make you scream.”

You do. You fucking do. And it enrages you.

His thumb presses harder, his fingers pounding into you, and you can hear it, the wet, obscene sounds of your body taking him, the squelch of your arousal, the slap of skin on skin. It’s filthy. It’s degrading. And you’re two seconds from coming all over his hand.

“P-please.” you beg, but you don’t even know what you’re asking for.

His fingers still. “Please what?”

You whimper, your hips trying to chase his touch, but he holds you still, his grip bruising. “I—I—”

“Use your words, doctor,” he orders, his voice a dark tease.

You hate him. You hate this. But your body is on fire, your pussy aching, and you need…

“Fuck me,” you snarl, the words torn from you.

His chuckle is a dark, victorious sound. Then his fingers are gone, and you whine at the loss, but before you can protest, he’s shoving you forward on the seat, pulling you up to your hands and knees. The leather is cool against your overheated skin, the scent of him everywhere. You hear the clink of his belt, the zip of his jeans, and then his cock is there, thick and hot, pressing against your thigh.

You twist, trying to see, but his hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back. “Eyes forward,” he orders.

Then he grips your hips, and slams into you.

You scream. It’s not gentle. It’s not nice. He fucks you like he’s punishing you, his cock pounding into your pussy with deep, brutal strokes. The truck rocks with every thrust, the springs groaning, the leather creaking under your grip. You can feel every inch of him, stretching you, filling you, his balls slapping against your clit with every snap of his hips.

“Fuck! Jack!” His name tears from your throat, a broken, needy sound, and he growls, his grip on your hair tightening.

“Say it again,” he demands, his voice a rough snarl.

You hate him. You hate this. But your body is his, your pleasure his, and you sob, the words spilling out before you can stop them. “Jack!”

His free hand slams down on your ass, the sound cracking through the cab, and you scream, your pussy clenching around his cock. “That’s right,” he grunts, his thrusts getting harder, deeper. “Take it. Take my cock like the good little brat you are.”

You hate him. You hate this. But your orgasm is right there, coiling tight in your belly, your thighs shaking, your breath coming in ragged gasps. His cock slams into you, his balls slapping against your clit, and you shatter.

Your cry is raw, broken, your pussy flooding around his cock as you shatter, your orgasm ripping through you with brutal force. You can feel the way your juices drench him, the way your body milks him, your inner walls clenching around his shaft as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you. Jack groans, his thrusts turning erratic, his grip on your hair bordering on painful as he fucks you through it, drawing out every last shuddering wave.

His grip on your hips tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulls you back onto his cock, his thrusts never slowing, never letting up. “Fuck, such a good girl. Gonna give me another one, baby?”

You whimper, your body oversensitive, your clit throbbing, but he doesn’t care. His cock pistons into you, his balls slapping against you with every deep, punishing stroke. The truck is filled with the sounds of sex; wet, obscene sounds as he fucks you, the slap of skin on skin, your ragged moans, his dark groans. You can feel another orgasm building, your body betraying you again, your pussy clenching around him, milking him, begging for more.

“Jack.” His name is a plea, a prayer, a curse, and he growls, his hand coming down on your ass again, the sting sending you spiraling.

“That’s it, baby,” he grunts, his voice rough with satisfaction. “Come for me again. Come on my cock like the good girl you are.”

Your second orgasm hits you like a freight train, your back arching, your cry filling the cab as your pussy floods around him, your juices dripping down your thighs, soaking the leather beneath you. Jack groans, his cock swelling inside you, his thrusts turning shallow, erratic, as he chases his own release.

“Fuck! Fuck!” His cock swells inside you, and then he’s coming, his release pulsing deep as he fills you. You can feel it, the heat of him, the thickness, the way it spills out of you when he finally pulls back, his cock dragging against your oversensitive walls.

You collapse against the seat, your breath coming in ragged gasps, your body throbbing. He pulls out slowly, his cock glistening with your arousal, with him, and you whimper at the loss. Then his hand is on your ass again, his fingers spreading you, and you feel it, the way his cum drips out of you, thick and warm, running down your thighs.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice a dark purr.

You hate him.

You hate this.

But when he finally lets you go, when you slide off his lap and onto the seat, your legs shaking, your pussy aching, you don’t move to fix your dress. You don’t wipe away the evidence of what just happened.

And when he moves to the front seat and starts the truck, the engine roaring to life, you don’t tell him to stop.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader MDNI 18+ summary: A brutal night shift leaves Jack Abbot strung tight, and finding you alone in the supply closet is all it takes for his control to snap. Exhausted, desperate, and needing you more than he’ll ever admit out loud, he pulls you into a stolen moment before dawn.  wc: 1.8k c/w: not beta read, supply closet shenanigans, quickie, dirty talk, fingering, piv sex, breeding kink, jack abbot is a dirty man.

It was just shy of five in the morning, that strange, fragile hour when the emergency department finally exhaled but never truly slept. You were in the supply closet, restocking the trauma rooms before shift change, balancing inventory sheets on the cart while reaching for a stubborn box wedged between the shelf and the wall. You knocked over two smaller boxes in the process, muttering under your breath as one slid to the floor. Instead of asking for help, you climbed halfway onto the cart, bracing a knee against the metal frame as you stretched for the box, determined to win a battle that absolutely did not matter.

You were just fingertips away when you heard the soft click of the door closing behind you.

The sound shouldn’t have made your pulse jump. It did anyway.

Before you can even straighten, heat engulfs you. Jack’s body pressing flush against your back, his chest broad and solid, his cock already a thick ridge against your ass. His hands land on your hips, thumbs hooking under the waistband of your scrubs, yanking you back against him with enough force to make you gasp. His breath is hot against your ear, his voice rough with exhaustion and something far darker, something that curls low in your gut and aches.

"Are these new scrubs?" His question is a growl, low and deliberate, like he’s asking if you’re wearing someone else’s skin. His fingers flex, digging into the soft flesh above your hips, his grip possessive enough to bruise. You swallow hard, your pulse jumping under his touch.

"What? No." Your voice comes out steadier than you feel, your fingers scrambling for purchase on the shelf in front of you. "They’re old. Why?"

His chuckle is a dark vibration against your spine, his stubble scraping the sensitive skin below your ear as his lips brush there. "Because they’re tight." His hands slide lower, palms molding to the curve of your ass, squeezing hard enough to make you arch into him. "I’ve been walking around half-hard all night watching your ass in them. Every time you bent over to grab something, I had to adjust myself like a fucking teenager."

A shiver runs down your spine, but you grind back against him anyway, feeling the thick length of his cock twitch against you. "Poor thing," you murmur, rolling your hips in a slow, deliberate circle. "You still have two hours until we go home. Think you can last that long, Doctor?"

Jack’s grip tightens, his fingers biting into your flesh hard enough to leave marks. "Oh, sweetheart," he rumbles, the word dripping with dark promise, his lips pressing to the pulse point beneath your jaw. "I don’t plan on waiting that long."

The words barely register before his hands are moving, yanking at the drawstring of your scrubs with impatient efficiency. The fabric loosens, then slacks, pooling around your thighs as he drags your scrubs and panties down in one rough, deliberate motion. Cool air hits your bare ass, your pussy already slick with anticipation, the first hint of your arousal glistening on your thighs. You don’t have time to protest, not that you would. His free hand slides between your legs, fingers parting your folds with a groan.

"Fuck," he mutters, his voice rough with need. "You’re dripping, baby. Been thinking about this all shift, haven’t you? About my cock inside you, stretching this tight little cunt?"

You bite your lip as his fingers glide through your wetness, collecting it, spreading it up to circle your clit in slow, maddening strokes. "Maybe," you gasp, your hips jerking forward into his touch. "Or maybe I just like the way you beg."

Jack laughs, a dark, throaty sound, before his hand disappears. The loss of his touch makes you whimper, but then you hear the unmistakable sound of a zipper, the rustle of fabric. His cock springs free, thick and heavy, the head already flushed dark with blood, pre-cum glistening at the tip. He doesn’t waste time; one hand grips your hip, the other guides himself between your legs, the blunt tip dragging through your slick folds.

"Goddamn," he hisses, his breath hitching as he coats himself in you, his cock gliding easily through the mess you’ve made. "Look at you. So fucking wet for me. You’ve been aching for this, haven’t you?"

You can’t deny it. Your body betrays you, your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled. "Then stop teasing and fuck me already," you snap, but there’s no real bite to it, just need, raw and aching.

Jack doesn’t need to be told twice. He lines himself up, the broad head of his cock pressing against your entrance, stretching you just enough to make you gasp. "Like this?" he murmurs, pushing in just an inch, then pulling back, teasing you with the promise of more. "You want me to fuck you right here, where anyone could walk in? Where some poor intern could open this door and see you taking my cock like a good little slut?"

"Yes," you breathe, your nails scraping against the shelf as you push back against him, trying to take more. "Fuck, Jack, please…"

He groans, his control snapping. In one sharp thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, his cock filling you so completely it steals your breath. "Jesus fuck!" His voice is a guttural growl, his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to bruise. "You take me so fucking well. Like you were made for this. Made for me."

You moan, the sound swallowed by the sterile quiet of the closet, your body adjusting to the stretch, the burn, the fullness of him. He’s big. Thick enough that you feel every ridge, every pulse of his cock deep inside you. He pulls back slowly, then slams home again.

"Harder," you demand, your voice breaking on the word. "Fuck me harder, Jack. I want to feel it tomorrow."

He doesn’t hesitate. His next thrust is brutal, his hips snapping against your ass with a wet slap, the sound echoing off the metal shelves. "Like that?" he pants, his breath ragged against your neck. "You want me to ruin this tight little cunt, baby? Fuck you so good you’re still leaking my cum when you’re back out there playing doctor?"

"Yes!" The word turns into a cry as he hits that perfect spot inside you, his cock dragging over your G-spot with every punishing stroke. "Oh god, yes, Jack."

His free hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat. His lips crash against the side of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point as his hips piston into you, his cock swelling with every thrust. "You’re mine in here," he growls, his voice rough with possession. "Mine to fuck, mine to fill. You’re going to take every inch, aren’t you? Even when it hurts. Even when you’re sore tomorrow and every step reminds you who owns this pussy."

"Yours," you gasp, your body tightening around him, your orgasm coiling low in your belly. "Fuck, I’m… I’m gonna come."

"Not yet," he orders, his hand sliding down to press two fingers against your clit, rubbing in tight, relentless circles. "You come when I say you come, understand? Not before. Not unless I tell you to."

You whimper, your thighs trembling, your pussy fluttering around his cock. "Jack, please." Your voice is a broken whisper, your body trembling with the effort of holding back.

"Beg for it," he demands, his voice a dark purr. "Tell me how bad you need it. Tell me you’ve been dripping all night thinking about my cock inside you."

"I need it," you sob, your voice breaking. "I’ve been soaking these scrubs for hours, imagining you bending me over and fucking me just like this. Please, please let me come, I need to come."

His fingers press harder, his cock driving into you with punishing precision. "Then come for me, baby," he snarls. "Come on my cock like a good girl. Let me feel that tight cunt milking me."

The words tip you over the edge. Your orgasm crashes over you, your pussy clamping down around him as wave after wave of pleasure ripples through you. You cry out, the sound muffled against your arm as you bite down to keep from being too loud. Jack doesn’t stop; he fucks you through it, his cock swelling even more as your walls milk him, your juices dripping down your thighs, slick and obscene.

"That’s it," he groans, his voice strained. "Fuck, you’re perfect, so tight, so wet."

His rhythm falters, his thrusts turning erratic as his own release builds. You can feel it, the way his cock jerks inside you, the way his breath hitches, his body coiling tight. "I’m gonna fill you up," he warns, his voice a rough growl. "Gonna breed this tight cunt, baby. You want that? Want me to knock you up right here in the supply closet?"

"Yes," you whimper, still trembling from your own climax. "Give it to me, Jack. Please, I want it. I want all of it."

With a guttural groan, he buries himself deep and comes, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside you. You feel every hot jet, the way it fills you, the way it leaks out around him as he keeps thrusting shallowly, milking out the last of his release. His breath is ragged against your skin, his body trembling with the force of it, his cum dripping down your thighs in thick rivulets.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sounds are your combined breathing, the distant beep of a monitor somewhere down the hall, the slow drip of his cum leaking from your used pussy. Jack presses a kiss to your shoulder, his lips lingering, his cock still twitching inside you.

"Fuck," he murmurs, his voice thick with satisfaction. "We’re doing that again before the shift ends. And next time, I’m taking that ass."

You laugh breathlessly, your body still humming with aftershocks. "You’re insatiable."

"And you love it," he counters, his cock twitching inside you as if to emphasize his point. His hand slides down, fingers gathering some of the cum dripping from you before pressing it back inside, pushing his release deeper. "Mine," he murmurs, his voice a dark promise. "All night, baby. Every time you move, you’re gonna feel me right here. Every time you bend over, you’re gonna remember who fills you up."

You shiver, your body clenching around his fingers. "You’re going to get me fired."

"Worth it," he says, his lips curling against your skin as he finally steps back, tucking himself away with a satisfied groan. His cum is already cooling on your thighs, sticky and obscene, a reminder of what just happened. "Now pull your pants up, Doctor. We’ve got a trauma bay to restock."

You glare at him over your shoulder, but there’s no real heat in it. Your scrubs are a mess, your panties still tangled around one ankle, and you can feel him between your legs with every step, thick, warm, his. As you bend to pick up the fallen supplies, your body still thrumming with the ghost of his touch, you know one thing for certain:

Michael Robinavitch x F!Reader wc:5,6k summary:After a brutal shift in the ICU, all you want is to escape the chaos of the hospital and breathe for a minute. your roommate Robby is there waiting, like always. In the silence of the apartment, the line between "roommates" and "something more" completely vanishes, leaving you both in a moment that changes everything.  mndi-18+ warnings/content: roommates to lovers, smut, oral-both receiving, no use of y/n, fingering, doggy style, praise, unprotected piv, language. a/n: I'm sick af right now and off work for the next week so expect a few stories during that time. :) also this might be the smuttiest thing I've written so far. cross-posted to ao3

The front door slams shut behind you with a force that rattles the coat hooks, your scrub top damp with sweat and the lingering stench of antiseptic clinging to your skin like a second layer. The shift from hell is finally over, but the adrenaline crash hits you like a freight train the second you step foot into the apartment. Your shoulders sag, your spine curls forward, and for a second, you just stand there in the entryway, breathing in the comforting scent of home. Fucking Whitmore. Fucking EMR. Fucking… The ICU.

Twelve hours under fluorescent lights that never dim, monitors screaming in arrhythmic chorus, vents hissing like mechanical lungs doing the breathing for people who can’t. Pressors titrated to the microgram. Blood gasses every two hours. Family members hovering at the glass doors with wide, terrified eyes while you try to explain what “guarded prognosis” actually means. PTMC’s ICU doesn’t slow down, it just rotates disasters. Today there had been three rapid responses back-to-back, one code that dragged on too long and Whitmore second-guessing every call you made while the EMR froze mid-chart and pharmacy kept “reviewing” your stat orders. “Rough one, huh?” Robby’s voice drifts in from the living room, low and knowing. You lift your gaze to see him sprawled on the couch, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee, a half-empty glass of whiskey cradled in his hand. The ice cubes clink softly as he tilts the glass toward you in a silent offering. His beard is slightly tousled, like he’s been running his fingers through it, something he does when he’s deep in thought or, more likely tonight, deep in the aftermath of his own brutal shift in the ED.

You kick off your sneakers with a grunt, the sound of them thudding against the wall oddly satisfying. “Rough doesn’t even begin to cover it,” you mutter, peeling off your jacket and letting it drop to the floor with your bag. “Attending ghosted us, EMR shit the bed mid-code, and Whitmore…” your teeth grind together. “That smug, condescending fuck, stood there picking apart every decision I made, like I was a goddamned intern.” You drag a hand through your hair, the ponytail long since collapsed into a messy knot at the nape of your neck. “I swear to God, if he calls me ‘sweetheart’ one more time, I’m going to…” “Punch him in the throat?” Robby supplied, his lips quirking. He sets the whiskey down on the coffee table and unfolds himself from the couch with the same effortless grace of a man who’s spent decades moving through hospital halls. “Can’t say I’d blame you.” His socks muffle his steps as he crosses the room, but you don't miss the way his shoulders fill out the shirt he’s wearing. He stops in front of you, close enough that you catch the warm, spiced scent of his cologne, something woody and familiar, like cedar and old books.

You exhale sharply, the last of your professional armor cracking. “I just…” your voice wavers and you hate it. “I hate feeling like I’m drowning. Like, no matter how fast I move, it’s just not enough.” The words spill out before you can stop them, raw and ugly, and you press the heels of your hands against your eyes. Goddamnit. You don’t do this. You don’t unravel.

Robby doesn’t say anything. He just reaches out and takes your wrists, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His thumbs brush over your pulse points at your inner wrists, slow and deliberate, like he’s checking for a rhythm. “You’re allowed to be human, you know,” he murmurs. “Even doctors have bad days.” His voice is rougher that usual, like he’s been shouting over the din of the ED for hours, and the realization that he probably has, that he’s just as exhausted as you are, makes your throat tighten.

Before you can protest, he’s guiding you toward the couch. “Sit. Talk. Or don’t talk. Your call.” You sink into the couch with a groan, letting your head fall back against the arm rest. “I don’t even know where to start.” The words come out muffled, but Robby doesn’t push. He just reaches for your feet, (your feet which are probably disgusting after a double shift) and pulls them into his lap. You jerk in surprise, but his hands are already there, his fingers pressing into the arch of your left foot with a precision that makes you gasp. “Jesus!” The word turns into a moan as his thumb digs into a knot of tension you didn’t even know you had. Your toes curl reflexively, and you grab at the cushion to keep from squirming. “Warn a girl before you, oh fuck, do that.”

Robby chuckles, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You’re wound tighter than a tourniquet,” he observes, working his way toward your heel. His touch is firm, almost clinical in its thoroughness, but there’s something intimate about it too… The way his calloused fingers trace the bones of your foot, the way his breath hitches just slightly when you moan again. “You’ve been on your feet too long. No wonder you’re ready to murder Whitmore.”

You laugh despite yourself, the sound breathless. “God that feels…” Another moan slips out as he switches to your other foot, his thumb pressing into the ball of your foot hard enough to border on pain. “Unfair. That’s what it feels like. Jesus, Robby, your hands are magic.” You let your eyes flutter shut, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to ease. “You’re gonna make me forget how much I hate my job.” 

“Good.” His voice is rough, and when you crack your eyes open, you catch the way his gaze flicks up from your feet to your face, dark and heated. His pupils are blown, the whiskey and the low lighting turning his irises nearly black. “You deserve a break.” You should probably look away. You should probably move. But you don’t. Instead, you let your legs relax further into his lap, your toes brushing against the inside of his thigh. His muscles tense beneath the contact, and you feel the shift in him instantly, the way his breath catches, the way his fingers stutter against your instep. His cock is already half-hard, the thick outline of it pressed against his sweatpants, and the realization sends a jolt of heat straight between your legs. 

Oh.

You shouldn’t. You really shouldn’t. But the day has been a dumpster fire, and Robby’s hands on you feel too good, and the way his cock twitches under the accidental brush of your foot is intoxicating. So you do it again. A slow, deliberate drag of your toes up the inside of his thigh, watching his face the whole time. 

