Dizzybee03

Ugh. Maybe if you ignored him, you wouldn’t have to do this scheduled breakfast. Wasn’t last night torture enough?

This was premeditated, you were sure of it.

A way to get in your head.

Your therapist would say otherwise.

Yeah well, fuck him and his four eyes.

You pulled your robe tighter as you shuffled to the door. Robby stood there in a pair of scrubs with his signature zip up hoodie. The odd thing was the pressed white coat over top the hoodie, with his name precisely sewed into it with blue thread.

Yep, this is a terrorist attack.

It was ridiculous really. Who puts their white coat over a hoodie. And since when did Robby know where his white coat was? Why did it kind of look good?

“Please, don’t make me feel any weirder than I already do,” he grumbled, looking everywhere but you. “Admin has been on my ass about ‘looking professional’.”

Robby shifted his weight but didn’t step inside. You both stand there, waiting for the other to make the first move.

“You can come in-“

“Is Mason awake-“

You both say at the same time. A blush creeps up Robby’s neck as you suddenly find the door across the hall very interesting.

“Sorry,” he mutters, sagging his shoulders in the way he did when he wanted to seem less imposing.

“Oh shut up.” You grumble as you take multiple steps back, leaving the door open for him to enter.

The two of you were acting like two cats who had just been introduced. Hackles raised and ready to bolt at any sudden movement. Maybe it was just you though.

Robby takes a tentative step inside, careful, like he’s waiting for permission to be revoked halfway through. He keeps one hand hooked tightly through the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t set it down, just holds it.

Your eye twitches.

“For fucks sake,” you huff, turning towards the kitchen before you can think too hard about why that bothered you so much. “Be normal.”

You immediately move for the coffee pot, needing to do something that didn’t feel like avoiding landmines.

“Coffee?” You call.

“Yeah, sure.” He says as he takes a seat at the breakfast bar, “Do you have that-“

“Why wouldn’t I have the vanilla creamer?” You cut him off. Your tone definitely harsher than intended, but FUCK!

He was being weird. This is his fault.

You’re met with inhumane silence.

“Sorry,” you mumble when you see the way he shrinks. Your therapist told you that you were projecting your insecurities onto Robby. It might have had some validity.

You carefully carry the mug over to the counter and place it in front of him. You both watch as the coffee sloshes in the chipped cup.

“Two sugars and more milk than coffee, right?” You say, avoiding his eyes. You could feel his eyes watching you. Warm and steady in a way that made your skin itch.

God, it pissed you off.

Why? Whatever.

“Yeah,” he nods too quickly, swallowing to try to mediate his suddenly dry throat. His large hands engulf the coffee cup. “Don’t tell anyone though, it’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Okay.” You say immediately, turning back towards the coffee pot. That was a landmine and you had almost fell face first onto it.

Dangerous.

Your eyes dart over to the door of Mason’s nursery. Wake up, please. Instead, you busy yourself with the repetitive nature of making breakfast.

Crack the egg.

Whisk.

Pour into the pan.

Behind you, the barstool creaks softly.

“Would you like some help?”

“No.” You say automatically.

Silence stretches again.

You hear movement from the other side of the kitchen. A cabinet door opens halfway before immediately clicking shut again.

Robby freezes like he’s been caught committing a crime.

Your shoulders tense instinctively before you glance over. He’s standing there awkwardly beside the cabinets, one hand still hovering above the handle.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I was going to grab plates then realized-“ he cuts himself off with a tight shrug.

Realized what?

That this wasn’t his kitchen?

That last night changed something?

That he didn’t know what he was allowed to touch anymore?

The knot in your chest twists painfully.

“What the fuck,” you mutter, turning back to the stove before your expression can betray you. “You know where the plates are.”

For a second, he just looks at you.

Then quietly, “yeah.”

The cabinet door opens again, slower this time.

For a moment, it’s like you’ve fallen into an old rhythm. Robby starts the toast and spreads peanut butter onto the slices, while you scoop the eggs onto the plates. He doesn’t ask anymore.

That should probably bother you more than it does.

Everything is going as well as to be expected until he reaches around you to pop a bottle into the warmer.

Your entire body locks.

The smell of his cologne and soap his first, clean and familiar enough to make something stab sharply beneath your ribs. Heat radiates from his chest for barely a second before he seems to realize what he’s done.

Robby jerks away so fast his elbow knocks against the counter.

“Sorry,” he says immediately.

Again.

God, you were going to lose your fucking mind if he apologized again.

A cry sounds from the nursery. Not a painful one, just one to let you know Mason was awake. You both move to go get him. You both lock eyes for the first time today.

It’s a stand off.

“Fine,” you relent. “Go, I’ll get his breakfast ready.”

Robby disappears behind the nursery door like a man on fire. Meanwhile, you grab Mason’s high chair and the baby food from the cabinet.

You both try to get Mason settled. Hands batting the other out of the way. Robby gives you a weird look when you finally thrust the baby food and spoon at him.

“His pediatrician said it was fine to start him on soft foods,” you say, rolling your eyes as you hop up onto the counter.

Robby turns the tiny spoon over in his hand like it might explode, “Already?”

“He’s four months, not a Victorian orphan.”

His mouth twitches despite himself. “I didn’t know… I missed a lot apparently.”

And there it is again.

That guilt.

You regret softening enough to notice it.

“Well,” you say bristly, “you’re here now, so congratulations. Today’s lesson is applesauce.”

He hums at that and scoops a small amount of applesauce up.

You finish your breakfast before switching with Robby so he can eat his rapidly cooling eggs. Mason immediately starts fussing at the betrayal.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mutter. “God forbid anyone else eats.”

Without thinking too much of it, you swipe a tiny bit of peanut butter from your toast onto Mason’s lip.

Robby glances up immediately.

“He likes peanut butter?”

“He likes literally everything,” you snort as Mason happily smacks his lips together. “Tiny garbage disposal. He’d eat drywall if I let him.”

Mason lets out an excited squeal that earns him another microscopic swipe.

Point one mommy.

Robby seemed to finally relax enough to eat once Mason seemed content enough to smear applesauce across most of his face instead of actually eating it.

“Good job,” you told your son with a laugh. “You managed to get none of that in your mouth.”

Mason squealed.

“See, he disagrees,” Robby said around a bite of toast.

“He’s good at that. He’d make a great lawyer.” You say dryly.

You reached over with the napkin and whipped a streak of applesauce from Mason’s cheek. He immediately made grabby hands for the toast in Robby’s hand. He turns on those puppy dog eyes you’re sure are genetic.