Robby’s jaw clenches. “Careful,” he warns, but his voice is thick, his free hand gripping the couch cushion like it’s the only thing keeping him from pouncing. “That’s not my foot you’re playing with.” A shiver runs down your spine. “No?” You arch your foot, pressing the sole against the growing bulge in his pants. Even through the fabric, he’s hot, the heat of him searing your skin. “Feels like you’re enjoying it.”

His breath hisses out between his teeth. “You have no idea how much.” His fingers dig into your calf, not quite painful, but possessive. Commanding. “But if you keep that up, I’m gonna assume you want something more than a foot rub.” The challenge hands between you, thick and electric. You should stop. You should pull away, laugh it off, pretend this isn’t happening. But the way his cock pulses under your foot, the way his chest rises and falls like he’s fighting for control, it’s addictive. So you press harder, rolling your arch against him in slow, teasing circles. “And if I do?” you murmur, your voice dropping to a huskier register. “Want more, I mean.” Robby’s eyes darken. “Then you better be ready for what happens next.” His hand slides up your calf, his grip tightening just enough to make your pulse spike. “Because I’m not the kind of man who gets teased and doesn’t retaliate.” A thrill shoots through you, sharp and bright. You drag your foot up again, this time letting your toes graze the thick ridge of his cockhead through the fabric. He groans, low and rough, his hips jerking upward involuntarily. “Fuck, Doc…” His voice is a growl, his free hand fisting the couch cushion. “You’re playing with fire.” “Maybe I like the burn,” you breathe, doing it again. And again. Each stroke earns you another groan, another twitch of his hips, another flash of raw hunger in his eyes. His cock is fully hard now, straining against his sweatpants, the tip already damp with precum. You can smell him, the musky, male scent of his arousal mixing with the cedar and whiskey, and it makes your mouth water. Robby’s hand snakes higher, his fingers digging into the back of your knee. “Last warning,” he grits out, his voice as rough as gravel. “Keep that up, and I’m gonna pin you to this couch and fuck your mouth with this cock until you’re choking on it.” The filthy promise sends a fresh wave of heat pooling between your thighs. Your pussy clenches, empty and aching, and you want—God, you want—but you’re not ready to give him the satisfaction yet. Not when he’s so deliciously unraveled, his control hanging by a thread. So, you smirk, slow and deliberate, and press your foot flat against his cock, rubbing in a firm, teasing stroke. “Or what?” you taunt, your voice dripping with false innocence. “You’ll make me?” 

His answer is a growl, deep and primal, and then his hand is around your ankle, yanking your leg straight. You gasp as he twists, pressing your foot harder against his cock, grinding against your sole with a slow, deliberate roll of his hips. “You little tease,” he snarls, but there’s no real anger behind it, just a raw, needy hunger. “You’ve been begging for this, haven’t you? Begging for me to show you what happens when you push me too far.” Your breath hitches. “Maybe I have.” His grip tightens, his thumb pressing into the sensitive skin just above your ankle bone. “Then take your fucking scrubs off,” he orders, his voice a dark velvet command. “And show me that pretty cunt. Let me see how wet you got from playing with my cock.” The demand sends a fresh wave or arousal through you, your clit throbbing in time with your pulse. You should tell him no. You should stop. But the way he’s looking at you, like he’s two seconds away from ripping your clothes off with his teeth, it makes your resistance crumble. So you reach for the hem of your scrub top, your fingers trembling just slightly as you peel it over your head, leaving you in nothing but your sports bra and the thin, damp fabric of your scrub pants. Robby’s gaze rakes over you, hot and possessive. “Good girl,” he murmurs, his voice rough with approval. “Now the rest.” His free hand slides up your other leg, fingers hooking into the waistband of your pants. “Let me see you.”

And god help you, you obey.

You rise from the couch slowly, the tension pulling tight between you. His fingers stay right where they are, dragging slightly as you stand. The air feels colder now against your bare skin, heightening every sensation, every breath. His fingers are still hooked into the waistband of your scrub pants, his knuckles brushing against the bare skin of your hip, sending a jolt straight to your core. You didn’t need to be told twice. With a slow, deliberate drag of your thumbs, you pushed the loose fabric down your thighs, stepping out of them until you stood in nothing but your black sports bra and the damp scrap of lace clinging to you. The cool air of the apartment hit your exposed skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Robby’s gaze raking over you, dark and hungry.

His hand didn’t hesitate. Palm flat against your stomach, he slid it downward, fingers pressing against the soaked fabric of your panties. A rough groan tore from his throat as he cupped you, his middle finger dragging along your slit through the lace. “Fuck, you’re dripping,” he murmured, voice rough like gravel, his breath hot against your hip. The words sent a fresh wave of heat through you, your thighs trembling as he pulled you closer by the waistband, his other hand splaying wide across your lower back. His mouth found your stomach next, lips pressing open-mouthed kisses to the skin just above your navel, tongue darting out to taste the salt of your sweat. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, gripping tight as his teeth grazed you just enough to sting.

You should’ve known he wouldn’t stop there. Robby had never been one for half-measures. His hands slid down, thumbs hooking under the elastic of your panties, and with a sharp tug, he dragged them down your legs, leaving you bare to him. The vulnerability should’ve made you hesitate, but the way his breath hitched as he took you in, spread and wet and aching for him, only made you bolder. He didn’t give you time to over think it. With a strength that belied his easygoing demeanor, he laid back against the couch, pulling you with him until you straddled his face, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his head.

“Michael, I’ll crush you,” you protested, even as your hips instinctively rocked forward, the first brush of his beard against your inner thigh sending a spark through your nerves.

His hands clamped around your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “Shut up and sit on my face,” he growled, and then he was pulling you down, his tongue already swiping broad and wet through your folds before you could even brace yourself. The first lick was a shock, hot, insistent, his mouth sealing over you like he was starving. You cried out, you gripped his thighs turning desperate as his tongue circled your entrance, teasing but never quite pushing inside. He groaned against you, the vibration making your toes curl, your hips jerking helplessly as he lapped at you like a man possessed.

Then his palmed cracked against your ass, the sharp smack echoing through the room. The sting bloomed into heat, radiating outward, and you gasped, your back arching. “Fuck!” “Suck my cock,” he ordered, pulling back just enough to speak, his lips glistening with you. His voice was a dark command, brooking no argument. Not that you had any intention of refusing. You were already reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants, your fingers fumbling in your haste. He lifted his hips just enough for you to drag the fabric down, freeing his cock, thick, flushed, the head already slick with precum. You wrapped your hand around the base, stroking him once, twice, before leaning down to take him into your mouth.

The first taste of him… Fuck. Salty, musky and entirely all him, made your head spin. You swirled your tongue around the crown, lapping up the bead of fluid there before sinking lower, taking as much of him as you could. His groan vibrated against your pussy, his tongue flicking your clit in punishment or praise, you couldn’t tell which. Didn’t care. The dual sensations were overwhelming: the stretch of your jaw around his girth, the relentless pressure of his mouth on your most sensitive flesh. You hollowed your cheeks, bobbing your head as you worked him, your free hand stroking the part of him you couldn’t fit between your lips.

Robby wasn’t content to let you set the pace. His hands gripped your ass, lifting you just enough to drive his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in deep rhythmic strokes. You whimpered around his cock, the sound muffled, your thighs trembling as he worked you open. The wet, obscene sounds of his mouth on you filled the room, mixing with the slick noises of your lips around his shaft. You tried to take him deeper, relaxing your throat, but he was too big, too thick, and you gagged, pulling back with a gasp before diving down again.

His fingers dug into your flesh, his other hand coming down on your ass again—smack—the impact sending a fresh wave of arousal through you. “That’s it,” he growled against your pussy, his breath hot. “Take what you can, baby. Use your hand.” His hips bucked upward, feeding you more of his cock, and you obeyed, wrapping your fingers around the base and stroking him in time with your mouth. The dual sensations had you spiraling, his tongue fucking you, his cock throbbing against your lips, the taste of him on your tongue. You could feel your orgasm building, coiling tight in your belly, but Robby wasn’t letting you chase it. Not yet. He pulled back just enough to speak, his voice a dark rumble. “You’re going to come on my tongue while I fuck your face, aren’t you?” His hips thrust upward, fucking your mouth harder. “Do it. Now.” And just like that, you shattered. Hips rocking against his face as you moaned around his cock, which was pulsing against your tongue. He groaned against you, working you through it as his own orgasm finally hit him. He growled against your pussy as you started to swallow around his cock, letting out soft mewling noises around him. Finally, you collapsed on top of him.

Your body was still trembling, the last wave of your orgasm humming through your veins. Robby’s chest rose and fell beneath you, damp with sweat, his breathing heavy but steady. He let you rest there for a moment, his palm skimming lightly down your spine, grounding you. Then he shifted beneath you, sitting up with a low grunt, muscles flexing as he carefully maneuvered you to the side. His hands were gentle as he eased you off him, laying you down on the couch cushions before rising to his feet.

He stood for a breath, towering above you, chest heaving, eyes raking over your wrecked form. Then, without a word, he leaned down, slid his arms beneath you, and lifted you effortlessly—your bare skin pressing against the warmth of his chest, the rough texture of his beard brushing your temple as he murmured, "Good girl." The words send a fresh shiver down your spine, your muscles still twitching from the force of your release. You can’t even muster the energy to wrap your arms around his neck, you just let your head loll against his shoulder, breathing in the scent of him: whiskey, soap, and the musky undercurrent of sex.

He carries you like you weigh nothing, his stride steady as he moves through the dimly lit apartment toward his bedroom. The cool air kisses your exposed skin, raising goosebumps along your thighs and arms, but the contrast only makes the heat of his body against yours more intoxicating. His bed comes into view, neatly made. The comforter was smooth and undisturbed, corners still tucked tight from that morning before his shift. Robby lowers you onto the mattress with deliberate slowness, his hands cradling your hips, your ass, as if memorizing the weight of you. The moment your back hits the soft fabric, you sink into it, limbs sprawled, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths.

He doesn’t let you recover. His palms glide up your thighs, pushing them apart just enough to settle between them, his knees pressing into the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, the shift in balance making your stomach flutter. His fingers trace idle patterns on the inside of your knees, then higher, skimming the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. "Time to show you what else I can do with these hands," he rumbles, his voice a dark promise. The words send a jolt through you, your pulse kicking up again despite the languid heaviness of your limbs. You watch, mesmerized, as his calloused fingertips drift higher, mapping the curve of your hipbone, the dip of your waist, the flare of your ribs beneath the black sports bra.

His touch is maddeningly light, like he’s testing your reactions, learning the exact spots that make your breath hitch. When his thumb grazes the underside of your breast, you arch into the contact without thinking, a whimper escaping your throat. Robby’s lips quirk, his beard shifting with the movement, but his eyes stay locked on his hands, your skin, as if he’s fascinated by the way you respond. "You’re so fucking responsive," he murmurs, more to himself than to you. His fingers finally slip beneath the hem of your sports bra, pushing the fabric up and over your head, freeing your breasts. The cool air tightens your nipples instantly, but it’s the look on his face that makes them ache: pure, hungry appreciation.

He doesn’t rush. His palms cup you, weighing the softness, his thumbs brushing over your peaked nipples in slow, teasing circles. You gasp, your back arching off the bed, but he pins you down with a firm press of his hand to your sternum. "Stay still," he orders, his voice rough. "Let me look at you." The command sends a thrill through you, your hips shifting restlessly against the sheets. His touch is everywhere and nowhere at once, skimming your collarbone, tracing the line of your jaw, then dipping lower to tease the valley between your breasts. When his fingers finally close around your nipple, rolling it between his fingers, you moan brokenly, your hands fisting the comforter.

"That’s it," he growls, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh, his fingers digging in just shy of pain. "Let me hear you." He twists your nipple, a sharp sting that blooms into pleasure, and you cry out, your legs falling open wider in invitation. Robby’s breath hitches, his cock thickening against his sweatpants again, the outline impossible to miss. But he doesn’t touch himself. Doesn’t even acknowledge it. His focus is you, the way your skin flushes under his hands, the way your lips part on a silent plea, the way your pussy clenches around nothing, aching to be filled.

His hands move lower, mapping the plane of your stomach, the dip of your navel, before his fingers comb through the damp curls between your legs. You’re still sensitive from your orgasm, the flesh there swollen and throbbing, but that doesn’t stop him. He parts your folds with two fingers, his touch feather-light, exploring you like he’s memorizing every ridge, every slick inch. "Fuck, you’re soaked," he groans, his breath hot against your thigh as he leans in. "All for me." His fingers glide through your wetness, spreading it, teasing your entrance but never pushing inside. You whine, your hips lifting, but he pins you down again, his palm flat against your lower belly.

"Patience," he murmurs, his lips brushing the inside of your knee. His fingers finally dip inside you, just the tips, testing your tightness. You gasp, your nails raking down his forearm, but he doesn’t give you more. Just shallow, maddening strokes that have you panting, your thighs trembling. "You take me so well," he praises, his voice a dark caress. "I bet you could take more." His fingers curl, pressing against that spot inside you that makes your vision white out for a second. You cry out, your body bowing off the bed, but he pulls back before you can chase the sensation, leaving you empty and desperate.

"Mikey!" His name is a plea, a demand, but he just chuckles, low and knowing. His fingers slide higher, circling your clit in slow, deliberate strokes. "I love how needy you get," he murmurs, his beard scraping your thigh as he watches his fingers work you. "Like you’d do anything for another orgasm." His touch turns firmer, his fingers moving in tight, relentless circles that have your hips jerking, your breath coming in sharp, broken gasps. You can feel it building again, the pressure coiling tight in your belly, but just as you’re about to tip over the edge, he stops.

You whimper in protest, your body throbbing with denied release, but Robby just smirks. His fingers glisten with your arousal as he brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a filthy, wet sound. "Mmm. Sweet," he hums, his eyes dark with promise. "But we’re not done yet." His hands grip your hips, flipping you onto your stomach with ease. The sudden shift makes you yelp, but before you can process it, his weight is over you, his chest pressing you into the mattress, his cock hard and insistent against your ass.

The weight of Robby’s body presses you deeper into the mattress, his chest a solid warmth against your back, his beard scraping against the nape of your neck as he exhales roughly. He shifts behind you, sitting back just enough to strip the rest of the way, his sweatpants pushed down and kicked off, his shirt peeled over his head and tossed aside, leaving his body bare and radiating heat against your skin. The mattress dips beneath his knees as he settles over you again, skin to skin now, every inch of him flushed and ready.

His cock is a thick, insistent ridge against your ass, trapped between your cheeks, and he rolls his hips just enough to drag it up and down, teasing you with the promise of what’s coming. You whimper, fingers curling into the comforter again, but he doesn’t let up, just a slow deliberate grind, his length sliding through the slickness between your thighs, coating himself in your arousal. 

“Patience,” he murmurs, but his voice is rough, the word more for himself than you. His hands abandon your hips, sliding up your sides to cup your breasts, palms rough as he squeezes, thumbs and forefingers finding your nipples. He rolls them between his fingers at first, gentle, then twists—hard. A sharp gasp tears from your throat, back arching off the bed, but he doesn’t stop. He pinches, pulls, then twists again, and the pain blooms bright before melting into a throbbing, electric heat that arrows straight to your clit. You’re sobbing now, hips jerking uselessly against the mattress, desperate for friction, for more.

“Please,” The word breaks, your voice raw. “Mikey, fuck, I need…”

“I know what you need,” he growls, and his fingers tighten just enough to make you cry out. He does it again, then again, until your nipples are swollen and aching, your breath coming in ragged bursts. “You need my cock, don’t you?” His hips rock forward, the head of his dick dragging through your folds, bumping your clit. You jolt, a broken sound spilling from your lips. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” you choke out, “please, fuck me, Michael.”

He makes a noise low in his throat, half laugh, half groan, and then his hands are gone from your breasts, gripping your hips instead. He hauls you up onto your knees, your ass in the air, spine arched, and you can feel him positioning himself, his cock hot and heavy against your entrance, the tip notching just there. You try to push back, but his grip is iron, holding you still.

“Not yet,” he murmurs, and then he’s sliding his length through your folds again, slow and deliberate, the head catching on your clit with every pass. You’re dripping, so wet it’s obscene, the sound slick and filthy in the quiet room. His breath hitches, his thighs trembling against yours, and you realize he’s just as gone as you are, his control fraying at the edges.

“Michael,” Your voice cracks. “Please, I can’t.”

“You can,” he interrupts, and then—finally—he lines up, the broad head of his cock pressing against your entrance. He doesn’t slam in. He pushes, a slow, relentless stretch that has you gasping, nails digging into the blanket. Your body resists at first, the burn of him breaching you almost too much, but he doesn’t stop. His hands on your hips are bruising, his thumbs digging into the flesh as he sinks deeper, inch by agonizing inch, until his pelvis is flush against your ass, his balls heavy against you.

“Fuck,” he groans, the word torn from him, and his fingers flex against your skin. You can feel him throbbing inside you, thick and impossibly deep, filling you in a way that makes your vision whiten at the edges. “You feel so good,” he growls, and his hands abandon your hips, sliding up to grip your ass instead. He squeezes, kneading the flesh, his thumbs spreading you open so he can watch his cock disappear inside you. “Look at you taking me. Such a good girl.”

You whine, high and needy, and try to rock back, but he holds you still.

“Please,” you beg, “please, move.”

He chuckles, dark and rough, and then he’s pulling out, all the way, until just the tip remains, and you’re empty, aching, desperate, before he slams back in. The force of it drives a scream from your throat, your body jolting forward, but he doesn’t give you time to recover. He does it again. And again. Each thrust is a brutal, perfect punch of pleasure, his cock dragging against every sensitive inch of you, his pelvis slapping against your ass with a wet, obscene sound.

“Michael, fuck!” Your voice is a broken cry, your body trembling, sweat slicking your skin. He’s relentless, his rhythm punishing, his cock swelling inside you with every thrust. One of his hands leaves your ass, snaking around your hip to find your clit, and the first brush of his fingers has you sobbing.

“That’s it,” he grunts, his breath hot against your ear. “Come around my cock, baby. Now.”

His fingers circle your clit, rough and demanding, and the orgasm hits you like a tsunami. Your back bows, a keening wail tearing from your throat as your pussy clamps down around him, your walls fluttering, milking his cock. He groans, his thrusts turning erratic, his fingers working you through it as you shudder and shake, your release dripping down your thighs.

“Oh fuck, good girl,” he praises, voice ragged, and then his hand is back on your ass, gripping hard as he fucks you through the aftershocks, his own release building. You can feel it in the way his cock swells, the way his breath stutters, his thrusts losing their rhythm.

“Gonna fill you up,” he growls, and the words send another spike of pleasure through you, your body clenching around him. “Gonna breed this tight little cunt.”

His words tip you over again, a second orgasm crashing into the first, your vision blacking out at the edges as you scream. His cock pulses inside you, hot and thick, and then he’s coming with a guttural groan, his cum flooding you, filling you so deep you can feel it. His hips stutter, his thrusts shallow now, milking every last drop into you, and when he finally stills, his weight collapses over you, his chest heaving against your back.

For a long moment, there’s nothing but the sound of your ragged breathing, the slick slide of his cock still buried inside you, his cum dripping out around him. His lips press to the back of your neck, his beard scratchy against your skin.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “You’re perfect.”

You let out a soft, unsteady breath, not ready to speak yet. Not ready to move. He doesn’t push. Just wraps an arm around your waist, keeping you close, grounding you in the silence.

After a minute, he carefully pulls out, murmuring a soft apology when you wince. You feel the warm press of his lips against your shoulder before he slips off the bed. There’s the sound of the bathroom faucet running, the shuffle of his bare feet across the floor, and then he’s back, gently nudging your legs apart to clean you up with a warm cloth, his touch so careful it makes your throat tighten.

“Hey,” he says quietly, lying back down beside you, pressing his chest to your back again, “You okay?”

You nod, and when that doesn’t feel like enough, you whisper, “Yeah. I’m good.”

His arms curl around you, and this time when he holds you, it’s not about lust or heat. It’s something else. Something softer. Something terrifyingly permanent.

Neither of you says anything for a long time.

Eventually, your voice breaks the silence. “So… what happens now?”

He exhales through his nose, almost a laugh but not quite. “Not going back to how it was. Can’t.”

You turn just enough to look at him. “You don’t want to?”

His eyes are steady on yours, voice low and sure. “No. Not even a little. Do you?”

You shake your head. “I don’t want to pretend this didn’t happen. I don’t want to be your roommate again like nothing’s changed.”

Robby brushes your hair back, tucks it behind your ear, and kisses your temple. “Good. Then we don’t.”

You bury your face in his chest, breathing him in, familiar, safe, and completely different now. “We’ll figure it out?”

Jack Abbot x F!Reader wc:9.3k summary: After PittFest, you’re not the same Sunny everyone remembers—just the version you can perform long enough to get through a shift. Trading days for nights puts you under Jack Abbot’s sharp eye, and sarcastic tongue, and somehow, the prickly attending who calls you Kid becomes the one constant you didn’t know you needed. But when a brutal trauma cracks your mask wide open, Jack follows you to the only place the noise can’t reach… and refuses to let you face the dark alone.

CW: not beta read, medical inaccuracies, medical trauma, depression, reader has ptsd, reader suffers from depression, reader has a nickname a/n: posted on ao3 first, decided to share here too, happy reading :)

Part one

The ED doesn’t pause for grief.

It never has.

Jack keeps moving because that’s what the job demands. Because there’s another patient on the board, another nurse with a question, another set of numbers that can turn ugly if you look away for too long. He gives orders with the same steady tone he always uses, even when his chest still feels tight from the last hour.

Two young men. Multiple rounds. Too much blood. Not enough time.

He doesn’t let himself think about their faces.

He doesn’t let himself think about how many times he’s done this, how it never gets easier, how it still crawls under the skin if you give it an opening.

He turns back to the track board, tablet in hand, posture locked into control. Shen is beside him, quiet, composed, already charting. Santos is still in motion, hair stuck to the back of her neck, gloves snapping off with a sharp tug.

“Bed turnover,” Jack says. “Get them cleaned and reset.”

Lena answers without looking up. “Already on it.”

The department keeps breathing.

Jack is supposed to breathe with it.

Instead, he feels that faint, persistent itch at the base of his skull.

Not the grief. Not the adrenaline.

Something else.

His gaze sweeps the Hub, automatic. The way it always does. Counting bodies. Finding his people.

Shen. Ellis. Whittaker. Lena.

Santos, leaning against the counter for half a second, catching her breath.

And then, a blank space where there should be movement.

Where there should be a resident with bright eyes and restless hands and a voice that fills silence like it has the right to. The one who keeps the air in the department from going stale. The one who, against Jack’s better judgment, makes the nights feel less like a slow grind into nothing.

Kid.

Sunny.

He tells himself it’s ridiculous, how quickly he’s noticed her absence. How his body reacts before his mind can justify it.

But it’s been like this for weeks now. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… consistent.

He’s started knowing where she is without even looking for her.

A glance at the board, a tilt of his head, and he can usually track her through the department like there’s a thread stretched between them. An invisible pull. A constant awareness.

He hates that. He hates needing anything.

He hates that his shoulders loosen when he hears her voice nearby. That the air in his chest feels easier when she’s in it.

He tells himself it’s practical. She’s competent. She keeps up. She can think under pressure. That’s all.

It’s not all.

He takes one more sweep of the room.

She isn’t there.

His stomach tightens.

He tells himself she’s charting. In a room. In a hallway. Washing blood off her arms. She can disappear for two minutes without the world ending. She isn’t fragile. She isn’t new. She’s almost done with residency.

Still.

His eyes keep sweeping.

The itch turns into something sharper.

He steps closer to the Hub, scanning the hallways branching out from it. South. North. The trauma corridor. Behavioral.

Nothing.

He looks at Lena.

She’s watching him in that way she does when she already knows what he’s about to ask.

“Where is she?” Jack says.

He keeps his voice flat. Neutral. Like it’s just logistics.

Lena doesn’t blink. “She said she was going out for some air.”

The words hit like a punch in the sternum.

Air.

Jack’s grip tightens on his tablet so hard his knuckles pale.

He keeps his face neutral because the nurses’ station is not the place to show fear. Not his fear. Not anybody’s.

“How long?” he asks.

Lena hesitates, and that hesitation tells him everything.

“A couple of minutes,” she says, too careful. “Maybe five.”

Jack nods once, like that’s fine.

Like it doesn’t matter.

Like his pulse didn’t just spike hard enough to make his vision narrow.

He turns without another word and walks, fast but controlled, toward the ambulance bay exit.

He tells himself it’s nothing.

She needed air. She went to stand outside the doors, let the cold hit her face, shake it off. People do that all the time after a bad call.

He and Robby do it.

He and Robby have done it more times than either of them would admit.

He pushes through the doors into the ambulance bay, the chill cutting through the heat of the department. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. The pavement is damp with old rain and old blood. The night air is sharp and unforgiving.

He scans the area.

The wall by the bay doors. The corner near the dumpsters. The spot near the railing where people stand when they need to breathe without being watched.

Empty.

His stomach drops.

He moves farther out, eyes tracking shadows, corners, anywhere a person could disappear for a moment of privacy.

Nothing.

The itch at the base of his skull becomes certainty.

Jack stops.

And he looks up.

The roofline is a dark strip against a darker sky. A shape he knows too well. A place that holds too many memories. Too many conversations. Too many silences.

For a second, his body refuses to move.

Not because he’s frozen.

Because the thought lands with absolute certainty, heavy and cold.

Roof.

His stomach drops so hard it feels like falling.

He should have seen it sooner.

He should have seen it weeks ago, the way her smile started looking like effort instead of instinct. The way Sunny became something she put on, not something she was. The way she laughed a beat too late, or not at all. The way her eyes went distant after certain calls.

He noticed. He did.

He just filed it away like he files everything away. Noticing the signs, he convinced himself that simply being aware was enough, as if observation alone could resolve the situation. He treated the act of keeping his concern contained as a solution, believing that so long as he didn't let it out, it couldn't become a real problem.

Tonight, he should have clocked it the second she walked in.

Her smile came just a fraction too late, and there was a shadow in her eyes. When she replied, "Yes, sir," his perspective shifted for a moment, filling him with self-loathing—because it wasn’t meant to feel like this.

He’s been fighting it. All of it.

There’s a pull between them, undeniable and persistent. Jack is always aware of her presence, a subtle but constant thread tying his attention to wherever she is in the room. He finds his breathing comes easier when she’s within his line of sight, as if simply seeing her steadies something inside him. His attention drifts toward her again and again, unbidden, as though his body has decided she’s important and his mind never had a say in the matter. It’s a physical response, automatic and unintentional, revealing just how much she’s come to mean to him without him ever truly acknowledging it.

He’s been telling himself it’s his responsibility. That’s how he’s justified the constant awareness, the way he tracks her mood and performance, the way his concern for her never quite lets up. He frames it as duty: she’s his resident, he’s the attending. She’s nearly finished with her training, and she’s become one of the best. He tells himself he needs good people around him, and that’s all this is—professionalism, mentorship, the need for competence in a demanding place.

But he knows, deep down, that’s not the whole truth. He tries to convince himself that his attention is only about the job, about the team, about the work. He wants to believe it’s just responsibility.

Except it isn’t. There’s something else—something he can’t quite name, but can’t deny, either. He’s started needing her in a way that has nothing to do with staffing and everything to do with the quiet, terrifying fact that she’s become a fixed point in his nights.

He can’t lose that.

He can’t lose her.

Jack turns and moves before the thought finishes forming.

Back inside. Through the doors. The waiting room blurs at the edges as he cuts across it. He doesn’t slow down for anyone. Doesn’t apologize. Doesn’t explain. He doesn’t have time.

He aims for the elevator first because it’s logical.

He stabs the button.

The seconds stretch.

Too slow.

His chest tightens, breath coming sharper, faster. He can hear his pulse in his ears, loud enough to drown out the hospital.

He pivots hard and heads for the stairwell instead.

The door swings open, and the cold stairwell air hits him. He takes the steps two at a time, hand dragging along the rail for balance, leg protesting with every landing.

He ignores it.

Pain is nothing compared to this.

His mind won’t shut up.

She said she needed air.

Air.

The words echo like a warning.

He thinks of the roof in winter, the wind cutting and cruel, the city lights too far away to matter. He thinks of Robby standing there once with his hands on the railing, face turned into the dark like he was trying to decide something.

Jack thinks of the way he’d spoken to Robby that night.

Controlled. Like control could keep tragedy out.

Don’t.

He thinks of the way Sunny looked after PittFest, bright smile intact, hands steady, voice warm. He remembers believing it. Wanting to believe it.

He should have known better.

People don’t walk out of something like that untouched.

He should have noticed how hard she worked to keep being Sunny. How she never let the cracks show unless she thought no one was looking. How she kept taking more shifts, more patients, more responsibility, like being useful could replace being okay.

And Jack, idiot that he is, let her.

Worse.

Jack watched her.

Tracked her.

Held the thread between them tight enough to tell himself she was fine as long as she stayed in orbit.

And now she isn’t.

His stomach twists again.

He takes the next flight faster, breath burning. His leg screams. He doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. He can’t be too late.

Not her.

Not this.

His hand hits the last landing. The door to the roof is ahead.

His mind flashes through images he doesn’t want.

A body on the other side of the railing.

A scream he doesn’t get to in time.

A name that becomes past tense.

He swallows hard, throat tight.

He thinks, brutally, irrationally, of the way she looked at him when she said yes, sir. Of the brief, dangerous heat that had sparked in him and how he’d shoved it down because the hospital is not a place for weakness.

And because wanting her is a weakness.

Because caring like this is a weakness.

Because he’s already lost too much to afford it.

He takes the last steps like a man running out of time.

He hits the door and shoves it open.

The roof air slams into him, cold and thin.

And for one violent second, the only thing he sees is the railing.

The drop.

The space beyond it.

Then he sees her.

Not on the usual side.

Not near the spot he and Robby use.

On the right, half-hidden by the angle of the wall, leaning against the railing with her arms wrapped around herself. Shoulders shaking. Quiet sobs pulled tight like she’s trying not to make noise.

Alive.

Here.

Still here.

Relief hits him so hard it’s almost anger.

His throat tightens. His eyes burn.

Jack says her name before he means to.

“Sunny.”

His voice comes out rough.

She flinches and looks up, eyes red-rimmed, face wet, the mask gone completely.

And he realizes, with a kind of sick clarity, that he has been losing this fight for a long time.

~

The air up here is colder than you expect.

It cuts clean through your scrubs, through the sweat that dried on your skin in the trauma room, through the heat that still clings to your hands even after you washed them twice. The wind tugs at loose strands of your hair, and it should feel like relief.

It doesn’t.

It feels like nothing can get in far enough.

You lean against the railing on the safe side, forehead tilted toward the metal, arms wrapped tight around yourself like you can hold your body together by force. The city is a smear of lights beyond the roofline. Distant. Unconcerned. Alive.

You press your eyes shut.

It hits you all at once, like your brain waited until you were alone to stop pretending.

The image of the bed. The sound of the monitor. Ellis’s voice was calm and final. Time of death.

Your throat constricts, and a sob slips out before you can swallow it back. Then another. Then the dam gives up entirely, and you fold forward, shaking, breath coming in jagged pulls that don’t feel like they belong to you.

You don’t want to be loud.

You don’t want to be seen.

But your body doesn’t care what you want.

You cry anyway.

Hard enough that your ribs ache. Hard enough that your hands go numb where they grip your elbows. Hard enough that it feels like you’re paying for every moment you kept smiling downstairs.

For every time you told someone you were fine.

For every time you acted like PittFest hadn’t carved something out of you and left the edges raw.

Your face is wet. Your nose runs. You hate it. You hate that you can’t stop.

You hate that it’s five in the morning and the hospital is still down there, still moving, still expecting you to be Sunny.

You draw in a breath, and it catches halfway, turning into a broken sound you don’t recognize.

You press your forehead to the rail and try to make your lungs work.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

The roof door slams open behind you.

The sound is violent in the quiet. A sharp bang that makes you jerk, heart leaping into your throat. Your hands tighten instinctively around yourself, shoulders snapping up, and for a second, your body is back in chaos, bracing for the next hit.

You don’t turn right away.

You can’t.

Then you hear it.

Your name.

Not Kid.

Not resident.

Sunny.

It isn’t said like a joke. It isn’t teasing. It isn’t casual.

It’s cracked at the edges, rough with something you’ve never heard in his voice before. Relief. Need. Fear. Something close to pain.

You lift your head on instinct, blinking through tears.

Jack is standing in the doorway like he ran here. Like he didn’t stop to think. His chest rises too fast, his shoulders still tight, his face drawn in a way you’ve never seen on him. His eyes lock on you, and for a second, he looks… wrecked.

Like he’s been holding himself together by force, and he’s one breath away from splitting.

He crosses the distance between you in a handful of strides.

You barely have time to register that he’s moving before he’s there, hands on you, pulling you off the railing and into him with no warning, no hesitation.

His arms lock around you tight.

Too tight to be polite.

Tight like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your cheek presses against his chest, the fabric of his scrub top warm against your face. His body is rigid with tension, muscles wound hard, like he’s still in the stairwell, still running.

You can hear his heart.

It’s pounding, fast and heavy, loud enough that it drowns out the wind.

For a second, you go still, stunned by the contact. By the sheer certainty of it. By the fact that Jack Abbot is holding you like this, like you matter, like he can’t stand the idea of not having you in his arms.

Then your breath shudders.

And you break all over again.

A sob tears out of you, harsh and humiliating, and you clutch at his scrub top like you need something solid to keep you upright. Your fingers twist into the fabric, desperate. You don’t even think about what it means. You don’t think about the line you’re crossing.

You just cling.

Jack’s grip tightens for a fraction of a second, as if he’s bracing himself too.

His chin dips toward the top of your head, breath warm against your hair.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. The word sounds like a curse. Like a prayer. Like both.

You can’t find words.

You can barely breathe.

All you can feel is the solid press of him, the steady weight, the fact that you’re not alone up here even when you wanted to be.

His heartbeat keeps thundering under your ear.

And for the first time in hours, something in you loosens, just a little, because his arms are holding you like he won’t let you go.

Jack doesn’t loosen his hold.

If anything, he draws you in closer, like he’s building a wall around you with his body. Like, he can block the world out by force if he holds on hard enough. His chest rises and falls against your cheek, breath still uneven, heart still hammering like he ran here on pure fear.

You keep crying until your lungs burn.

Until your throat is raw.

Until the tears turn into something slower, heavier, like your body is finally spending the grief it’s been hoarding.

Jack stays.

He doesn’t tell you to calm down. He doesn’t ask you to explain. He doesn’t try to fix it with logic or medicine.

He just holds you.

His hand spreads across your back, firm and steady, a constant pressure that tells your nervous system something your brain hasn’t been able to believe for weeks.

You’re not alone.

The wind cuts across the roof, but his body keeps the worst of it off you. Your face is still damp against his scrubs, your fingers still twisted in the fabric like you’ll fall apart if you let go.

Jack’s chin rests against the top of your head for a beat.

Then his mouth brushes your hair.

Soft.

Barely there.

A kiss that feels more like a promise than a choice.

Another follows, gentle and slow, pressed into your hairline like he can’t help himself. Like he’s grounding you and grounding himself at the same time.

You go still, breath hitching, the contact so intimate it makes your heart stutter.

Jack doesn’t pull away.

His voice drops low, rough with something that doesn’t sound like him.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. The words are quiet, meant for you alone. “I’ve got you.”

Your throat tightens. You try to speak, and nothing comes out except a broken sound that makes your cheeks burn.

Jack’s hand moves up, fingers splaying at the base of your skull, not gripping, just holding you there. Keeping you close.

“You can let it out,” he says. “All of it.”

His mouth touches your hair again, soft and steady. His breath warms your scalp, and the gentleness of it hits harder than anything else tonight.

“I’m right here,” he continues, voice low. Certain. “You’re not doing this alone.”

The words slip past your defenses like they were always meant to.

Your body reacts before your mind can argue. The tight coil in your shoulders loosens. The clenched ache in your chest eases enough to breathe around it.

Your hands unclench from his shirt.

Slowly, hesitantly, your arms slide around his waist.

The movement is small, almost shy, like you’re afraid of what it means.

But once you’re holding him back, even lightly, you feel the difference immediately.

The steadiness.

The strength.

The way his presence holds you up without asking anything of you in return.

Your sobs start to quiet. Not because you’re suddenly okay, but because his arms around you make it possible to stop fighting for air. Your breaths turn less jagged, more even, the tears tapering off into the occasional shudder.

You stay pressed against him, forehead tucked into his chest, listening to his heartbeat as it slows from frantic to heavy and steady.

You’ve never felt anything like this.

Comfort that doesn’t demand you perform.

Safety that doesn’t come with conditions.

A man who doesn’t ask you to be Sunny right now.

Jack’s mouth brushes your hair one more time, lingering a fraction longer.

His hand stays on your back like an anchor.

And in the cold quiet of the roof, with the city far below and the hospital still moving without you, you realize the truth in a way that scares you.

This isn’t just kindness.

This is Jack Abbot choosing you.

And he isn’t letting you go.

The wind keeps moving around you, cold fingers tugging at loose threads and damp hair, but Jack’s hands stay warm at your waist.

You can feel him start to come down from the panic. His heartbeat slows under your cheek, heavy and real. His grip loosens just enough to be a choice instead of a lifeline.

He doesn’t let go.

He shifts back a fraction so he can see your face.

“Look at me,” he says softly, as if it matters.

You do, blinking through the last of the tears. Your eyes feel swollen. Your cheeks are damp. The mask is gone, and you don’t have the energy to rebuild it.

Jack’s gaze holds on you, steady and intent.

For a beat, he doesn’t say anything, like he’s weighing words he’s avoided for weeks.

Then he exhales slowly, and you can see the decision settle into him.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says.

Your stomach flips.

“Do what?” you manage, voice rough.

“Pretend,” Jack answers. His jaw tightens, then relaxes again. “Pretend you’re just another resident. Pretend I don’t notice you. Pretend I don’t—”

He stops, like the rest is too exposed.