“Absolutely not,” you say, scooping him from the high chair and peppering his chubby face with kisses.

Mason protested loudly.

“Oh, now you’re starving?” You ask.

He answers with another indignant squeak.

“Drama queen,” Robby laughs.

The sound surprises both of you.

His smile vanishes almost immediately.

Right. He’s the weird one.

“Gets it from his father.”

Robby opened his mouth to argue before Mason lunges for the lapels of his white coat.

Traitor.

You glance at the clock on the wall. Ten after six. Shit.

“Do you mind putting him in the carrier? I’ve got work in twenty.”

You were already backing towards the bedroom before he could answer.

Distance. Good.

“I can always drop him off, you know,” Robby calls.

You freeze halfway through pulling on your scrub top. He was just being helpful. He was always trying to be helpful.

The house was suddenly so quiet you could hear the neighbors moving around next door.

“It’s on my way.”

“Mine too.”

“Michael.”

Robby looks like he wants to argue before thinking better of it.

“Right.”

You rush into the living room and grab the carrier, propping it in your hip.

“Let me-“ you shove his hands away before he can get near the carrier. You both stare at the other, another stand off.

“I’m just trying to-“ he tries to explain with a huff.

“I know.”

“Then why are you looking at me like I suggested arson?”

“Because every time I turn around, you’re trying to do something for me.”

Robby blinks.

“I was offering to help load our son into your car.”

“Exactly.”

Robby’s eyebrows pinch together as he tries to forks words. Then closes it. Then tries again.

“I genuinely don’t know what that means.”

You carry Mason down the multiple flights of stairs and down to the car, Robby on your heels the whole time.

“I switched his daycare.” You say as you snap the carrier into place.

“Oh?”

“St. Mary’s.” You shut the back door. You toss your bag into the passenger seat.

Robby rests his hand on your car door like he had done that rainy night when he had demanded answers.

“At your work?”

“They had an opening.”

His jaw works for a second.

“PTMC’s daycare had openings too.”

You cross your arms, squinting at him.

So?

“St. Mary’s is cheaper.”

“Okay.”

“It’s closer to home.”

“Okay.”

“And I can get there in two minutes if they call me.”

His shoulders sink slightly as he takes a step back from your car.

“That makes sense.”

It did. You’d only be a moment away. It was practical. Everything in your life was practical. That didn’t mean Robby had to like it.

“We’ll see you at pick up,” you grab your door handle. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not making it weird.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Okay.”

Mason quickly settled into the new daycare at St. Mary’s. The daycare workers were nice enough. Truthfully, a weight was lifted off of your shoulders knowing he was only minutes away. The downside apparently was having a hidden baby made you hospital gossip.

Between being the transfer resident no one knew much about and Robby’s lunch performance a few days ago, half the hospital seemed convinced your personal life was public property.

Great.

Apparently, there was a betting pool about who Mason’s father was.

Katie, who had somehow appointed herself your unofficial publishist after the infant seizure case a while back, did her best to intercept the rumors before they reached you.

Unfortunately, Katie was only one woman.

“I’ve got those labs you wanted Doc,” she says, bouncing to your side.

“Thanks Katie,” you mutter, already skimming the results as you headed to Exam 4.

You weren’t trying to be standoffish. Robby had a way of turning your baseline level of irritation into a full-time personality trait.

“Well?” Katie asked.

“Well what?”

“You going to pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” You try speeding up.

“Hm,” Katie matched your pace.

You shot her the nastiest look you could muster.

Katie beamed.

“Heard we had a new friend down at the daycare,” she tries, standing way too close. Did she know what a personal bubble was?

“Yeah? Where’d you hear that?” You snap on a pair of gloves.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe from literally everyone?”

Wonderful.

“I went down there during lunch to see my niece," Katie continued, snapping on a pair of gloves she absolutely did not need. “Cute kid by the way.”

“Thank you.” You lean over the patient, a small kid, to palpate her abdomen.

“Very cute.”

You narrow your eyes.

Katie grinned wider as she grabs the iPad to seem like she was assisting.

“The daycare ladies seem to love him.”

“Mmhm.” You glare at her from over the patient.

Possible bowel obstruction. Wouldn’t that be fun?

“And I remember, from the other day, a very handsome doctor dropping off lunch for you the other day.”

“I’d like to run a few more test-“

“Same puppy eyes.”

You nearly walked into the supply cart.

Katie’s eyes light up.

“WAIT!”

“Katie, I’m with a patient-“

“Is it lunch guy baby daddy?”

“I didn't say anything.” You chuck your gloves in the trash and coat your hands in sanitizer.

“LUNCH GUY IS BABY DADDY!”

“Katie.”

She was practically vibrating from excitement. “The betting pool is going to lose its mind!”

“There’s no betting pool.” You shoulder the door open. Usually, you wouldn't pray for a trauma but it would give her something better to do.

“There absolutely is!”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, “I hate this hospital.”

“Aw, come on,” Katie bumped your shoulder. “He’s cute! Well… not as cute as that graying doctor that sat with you at the PEDS seminar.”

“Jack? Ew!” You slam the chart onto the nursing station.

“No, listen! Help a girl out-“ a blush coats her cheeks as she tears up to make her case.

“That’s gross.” You shake your head immediately backing away.

“Doctor-“

“No!” You call as you turn the corner, leaving her to hopefully get back to work.

It’s usually freezing in the hospital. The whole idea being that diseases can’t exist if you freeze them out. It’s got some merit to it, but really it’s just to make you shake harder than your nerves already are.

Robby is supposed to meet you to pick up Mason from daycare.

Here.

In your hospital.

In front of the people who already knew too much about your life.

He’s been in your territory once, and look at the trouble it’s already caused.

Breathe.

Obviously, you would rather jump out of a plane with no parachute than do this.

Your therapist claimed this would be good for you. Then, after hearing your response, had to backtrack and correct it in a way where it was good for Mason.

It is good for Mason.

You knew that.

Two parents were better than one.

That didn’t mean you had to like it.

Still, you had moved Mason’s daycare to St. Mary’s in an attempt to grasp for some control in your quickly spinning life. Maybe because it was closer. Maybe because it was cheaper. Maybe also to shut up the annoying overly pleasant chirps his old daycare used to send constantly.

Were the updates really bad? Or was it just another spotlight on your private life?

Doesn’t matter.

Unfortunately, hospitals operated like oversized high schools with better parking and significantly more student loan debt.

Everyone knew everything.

Or at least they thought they did.

You glance at the clock as your back presses into the wall across from the daycare.

Five more minutes.

Then Robby would walk through the hospital front doors.