You swallow hard. “Jack…”

His eyes flick over your face, taking in the redness, the tremor in your breathing, the way you’re still braced like you’re expecting something to hit.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he says, and the honesty in it is raw enough to sting. “And it…” He shakes his head once, like he’s angry at himself for even reacting. “I’m done fighting it.”

You should be terrified. You should be backing away. You should be thinking about the rules and the consequences and how messy this could get.

Instead, all you feel is relief so sharp it almost hurts.

“I didn’t think you…” You let out a shaky breath. “I didn’t think you could feel that way about me.”

Jack’s mouth tilts, humorless. “Why?”

Because you’re Jack Abbot, you don’t warm up to anyone, you call me Kid like it’s armor, you look at me like I’m a problem you refuse to solve.

You don’t say any of that.

You just whisper, “Because you’re my attending.”

Jack’s gaze drops for a second, then returns to your eyes. “That’s the problem.”

The words are blunt, practical. The Jack part of him is reaching for the one thing he can control.

“We make this complicated,” he says. “We make it risky. For you.”

You blink. “For me?”

“Yes.” The word is flat, final. “You have a career. A future. People love to talk, and this place eats people alive if it gets the chance.”

You can’t help it. The tiniest, watery laugh slips out. “I’m almost done.”

Jack’s brows lift a fraction.

“In a few months,” you say, voice steadier now that you’re holding onto something other than grief, “I’ll be an attending. Not yours. Not anyone’s. So it wouldn’t matter anymore.”

Jack stares at you for a beat.

Then, to your surprise, he lets out a short, rough laugh. Like the sound got knocked out of him by the sheer audacity of your optimism.

“You’re unbelievable,” he murmurs.

“You’re the one who dragged me into nights,” you counter, lips twitching despite yourself.

“I didn’t drag you,” he says.

You lift your chin. “You were absolutely part of the gravitational pull.”

Jack’s mouth tilts, and this time it’s closer to real. “So what, we keep this quiet until you get your wings.”

You nod, seriousness sliding back in. “Out of the hospital.”

“As much as possible,” he agrees immediately.

You snort. “Good luck. Lena already knows something. Santos is probably building a conspiracy board. Whittaker’s going to start flinching every time we make eye contact.”

Jack huffs, almost amused. “Rumors are inevitable.”

“Bets too,” you add.

His gaze sharpens. “Let them talk.”

You blink.

Jack’s hands tighten just slightly on your waist. Protective. Certain. “As long as it stays gossip and not a report,” he says. “As long as nobody upstairs catches wind, we’re fine.”

You swallow, the reality of it settling in. “So we keep it clean.”

“We keep it smart,” Jack corrects.

You nod. “Okay.”

The quiet after that is different. Not empty. Not haunted. Just still.

Jack studies you again, the humor fading into something gentler. Something careful.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and it isn’t a throwaway question. His voice drops low, steady. “Really.”

Your shoulders sag on a long exhale.

The truth is heavy in your chest, pressing at your ribs like it’s been waiting for permission.

“No,” you admit.

The word is small. It feels like a failure and a relief at the same time.

Jack doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away. He stays right there, waiting.

You swallow. “Since PittFest… I’ve been struggling. More than I want to admit.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, not in judgment. In anger at the fact that you’ve been carrying it alone.

“Loud noises,” you continue, voice quiet. “They startle me. Like my body thinks it’s happening again. And tonight…” Your breath catches. You force it out. “Tonight I had a flashback. For a second, I wasn’t in Trauma Two; I was back there. And it just felt too much.”

Jack’s eyes soften, barely, like he understands something he never wanted you to understand.

“I feel like I’m performing,” you confess, the words spilling now that you’ve started. “Like, Sunny is a character I have to play, so nobody worries. Like if I stop smiling, people will realize I’m not holding it together.”

You laugh once, bitter and small. “Which is stupid because people probably already know.”

“It’s not stupid,” Jack says immediately.

You shake your head. “I think I need to go more often. Therapy. I’ve been going, but… I think I need more. I can’t keep pretending this is fine.”

Jack’s breath leaves him slow, like he’s been holding his own too.

“Good,” he says simply. “Do it.”

You blink. “Good?”

“Yes.” Jack’s gaze holds yours, unwavering. “After PittFest, I went more, too.”

The admission lands quietly, but it hits you hard. Because Jack doesn’t volunteer things. Jack doesn’t offer softness unless it’s earned.

“I didn’t know,” you whisper.

“You weren’t supposed to,” he replies. Then, softer, “It helped. Not because it made it disappear. Because it gave it a place to go.”

Your throat tightens, but the tears don’t spill this time. They sit behind your eyes, warm and aching.

Jack leans his forehead toward yours, not quite touching, like he’s giving you the option to pull away.

“You don’t have to be Sunny up here,” he murmurs.

His voice dips lower, rougher, like the words taste unfamiliar.

“Not with me, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches. Your chest aches in an almost sweet way.

You close the last inch yourself, forehead resting lightly against his.

The city keeps shining below.

The hospital keeps breathing without you.

And on the roof, with Jack holding you like something precious and real, you finally let yourself believe the words.

Not alone.

Not anymore.

Your forehead stays pressed to his, the contact so gentle it feels like a secret the wind can’t steal.

Jack’s hands slide up from your waist, slow and careful, until his palms cup your cheeks. His fingers are warm, rougher than you expected, thumbs resting along your cheekbones like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go.

You make a small, embarrassed sound that you immediately regret. “I must look awful.”

Jack’s mouth tilts. A smirk, quick and familiar. “Only a little.”

You pull back half an inch on instinct, eyes widening. “Excuse me?”

His chest gives a quiet shake, the sound of a laugh pulled from him like it didn’t have permission. “Come here,” he murmurs, voice soft, and his thumbs sweep lightly over your skin, catching the last of the wetness there.

“You’re still beautiful like this,” he says, and the words land with an honesty that makes your throat tighten all over again. “You’re… you. Even when you’re not performing.”

You blink hard. “Jack…”

His eyes don’t leave yours. Not for a second.

“I’m lucky,” he adds, quieter. “That you trust me enough to break in front of me.”

Something in your chest gives, not painful, just… open.

Jack’s thumbs brush along your cheeks again, wiping away what’s left. He tilts his head slightly, gaze dropping to your mouth, then back to your eyes like he’s asking without asking.

You don’t answer with words.

You lean in, breath catching, and Jack meets you halfway.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like neither of you wants to startle the moment into disappearing. His mouth is warm, steady, careful. Relief threads through it, a quiet tremor of you’re here, you’re here, you’re here.

Your hands find his shirt, clutching at him the way you did when you were crying, but now it’s different. Now it’s want, now it’s choice.

Jack makes a sound so low you feel it more than hear it, and the kiss deepens without rushing. He angles closer, keeping one hand at your cheek, the other sliding to the back of your neck, thumb pressing there like an anchor.

You move with him, instinctively, as if your bodies already know the shape of this.

The second kiss isn’t tentative at all.

This second kiss is more complete, more confident, a culmination of everything unspoken between you. There’s a fullness to it, filled with all the playful teasing and simmering tension that’s built up over time. The touch is hungry, but the hunger is tempered by something softer, a tenderness that seeps in and settles inside you. It’s as if warmth is slowly spreading through every part of you that had been cold, easing away the distance and uncertainty that once stood between you.

Coming home.

That’s what it feels like, startling and immediate.

Jack’s forehead brushes yours when he breaks for a breath, his hands still framing your face, his mouth hovering close enough that you can feel his next exhale.

He looks at you like he’s memorizing you.

Like he’s decided, completely, that this is real.

And below you, the hospital keeps running. The city keeps shining. The night keeps moving.

But up here, in Jack Abbot’s hands, you finally stop bracing for the fall.

Jack’s mouth stays close even after the kiss breaks, like he doesn’t trust the space between you.

His hands are still on your face, thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks as if he’s checking that you’re real. The wind tugs at your hair, cold and insistent, but you’re warm where he’s holding you.

You kiss again anyway.

It’s shorter this time, but it lands deeper. A quiet, sealing thing. Relief and promise braided together so tightly you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

When you finally pull back, you rest your forehead against his again and let out a long breath.

“We should go back downstairs,” you grumble, because if you don’t say it now, you might never say it.

Jack makes a sound low in his throat that is unmistakably unhappy. Not quite a groan. Not quite a laugh. Pure reluctance.

“That’s the last thing I want to do,” he admits, voice rough.

You huff a small laugh, wiping under your eyes with the back of your hand. “Yeah, well. People will notice if I vanish for an hour and come back looking like I fought the wind and lost.”

Jack’s gaze flicks over your face, softening. “They’ll notice anyway.”

“Then we give them less to notice,” you counter, trying for stern and landing somewhere closer to fond.

Jack’s hands slide down from your cheeks, slow like he doesn’t want to stop touching you, and settle at your waist again. He holds you there for one more beat, anchoring himself.

Then, finally, he nods.

“Okay,” he says, and it sounds like a concession.

You start toward the door together, shoulders nearly brushing. Jack keeps himself half a step behind you, close enough to block the worst of the wind, close enough that you feel him even when he isn’t touching you.

The stairwell is colder than the roof, a hollow concrete quiet that makes your footsteps too loud. You descend side by side, the sound of it echoing in the tight space. Jack’s hand finds the small of your back once, brief and steadying, as if he can’t help checking that you’re still there.

You don’t comment on it.

Neither does he.

When you reach the floor, the hospital noise pours back over you in a wave. Alarms. Voices. The constant hum of machines. The world you left behind is waiting and impatient.

Jack pauses just outside the stairwell door.

His eyes catch yours.

Not long enough to be obvious if someone walked by. Just long enough to say I’m here.

“Go,” he murmurs, all business on the surface again. “I’ve got it.”

You nod, grateful and nervous all at once. “I’ll be quick.”

You split off toward the locker room before you can overthink it.

The locker room is quiet in a way the rest of the hospital never is. A little pocket of stillness that smells like soap and sanitizer and old fabric.

You lean over the sink again and splash your face one more time, letting the cold bite. It stings, but it clears the fog.

When you look up, the mirror shows exactly what you expected.

Red eyes. Blotchy cheeks. Mascara smudged at the corners like you lost a fight you didn’t mean to have.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself, voice hoarse. “We can work with this.”

You dig into your bag and fish out the small emergency makeup kit you keep for the same reason you keep extra pens: the hospital requires you to be prepared for chaos, even the quiet kind.

You swipe a damp paper towel under your eyes, careful. Then a quick touch of concealer. A few strokes of mascara to undo the damage, to make your lashes look like they belong to someone who slept more than three hours in the last week. You smooth your brows. Pinch a little color back into your cheeks because it’s amazing what five seconds of pretending can do.

Then you redo your ponytail.

You pull it down, comb your fingers through it, re-tie it tighter and cleaner, twisting until it feels controlled again. You tuck the loose strands back like you can tuck your feelings back with them.

When you’re done, you stare at yourself.

You look… together. Mostly.

But that isn’t what stops you.

It’s the way your shoulders sit.

Lower.

Looser.

Like someone took a hand off the back of your neck. Like the weight you’ve been carrying hasn’t vanished, but it’s shifted. Spread out. Less concentrated in the spot where it’s been grinding you down.

You inhale.

The breath goes deeper than it has all night.

You don’t know if it’s because you cried. Because you told the truth. Because someone finally saw you and didn’t turn away.

Maybe it’s all of it.

Maybe it’s Jack.

Your stomach flips at the thought, and this time it isn’t dread. It’s something warmer, steadier.

You turn toward your locker, spin the combination, and pull the door open. The inside is familiar clutter. Your coat. A bag of snacks you never eat. A spare set of scrubs. The little things you keep because you’re always one bad shift away from needing them.

Your fingers close around a soft sweater, worn from use. You shrug it on, the fabric warm against your arms, comforting in a way that feels almost indulgent.

Then you shut the locker, exhale once, and step back out.

The corridor outside is bright and loud. The Pitt is waiting the way it always does, hungry and relentless, full of people who need you.

You walk back in anyway.

Two hours until handoff.

And for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like you’re walking back into it alone.

When you step back onto the floor, the Pitt doesn’t change.

But the way you move through it does.

You can feel eyes flick to you, quick and careful. Not accusatory. Not curious in a cruel way. Just… aware. You were gone long enough for it to be noticed, and everyone on nights has the kind of instincts that catch absence the way they catch a change in vitals.

No one says it outright.

They let you come back without making you explain.

You stop at the Hub to update a chart on a new arrival, fingers moving fast over the tablet, reorienting yourself to the board. The familiar rhythm clicks back into place, steadier now that your chest isn’t locked so tight.

Lena drifts by with her tablet tucked under her arm. She glances at you, pauses just long enough to take you in.

Then, casual as anything, she says, “You look better.”

It comes with a warm little smile that looks almost strange on her, like she doesn’t use it often.

Before you can answer, she’s already moving again, voice calling an update to a nurse, returning to the current like she never stopped.

The simple kindness of it hits you harder than it should.

You swallow and keep charting.

A few minutes later, Whittaker appears at your elbow, a cup in hand. He sets it down beside your tablet with the same careful gravity he uses when handing off meds.

“Here,” he says.

You blink at it. “Dennis…”

“Don’t,” he cuts in, deadpan. “Take the coffee. It’s medically indicated.”

You can’t help the soft sound that escapes you, halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “Thank you.”

Santos is behind him, leaning on the counter as if she owns it. Her eyes sweep over your face, then flick briefly toward the stairwell, then back.

She waggles her eyebrows in a way that’s so blatant it should be illegal.

You stare at her for half a second, incredulous.

And then, for the first time all shift, you actually laugh.

It’s small. It’s tired. But it’s real.

Santos grins like she’s won something. Whittaker’s mouth twitches as if he’d rather die than admit he’s amused.

You don’t give them anything. No explanation. No confession. You just sip the coffee and let them have their moment.

The three of you end up working a case together before the hour is out. A patient with a persistent fever and a history that varies depending on who asks. Santos is pushing for one differential. Whittaker is calmly backing it up with labs. You're threading it all into something that makes sense, ordering what you need, asking the questions that make the picture clearer.

It feels good, in a quiet way, to be useful again without feeling hollow.

By the time you’re done and the patient is settled, the clock is creeping toward six.

The edges of the night are starting to soften. Not brighter, exactly. Just… closer to morning.

You take your coffee back to the Hub and settle at one of the computers, swapping from tablet to workstation so you can make sure everything is clean. Dispo notes. Orders. Loose ends tied down. You’ve always done it this way, especially for Robby.

If you leave a mess, he’ll handle it.

But you’ve never been good at letting people handle your mess.

So, you make sure the charts are in order. You make sure the board makes sense. You make sure nothing is dangling that could trip someone up when the day shift walks in.

The Hub is quieter now. Not silent, but calmer. The night shift is running on that last stretch of stubborn momentum.

Jack comes in a few minutes later, stopping at the adjacent workstation as if it’s a coincidence. Like, he isn’t aligning himself with you without even thinking about it.

He doesn’t look at you right away.

He logs in, taps through a chart, checks labs, and updates a note with the same efficient precision he always has.

Then his gaze flicks to your cup.

His expression doesn’t change, but his voice shifts into something dry and almost amused.

“Who got you that?”

You glance at the cup, then at him. “What?”

Jack nods toward it. “Coffee. You rarely buy yourself coffee.”

Your mouth twitches. “I do sometimes.”

Jack’s eyes slide to you, unimpressed. “You don’t.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip. “Whittaker and Santos got it for me.”

“Hm.” Jack’s gaze drops to the label. “What is it?”

You shrug. “White chocolate mocha.”

Jack pauses, like he’s processing an insult.

Then he says, deadpan, “No caramel?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Amateurs,” he mutters, like it’s a diagnosis.

You laugh again, quieter this time, warmth curling in your chest. “I’ll let them know you’re disappointed.”

Jack’s mouth tilts, not quite a smirk, not quite a smile. “You should. The least they could do is get my girls' coffee order right.”

You can feel heat bloom across your cheeks as you turn back to your charting, a quiet smile lingering on your lips. Your fingers move over the keys, updating your last note, but your awareness keeps circling back to Jack’s presence at your side. He’s steady, grounding—close enough that his nearness feels significant, a silent reassurance you can sense without needing to look.

An hour ago, you were falling apart on the roof.

Now you’re here, coffee in hand, work in front of you, the Pitt humming around you as morning creeps closer.

And you keep charting like you always do.

Just… lighter.

The last hour of a night shift is always strange.

It’s not quieter, not really. The Pitt isn’t ever fully quiet. But the edge changes. The air thins. People start moving with that specific kind of fatigue that makes everything feel slightly unreal, like you’re watching yourself work from a few feet away.

You keep charting. You keep checking in on rooms. You keep doing the small, necessary things that make handoff smoother. A last set of vitals here. A medication reconciliation there. One more reassessment on a patient you don’t fully trust yet.

Jack is… around.

Not hovering the way Santos would say it. Not in a way that draws attention if someone isn’t looking for it. Just consistently within your orbit. A few feet away at the track board. Passing behind you in the hall. Appearing at the doorway when you’re finishing with a patient.

Like he’s keeping an eye on the floor.

Like he’s keeping an eye on you.

You try not to think about it too hard. Thinking about it makes your chest warm and your stomach flip, and you don’t have the time or the privacy for either.

So you do what you do best.

You keep moving.

By six-thirty, the board is as clean as the Pitt ever allows. Rooms are labeled. Dispo plans are updated. Loose ends tied down. Whittaker is finishing a note with the expression of a man who has seen too much bodily fluid for one lifetime. Santos is on her third lap around the Hub, restocking things no one asked her to restock because she can’t sit still when she’s tired.

Lena checks the clock, then the board, then the clock again.

"Alright,” she calls, voice carrying. “Let’s be ready. Day shift’s coming in hot.”

The doors open in a familiar wave.

Robby first, coffee in hand, shoulders slightly squared like he’s bracing for whatever the night left him. Dana is right behind him, already talking as she steps in, eyes scanning staffing and rooms. Javadi slips in with her usual alertness, Mohan follows, focused, calm. Collins and McKay filter in with the rest of the day team, along with nurses clustering toward their usual spots.

The Pitt reshapes itself around the transition.

Night shift gathers. The day shift gathers opposite. Tablets come up. Eyes go to the board.

Handoff.

You take your place without thinking, already shifting into that clean, clinical rhythm. You can feel the fatigue in your bones, but your mind stays sharp. It always does at handoff. It’s like your brain knows this is the last thing you have to do right.

Lena starts, voice steady. “Okay. Here’s what we’re walking into.”

Updates start moving around the group. Patients. Rooms. Plans. Pending labs. Consults. Who needs watching. Who needs a push.

Shen gives a concise summary on Behavioral. Ellis updates peds and fast track. Santos rattles off trauma aftermath with that blunt competence that makes it sound easier than it was. Whittaker covers his rooms, voice steady, face tired.

Jack speaks next, voice even as he updates on the cases he managed overnight. He is all control and professionalism, every word placed cleanly, every plan clearly stated.

He doesn’t glance at you once.

He doesn’t have to.

You can feel the proximity like a pulse.

Robby clocks it anyway.

You see it in the way his mouth tightens for a second. In the way his eyes sharpen. In the way his attention stays on Jack a beat longer than it should.