Five more minutes until Katie and all the staff spotted him and cashed in their prize money.

Five more minutes until half the staff accidentally found a reason to walk past daycare.

Five more minutes until your life became a spectator sport.

Awesome.

Your phone buzzes.

Robby: Here.

Your stomach drops.

Ridiculous.

You were co-parenting, not diffusing a bomb.

Still, you glance at the door automatically.

Nothing.

The hospital lobby remained exactly as chaotic as it had been thirty seconds ago.

Visitors wandered past, a volunteer pushing a wheelchair, someone dropped a stack of papers near reception.

Then a familiar voice drifted down the hallway.

“… I’m telling you, no one needs that many forms.”

You closed your eyes.

Fuck.

Robby appeared around the corner carrying a coffee carrier in one hand and a half eaten bagel in the other.

A volunteer was laughing at something he said.

A nurse smiled and held the elevator for him.

Traitorous behavior from everyone involved.

The white coat was gone now, leaving him in his black scrubs and stupid hoodie. His hair was mussed like he’s been running his hands through it all day.

He looked tired.

He also looked entirely too comfortable for a man walking into an active gossip situation.

Then he spotted you.

The soft smile appeared immediately, effortless and automatic.

Like he hadn’t just spent the last twenty-four hours making things painfully awkward.

Like he hadn’t almost kissed you in your son’s nursery.

Like he hadn’t spend breakfast apologizing every five minutes.

Just happy.

Your chest did something painfully unhelpful.

“No.”

Robby slowed as he reached you. He pops a coffee out of the holder for you.

“What?”

“You can’t smile at me like that.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know.” You huff as you take the coffee like a lifeline.

“Then why are you saying it?”

Because, unfortunately, neither of you knew how to be normal anymore. You’d bring it up in your next therapy session.

“Can we just get Mason?” You don’t wait for an answer as you tuck tail and hurry for the daycare.

Coward.

The daycare was a world of color. Bright clouds adorned the walls, kids played with multicolored blocks, tiny plastic kitchens sat around the abandoned corner. Mason sat in an offensively bright pink chair gnawing on a toy giraffe.

His entire face lit up the second he spotted you.

Both hands shot into the air as he screeches in greeting.

Well, it wasn’t actual words yet, but close enough.

“Hi buddy!” You crouch down just as Mason starts kicking his legs excitedly.

Then his attention shifts.

Brown eyes lock onto the man behind you. The squealing somehow doubles in volume.

The daycare worker behind him laughed.

“Oh good! I’m assuming this is dad.”

You both froze.

Mason, however, was practically vibrating in his chair.

“Yep,” Robby says after half a beat, offering the daycare worker a tight smile. He shifted his bag higher on his shoulder as he extended a hand. “Michael Robinavitch.”

The daycare worker shook it.

“It’s a good thing you’re both here. There are some forms I need you both to fill out.” She quickly hurries off before either of you could respond.

Silence.

You focused very hard on unbuckling Mason from his chair.

Robby focused very hard on Mason.

Neither of you acknowledged the fact that no one had questioned it.

No one asked who he was. No one had looked confused. Just, dad. Like it was obvious.

It probably was.

“Hey, little man,” Robby said, crouching beside you. “How was school?”

Mason immediately launched into an enthusiastic stream of nonsense.

“Really?” Robby asked seriously.

More babbling.

“No way.”

Another squeal.

You rolled your eyes, “he’s lying to you.”

“Is he?”

“Yes.”

Robby nodded thoughtfully.

“That tracks. He does seem dishonest.”

Mason shrieked with delight.

Drama queen.

“You lyin’, Mason?” Robby laughs as he scoops Mason up.

Mason immediately grabbed a fistfull of hoodie strings and shoved them directly towards his mouth.

“See?” Robby said. “Evidence tampering.”

Somehow, Robby managed to balance Mason in one arm while carrying the coffee container in the other.

Effortlessly.

Like he’d been doing it forever.

It had taken you weeks to learn how to juggle a baby and everything else with him. Robby had been a father for barely a month.

Fucking stupid.

“I’ve got the forms here,” the daycare attendant chirped, setting a stack of papers down on a comically small table.

You were already moving.

“I’ll handle it.”

The attendant blinked, “so you’ll both be signing-“

“Yep,” Robby answered easily from behind you.

Your fingers tightened on the pen.

Of course he would.

That was normal.

Fathers signed daycare forms.

Mason chose that moment to smack Robby on the chest.

“Ba!”

“Thank you,” Robby told him gravely. “I thought so too.”

You have half a mind to tell both of them to wait outside.

You dropped into the tiny plastic chair and instantly regretted it. Your knees hit your chin.

Across from you, Robby tried to fill out forms one handed.

“Middle name?” He asked.

“You know his middle name.”

“I know his middle name.”

“Then why are you asking?”

“Because I’m making conversation.”

“Don’t.”

Mason immediately spotted the half-eaten bagel still sticking out of the paper sleeve in Robby’s hand.

His entire body lunged.

“Oh no,” Robby laughed. “Absolutely not.”

Mason grabbed it anyway. A tiny chunk tore free on Mason’s fist.

You barely looked up from your chunk of paperwork.

“He won?”

“He always wins.”

Mason immediately shoved the bread towards his mouth.

Robby hesitated for all of half a second. Breakfast flashed through his mind.

The peanut butter.

You laughing.

Mason smacking his lips together demanding more.

“He likes literally everything.”

“Tiny garbage disposal,” you mutter.

Robby huffed a laugh. “Fine. One bite.”

Robby swiped a microscopic bit of peanut butter from the bagel onto his finger, letting Mason gum on it.

You signed another form without looking up.

Neither of you thought twice about it.

The forms seem to take ages. Every time you thought you were finished, another page appeared.

Emergency contacts.

Authorized pick ups.

Medical releases.

Finally, the three of you escaped daycare and started down the hallway towards the exit. Or at least attempted to.

“Doctor!”

You pretended not to hear it.

“Doctor!”

Katie’s cheery voice carried across the linoleum floor.

God hated you.

“Faster,” you mutter, quickening your pace.

“I have longer legs than you.” Robby huffed.

Mason was unusually quiet from where his cheek was pressed into Robby’s shoulder. He rubbed his face against the fabric of Robby’s hoodie.

Once.

Then again.

You frowned. “What is he doing?”

Robby glanced down, “Probably tired.”

You don’t have time to overthink it as Katie’s bouncy ponytail stops in front of you. “Doctor!” She beams. “Oh my goodness, and you must be Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Robby is fine,” he mutters, trying to keep you both moving.

“You should swing by the nurses’ station-“

You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself. “Katie.”

“What? Everyone thought lunch guy was a myth.” She exclaims like that made this whole situation better.

“I hate this hospital.” You groan as you tug your bag higher onto your shoulder.

Robby snorts, “As much as the Pitt?”

Katie points at the three of you then Mason, her mouth falling in an overdramatic gasp. “Okay, wow. He really does look like Dr. Robinavitch.”

“Katie.” You scold.

“Right,” she seems to straighten, “Professionalism.”

She immediately fails at “professionalism” as she wiggles her finger at Mason. “Hi, buddy.”

Mason doesn’t smile back. Weird.

“Aw,” she coos, “Someone is tired.”

You look over at Mason. He was still rubbing his cheek. Not lazily.

Persistently.

His little hand drags across his face before he buries it in Robby’s shoulder. He lets out a wheezing cough.

A knot forms in your stomach.

No.

No, that wasn’t there before.

“Mason?”

Robby shift him high, “Hey, little man.”

Mason turns his head towards his father. That’s when you see it.

A cluster of tiny red bumps around his mouth.

Maybe drool rash.

Maybe from rubbing his face.

Maybe-

“Robby.”

Something in your voice makes him look to you immediately. That’s when his eyes lock on Mason. You reach for Mason’s chin and gently turn his face towards the light.

The bumps extend across one cheek now. They seem darker now.

Angry.

Raised.

The air in the room seems to get heavy.

No.

No no no no.

Not him.

Mason lets out another wheezy cough.

“What did he eat?” Your voice comes out sharper than intended.

Robby’s eyebrows pinch together.

“Nothing abnormal-“

You see it happen. The exact second his face changes. He sees them too.

Not drool rash.

Hives.

“Oh, fuck.”

You both move. Feet pounding against the floor as you rush to the emergency department. Katie startles as Robby shoves past her.

The emergency department was three halls away.

Too far.

Farther than it had ever been before.

“MOVE!”

Heads turn as the doors to the trauma bay are kicked open. Mason’s set down on the gurney as the medical team swarms him.

Mason coughs again.

Not that sound.

You’ve heard that sound before.

And for the first time since he walked back into your life, Robby looked scared.

The air leaves your lungs on a harsh woosh. It’s like you're witnessing everything from outside your own body. All of the horrific traumas you’ve seen, and this is the one that takes you out?

Fucking move!

You faintly hear someone call for respiratory. Someone pulling supplies. Someone holding Robby back.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Every instinct in your body screams at you to move.

“Weight?”

You know his weight.

Of course you know his weight.

Why can’t you remember it?

“Possible allergen?”

You can’t answer. The room is too bright. Too cold. Your son shouldn’t be in a cold room. Why can’t you move?

Strong arms wrap around you, suddenly your feet aren’t on the ground anymore. The doors shut behind you.

No.

They can’t do that.

They can’t close the doors.

You’re a god damned doctor.

Mason is in there.

Mason is in there.

“Hey,” you don’t hear it. Two warm hands grip the sides of your face forcing your eyes away from the doors. “Hey, he’s going to be okay.”

Your eyes meet those brown eyes. Those sad sad brown eyes.

Mason’s eyes

No.

Michael’s.

“He’s going to be okay,” it sounded like you were underwater.

You faintly hear a voice that sounded like your own say, “Doctor’s can’t lie.”

“I’m not,” his voice cracks, “Baby, I’m not.”

A cry you would know everywhere sounds from trauma room three.

Mason.

Thank fuck.

The sound only lasts for a second before a doctor steps out, pulling off her gloves. You recognize her, one of the attendings.

Good.

“We’re going to keep him for observation.” She says, “the reaction responded well.”

Responded well.

Stable.

Observation.

Words you used everyday.

Words you had said to parents a thousand times.

Words that meant absolutely nothing.

The attending says something else, but you don’t hear it.

Beside you, Robby’s grip tightened on your hand. Neither of you let go.

You’d spent years learning how to save children.

Countless shifts, boards, sacrifices, and missed holidays. Every awful thing.

Mason was twenty feet away.

Twenty feet.

Mason had two parents standing twenty feet away.

That’s all.

Twenty fucking feet.

You’d moved his daycare across town because being closer was supposed to matter.

You’d picked the hospital daycare because you could get there in two minutes.

Two minutes.

Turns out twenty feet wasn’t close enough either.

All this time you had been trying to protect him. And none of it mattered.

Because the worst thing to ever happen to him happened while you were holding the other end of a pen signing daycare paperwork.

You spend years learning how to save children.

Standing outside trauma room three, it didn’t mean jack shit.

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“Five-year-old with a broken wrist!” you shouted past the entrance of the Pitt. Your two-year-old daughter was perched on your hip, your son walking shakily ahead of you.

An army of staff swarmed you in seconds, helping your son onto a gurney and gently lifting your daughter from your arms. Out of the sea of scrubs and masks, only Jack’s face anchored you. He stood by your side, his hand a steadying weight on your elbow. He was saying something like, “I’ve got this; he’s going to be alright,” but the words were muffled, lost in the high-pitched ringing in your ears. The adrenaline was cratering, and you felt as though your body might collapse at any second.

You followed the gurney into the trauma room, watching as they evaluated your son. There was no blood, nothing that raised immediate alarms, but given he was the boss’s son, the staff was working with a frantic precision.

Jack was on the boy's left, examining the injury, while you remained on the right, gripping your son's small hand. You saw Michael enter, and for a split second, there was nothing you wanted more than to be held—

“What the fuck?” Michael yelled at you. “How did he break his wrist?”

You looked up at him with widened, weary eyes. Deep down, you knew he was terrified, but on the surface, he was nothing but pure, unadulterated rage.

“Michael, he fell down the stairs. As soon as I saw him, I—”

He snapped a pair of gloves on, moving in beside Abbot. “How did he fall?”

“I—” your chest hitched, air refusing to come easily.

“You don’t even know!” he scoffed. “Did you even check his movement?”

You shook your head, unable to speak. In the background, you could hear your daughter starting to cry.

Your eyes locked with Jack’s. A knowing look exchanged in silence. He had been your confidant for the last months of your failed marriage to his best friend. You felt like sharing his ups and downs with your friends would be a betrayal of his trust, so you only went to Jack for advice. And he had helped you, until the day you told him you couldn’t hold it anymore, that you feared you’d end up hating him if you did. Even then, he remained a good friend to both of you.

“That’s alright,” Jack said, turning his focus back to your son. “Hey, champ, can you move your fingers for me?”