You give your updates too, clear and organized. The new fever workup. The patient in South 18 is now stable and sobering with fluids and monitoring. The chart cleanup. The little things that matter.

And throughout it, Jack stays close.

Not pressed to your side, not overt. Just never far. Close enough that if you turned your head, he’d be there. Close enough that your shoulder almost brushes his when the group shifts.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It does.

You don’t look at Robby until you’re finished speaking, until you’ve handed off your last patient, and there’s nothing left to say.

When you do, his gaze is on you.

Not your tablet.

Not the board.

You.

For a beat, it’s the same look he’s always had for you. Familiar. Protective. Reading the parts you don’t say out loud.

Then his eyes flick, quick and sharp, to Jack.

Robby’s expression doesn’t change much. He’s good at that. But you know him too well not to see the calculation behind it, the question forming without words.

He looks back at you.

You give him a small smile.

And an almost imperceptible shrug.

Not dismissal. Not defiance.

Just: It’s complicated. I’m okay. I’ll tell you later.

Robby holds your gaze for a beat longer, then the corner of his mouth lifts in return.

A quiet acceptance.

A promise to follow up when there’s room to breathe.

Then he turns back to the board, back to the shift, and the handoff keeps moving as if nothing happened.

The handoff continues.

The night officially becomes morning.

And when it finally breaks apart, when day shift disperses into rooms and night shift starts drifting toward lockers and exits, you realize you made it.

You made it through the worst shift you’ve had in a long time.

And you didn’t do it alone.

The locker room smells like soap and fatigue.

Night shift filters in in small waves, everyone moving with that slow, careful efficiency that comes after twelve hours of being needed. Lockers slam softly. Shoes change. Hair comes down. Scrubs get folded and stuffed into bags, like the shift can be contained if you pack it away.

Santos is still talking, voice bright even with exhaustion. Whittaker looks like he might dissolve if someone looks at him too hard. Lena says something to a nurse at the door and gets a tired laugh in return.

You keep your head down and focus on your own routine.

Unlock.

Bag.

Phone.

Your fingers hover over your therapist’s name for half a second.

Then you do it before you can talk yourself out of it.

Hey. Can we move my appointment up? I’d like to come in sooner if you have anything available.

You stare at the message for a beat, heart thumping like you just jumped off something.

Then you hit send.

The relief is immediate and strange. Not joy. Not fixed. Just… a clean, quiet sense that you did one thing right. One small thing that’s yours.

You exhale, shoulders dropping.

You gather your things and close your locker with a click that feels like punctuation. You slide your sweater on, sling your bag over your shoulder, and step out into the corridor.

The Pitt looks different in the morning. Same lights, same noise, but the edges are softer. Day shift has taken over. The current has changed direction.

You walk toward the exit and find yourself looking for Jack without meaning to.

A glance left.

A glance to the right.

The Hub is busy. The track board is surrounded. You don’t see him.

Your stomach gives a small, uneasy twist before you can stop it. An old reflex. The part of you that expects good things to vanish if you don’t keep eyes on them.

It doesn’t last long.

You push through the doors, and the outside air hits you, cool and clean compared to the hospital. Morning light sits pale over the parking lot, the sky washed out like it hasn’t decided what kind of day it’s going to be yet.

And there he is.

Leaning against the wall near the exit like he’s been there the whole time. Like, he didn’t even consider leaving without you. Jacket on, backpack slung over his shoulder, expression calm in that unreadable way that used to frustrate you and now just feels steady.

Your body relaxes so fast it’s almost embarrassing.

Jack’s gaze finds you the second you step out, and something shifts in his face. Subtle. Soft at the edges. Real.

“Hey,” he says.

You manage a tired smile. “Hey.”

He pushes off the wall and closes the distance, not rushed, not dramatic. Just sure. Like he’s done pretending that you’re optional.

His hand finds yours.

Warm. Firm. Fingers threading with yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your breath catches anyway.

Jack glances down once, then back up. “You good?”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Define good.”

His mouth tilts. “You standing?”

“Barely.”

Jack hums like that’s confirmation of something, then turns you both toward the lot, keeping your hand in his like a tether.

You walk a few steps in silence, the hospital doors closing behind you. The noise fades. The air opens up.

You swallow. “I messaged my therapist.”

Jack’s grip tightens a fraction. Not possessive. Not controlling. Just… relieved.

“Good,” he says immediately. “Sooner?”

“Yeah,” you admit. “As soon as she can get me in.”

Jack nods once in approval of the decision and the fact that you made it. Like he’s proud and trying not to show it.

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. “I’m trying to do better.”

“You are,” he says, simple and certain.

The words settle in your chest like something warm.

You take another breath, a little deeper. “I haven’t been taking care of myself.”

Jack doesn’t interrupt. He just keeps walking, steady beside you, the morning air lifting the ends of his hair. His attention is on you in a way that feels almost physical.

You keep going, because he’s making it easy to keep going.

“I’m not sleeping much,” you confess. “Or… sleeping well. And sometimes I forget to eat. Or I just don’t have the energy to cook anything real.”

Jack’s jaw tightens, the muscle working once. You can feel something in him shift, not anger at you, but at the fact that you’ve been doing this alone.

He doesn’t lecture.

He doesn’t ask why.

He just says, “Okay.”

Like he’s filing it away as a problem he intends to solve.

You glance up at him, wary. “Okay?”

Jack looks at you with that steady, uncompromising focus he uses in a trauma bay.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says.

You blink. “Jack—”

“No,” he cuts in, not harsh, just firm. “I’m feeding you. Then we’re going to bed.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts again.

Jack’s gaze stays on you, unyielding.

“And,” he adds, like he knows exactly where your mind is trying to go, “I mean sleep. Just sleep.”

The way he says it makes heat flicker low in your stomach anyway, quick and involuntary.

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t land with any real bite. “Bossy.”

Jack’s mouth tilts. “Get used to it.”

A giggle slips out of you before you can stop it, soft and surprised, like you forgot your body could make that sound after a shift like this.

Jack glances at you, a quick look that feels like he’s cataloging it, tucking it away.

“Good,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

You squeeze his hand, your fingers still threaded with his, and you let yourself lean a little closer as you walk.

“Okay,” you say, smiling despite yourself. “Fine. Feed me and put me to bed.”

Jack exhales a laugh that sounds like relief.

“That’s the plan,” he says. “And sweetheart?”

Jack’s thumb strokes once over your knuckles, slow and grounding.

You look up at him.

His expression softens just a fraction, the hard edges easing like he’s letting himself be seen on purpose. “You’re not doing this alone anymore.”

Something in your chest tightens, then opens.

You don’t get a chance to answer.

Jack stops walking.

He turns you gently, like he’s making sure you’re steady, like he’s putting himself between you and the whole world. His hand slides from yours to your waist, firm and sure, the other lifting to your cheek with the same careful reverence he had on the roof.

Your breath catches.

“Jack—”

He kisses you.

Not tentative this time. Not careful, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong.

It’s the kind of kiss that knocks the air out of you and puts it back in a different order. Full and unhurried, like he’s got all the time in the world, even though the sun is climbing and you’re both still wearing the night shift on your skin.

His mouth is warm and certain, pressure deepening until you make a soft sound you can’t stop. His hand at your waist tightens and pulls you closer, your bodies fitting together like they’ve been heading toward this for weeks.

You grab his jacket without thinking, fist curling in the fabric. Your other hand finds his chest, fingers splaying there as if you need proof he’s real.

Jack kisses you like he’s choosing you.

Like he’s not holding back anymore.

Like he’s been starving, and he finally stopped pretending he wasn’t hungry.

The world falls away around the edges. The parking lot, the pale morning, the distant sound of hospital doors opening and closing behind you. None of it matters.

All that exists is the way his thumb sweeps your cheek, the way his mouth moves with yours, the way you can feel the smile he tries to hide when you kiss him back harder.

When he finally pulls away, it’s only far enough to breathe. His forehead rests against yours, his breath warm, his voice rough.

“Come on,” he murmurs, like it’s an order and a promise. “Let’s get you home.”

You blink up at him, dazed and flushed and suddenly very aware that you’re in a hospital parking lot at seven in the morning.

Your mouth curves anyway. “Okay.”

Jack’s hand finds yours again, fingers threading with the same quiet certainty as before.

And you let him lead you forward, heart full and light, like the shift finally ended in the only way it could.

With you still here.

With him still here.

Jack Abbot x F!Reader wc:8.8k summary: After PittFest, you’re not the same Sunny everyone remembers—just the version you can perform long enough to get through a shift. Trading days for nights puts you under Jack Abbot’s sharp eye, and sarcastic tongue, and somehow, the prickly attending who calls you Kid becomes the one constant you didn’t know you needed. But when a brutal trauma cracks your mask wide open, Jack follows you to the only place the noise can’t reach… and refuses to let you face the dark alone.

CW: not beta read, medical inaccuracies, medical trauma, depression, reader has ptsd, reader suffers from depression, reader has a nickname a/n: posted on ao3 first, decided to share here too, happy reading :) part two

You are good at this.

That’s the first thing people learn about you at Pitt. You move fast, think faster, and carry a kind of brightness that makes twelve-hour shifts feel survivable. You remember names. You bring extra pens. You laugh easily. You’re the resident everyone wants in the room when things go sideways, because you make chaos feel manageable.

They started calling you Sunny not long after you arrived.

It was half a joke at first, then it stuck. You were relentless, upbeat, the human embodiment of reassurance. The kind of person who made even the worst nights feel lighter just by being there. The name followed you through residency, through long shifts and longer weeks, through moments when you were running on fumes and still smiling anyway.

You are almost done with residency. Close enough to taste it. Close enough that attendings stop hovering and start trusting.

For years, you belonged to days.

You belonged to Robby.

He took you apart and put you back together in your first year. Taught you how to breathe in a trauma bay. How to talk to families. How to walk out of a room where someone just died and keep going. Somewhere between mentor and miracle, he became your person. Your anchor, your constant.

If anyone asked him, he’d tell them you were his right hand. His best resident. His closest friend, besides Jack.

Jack Abbot had always been there, just at the edges.

A presence more than a person. Someone you crossed paths with in hallways, in passing consults, in the aftermath of bad nights. He never called you Sunny. Barely used your name at all. Just a clipped, impersonal Kid, delivered without heat or humor. Not unkind. Just distant. A reminder of the years between you, of the line he kept firmly drawn.

You didn’t take it personally. You fired back when he deserved it. Rolled your eyes. Kept moving.

And then PittFest happened.

You’d gone on your day off, telling yourself you deserved something bright and stupid and normal. Music. Food trucks. Sun on your face. A crowd that felt like life.

Then the first shots cracked through it.

You don’t talk about it much. No one really does. It lives in the walls now. In the way that alarms sound sharper. In how every crowd feels like a risk. In the way you sometimes flinch when a gurney hits a doorframe too hard.

You were in it, though. Not watching from a screen. You dropped to your knees on the asphalt, hands already moving, already pressing, already shouting for someone to call 911 like the crowd needed permission. You tore fabric for pressure and counted breaths like numbers could keep somebody tethered here.

And when the ambulance doors opened, you climbed in with one of them. A stranger whose name you never got, bleeding into the torn shirt and your palms. You rode with them to the Pitt, shoulder braced against the sway of the rig, voice steady even when your stomach was trying to climb out of your throat.

Afterwards, you kept showing up, you kept smiling. You continued to be the version of yourself that everyone expected.

But something in you shifted.

Depression has been a low, familiar hum in you for as long as you can remember. After PittFest, it turned up, like someone’s fingers on the dial, not enough to knock you flat but enough that you could not ignore it.

Daylight started to feel wrong. Too bright. Too loud. You found yourself lingering after shifts, watching the hospital quiet, feeling more at ease at three in the morning than at noon. Nights felt honest. No pretense. No performance.

The decision didn’t come all at once. It grew in you slowly over the next few weeks.

Robby was confused when you told him.

Hurt, too, even if he tried not to be.

“You’ve built something here,” he said. “With us. With me.”

You told him you just needed a change.

You didn’t tell him that staying on days felt like suffocating. That every laugh felt rehearsed. That you were tired of pretending the world hadn’t cracked open.

So, you went to nights.

Jack Abbot didn’t greet you with warmth.

He never did.

But now he wasn’t a figure at the edges anymore. Now he was constant. Prickly. Demanding. Distant. Not cruel. Just uninterested. Where Robby guided, Jack assessed. Where Robby softened, Jack sharpened.

You expected resistance.

You got indifference.

He didn’t welcome you. He didn’t test you. He treated you like any other resident who had wandered onto his night shift. Orders were clipped. Corrections were blunt. And when he addressed you at all, it was never Sunny.

Just Kid.

You didn’t take it personally. You fired back when he deserved it. Rolled your eyes. Kept up.

He didn’t stop you.

For the first few weeks, you existed in parallel. You did your job. He did his. Conversations were efficient. Professional.

And then, slowly, something shifted.

It started with a dry remark after a messy intubation.

A raised brow when you challenged a call.

A muttered, “Bold choice,” when you took a risk that paid off.

You fired back.

He didn’t shut it down.

Sarcasm gradually became the way you communicated. What started as sharp jabs between you turned into playful banter, reflecting a subtle shift in your interactions. The space separating you was no longer defined by cold professionalism, but it hadn’t yet blossomed into anything resembling real warmth. Instead, it was something in between—a new understanding growing quietly, signaling that the dynamic between you was changing.

Lena noticed first.

Ellis started smirking every time you and Jack crossed paths.

Shen began lingering, waiting for the next exchange.

You told yourself it was nothing.

For a while, it was easy to believe it was just nights, just friction—simply two colleagues navigating the push and pull of the ER and figuring out how to operate as a team. The banter, the challenges, the moments of sarcasm—they all felt like routine parts of the job, ways to manage the tension and long hours that came with the night shift.

But beneath the surface, something was quietly changing. You hadn’t yet realized it, but Jack Abbot had started to notice you in a different way. His attention lingered, searching for the person behind the professional mask you wore so well. This subtle awareness marked the beginning of a new dynamic—one where Jack was no longer willing to let you fade into the background or keep your defenses up without question.

Without you fully understanding it, Jack was drawing you out, refusing to let you hide behind routine or sarcasm. Every exchange, every shared glance across the chaos of the ER, became a step toward something more honest—an unspoken acknowledgment that your connection was shifting, even if neither of you could quite say how or why.

Nights settle into a rhythm.

Traumas spike and ebb. The halls breathe. The city outside quiets. You learn the language of the dark hours, the way the ER becomes a smaller, stranger world between midnight and dawn.

Jack becomes a constant.

So does the banter.

“You going to stand there thinking,” he asks one night, eyes flicking over your shoulder at a patient crashing in Bay Four, “or are you going to actually order labs, Kid?”

You don’t look at him. “I like to build suspense. Keeps everyone engaged.”

“Someone’s blood pressure is eighty over forty.”

“See? Riveting.”

He exhales through his nose. You swear it’s almost a laugh.

It’s in these small spaces between crises that you start noticing things.

The way he shifts his weight after long stretches on his feet. The tension in his jaw when the ache catches. The way he never mentions it.

Another night, you pass him in the hall with a tablet tucked under your arm. He’s leaning more heavily on the counter than usual, keeping weight off his right side.

“You’re favoring it,” you say, gently, like it’s just another clinical note.

He glances at you. “It’s fine.”

You nod. “Didn’t say it wasn’t.”

You keep walking.

Ten minutes later, when he comes up short near the nurses’ station, there’s already a chair waiting. You don’t point it out. You don’t hover. You set a cup of water beside it and slide a tablet into his hands.

“Charting’s portable,” you say lightly. “Revolutionary concept.”

He watches you for a second longer than necessary.

Then he sits.

You don’t make it a thing.

You never do.

And he doesn’t realize, not yet, that this is when he starts noticing how carefully you see him. Not with pity. Not with curiosity. Just with quiet respect.

It feels the same as the coffee.

A cup appears on the counter at three in the morning. White chocolate and caramel. Exactly how you take it. You assume it’s a mistake and drink it anyway.

A granola bar slides across the desk when you’ve skipped dinner for the second night in a row. No comment. No eye contact.

“You’re going to crash,” he mutters once, when you sway after a code.

“I’m resilient.”

“You’re human.”

It’s said like an accusation.

You don’t realize he’s started tracking your meals. Your hours. The way your shoulders tighten after pediatric calls. The way your smile goes brittle near the end of a shift.

You don’t realize that he positions you away from the worst rooms on nights when the ER feels too much like PittFest.

You don’t realize that he steps in when your voice falters, just once, and lets you recover without spectacle.

You think it’s a coincidence.

The rest of the night shift does not.

Lena raises a brow every time Jack sets something in front of you without a word.

Ellis starts assigning bets on how long it takes before one of you snaps.

Shen lingers in doorways, openly entertained.

“You two bicker like an old married couple,” Lena tells you.

You scoff. “He barely tolerates me.”

From across the nurses’ station, Jack says flatly, “That’s not true.”

You blink.

He doesn’t look up from his chart.

Nights keep moving.

You don’t see it yet.

But Jack Abbot has started orbiting you.

And the dark is watching.

The thing about orbit is that it looks like nothing from the inside.

A cup of coffee here. A remark there. A chair that appears before anyone asks. It’s easy to dismiss as routine, as coincidence, as the strange teamwork that happens when people spend too many hours together under fluorescent lights.

So, you keep showing up.

Tonight is no different.

PTMC greets you with the same hiss of sliding doors, the same smell of disinfectant and stale coffee, the same layered noise of alarms and voices that never fully quiets. You get through security, swipe in, and head straight for the lockers.

You’re a few minutes early.

You’re also… off.

There’s nothing obvious you can blame, nothing you can name or hold up as proof. No single cause, no dramatic moment—just the slow, persistent heaviness of a bad day that refuses to let go, settling over you like a dense layer of humidity. Your skin prickles, stretched uncomfortably tight, while your thoughts jostle for space, too loud and insistent against the quiet. Everything feels slightly off, as if you’re moving in slow motion, a half-step behind your own actions, unable to quite catch up to yourself.

You spin your locker combination with practiced hands, hang your coat, swap shoes, and tie your hair back until it’s neat enough to pass as composed. The mirror inside the locker door catches your face for a second.

Your eyes look tired.

Not the normal kind of tired. Not the end-of-a-long-week tired. Something duller. Heavier.

For a second, you think about your therapist. About the way she would tilt her head and wait you out when you tried to make a joke. About the gentle, infuriating patience. About the question you already know is coming.

How are you really doing?

Your phone sits in your pocket like a weight. You could text. You could ask for an extra session. You could do the responsible thing…

You do not.

Not because you don’t want help.

Because it’s handoff, and you’ve built your life around showing up. Because there is always a reason to push it down for later. Because later feels safer.

You shut the locker door a little harder than necessary and head out.

The hub is crowded, day shift bunched together in that familiar semicircle around Robby. Javadi is perched nearby, pen already in hand. Santos stands with her arms crossed, watchful. Whittaker and Mohan hover near the computers. King leans against the counter, looking like she’s holding herself upright on spite and caffeine.

Dana is mid-update, calm, and efficient as she trades staffing notes with Lena. Lena listens with that sharp, no-nonsense focus that makes it clear she’s already triaging the night in her head.