The boy wiggled his fingers, his eyes darting between you and his father.

“You’re a doctor and you didn’t think to check his movement?” Michael demanded, looking at you with raw hate.

The tears you’d been fighting finally broke through, rolling down your cheeks and stealing your voice while your ex-husband continued to berate you.

“Mom, you shouldn’t be here,” Jack instructed, sensing your breaking point.

“Get out,” Michael spat.

“Neither should you, Dad,” Jack glared at Robby.

You stayed rooted to the spot, locking eyes with Michael across the gurney.

“I’m staying so he’s not afraid.” Robby said.

Jack turned his entire body toward Michael. “With the way you’re talking to her mother, we’re all afraid, man. Get the hell out of here.”

Michael shook his head, taking a step back as he peeled his gloves off and tossed them into the trash. You followed him out.

“Hey, lovebirds!” Dana called from the nursing station. You turned to see her holding your daughter, who had stopped crying and was now grinning. “Go get some coffee.”

Michael practically ran to her, and your daughter reached out with chubby, desperate arms.

“Take a sandwich, hun,” Dana said, tossing a Ziploc bag your way.

You caught it and offered her a tired smile. “Wait, my car’s still in the—”

“Give me the keys,” Michael said, extending a hand. “I’ll move it and bring the diaper bag.”

You handed him the keys and took your daughter back. “Thanks.”

“Go eat something.”

You nodded. Dana walked you to the breakroom.

“The heck was that?” She asked.

You practically collapsed on the chair. Huffed. Then turned to her. “A reminder of why we divorced.”

She laid a friendly hand on your shoulder before leaving you alone.

Robby returned quickly, dropping the bag on the table and taking a seat across from you. He immediately busied himself preparing a bottle for your daughter.

“You didn’t think to tell me?” he asked, his voice low.

“I tried, Michael,” you whispered, still hiccupping through the remnants of your tears. “Maybe if you took your head out of your ass, you’d realize twenty missed calls are a fucking emergency, not a 'good morning' wish.”

“Bad word!” your daughter yelled.

The absurdity of the moment broke the tension, and you both shared a tiny, breathless giggle. Michael’s gaze scanned you—your oversized Pink Floyd shirt, biker shorts, messy bedroom hair, and bare face.

“Is that my shirt?” he asked, his voice dropping to the pitch that had once made you fall for him.

“I don’t know,” you muttered, looking down.

His mouth quirked to the side. “It is. I was asking out of courtesy.”

“And what do you want me to do? Take it off?”

He chuckled, the sound devoid of its earlier malice. “You can keep it.”

“Oh, jeez. Thanks.”

“Listen,” he cleared his throat. “I was an asshole.”

“You were.”

“I overreacted.”

“An understatement.”

“I was terrified.”

“So was I!”

“I’m sorry.”

You let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Me too.”

“Come here,” he whispered.

The moment he opened his arms, you were a magnet. You climbed into his lap, curling into him like a second home, finally letting the rest of your tears fall against his scrubs.

“I was so scared,” you mumbled into his chest.

He maneuvered your daughter out of your arms and into his own, his free hand moving in soothing, rhythmic circles against your back. “I know, honey. I know.”

“I needed you.”

“I am so sorry, baby,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Why did he fall? Was he dizzy or something?”

You pulled back, wiping your cheeks. “He…” You took a deep, jagged breath. “He heard the door and went running down the stairs. He fell.”

“Why was he running?”

“He thought it was you,” you said, grabbing a napkin to dab at your nose. “It’s a holiday, Michael. You said you’d be home for the holidays. The Amazon driver rang the bell, and he ran.”

A single, heavy drop of water landed on your hands. You looked up to find Michael crying, too.

“I forgot it was a holiday,” he whispered.

You reached up, catching his tears with your thumb. “This isn’t working, Michael,” you said, your voice trembling as you met his gaze.

“Neither were we.”

“But I can’t do this alone. That wasn’t the deal.”

“I suck at being a parent, baby.” His voice was nothing but a muffled cry.

You shook your head, “No. You don’t. You’re a great dad; horrible husband though.”

You shared a breathy laugh. Both your tears finally drying off.

“I’m starting therapy this week,” he said.

You pulled back, searching his face for a lie, but finding only sincerity. “Michael, I’m—that’s…” The words caught in your throat, so you settled for wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him close.

The breakroom door swung open, revealing a smirking Jack. “Your kid’s good to go.” His eyes scanned the two of you—you still in his lap, his hand firmly on your waist. “Get a room, you freaks.”

The ER was chaotic as usual. Staff running around, patients complained, and monitors beeped asynchronically.

You were used to it… ish. Scanning your ID badge at a workstation, you began typing up your patient notes. That was when your ex-husband, Michael Robinavitch, appeared on the other side of the central station. You caught sight of him over the rim of your glasses. He was talking with Noelle Hastings, in what you initially dismissed as a standard conversation between a case manager and an attending, until you heard her laugh.

Your mouth parted in surprise. To your left, Dana’s eyes widened. The two of you exchanged a knowing, startled look.

Dana inched closer to you. “He doesn’t even listen to anyone else when he’s talking to her,” she murmured. To prove her point, she called out, “Robby!”

He didn’t even blink.

“See?” Dana whispered.

“Well, good for him,” you said with a tight, half-smile, even as jealousy twisted in your stomach.

“Give it a try, darling. For me, please?” Dana winked, a mischievous grin spreading across her face.

“Why would I?” you asked, keeping your focus on the electronic chart.

“I have a theory.” Dana nodded, smirking.

Quirking your mouth to the side, you decided to play along. Without standing up or raising your voice, you simply called out, “Michael.”

The way his shoulders turned in your direction felt less like a force of habit and more like a force of nature. His brows pulled together, and his sad puppy eyes instantly locked onto yours.

Beside you, Dana disguised a chuckle with a poorly masked cough.

“Yes, swee—Doctor?” Michael corrected himself quickly. He walked over, leaning his forearm on the high counter just behind your monitor.

“The patient in bed twelve is good to go,” you said, keeping your tone professional. “Both she and the baby are healthy. I gave her some caring instructions, and an appointment for next month for her pre-natal care. There's no need to admit her. You can go ahead with the discharge.”

“Alright. Thank you.” His voice carried a tight, professional restraint; it sounded even, almost dull. His eyes, however, screamed that you had broken his heart and begged you to fix it.

You finally stood up from your chair, keeping the counter between you. His eyes trailed your every movement.

“One more thing,” you added.

Michael nodded, his hand drifting to the back of his neck. Oh, he was nervous.

“Do you think you could stop by the house later?”

The request clearly caught him off guard. His eyes widened, and his lips parted slightly.

“I think there’s an issue with the water heater,” you supplemented before he could get the wrong idea. “Since you fixed it last time, I thought you could take a look at it before I call a plumber?”

Both of his hands landed on the counter, as if he were steadying himself after taking a physical blow. He looked slightly dazed, trying to piece together what was happening.

“Of course,” he said, his voice dropping. “I’ll be there as soon as I wrap up here.”

You offered a sweet smile. “Thanks, Michael.”

Before he could respond, the automatic doors slid open as a gurney rushed in. Paramedics flanked both sides, bagging the patient and shouting stats as they pushed the wheels forward.

“Trauma One is open!” Dana’s voice echoed across the unit.

Michael was already moving. You didn't bother waving goodbye. Grabbing your coffee mug, you prepared to head back up to your own floor.

When you turned around, Noelle was standing right in front of you.

“Noelle.” You smiled warmly, acting as if you hadn’t just pulled a massive power move purely out of ego. A small, fleeting part of you felt guilty.

“We have plans tonight,” Noelle announced, a smug smirk on her lips.

“Oh.” You took a step back, turning toward the elevators. “Then you better hope it’s an easy fix. Otherwise, the kids and I will be showering at his apartment.”

The rain was still lashing hard as you stood under a tarp beside the clinic, little droplets catching on your bare arms. You hadn’t even noticed someone was sharing your shelter until he spoke.

“You’re new here, aren’t you?”

He was tall, with dark eyes and a face half covered by a scruffy beard.

“Is is that obvious?” You laughed softly.

“Everyone has that same look in their eyes when they start here,” he said, offering you his hand. “I’m Robby.”

A droplet of rain fell between you as you shook his hand, his grip warm and solid despite the damp chill in the air. You introduced yourself, your hand lingering in his a little too long. “My face probably screams ‘what the hell did I sign up for?’ huh?”

Robby smirked, pulling a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. “First rule of MSF - everybody panics. Second rule?” He tapped out a cigarette and offered it to you. “Share your smokes with the girl who looks like she’s two seconds away from bolting for the airport.”

The laugh that escaped you was louder than you meant it to be. “Am I that transparent?”

“Like glass,” he said, lighting his own cigarette before cupping his hands around yours to shield the flame from the rain. The brief warmth of his fingers lingered against yours even as he pulled away. “But don’t worry, it fades. Either that or we all just get too tired to run.” He exhaled smoke upwards, watching it curl away into the humid air. “So what dragged you away from America? Besides … y’know.” He gestured vaguely at the clinic behind him, where a group of kids were giggling and splashing in the muddy puddles.

You took a drag, considering how much you were willing to unpack to a stranger, debating whether he’d actually care to hear about insurance denials and burnout, and how your mom cried when you told her you were leaving. Instead, you nodded towards the little boy and girl as they shrieked with laughter. “Figure that’s as good a reason as any,” you said simply. “Even if it means trading Starbucks for instant coffee.”

Robby chuckled, watching the kids with you, before flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette. “Instant coffee would be a blessing around here,” he deadpanned. “Wait til you taste Dan’s brew. Pure battery acid.” He leaned back against the clinic wall. “But hey, at least you’ve got a decent reason to be here. Not the worst I’ve heard. Last guy said he came ‘for the safari photos’. Malaria knocked that fantasy out of him real quick.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Uhhh… two months?” he said, almost as if he’d lost count. “Kind of feels like you’ve been here forever after a while. I can give you a tour if you want one?”

You ashed your cigarette in your empty mug, holding it out for him to do the same. “Don’t worry, Dan already gave me one.”

“Ahhh but he hasn’t given you the real tour.”

Robby pushed off the wall and motioned for you to follow. You trailed behind him, biting back a smile as you tried not to stare at the tanned flesh of his neck. He turned around, almost as if he felt your eyes on him, and started walking backwards with his hands still in his pockets.

“Good evening everyone, my name is Dr. Michael Robinavitch and I'll be your tour guide on this magical mystery tour tonight. Our highlights include our only working fridge, the hammock that no one claims but everybody naps in, and-” he paused dramatically. “The secret coffee tin hidden under my bunk. That last one’s for VIPs only.”

He shot you a wink that made your cheeks flush. Before you could say anything, the kids from earlier splashed you both, giggling when Robby fake scowled at them. The little girl ducked through his legs like they were a tunnel, leaving his pants covered in wet handprints. Robby just shook his head fondly as he dusted them off. “See how much authority I have around here?”

A shout came from across camp - Dan waving urgently near the surgery tent. Robby let out a dutiful sigh, but shot you a look over his shoulder as he backed away. “Find me later if you want that coffee.”

As he turned to go, one of the giggling kids barrelled into his legs, nearly knocking him off balance. He scooped her up effortlessly, perching her on his hip as she babbled to him in Lingala. “Yeah, yeah. You get a piggyback ride.” he mock-grumbled before glancing back at you with an exaggerated sigh. “See what I deal with? No respect around here.”

You watched them go, trying to convince yourself that the fluttering in your stomach was only due to your nerves.

────────────

Night had fallen quickly after dinner, with most residents opting to retire early to recuperate before their next busy day. The rain had finally stopped around ten, leaving behind a steamy humidity that cloaked the night air. But, despite your exhaustion from travel and the knowledge that you’d be up before sunrise to help out at the clinic, sleep eluded you. Your cot was uncomfortable, the sounds of nightjars and insects you couldn’t name were so different to the steady hum of late night traffic, and every time you closed your eyes the gravity of what you’d signed up for hit you like a sledgehammer to the chest.

You finally gave up on sleep after an hour of tossing and turning, swinging your legs over the edge of the bunk with a weary sigh. The compound was quieter now, just the occasional murmur of voices from the night shift. As you stepped outside, the first thing that caught your eye was the faint orange glow of a cigarette further down the path. In the dark, you could just make out Robby's silhouette leaning back against a tree, head tipped back as he exhaled smoke towards the stars.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” you called softly, shoving your hands in your pockets as you approached.

He turned, squinting at you through the dim light before offering you a lopsided grin. “Nah. Third night here I accepted that sleep is just … optional now.” He tapped the ash off his cigarette before motioning for you to sit beside him on an overturned crate. “First night jitters or regretting all your life choices?”

The question should have burned you, but his tone was light and teasing in the way that made it impossible to take offense. You huffed a laugh instead of answering directly and reached for his cigarette pack. He didn't stop you when you plucked one free, just lit it without being asked.