You slide into place like you have a hundred times.

Robby’s gaze finds you almost immediately. It lingers, a fraction too long, like he’s reading something you didn’t mean to show.

You give him Sunny anyway. The version everyone expects. The one that fits like armor.

The night shift trickles in.

Dr. John Shen arrives first, quiet, scanning the track board like it’s a puzzle he’s already solving. Dr. Parker Ellis follows, composed and unhurried, her presence steady as she takes in the room.

And then Jack.

He doesn’t rush. He never does. He just appears, calm as a locked door, eyes sweeping the group once before settling on the board. For a moment, you feel the weight of his attention, brief and assessing.

Like always.

Robby waits until everyone is in place.

Then he starts.

“Alright,” he says, pen tapping the paper in his hand. “Let’s do this.”

He begins running down the list of patients in the ED. Room by room. Situation by situation. What’s stable, what isn’t, what could turn ugly fast.

You listen. You nod at the right moments. You write quick notes in the margins. You keep your posture open, your smile easy, your voice ready.

Even as something in your chest tightens with every mention of violence, every reminder that the city doesn’t sleep just because the sun goes down.

Robby keeps talking.

Jack keeps his eyes on the board.

And you brace yourself for the night.

Nights settle over the ED the way a blanket settles over a body. Not gentle, exactly. Just inevitable.

Handoff breaks apart into motion. Day shift peels away in loose clusters, voices fading toward the exits. The board updates. Monitors keep chirping. The hospital keeps breathing.

You tuck your tablet under your arm and step into the current.

Trinity Santos falls in beside you like she’s done it a thousand times, even though she hasn’t. She looks more awake than anyone has a right to be at this hour, hair pulled back, eyes sharp, shoulders squared.

“Tell me you’ve got something good for me,” she says, glancing at the track board.

“You want good, or you want manageable?”

She snorts. “Same thing.”

Dennis Whittaker appears on her other side, coffee in hand, expression mild in that way that usually means he’s bracing for impact. There’s something faintly domestic about the two of them now, a familiarity that wasn’t there months ago. Roommates. Shared routines. The kind of closeness forged by necessity and bad takeout.

“Don’t start,” he says, already reading Santos’s face.

“I didn’t say anything,” she replies, innocent as a lie.

“You were about to.”

You can’t help it. The corner of your mouth kicks up, just a little.

Santos points at you. “See? Sunny gets it.”

The name lands softly in the middle of the chaos. Familiar. Easy. Like it belongs.

You swallow around the sudden tightness in your throat and make your voice light. “I get paid to get it.”

Whittaker’s mouth twitches. “She’s not wrong.”

Lena calls out assignments from the charge station, voice carrying over the noise. She rattles off rooms, priorities, who’s taking what, and who’s floating if something goes sideways. Dana’s notes are already being translated into tonight’s reality.

“Shen,” Lena says, pointing with her stylus. “Central seven through eleven, plus the psych hold if it escalates.”

Shen nods once, already moving.

“Ellis,” Lena continues, “you’ve got peds and fast track. Keep an eye on waiting room times.”

Ellis answers with a calm, “Got it,” and heads off, unhurried as ever.

“And you,” Lena says, looking at you. “You’re with Jack tonight. Trauma side.”

A small ripple of something goes through the group. Not dramatic. Just noticed.

Santos lifts her brows like she’s watching a show she likes. Whittaker’s gaze flicks to you, then away, like he’s trying not to look too interested.

You keep your expression neutral. You’ve been with Jack plenty of times now. It’s fine.

It’s normal.

Jack is already moving, tablet in hand, scanning his assignment list with that steady focus that makes it hard to tell what he’s thinking. He doesn’t look up until you’re close enough to fall into step beside him.

His eyes flick over you once. Quick. Assessing.

“Kid,” he says, like it’s a designation instead of a name. “South 22 is yours. Chest pain. Workup started. I want labs, EKG, and a plan before you come find me.”

“Yes, sir,” you say, sweet as sugar.

He pauses, just long enough to make it clear he hears the tone.

Then he keeps walking.

Santos watches him go, then looks back at you, grin sharpening. “He calls you Kid like you’re twelve.”

“He calls me Kid because he’s allergic to basic friendliness,” you reply, already pulling up the chart on your tablet.

Whittaker hums. “He doesn’t call everyone Kid.”

“That’s not comforting, Dennis.”

“It wasn’t meant to be.”

Your tablet lights up with the patient’s info. Another shift. Another list. Another set of lives intersecting with yours for a few hours in the middle of the night.

You take a breath.

Push the mask into place.

And step into South 22.

You cut past The Hub and angle toward the south hall, the noise thinning for a few steps before it swells again. South runs quieter than North, but that’s relative. The monitors still chime. The intercom still crackles. Someone laughs too loudly somewhere behind the doors of the break room, and it sounds wrong in your bones.

Room 22 is half-lit, the curtain pulled back. The patient sits upright on the bed with a gown that doesn’t quite cover his stomach. Mid-fifties, sweaty, anxious. A blood pressure cuff squeezes his arm at intervals like it’s trying to wring the truth out of him.

The nurse at the bedside gives you a quick look. “Mr. Harlan. Chest pain started about an hour ago. Pressure, central, radiates a little into the jaw. Took two nitro at home, no relief. EMS gave aspirin. He’s still at a seven out of ten.”

You nod, stepping into your practiced voice. “Hi, Mr. Harlan. I’m one of the residents working with Dr. Abbot tonight.”

His eyes widen slightly. “Am I having a heart attack?”

“Maybe,” you say, calm and honest, because lying helps no one. “But we’re going to find out quickly. We’re going to take good care of you.”

Sunny. That’s the version you offer. Warm. Steady. Unshakable.

You ask the questions, quick and focused. Past medical history. Medications. Allergies. Family history. Smoking. Pain onset. Associated symptoms. The answers spill out in nervous bursts.

As you talk, you’re already moving. You tap the tablet screen, ordering labs. Troponin. CBC. CMP. Coags. Chest x-ray. You request an EKG if it hasn’t been done yet, and the nurse points at the strip on the counter.

“Already done,” she says. “Here.”

You pick it up and scan it, your brain sliding into the familiar pattern. Rate, rhythm, axis. ST segments. T waves. It’s not a dramatic STEMI. No obvious tombstones. But there are subtle changes, and subtle gets people killed if you ignore it.

“Any shortness of breath?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he admits, eyes darting toward the door like he wants to run.

“Okay.” You keep your tone even. “We’re going to get you on oxygen and keep a close eye on you.”

The nurse starts moving. You update the monitor settings. You keep the patient talking, grounding him, grounding yourself.

When you finish the exam, you step out to the workstation just outside the room and start documenting. Your fingers move fast across the tablet. You keep it clean. Efficient. No extra words.

The board pings. A new arrival. A psych hold is escalating in B2. A triage note that reads like a disaster waiting to happen.

You ignore it for the moment. You have a plan to build.

Footsteps approach. You don’t look up right away because you already know the gait.

Jack stops beside you, close enough that his shadow falls across the screen.

“How’s twenty-two?” he asks.

“Chest pain, pressure type. EKG with nonspecific changes, but I don’t love it. Labs pending. I ordered trops, chest x-ray, and coags. I want serial EKGs. I’m thinking ACS until proven otherwise.”

Jack leans in just enough to glance at the EKG strip on the counter. His face stays unreadable.

“Pain still high?” he asks.

“Seven out of ten. Nitro didn’t touch it.”

He nods once. “Get him morphine. Keep him on the monitor. If trops bump or his pain changes, I want to know immediately.”

“Yes, sir.”

His eyes flick to you then, quick, assessing the way they always do. Not your screen. Not the room.

You.

He lingers for a beat, like he’s deciding something.

Then his gaze drops to your tablet again. “Good work, Kid.”

It’s not warm. It’s not praise, exactly.

But it lands anyway.

He turns and moves back toward The Hub, already getting swallowed by the noise.

Behind you, Santos appears like she’s been conjured.

“Was that Abbot?” she asks, voice low and delighted.

Whittaker hovers behind her, coffee still in hand. “It was Abbot.”

Santos’s grin sharpens. “He just said ‘good work’ to you.”

You keep your eyes on your screen. “He says that to everyone.”

Whittaker makes a sound that suggests he’s never heard Jack say that to anyone in his life.

Santos looks at you like she’s about to start taking bets. “Sunny,” she says, dragging the name out. “What’s happening?”

“Nothing,” you reply, too fast.

Santos’s brows climb. “That’s what people say right before something.”

You glance at her.  “Go do your job.”

“I am doing my job,” she says, backing away. “My job is observing and being right.”

Whittaker shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he follows her, leaving you alone with your tablet, your patient’s labs, and the faint, unsettling feeling that something is shifting under your feet.

The monitor inside Room 22 chirps again.

You take a breath.

And you go back in.

Two hours later, the night had settled into its usual grind.

Room 22 stays steady. Mr. Harlan’s pain drops after meds. His first troponin is negative. The second is pending. His EKG doesn’t worsen, but you don’t like “doesn’t worsen” as a plan. You update Jack once, then again, and each time he gives you a clipped nod that means keep watching.

In between those check-ins, the ED keeps chewing through people.

A vomiting teenager in South 19. A lac that shouldn’t require stitches but will. A confused elderly man who keeps trying to climb out of bed. A psych hold in B2 that spikes, settles, spikes again. Someone in triage swears they’re dying and then asks for a blanket, as if it’s a personal insult that one wasn’t offered first.

It’s constant motion, constant noise, constant need.

Santos and Whittaker move like a unit now, unintentionally synchronized. Coworkers turned roommates turned something else, the kind of closeness forged by shared space and shared exhaustion. Santos is sharp-edged and relentless. Whittaker is steady, the calm to her storm. They argue about who forgot to buy more coffee filters for the apartment and then turn around and tag-team an IV start like they’ve practiced.

Lena runs the board with a kind of quiet authority that makes the whole place feel held together by her spine alone. Dr. Parker Ellis floats through fast track and peds with the same composed precision, never rushed, never rattled. Shen checks in on B2, then on the waiting room, then back again, eyes always scanning, always thinking.

You keep pace.

You keep smiling when people look at you.

You keep the mask snug.

And still, you feel off.

Not sick. Not injured. Just wrong in a way that isn’t visible.

You catch yourself staring at the ambulance bay doors longer than you mean to. Listening too closely for footsteps. Flinching at sharp sounds you can’t control, like your body is waiting for something it refuses to name.

A gurney hits the edge of the doorframe hard in the south hall, metal clanging against metal.

Your shoulders snap up before you can stop them.

You force them down.

In. Out.

You tuck your tablet closer like it’s a shield and return to Room 22.

Mr. Harlan looks at you with watery eyes. “Am I gonna be okay?”

You give him Sunny. Warm and certain. “We’re watching you closely. You’re in the right place.”

He nods like he believes you.

You step out and update the chart. Your fingers move fast, efficient, clinical. You can do this part in your sleep.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket.

A calendar reminder you forgot you set. Therapy. Next week.

For a second, you consider moving it up. Sending the message. Asking.

You stare at the notification until the screen dims.

You don’t do anything.

Because there’s always another task. Another patient. Another reason to push it off.

You’re scrolling through orders when a shadow falls across your tablet.

Jack stops beside you, close enough that his presence changes the air around you.

“How’s twenty-two?” he asks.

“Second trop is still pending,” you say. “Pain is down. No new EKG changes. I’d like to keep him for serials.”

Jack nods once. “Good.”

The word is simple. Flat. Not praise, not comfort.

But it eases something in you anyway.

He turns to move off, then pauses.

His gaze flicks to your face, quick and assessing.

“You eat?” he asks.

It takes you a second to understand the question.

You blink. “What?”

“Food,” he repeats, like you’re being deliberately dense. “You eat?”

It’s not gentle. It’s not caring, not on the surface.

It’s practical. Commanding.

You recover with your usual deflection. “I’m fine.”

Jack’s eyes narrow slightly. “That wasn’t the question.”

The pause that follows is short. Barely a beat.

You could lie. You almost do.

Then you shrug, forcing lightness back into your voice. “I grabbed something earlier.”

It isn’t true. Not really.

Jack studies you for a second longer than necessary.

Then, without comment, he reaches into the pocket of his scrub jacket and sets something on the counter beside your tablet. A granola bar. Still wrapped. Unopened.

He doesn’t look at you as he does it.

He just turns and walks away, already absorbed back into the night.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Like it might bite.

Like it might be proof of something you aren’t ready to admit.

Across the nurses’ station, Santos is watching you with the kind of expression that means she’s filing this away for later.

Whittaker follows her gaze, then looks away fast, like he’s trying to pretend he didn’t see anything.

Lena doesn’t say a word.

But the corner of her mouth twitches.

You pick up the granola bar.

You haven’t opened it yet.

You just hold it, thumb rubbing over the wrapper, and tell yourself it means nothing.

Just nights.

Just friction.

Just a job.

You don’t see it yet.

But the dark is patient.

And it always collects what you try to leave behind.

Midnight creeps in without ceremony.

The clock flips over at the nurses’ station, and nobody cheers. Nobody even comments. It’s just another hour, the hospital claims, another stretch of dark where time doesn’t behave normally.

The Hub is bright with screens. The track board glows like a living thing. Santos and Whittaker are posted there, charting shoulder to shoulder, styluses moving in quick, efficient strokes. They look like they’ve settled into a routine despite the chaos, familiar enough now that neither of them pretends the other isn’t part of their orbit.

You’re halfway through an order set when Jack appears beside you, silent as ever.

He doesn’t say hello.

He never does.

He leans in, his presence quiet but unmistakable, as his eyes move quickly across the lines on your screen. The faint, lingering bitterness of his coffee mingles with the crisp, sterile scent of sanitizer, both clinging to him and marking his nearness in the artificial glow of the Hub.

“Why is this CT ordered?” he asks.

You don’t glance up. “Because I enjoy wasting radiology’s time.”

Jack’s gaze flicks to you. “Try again.”

“Because her pain migrated, her white count is up, and her guarding is worse. I’m ruling out the thing you’ll be annoyed I didn’t rule out.”

A beat.

Then, dry as sand: “Good.”

You make a face. “Was that approval? Did you hit your head?”

Jack shifts his weight, unimpressed. “Don’t get sentimental, Kid.”

From the Hub, Santos’s eyes are on you both like she’s watching a tennis match.

Whittaker doesn’t look up from his charting. “He’s hovering.”

“I’m supervising,” Jack says, still staring at your tablet.

“You are standing here,” you point out. “Voluntarily.”

“Correcting,” Jack adds.

“Sure, you are.”

Jack huffs, the sound escaping him almost like a subdued laugh. Without looking up, he reaches past you to tap at something on your screen, focusing on the task at hand. In the motion, his knuckles graze lightly against the side of your wrist. It's a fleeting contact—so slight it could be dismissed as accidental, nothing more than a byproduct of proximity. Innocent in context, the touch carries no apparent intention, yet its presence lingers between you, understated and easily overlooked.

It still sends a jolt through you, bright and sharp.

Jack doesn’t react. If he notices, it doesn’t show. He keeps his eyes on the tablet, finger tapping once more.

“Order Zofran,” he says. “And bump her fluids.”

You swallow. Force your voice to stay level. “Already did.”

His brows lift a fraction. “Then why is it not in the active list?”

You glance down, realize you hit the wrong order queue, and scowl. “Because technology hates me.”

Jack’s mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “Sure, it does.”

From the Hub, Santos leans closer to Whittaker, voice dropping low enough that it turns into background noise. Her grin is bright and mischievous.

Whittaker doesn’t even look up, but the corner of his mouth twitches like he heard every word anyway.

A beat later, he exhales through his nose and mutters, still focused on his charting, “Please stop saying things like that in a public place.”

Jack doesn’t even glance their way. “South eighteen,” he says to you, voice returning to business. “ETOH. Came in with friends. She’s tanking her sat and she’s a little combative.”

“Lucky me,” you mutter, already moving.

“Kid,” Jack adds.

You pause, turning back.

He holds your gaze for a beat, eyes sharp in that assessing way of his. Then he nudges your tablet slightly closer, like you were about to forget it.

“Don’t get yourself hit.”

It’s said like a warning.

Like an order.

Like he’s thought about it before.

You blink once, surprised by the directness, then recover with your usual deflection. “If I get hit, I’m writing it off as an educational experience.”

Jack’s eyes narrow. “Don’t.”

It’s one word. Flat. Final.

You nod, a little more seriously than you mean to, and head down the hall with Whittaker close behind.

South 18 smells like cheap perfume and vomit.

The woman on the bed is maybe twenty-three, mascara smeared, hair tangled, eyes half-lidded. Her friends hover near the wall, pale and guilty and too sober to know what to do with themselves.

“She was fine,” one of them insists, voice trembling. “She was literally fine and then she just… she fell.”

You keep your tone calm. “How much did she drink?”

They exchange looks.

“A lot,” another admits. “Like… a lot a lot.”

Of course.

You step closer, checking her airway, watching her breathing. Her oxygen saturation dips, then climbs, then dips again. She tries to sit up and immediately gags.

You get her on oxygen. Order fluids. Zofran. Labs to check for anything more than alcohol, because you’ve learned not to trust anyone’s definition of “just drunk.” You ask the friends about pills, about substances, about anything she could’ve taken.

They swear it’s just alcohol.

It’s always “just alcohol” until it isn’t.

By the time you step back from the bed, you’ve already built the next hour in your head. Rechecks. Airway watch. Fluids. Labs. A plan if she doesn’t clear.

Whittaker stands at the foot of the bed, tablet tucked against his palm, expression carefully neutral in a room that smells like cheap perfume and regret.

“Can you stay with her while I update Dr. Abbot?” you ask, keeping your voice low.

Whittaker nods once. “Yeah. Go.”

You glance at the patient one more time. “Hey. Keep your head turned for me, okay?”

The woman blinks up at you, unfocused. “You’re… so shiny.”

“It’s the lights,” you say, and you make yourself smile because that’s what you do.

You step out into the hall and start walking back toward The Hub.

You don’t get far.

Behind you, there’s a wet gagging sound, the unmistakable warning that comes right before disaster. Then a choked, horrified noise that can only be Whittaker.

You pivot.

The curtain to Room 18 is half open. Whittaker is standing just inside the doorway, shoulders locked, chin tucked, eyes fixed on his scrub top like he’s trying to convince himself this is not happening. The woman on the bed has flopped sideways, face turned toward the rail, and one of her friends is hovering nearby with both hands over her mouth.

“Oh my God,” the friend whispers, horrified. “I’m so sorry. She just—”

Something dark and unpleasant slides down the front of Whittaker’s scrubs.

He closes his eyes.

Not in anger.

In acceptance.

From down the hall, Santos is already at the Hub, frozen mid-chart, eyes wide, stylus hovering above her tablet. Her hands lift like she doesn’t know whether to help or start clapping.

You take one look at Whittaker’s face and bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to hurt.

Because laughing would be cruel.

But also.

Whittaker exhales slowly. Very slowly. Like if he breathes wrong, he might also throw up.

Something dark and suspiciously chunky drips from the front of his scrub top.

Santos makes a strangled sound. “Huckleberry.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, voice tight.

Santos’s eyes flick to you. Then to Whittaker. Then back to you.

“You owe him hazard pay,” she announces.

Whittaker closes his eyes. “This is my life.”

Jack appears at the edge of the Hub, taking in the scene in one glance.

He looks at Whittaker.

Then at Santos.

Then at you.

For a moment, his expression doesn’t change at all.

Then, dry and inevitable: “Go change.”

Whittaker opens his eyes, resigned. “Yes, sir.”

Jack’s gaze stays on him as Whittaker shuffles away, shoulders slumped like a man marching to his own execution.

Santos watches him go, then murmurs, “It’s like the universe just hates him.”

Jack’s eyes flick to you. “Room eighteen.”

“Stable for now,” you say. “On oxygen, fluids running, Zofran. Watching her airway.”

Jack nods once. “Good.”

You hate how much that word lands.

You hate how much you want it.

Santos clears her throat. Loudly. “So, are we going to talk about the whole touching thing or—”

“Trinity,” you warn.

Jack’s head turns slowly toward Santos.

Santos lifts both hands, innocent. “I’m just saying. I have eyes.”

Jack’s stare holds.

Then he looks back at you, voice flat. “Kid. Come on.”

And you follow him back into the night, heart a little too loud in your chest, trying very hard to pretend you didn’t feel that brief brush of his knuckles on your wrist like it meant something.

Because it doesn’t.

Right?

Not yet.

The next few hours blur into the kind of work you can only do when you stop thinking about time.

Mr. Harlan in South 22 stops being your patient and starts being a handoff. The second troponin bumps, the pain creeps back, and Jack’s decision is quick and final. Cardiology is called. The cath lab is notified. Surgery becomes inevitable. You watch the gurney roll out, the man’s fear swallowed by movement and bright lights, and you feel something loosen in your chest when you realize he’s still alive.

It’s not relief, exactly.

It’s the quiet gratitude of a win you didn’t have to bleed for.

South 18 steadies, too. The drunk girl’s oxygen comes up. Her breathing evens out. The fluids do their work. The Zofran does its job. She stops trying to fight the blood pressure cuff and starts drifting in and out of sleep, sweaty and miserable and alive in a way that makes you want to shake her.

Her friends hover near the door with guilt written all over their faces. At some point, one of them whispers, “Is she going to die?” and you answer without snark even though you want to.

“No,” you say. “But she’s going to feel like it tomorrow.”

It should be easy to stay light after that.

It isn’t.

The night keeps delivering bodies like offerings.

A kid in peds with an asthma flare that doesn’t respond as fast as you want it to. An older woman with a hip fracture and a jaw clenched so tight you can hear her teeth grind when she moves. A man with chest pain who swears that it’s just heartburn until his EKG proves he’s lying to himself.

Somewhere around one-thirty, a psych patient in B1 starts screaming again, and the sound crawls under your skin. It’s raw. Ragged. Uncontained. It hits something in you that already feels too thin.

You find yourself gripping the edge of the counter at The Hub until your knuckles pale.

You loosen your hands. Force them to relax.

In. Out.

Santos drifts by at two, tablet tucked under her arm, hair pulled back, and eyes sharp. She looks like she’s running on caffeine, adrenaline, and pure stubbornness.

She points at your face. “You’re fading.”

“I’m not fading,” you say automatically.

“You’re fading,” she repeats, satisfied, and keeps walking like she’s filed the observation away as evidence.

Whittaker passes behind her, finally changed into clean scrubs, expression haunted in a way only bodily fluids can create. He offers you a sympathetic look.

You don’t know why that’s the thing that almost breaks you.

You go back to charting before your face does something you can’t control.

At three, the coffee appears.

It’s sitting on the counter near your tablet like it’s always been there. A paper cup with a plastic lid. Warm enough that you can feel it without touching it.

White chocolate and caramel.

Exactly how you take it.

You stare at it for a beat, stomach tightening.

Because nobody gets that by accident.

You glance up.

Jack is across the Hub, checking vitals on the track board, jaw set in concentration. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t acknowledge the cup. Doesn’t offer anything that could be mistaken for tenderness.

He just keeps working.

Like, he didn’t go out of his way.

Like it means nothing.

Your fingers curl around the cup before you can overthink it. The warmth seeps into your palm. You take a sip.

Sweet. Comforting. Familiar.

It’s stupid how much it helps.

It’s also stupid how the help makes you want to cry.

You swallow it down with the coffee.

By three-thirty, your smile starts slipping in places you can’t control.

You forget to add the little lift at the end of your sentences. You stop laughing at jokes you would normally laugh at. Your patience runs thinner, your answers shorter. You can feel your body trying to conserve energy by cutting off anything that isn’t strictly necessary.

A gurney clips the corner of the south hall doorframe, and the metal clangs loud enough to make your heart jump.

You flinch before you can stop it.

You recover fast, but not fast enough.

Jack’s voice comes from behind you. “You okay?”

It’s the first time he’s asked it like a question.

You don’t turn around right away. If you do, your face might give you away.

“I’m fine,” you say.

A pause.

Then, flat and unimpressed, “That wasn’t an answer.”

You breathe in through your nose and keep your eyes on the monitor you’re pretending to read. “Just tired.”

Jack steps closer, close enough that you feel him without seeing him. His presence fills the space at your shoulder. Steady. Grounded.

“Go drink your coffee,” he says. “Then take five.”

You let out a soft, disbelieving huff. “Are you telling me to take a break?”

“I’m telling you to follow instructions, Kid.”

You turn your head just enough to catch his profile. He’s looking at you now, eyes sharp and unreadable.

“You’re bossy,” you say, because it’s easier than saying anything true.

Jack’s mouth twitches. “You’re deflecting.”

Your throat tightens.

You lift the coffee cup in a small salute. “Yes, sir.”

For a split second, Jack’s expression changes.

The sharpness slips. Something darker takes its place, heat and focus folding into his gaze as if he’s suddenly looking at you differently. His eyes drop, just once, to your mouth. His throat works as if he swallowed something he didn’t mean to.

Then he catches himself.

“Don’t,” he says, quieter than before.

You blink. “Don’t what?”

Jack doesn’t answer. He just holds your eyes for one more beat, a warning and a boundary wrapped in the same look.

Then he turns and disappears back into the shift.

But you feel it after he’s gone.

The pause.

The change in the air.

The way it suddenly felt like the hospital wasn’t the only thing watching.

The night keeps stretching.

Patients cycle in and out. Rooms get cleaned. The waiting room thins and fills again. The overhead lights never dim.

By the time the clock nears four, you can feel the edge of yourself. Thin. Worn down. Fraying in places you didn’t know could fray.

Sunny is still there.

But she’s quieter now.

And the hospital can always tell when something is about to break.

The lull doesn’t feel like relief.

It feels like the pause right before something drops.

By four, the ED quiets in short, suspicious stretches. Less foot traffic. Fewer voices. The monitors still chirp, but the cadence changes. Even the lights feel harsher when there’s nothing urgent to focus on.

You stand at The Hub with your tablet angled toward you, fingers moving through chart updates you’ve put off. Notes. Dispo plans. Orders you meant to discontinue. The kind of cleanup that keeps the board honest.

Your eyes keep flicking up anyway.

To the ambulance bay doors. To the hall. To nothing in particular.

Your body hums with edge and fatigue. A tightness under your skin that doesn’t loosen, no matter how many times you tell yourself you’re fine.

You’re updating a progress note when someone steps in close behind you.

Jack.

You don’t look up. You know the shape of him without seeing him, the way he moves like he has a map of the ED in his head and doesn’t need to check it.

He reaches past you for something on the counter. A flush. A roll of tape. A pen. You don’t even register what it is at first.

What you register is the contact.

His hand lands on your hip, just above the waistband of your scrub pants, steadying you as he leans in. It’s light. Barely any pressure. The kind of touch that would be meaningless from anyone else.

From him, it steals the air out of your lungs.

Your fingers freeze on the tablet.

For half a second, your whole world narrows to the warmth of his palm through fabric and the simple fact that he did it like it was normal. Like you were familiar. Like you belonged.

Then he’s gone.

The hand lifts. The space behind you empties. Jack moves away with the same calm he always has, as if nothing happened, as if he didn’t just tilt the axis of your night.

You swallow hard and force your fingers back into motion.

You do not turn around.

You do not look at anyone.

You keep charting.

Across the Hub, Santos pauses mid-scroll, stylus hovering. Her eyes track Jack’s retreat, then snap back to you, brows high enough to touch her hairline.

Whittaker’s gaze flicks up too, quick and startled, then drops back to his tablet like he’s just witnessed something he isn’t emotionally prepared to process.

Lena doesn’t look up from the board.

But the corner of her mouth tightens, faint and telling.

No one says a word.

The silence is loud anyway.

A few minutes later, you finish the note you’ve been pretending to focus on and set the tablet down, hands suddenly too warm. Your skin feels too aware of itself.

You tell yourself it was incidental.

You tell yourself it didn’t mean anything.

You tell yourself you’re reading too much into it because you’re tired and wound tight, and your brain is looking for something to latch onto that isn’t dread.

The lull stretches.

Then the radio crackles.

Lena’s head lifts immediately, her posture changing, focus sharpening like a blade.

“EMS inbound,” the dispatcher says. “Two patients. GSWs. One chest, one abdomen. ETA three minutes.”

The words drop into the Hub like a stone.

Everything shifts.

Your stomach turns over.

Not because you can’t do it.

Because your body remembers things your mind would rather forget.

You reach for your gloves.

The ambulance bay doors feel a mile away.

And the night finally shows its teeth.

The words barely finish leaving dispatch before the ED is already rearranging itself around them.

“Two traumas,” Lena calls, loud enough to cut through the lull. “T1 and T2, now. Blood bank on standby.”

The ambulance bay doors are still closed, but the energy shifts anyway. Gurneys are cleared. Supplies get pulled. Someone checks suction. Someone warms fluids. The crash carts roll into place like they’ve done this too many times.

Jack is at the center without raising his voice.

“Shen, with me. Santos, Trauma One,” he says, already gloving up. “We take the first.”

His eyes flick to you once. Sharp. Grounding.

“Ellis, Kid, trauma two, Whittaker with them.”

You nod. You move.

Because there isn’t time to do anything else.

The ambulance doors slam open.

Two gurneys come through fast, paramedics shouting over the noise.

“Two males, mid-twenties,” one paramedic calls. “Multiple GSWs. Both chest and abdomen are involved. The first patient took at least three rounds, breath sounds diminished, and hypotensive. Second patient, abdominal wounds and suspected thoracic involvement, pressure’s been tanking. We’ve got two large bores in each, fluids running.”

They’re young. Too young. Faces that don’t belong on trauma beds.

You force your focus down to the work.

“Transfer on three,” Ellis says, calm as a metronome. “One, two, three.”

Your patient lands on the trauma bed, and the room swarms. Monitors scream. Someone cuts away clothing. Blood is already everywhere, soaking through dressings and sheets, painting the floor with dark footprints.

You see the wounds now. More than you wanted to see.

Chest. Lower ribs. Abdomen. A flank wound that won’t stop welling.

You don’t have time to feel anything about it.

“Airway?” Ellis asks.

“He’s altered,” Whittaker answers, hands steady as he positions oxygen. “He’s losing it.”

“Breathing?” you snap, already pressing gauze down hard.

“Tachypneic. Shallow. Sat’s dropping.”

“Circulation?” Ellis asks.

The blood pressure flashes a number that makes your stomach drop.

Hemorrhagic shock. Fast.

“Two units O-negative,” you call. “Massive transfusion protocol. Now.”

Whittaker is already moving. “Blood bank notified.”

Ellis’s gaze flicks to the chest wound. “Needle decompression kit. Now.”

You hear Trauma One through the wall, voices stacking. Jack’s calm, razor-sharp commands. Santos is calling out times. Shen answered with clipped precision. Two rooms. Two fights.

One hospital trying not to drown.

Ellis works fast, controlled, and decisive. The patient jerks when the needle goes in, a sound ripping out of him like it hurts to stay alive.

“FAST,” you say, and you don’t wait for permission.

Gel on skin. Probe down. Screen flickering gray and black.

Black where there shouldn’t be black.

Free fluid.

Your throat tightens.

You switch views, chasing answers. The heart view is poor, the chest view chaotic, but everything about him screams the same message.

He’s bleeding in places you can’t reach.

“We need OR,” you say, voice tight. “Now.”

Ellis nods sharply. “Call it.”

Whittaker is already on the phone, voice low and urgent. “Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen. Unstable. Positive FAST. We need surgery.”

You keep pressure on the abdomen. You pack what you can. You hang blood. You push fluids. You direct hands to where they’re needed because if you stop directing, your mind will notice how much blood there is.

The patient’s eyes flutter open once, unfocused, searching.

You lean in automatically. “Stay with me,” you tell him, voice firm. “Stay here.”

His lips move like he’s trying to answer, but no sound comes.

The monitor alarms change pitch.

A sharper note.

The kind that makes everyone in the room move faster.

“Pressure’s dropping,” Whittaker says.

“Give calcium,” Ellis orders. “Epi ready.”

You try to stay inside your training. Inside your job. Inside the steps.

Pack. Press. Reassess. Repeat.

But the bleeding doesn’t care about your steps.

The patient arrests.

The room snaps into a different kind of motion. Compressions. Epi. Blood. Rhythm check. Shock if indicated. Again.

You take over compressions when Whittaker’s arms start to tremble. You count out loud, voice steady on purpose.

“One and two and three and four…”

Ribs give under your palms. Sweat runs into your eyes. Your arms burn.

You don’t stop.

Because you don’t get to stop.

Somewhere in the distance, Trauma One erupts into a flurry you can feel through the wall. A shouted order. A response. Then Jack’s voice again, controlled, relentless.

You cling to that sound without meaning to. Proof that you aren’t alone in this.

Minutes stretch. The kind that feels endless and instant all at once.

OR calls back. They’re tied up. They’re coming. They’re not coming fast enough.

Your patient never stabilizes.

You pull him back once. Twice. Each time weaker. Each time shorter.

Ellis checks pupils. Checks rhythm. Checks the clock.

The room slows around the edges, like everyone is waiting for the inevitable.

Ellis swallows, jaw tight, and her voice comes out calm. Too calm.

“Time of death,” she says, reading the clock. “04:58.”

The words land like a weight.

Final.

The monitor’s flat line holds steady.

For a beat, nobody moves.

Then the room starts to peel apart because the next patient is already waiting somewhere out there.

You strip off your gown and gloves.

It’s automatic. Mechanical. Peel, snap, discard.

You don’t look at your hands.

You don’t look at the bed.

You back away slowly, as if you move too fast, your body might finally catch up.

Whittaker says something behind you, soft. Maybe your name. Maybe Sunny. You don’t respond.

You step out of Trauma Two into the hallway, and the lights feel too bright.

The Hub is right there. The center of everything. Screens, voices, movement.

You walk toward it like you’re on rails.

Lena looks up the second she sees you.

Her expression shifts, sharp focus turning into something else. Not softness, exactly. But concern, clear and immediate.

“Sunny,” she says, coming around the desk. “You okay?”

Your mouth opens.

For a second, you almost tell the truth.

Instead, you give her the version that keeps you moving.

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say.

Lena’s eyes narrow. She doesn’t buy it.

You swallow. Force air into your lungs. “I just… I need a minute. I’m going out for some air.”

Lena hesitates, like she wants to stop you.

Like she knows where “air” can lead.

Then she nods once, slowly. “Okay. Don’t be long.”

You nod back, already turning.

You walk out of the ED.

Past the doors.

Past the sound.

Past the lights.

Your hands start shaking as soon as the doors close behind you.

Summary: After a brutal shift at the Pitt leaves you frayed and snappish, you try to shut the world out the moment you get home. But Robby and Jack read you too well to let you disappear. Instead, they make a quiet decision together: you do not have to carry the day alone, and tonight they are going to take care of you. Warnings: 18+mdni - Smut, teasing, praise, fingering, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), threesome, orgasms.

Cross posted to Ao3

The drive home from the Pitt is a blur of exhaust fumes and the dull thrum of the engine beneath you, the city light sneaking into streaks of neon as Robby navigates the familiar route with one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on your thigh. The air in the car is thick with the weight of the day. Difficult intubation, a coding patient you couldn’t save, a resident who froze during a difficult case involving a child, two gunshot wounds, and three separate car accidents. You lean your head against the window, the cool glass a weak antidote to the heat crawling up your neck. “Fucking hell,” you muttered, rubbing your temples. “That intern today? I swear to God, if he calls for one more consult on something basic, any first year should know…”

Robby chuckles, low and rough, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Kid’s green. He’ll either sink or swim.” His thumb traces idle circles on the back of your hand, and he tilts his head towards you. “You okay?”

“No,” you snap, sharper than you meant to, and immediately regret it. The silence that follows is heavy, the kind that settles in your stomach like a stone. Robby doens’t push. He never does. Just exhales through his nose, the corner of his mouth twitching like he’s biting back something unkind, or worse, something kind, and you can’t handle either right now.

The house is dark when you pull into the driveway, save for the golden spill of the light from the living room windows. Jack’s truck is already parked in the driveway. Your chest tightens, you forgot he was off tonight… Great, another witness for your inevitable meltdown.

The front door creaks open before you even hit the porch steps. Jack leans against the frame, arms crossed over his broad chest, his salt-and-pepper hair still damp from a shower, the sleeves of his henley pushed up to his elbows, those magnificent forearms on display. His gaze flicks between you and Robby, assessing, always assessing, as if he can read your mood just by looking at you. Then he steps forward, pulls Robby into a hug that’s half-greeting, half-claim, and kisses him. Slow, deep, the kind of hiss that makes Robby’s shoulders drop and his hands fist in Jack’s shirt. You look away, jaw clenched, because fuck, you love watching them together, but right now it feels like salt in the wound of your bad mood and bad day.

“Rough day?” Jack murmurs against Robby’s mouth, voice rough as gravel.

Robby huffs a laugh, thumb brushing over Jack’s bottom lip before he pulls back.

You slide by them and enter the house, immediately going upstairs, pretending you can’t hear Robby’s answer.

“Understatement. She was about two seconds from lighting the hospital on fire.”

You feel Jack’s eyes on you as you trudge up the stairs. “Yeah?” His voice is low, steady, the kind of tone that he uses when he’s talking a patient off a ledge. “You both look like you could use a drink.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you make your way into your bathroom, and the door slams behind you, the lock clicking into place like a period at the end of a shitty sentence.

Your scrubs come off in violent jerks, the fabric sticking to your sweat-damp skin before you wrench them free and throw them angrily into the hamper. The mirror over the sink is still slightly fogged up from Jack’s earlier shower, and that’s just one more thing that agitates you. Because how many times does a man need to be told to turn on the exhaust fan? Staring at yourself through the haze on the mirror, you can still make out dark circles under your eyes, the way your hair is escaping your ponytail in wild frizzy tendrils. You look feral. Exhausted. The shower knob screeches as you twist it, the water hissing to life before you step under the spray, gasping as the heat needles into your skin.

You don’t bother with soap at first. Just stand there, forehead pressed against the tile, letting the water sluice over you, carrying away the antiseptic stink of the hospital, the phantom weight of gloves that never seem to fit quite right. Your hands shake when you finally reach for the body wash, fingers slipping as you lather up, the suds sliding between your breasts and down your stomach, over the ache between your thighs that’s been building all day. Because fuck, even now, even pissed, your body still wants. Still needs.