“You know, when I first got here,” he started, voice low against the nighttime chorus of cicadas. “I sat on this exact crate for three hours debating whether to steal Dan’s satellite phone and call for extraction.” A beat passed as swatted a bug away. “…Then a kid with malaria got brought in … and he was so small. He was just this tiny, little guy, but you know what? He lived. He fought it and he won. And I thought that if he could deal with that, then I could deal with a little homesickness, especially if it meant helping more kids like him get better.” His shoulder bumped yours lightly. “Point is: freak outs are normal. Hell, I’d say they’re mandatory. Better than bottling them up.”

You turned your head to face him, your breath catching slightly at the earnestness in his eyes. In the distance, laughter erupted from one of the huts - a group of nurses swapping stories over smuggled whiskey. Robby’s gaze was drawn away from yours towards the noise. “Not one for mingling?”

You huffed softly. “Not tonight. Still feels like I’m playing dress-up as someone who belongs here.”

Robby snorted. “Trust me, none of us belong here. That’s the whole point.” He stretched his legs out, boots scuffing the dirt. “You think Dan knew how to suture with a fishing line before this? Or that I could diagnose measles without running a load of expensive tests? We’re all just faking it ‘til the universe stops testing us.”

“Poetic.” you quipped, earning a dry laugh from him.

“Hey, if you wanna stew in existential dread alone, be my guest. But Claire smuggled in a bottle of some questionable spirit from France last week. Pretty sure they’re debating whether to mix it with powdered milk or brave it straight.”

The corner of your mouth twitched. “Is that an invitation?”

Robby stood abruptly and grabbed your half-smoked cigarette from your fingers, ignoring your indignant noise as he stubbed it out before offering you a hand up. “Let’s go find out.”

The laughter from the hut swelled as Robby tugged you towards it. His hand was callused but warm around yours, and you found yourself holding on tighter with every step. Inside, the cramped space was lit by kerosene lamps casting long shadows on the plywood walls. A cluster of nurses and doctors sat cross-legged on frayed sleeping bags, passing around a dented metal flask. Dan - your supposedly stern team leader - was mid-story, gesturing wildly with a half-peeled banana in one hand.

“…so then the goat just stares at me,” he slurred slightly, “like I’m an idiot for leaving the IV bags outside-”

The group erupted into a mixture of groans and chuckles as Robby nudged an overturned bucket towards you with his boot before collapsing onto his own. Claire thrust the flask at you the second you sat down, her French accent thickened by liquor. “New blood drinks first!”

The alcohol, which was probable more suited to stripping walls than being used as a mixer, burned going down and the group let out a series of cheers as you swallowed with a grimace.

“You’ll get used to it,” Robby said with a smirk, plucking the flask from your grip to take his own swig without flinching. Someone tossed him a withered lime wedge and he caught it one handed, only to immediately lob it at Dan’s head in retaliation for an old slight that you hadn’t got the story of yet.

Set After:

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

There’s a pink envelope in Brendon’s hands.

They found it amongst your things after they cut you out of your clothes, folded up inside your jacket pocket. He remembers seeing you snatch it up off the table this morning, trying to hide it away from his prying eyes. He meant to ask but Whitaker was calling, telling you he was outside fifteen minutes earlier than you’d expected. You’d huffed muttering about ‘farm boi time’ before grabbing your keys and kissing him on the mouth.

That kiss… it was too brief, too fleeting.

Especially in the aftermath of everything that’s happened.

He unfolds the envelope as he sits alone in the locker room, his hands trembling as he his fingertips chase over your handwriting.

Ten Things I Love About Brendon Park:

He leaves protein bars in my pockets because he knows I get hangry.

He always lets me have the umbrella when it rains.

He talks shit about the Bengals, acting like they’ve blown up his house and kidnapped his dog everytime they score a goal.

He wears the Ravens cap my mom bought him to the gym.

He facetimes my dad for ‘cooking lessons’.

He knows all the lyrics to Mambo No 5.

He is single handedly, the most petty and devious man I’ve met.

He can tell exactly what I need without me saying a single word.

He’d make an excellent dog dad if we could ever persuade Trouble to leave Jesse and Robby and come live with us. Trust me, I am working on it.

 Despite the fact we hated each other’s guts he took one look at it me and decided I was his person. And I thank God for that every single day.

His eyes sting as he rubs his palm over his mouth, swallowing hard to stave off the sob that raises in his chest. He knows what he’s looking at, your hastily scrawled wedding vows written on the first available thing you’d picked up. You’d been so worried about messing them up but every single one of them hits him like scalpel in the heart because his woman is all about practicality and this is the only way she could contextualise her feelings.

A list of all the thing she loved about him, of all the ways he showed he cared.

The door to the locker room opens and he can feel Garcia lingering over his shoulder as he tilts his head towards her, acknowledging her presence.

“Rae’s parents are here.” She says quietly. “I’ve filled them in on what’s going on but they’re asking for you.”

“I’ll be right out.” He doesn’t recognise the sound of his own voice. It’s hollowed out, vacant. He tucks the envelope back into the pocket of his scrubs, his thumb chasing over the creases in the paper as he rises to his feet.

It’s time to face the reality of what he’s done.

It’s time to face your parents.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

You were in his house, but most of the time he knew that by evidence.

A mug in the sink that wasn’t his. The blanket on the couch folded differently than he folded it. The coffee set up for the morning without comment. A plate covered in foil in the fridge when he came home too late to eat with you, with a small note tucked beside it.

I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, so I left some pasta. It should still be good.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing that asked anything of him. Just food waiting in the fridge. Coffee ready to brew. A house that no longer looked untouched when he got back after a long shift.

And somehow, instead of making him feel crowded, it had done something worse. It had made him grateful. 

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d been coming home to until he started noticing the little pieces of you everywhere. Quiet things. Careful things. Proof that you had been there. Proof that you were still there.

That thought followed him down the sidewalk as the neighborhood sat quiet around him, blue-gray and barely awake. A dog barked somewhere two streets over. A car passed slowly at the end of the block. The air was cool enough to make him shove his hands deeper into the pocket of his hoodie.

He walked until his shoulders loosened and his thoughts didn’t.

He had a plan for the day. Clear out the spare room. Finally deal with the boxes he’d been ignoring. Make it look less like storage and more like something usable.

Jack was coming later with a truck. That was another problem. Not because of Jack. The problem was the furniture. Robby had bought furniture. A bed frame. A mattress. A dresser. A small nightstand. A lamp because the room only had the overhead light and the overhead light made everything look like bad news waiting to happen. Practical things. Normal things.