A soft knock on the door makes you jump. “Baby?” Robby’s voice is muffled, warm. “You decent?”

“No,” you snap, like he couldn't hear the water running. You sigh and hang your head; you didn’t mean to snap, not really. The water shuts off with a soft groan of the pipes, and you grab a towel, rubbing it over your skin with more force than necessary. You flip the lock on the door, and it creaks open before you’ve even had the chance to wrap the towel around yourself. Robby’s dark eyes rake over you, taking in the lingering flush of your skin from the hot water and the way your nipples are still tight.

“Jack’s making you a drink,” he says, stepping inside, crowding you against the sink. His hands find your waist, thumbs pressing into the soft flesh just above your hip bones. “We’re gonna take care of you tonight, baby.”

You want to argue. Want to bite out something cruel about how you don’t need to be taken care of. But then his mouth is on yours, his beard rough against your chin, his tongue sliding between your lips with a slow, possessive stroke that has you knees weakening. You groan into the kiss, fingers digging into his shoulders, the towel slipping loose as he lifts you onto the counter, your bare ass hitting the cold granite.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he growls against your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point. His hand slides between your thighs, fingers parting your folds with a groan. “Always so fucking ready for us.”

“Robby…” Your voice breaks because god, his fingers are thick, curling inside you with just the right amount of pressure, his palm grinding against your clit. You can hear the wet sounds, the obscene squelch of his fingers spreading your arousal, and it’s too much, but also not enough.

“Shh,” he murmurs, nipping at your earlobe. “Let us have you. Let us fix this.”

The door creaks wider. Jack’s broad frame fills the doorway, his eyes darken with hunger as he takes in the scene, you spread open on the counter, Robby’s fingers buried inside you, your tits bouncing slightly with every desperate rock of your hips. “Christ,” Jack breathes, stepping closer. His hand finds your throat, tilting your head back to rest against the mirror as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “Look at you. So fucking greedy.”

Robby’s thumb circles your clit, slow and deliberate, while Jack’s hand slides from your neck to cup your breast, his calloused fingers pinching your nipple hard enough to make you whimper. “You think you’re the only one who had a shit day, sweetheart?” Jack’s voice is a rough purr in your ear. “You think we don’t need this, too?”

“Please…” The word is more of a whine, embarrassing and honest, but you don’t care. Not when Robby is adding a second finger, stretching you, curling them to brush against your G-spot. Not when Jack’s teeth sink into the tender skin where your neck meets your shoulder, his hand sliding down your stomach to join Robby’s, their fingers working in tandem, filling you.

“Gonna make you come, baby,” Robby promises, his breath hot against your mouth. “Gonna make you drip all over our hands, isn’t that right, Jack?”

Jack groans, low and throaty, his hard cock pressed against your leg. “Fuck yes.” Jack’s free hand encircles your throat, giving it a light squeeze.

Your orgasm hits you like a defibrillator. Sharp, electric, spreading through your body, your back arching as your vision whites out. Your pussy clenches around their fingers, gushing, the wet sound filthy and loud in the tiled room. Robby curses, his lips crashing onto yours as you ride out the waves, Jack’s tongue gently laving over the bite marks on your shoulder.

“Good girl,” Jack murmurs, easing his fingers free with a wet sound. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a groan, his eyes never leaving yours. “Now. Drink.” He nods towards the glass on the counter that you hadn’t noticed, amber liquid over ice, condensation beading down the sides.

You take it with slightly shaking hands, the first sip burning down your throat, the alcohol loosening the knot of tension in your chest. Robby helps you off the counter, steadying you when your legs wobble, and Jack presses a kiss to your temple before stepping back, adjusting the bulge in his jeans with a smirk.

“Bedroom, sweetheart,” Jack orders, voice rough. “We’re not done with you yet.”

And for the first time all day, you smile.

The whiskey burned warm down your throat, but it was nothing compared to the heat of Jack’s gaze as he watched you swallow. His fingers traced idle circles on the inside of your wrist, possessive even in something so small. Robby’s hand rested on your shoulder, his thumb brushing slow, deliberate arcs against your skin. You should’ve been exhausted, your body still hummed from the orgasm they’d wrung out of you in the bathroom, your muscles loose, mind finally quiet. But the way they looked at you, like you were the only thing worth focusing on, sent another pulse of need through your veins.

Robby turned you to face him, his hands settling on your waist, his thumbs rubbing circles against your skin. “You’ve been so tense all day,” he murmured, his voice thick with need. “Let us take care of you.” You stood there naked in front of them as their gazes raked over you, Robby’s warm and hungry, Jack’s dark and assessing, like he was cataloging every inch he planned to claim.

Jack stepped closer, his heat pressing against your back. His fingers tangled in your hair, tilting your head to the side so his lips could brush against the shell of your ear. “On the bed,” he ordered, low and firm. “Hands above your head.” The command sent a shiver of need down your spine, your nipples tightening. You obeyed, crawling onto the mattress, the cool sheets a shock against your overheated skin. The position stretched you out, vulnerable, your breasts heavy, thighs already slick with arousal.

Robby followed you onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. His hands slid up your calves, his touch featherlight, teasing. “God, you’re beautiful like this,” he breathed, his palms finally settling on the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider. His thumbs spread you open, still not quite touching where you needed him, and you whimpered, hips lifting instinctively. Jack’s weight dipped the mattress on your side, pulling you up so he could slot himself behind you, his chest pressing against your back as his mouth found the curve of your shoulder. His teeth grazed your skin, just shy of biting, and his hands snaked around to palm your breasts, fingers rolling your nipples between them. “Patience,” he murmured against your skin, his breath hot. “We’ve got all night.”

Robby’s mouth finally found your center, his tongue dragging slow and flat up your slit, parting your folds with deliberate precision. You gasped, your fingers gripping Jack’s thighs, but his hands shot out, wrapping around your wrists. “Uh-uh,” he chided, guiding your arms above your head to lace your fingers behind your neck. “Keep them there.” One hand slid back to your breast while the other slid down your stomach, his fingers finding your clit, pressing just enough to make you squirm. “Or I’ll tie them there.”

The threat made your breath hitch. Robby chose that moment to nudge Jack’s finger out of the way and seal his lips around your clit, sucking hard, your back arching off Jack’s chest. Jack’s hand clamped down on your breast, his fingers tightening almost to the point of pain as he pinched and rolled your nipple. “That’s it,” he growled. “Let him hear how good it feels, baby.” Robby’s tongue swirled, relentless, and when he slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, your moan was raw, broken. Jack’s mouth found yours, swallowing the sound, his kiss bruising as his free hand slid lower again, his fingers joining Robby’s until four fingers were stretching you, filling you. Their touches were synchronized, one set of fingers fucking slow and deep while the other teased your entrance and your clit.

“Please,” you begged against Jack’s lips, your body trembling, your release coiling tight and unbearable. He pulled back just enough to watch you, his eyes dark with satisfaction. “Please, what?” His fingers twisted inside you, hitting that spot that made your vision white out. Robby’s tongue was everywhere, lapping at you like he was trying to savor every drop.

“Let me come,” you gasped, your hips jerking helplessly. Jack’s chuckle was a dark vibration against your back. “Not yet.” His fingers withdrew, leaving you empty, aching. Robby’s mouth followed, his lips pressing a final kiss to your inner thigh before he sat back on his heels, his cock, a thick outline against his scrub pants. You whined, your body thrumming with need, but Jack’s hand slid up to wrap around your throat again, his grip firm but not too tight. “We’ll let you come,” he promised, his thumb brushing against your pulse point. “When we’re inside you.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat through you. Robby stripped off his scrubs quickly before pulling you off Jack so he could get undressed too. Robby palmed your pussy, gathering the lingering wetness, his eyes locked on yours as he used your arousal as lubrication to start stroking himself. “Fuck, you’re dripping, honey,” he crooned. “You want us both, don’t you? You want to feel full?”

“Yes,” you breathed, your core clenching around nothing. Jack’s hands gripped your hips, guiding you onto all fours on top of him. Robby settled on the bed behind you, his chest pressed against your back, his cock sliding between your ass cheeks, teasing. Jack stroked himself roughly before guiding the tip to your entrance.

“Breathe, sweetheart,” Jack ordered, and then he pushed inside.

You cried out, stretching around him as your pussy adjusted. Robby’s arms wrapped around you, his hands splaying over your stomach, holding you steady as Jack bottomed out, his hips flush against yours. “Fuck, you take him so well,” Robby groaned, his lips against your ear. His cock pressed against your ass, and you could feel him trembling with restraint. Jack rocked up into you slowly, getting your body ready for Robby.

“More,” you begged, your voice ragged and impatient. Robby didn’t need to be told twice. He pushed you to lean forward more, Jack catching one of your nipples in his mouth and sucking hard, as Robby slowly started to work his cock inside your pussy, slowly filling you to the brim, the dual invasion stealing your breath. You were stuffed, completely, stretched to the limit; their cocks began moving in counterpoint. Jack dragged out slowly as Robby thrust in, their rhythms syncing until you couldn’t tell where one ended, and the other began. Their hands were everywhere, gripping, guiding, owning. Jack’s fingers dug into your hips, his thrusts growing harder, more demanding, while Robby’s hand snaked down to circle your clit, his touch featherlight, maddening.

“Come for us,” Jack grunted, his voice strained. “Now, baby, fucking now!” Robby’s fingers pressed harder, his cock swelling inside you, and the orgasm crashed over you like a wave, violent and consuming. Your body clenched around them, your cry muffled against Jack’s shoulder as he buried himself to the hilt, his own release tearing through him with a groan. Robby followed soon after, his hips stuttering, his cock pulsing deep inside you as he filled you up.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of ragged breathing, the weight of Robby pining you on Jack’s chest. Then he gently pulled out, pressing a kiss to your spine before he made his way into the bathroom. Jack rolled you onto your side and pulled out slowly, both of you letting out soft moans as you lay back on the bed, skin slick with sweat, your body thrumming with aftershocks.

Robby returned with a warm, wet washcloth and began cleaning you up. Jack’s fingers traced lazy patterns on your hip, his touch gentle now, almost reverent. Robby returned, crawling onto the bed, pressing a kiss to your shoulder before lying on your other side as Jack slung an arm possessively around your waist.

The common room was lit by the soft glow of the TV, the volume low enough not to wake anyone, but loud enough to fill the room with background noise. Someone had tossed on a movie, one of those cheesy action comedies no one admitted to liking, but no one turned off either.

You were sandwiched between Gaz and Soap on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap that had long since been picked clean. The room smelled faintly of snacks, laundry detergent, and the kind of comfort that only came with rare stretches of downtime.

Soap’s arm was stretched lazily along the back of the couch, not quite touching you, but close. Close enough that when you shifted to get comfortable, your shoulder brushed against his chest. He didn’t move away.

It was late, the movie was dragging, and your eyes were growing heavier by the second. You didn’t mean to lean against him. Didn’t mean for your head to rest lightly against his shoulder, or for your hand to end up against his side. It just… happened.

Soap froze for a second, like a soldier surprised by a truce. Then slowly, carefully, he relaxed into it, as if the weight of you against him was something he didn’t realize he needed until it was there.

He tilted his head just enough to glance down. “Hey,” he whispered, voice low and thick with amusement, “ye pickin’ me over the couch, or’s that popcorn crash hittin’ ye hard?”

You didn’t answer, not really. Just a soft, sleepy sound as you nuzzled in slightly closer, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt.

Soap grinned, warmth blooming in his chest. He let his hand rest gently against your arm, thumb brushing back and forth without thinking “Yeah,” he murmured, barely above a breath, “ye’re trouble, ye ken that?”

You didn’t hear him. But the way your fingers curled lightly into his shirt said maybe, just maybe… you felt it.

For once, everything was quiet, no gunfire, no missions, no yelling through comms. Just the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing and the subtle weight of you against his side.

Soap let his head tip back against the couch cushion, eyes flicking from the movie to the curve of your cheek resting against his shoulder. His arm, now fully around you, held you close like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You trusted him. Enough to fall asleep on him like this, soft and warm and unguarded.And for the life of him, he didn’t know what to do with that.

He should’ve been teasing you already. Should’ve made some dumb comment, nudged you awake, passed it off like nothing.

But instead, he just sat there, holding you like something fragile and rare. Something he didn’t want to mess up by breathing too loud.

He looked down again, his voice a quiet murmur, almost like a confession.

“Christ… ye’re gonna wreck me, aren’t ye?”

“Aw, would you look at that,” Gaz’s voice cut through the quiet like a smirk made audible.

Soap startled slightly, just enough to glare at him while trying not to jostle you. “Keep yer voice doon, she’s sleepin’.”

“No kidding,” Gaz replied, plopping down across from you with an obnoxiously smug grin. “On you, mate. That’s new.”

Price wandered in next, raising a brow at the sight before him. “Didn’t think I’d live to see Johnny ‘restless leg’ MacTavish sit still for more than five minutes.”

“She’s the exception,” Ghost said from the doorway, deadpan as ever, but the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.

Soap rolled his eyes, but his hand instinctively tightened around your shoulder protectively. “Ye lot finished?”

“Oh, not even close,” Gaz said, already pulling out his phone. “But don’t worry, I’ll only send this to everyone.”

“Ye send that and Ah swear tae God—”

“She’s got good taste, you know,” Ghost added dryly, ignoring the bickering. “Bit of a soft spot for idiots with accents.”

Soap flipped him off without looking away from you, who let out the softest sigh in your sleep and curled closer.

And suddenly, none of the teasing mattered. None of it ever did, not when you were in his arms like this.

He smirked, voice low but sure.

“Yeah, well… guess Ah’ve got good taste too.”

You woke slowly, blinking against the soft flicker of the TV light and the warmth that surrounded you.

At some point, someone had started another movie, something loud and full of explosions, the unmistakable sound of a Marvel fight scene playing out in the background. The screen lit the room in pulses of red and blue as Iron Man soared across it. The room smelled faintly of fresh popcorn again, another bowl passed around between the others. Soap must’ve snagged more during the switch.

The rest of the team was still there, scattered across the common room. Gaz and Ghost had taken the floor with a mess of blankets and pillows that hadn’t been there earlier. Price was half-dozing in one of the armchairs, his arms crossed and head tilted back. The atmosphere had shifted from casual hangout to full-blown sleepover.

And through all of it, you were still curled up against Soap, your cheek pressed to his chest, his arm wrapped securely around you. His fingers were carding gently through your hair, slow and absent, like he’d been doing it for a while without even thinking.

Your heart stuttered.

He was so warm. So solid. So... there.

You didn’t move, not yet. Just let yourself breathe him in, the faint scent of his cologne and the warmth of his shirt beneath your cheek grounding you. His hand was still gently combing through your hair, over and over in a rhythm that made you want to melt.

It felt dangerous, how easy it was to let yourself relax here, to sink into him like you belonged. Like you hadn’t spent weeks pretending this wasn’t exactly what you wanted.

God, when had it started?

Maybe it was that mission in Berlin, cold as hell, adrenaline high, and your gear soaked through after sprinting five blocks to cover a civilian. You’d barely caught your breath when Soap had dragged you behind a crumbling wall, shoved his vest off, and thrown it over you like a damn human furnace.

“Can’t have ye freezin’ tae death, love,” he said wi’ that grin that always hit a wee bit too deep. “Ah need my favourite teammate alive, yeah?”

You’d laughed, even as your fingers had gone numb.But something about the way he’d said it, like you mattered more than the mission, more than just being a name on his comms — had stuck with you ever since.

That was the moment.

Right then, in the middle of that busted street with his ridiculous warmth and stupid perfect smile, you’d started falling. Slowly. Quietly.

And now… now you were lying on his chest while he played with your hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stayed still for a moment, pretending to still be asleep, because... god, this was nice. His fingers combed through your hair with such care, like he wasn’t even aware he was doing it, like touching you this way had already become second nature.

“Ye’re awake,” he murmured suddenly, voice quiet and low, that lilting Scottish brogue wrapping around the words like warmth.

You hesitated before answering, your voice still husky from sleep.“Didn’t mean to fall asleep on you…”

“Didnae mind. ,” he said quickly, and then softer, “Still don’t.”

You lifted your head slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. They were soft and so uncharacteristically open it made your breath catch. One of his hands was still tangled lightly in your hair, the other resting along your back, grounding you.

“…You’re comfortable,” you offered, like that was a reasonable explanation for literally draping yourself over him in front of your entire team.

Soap’s grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Comfortable, huh? High praise, that.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, but didn’t move away. If anything, you let your head drop back to his chest, cheeks warm.

“Ah mean it,” he said after a beat, quiet again. “Could get used tae this.”

Your breath caught, heart fluttering in a way you really hoped he couldn’t feel.

“…You already have,” you whispered before you could think better of it.

Soap froze for half a second, and then his chest rumbled beneath you with a low, surprised chuckle. His fingers brushed back a loose strand of hair from your cheek, slower this time, more deliberate.

“Yeah,” he said, almost like it was a realization. “Reckon Ah have.”

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. The movie played on in the background, another crash, more shouting, but it all faded beneath the steady beat of his heart under your ear.

His fingers kept moving through your hair like it was something sacred.

You weren’t sure you’d ever felt so safe and so exposed at the same time.

He exhaled softly, like he was working up to something.

You didn’t say anything.

Didn’t need to, not when his fingers lingered at your jaw, not when his thumb swept across your cheek like he was trying to memorize you by touch alone.

The others were still half-awake around the room, but none of it mattered. Not the movie, not the popcorn, not Gaz’s smug little grin or Ghost’s subtle glances. For once, it was quiet in your head. No adrenaline, no noise. Just you and him.

Soap let out a slow breath, like he was trying to steady himself.Then he shifted just a little, enough to tilt your chin up gently. Just enough that you had no choice but to look at him.

His eyes flicked down to your lips.

“Kin ah—?”

“Yeah,” you whispered before he even finished the question.

And then he kissed you.

Soft. Careful. Like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to want this as badly as he did, like he’d been holding back for a long, long time. His lips brushed yours once, twice, then deepened slowly, hand cradling the back of your neck like something precious.

Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, anchoring yourself. There was a low sound in his throat, barely audible, something between a groan and a sigh, like relief and hunger tangled into one.

The kiss didn’t last long. Just enough to make your heart stutter and your thoughts spin. Just enough for him to pull back and rest his forehead against yours, breathing a little harder.

“Fuck,” he murmured, “been wantin’ tae do that for ages.”

You swallowed, your voice barely a breath. “You’re not the only one.”

“Thought I was imaginin’ it,” he said low, his thumb brushing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. “The way ye looked at me sometimes.”

Your stomach flipped.

“You weren’t,” you said, barely above a whisper. “I just… didn’t want to ruin anything.”

His chest rose and fell beneath you, slower now. More controlled.

“Ye wouldnae have ruined a thing,” he said after a pause, the words sounding rough, like he hated that you’d ever thought otherwise. “I’ve been tryin’ not tae scare ye off.”

“You couldn’t,” you murmured, and meant it.

You shifted just slightly, enough to look up at him again — your chin resting on his chest, eyes meeting his. His face was so close. Closer than it had ever been.