Except they didn’t feel normal the longer he thought about them. He wasn’t trying to make it permanent. That was what he told himself. He was trying to make it comfortable.

For you.

A bed that wasn’t his. Drawers you wouldn’t have to ask to use. A nightstand for water, medicine, your phone, things you’d reach for without thinking. A lamp with softer light so the room didn’t feel like somewhere you were just passing through. Small things. Practical things. Things that didn’t feel small at all. Because none of that was temporary. Not really.

It was the kind of setup you made for someone who was going to stay long enough to settle. Long enough to stop asking where things went. Long enough to feel like they didn’t have to keep one foot out the door. It was the kind of space you made when you wanted someone to feel at home. Which was where the problem started. Because wanting that, wanting you comfortable here, like this was yours as much as his, wasn’t neutral.

He dragged a hand over the back of his neck. He should have asked you. He knew that now.

Jack hadn’t understood that part in the store. Not fully. To Jack, Robby was standing in the lighting aisle overthinking a lamp like a man with too much guilt and no clear outlet for it.

“You’re overthinking a lamp,” Jack had said.

“I’m not overthinking a lamp.”

“You’ve been staring at lamps for six minutes.”

“It’s a bad lamp.”

“It’s a lamp, Robby.”

“It’s ugly.”

“It’s going in a room you currently use to store tax documents and a broken printer.”

“No,” Robby had said, too fast. “It’s going in a room she’s staying in.”

Jack had looked at him then, like maybe he was starting to catch the edge of it.

Robby’s jaw tightened.

“I don’t want her to hate it.”

“She’s not going to hate a lamp.”

“That’s not the point.”

Because it wasn’t.

The point was that Robby wanted the room to feel comfortable. Soft enough. Warm enough. Like somewhere you could close the door and breathe. Like somewhere you didn’t have to feel temporary.

And he already knew if he brought you here to pick things out yourself, you’d choose the cheapest version of everything and call it fine. You’d make yourself easy. You’d make yourself small. He didn’t want that. Still, he should have asked.

Because buying the bed, the dresser, the nightstand, the lamp, all of it, meant he had tried to make a room feel like home for you without asking what home looked like. And that was the part he couldn’t quite get around.

He wanted you comfortable. He wanted you to have somewhere to put your things without asking. Somewhere to sleep that wasn’t borrowed from him. Somewhere to close a door and have privacy instead of feeling like you were tucked into the least inconvenient corner of his life. He wanted the room to say what he was not stupid enough to say out loud yet. 

The thought followed him all the way back down the block, quiet and impossible to outrun.

By the time he reached the house, the sun had started lifting properly, pale light catching on windows and parked cars. His house sat quiet at the end of the short driveway, blue siding soft in the morning.

For one second, he stopped at the edge of the walk and looked at it. It looked the same. It wasn’t. 

He climbed the porch steps and reached for the door. Then stopped. Coffee. Fresh coffee. Not yesterday’s abandoned half-pot. Not something he had set up himself. Fresh coffee, warm and dark, slipping out through the small gap near the door like the house had exhaled.

Robby blinked once. Then opened the door.

The first thing he heard was the low murmur of the radio from the kitchen. Not loud. Barely there. Some morning station turned down enough that the voices blended into the clink of dishes and the soft scrape of something moving across the counter.

The second thing he saw was you. In his kitchen. Barefoot. Hair slightly messy from sleep, one side tucked behind your ear and the other falling loose around your face. You wore an oversized T-shirt and soft shorts, standing in front of the stove with one hip angled against the counter like you had been there longer than five minutes.

A mug sat near your hand. His mug. The chipped one with the faded hospital logo he kept meaning to throw away and never did.

There was pancake batter on the counter. A pan warming on the stove. A plate waiting beside it. You had found the butter, the coffee filters, the spatula with the melted corner. You had found enough of him to make breakfast.

Robby stood in the doorway for half a second too long. You turned at the sound of the door. And froze. Not fully. Just enough. 

Your shoulders tightened. Your hand paused around the spatula. Your eyes flicked from him to the pan, then to the mug, then back to him like you were suddenly seeing the kitchen through his eyes and realizing you might have crossed some invisible line neither of you had drawn.

“Morning,” you said.

“Morning.” Robby stepped inside and stopped like he’d forgotten how to enter his own house.

You turned back toward the stove a little too quickly. “I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“Yeah,” he said, clearing his throat. “Just went out for a bit.”

“Right.” You nodded, like that explained anything. “Of course.”

Neither of you moved.

The silence stretched long enough for you to become painfully aware of the spatula in your hand, the pan on the stove, the fact that you were barefoot in his kitchen making breakfast like that was a normal thing to do.

“I made coffee,” you said.

His eyes flicked toward the pot. “I saw.”

“And breakfast.”

“I saw that too.” He heard it as soon as he said it. Too flat. Not unkind, but not enough either.

Your shoulders lifted slightly, like you were trying to make yourself smaller without actually moving.

Robby’s jaw tightened. “Thank you,” he added, quieter.

You paused. Just enough for him to notice. Then you nodded, still not fully looking at him. “Yeah. Of course.”

Of course.

Like making breakfast in his kitchen after four days of barely speaking was normal. Like you weren’t still angry with him. Maybe you were. Maybe you were just good at being kind around it. That thought sat somewhere uncomfortable behind his ribs.

You shifted your weight, suddenly focused on the pan. “I wasn’t sure what you usually eat.”

“Usually?” he said. “Whatever’s around.”

You glanced at the plate, then back at him. “Well, good thing fresh coffee and pancakes are around.”

His mouth twitched. “Lucky me.”

“Try not to get spoiled.”

“I think it’s too late for that.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself, then looked back at the stove like the pancakes had become urgent.

Robby stayed where he was, watching you move through his kitchen like you were still asking permission for it, even as you did everything like you belonged there. He didn’t know when that had started. Or when it had stopped feeling strange.

He stepped closer, then stopped again, like the space between the doorway and the counter required more thought than it should.

“Do you want me to—”

“No,” you said quickly.

Too quickly.

You winced. “Sorry. I mean, I’ve got it.”

“Okay.”

He reached for a plate at the same time you did. Both of you froze.

You pulled your hand back first. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re fine.”

“It’s your kitchen.”

“Apparently not this morning.”

You looked at him.

He looked mildly surprised he’d said it.

Then your mouth tugged upward, small and reluctant.

“Right there,” you said, pointing to the counter.

He set the plate down with unnecessary care. “Got it.”

You turned back to the stove, shoulders a little looser now. “You can sit if you want.”

He hesitated. “You sure?”

“Yeah. I’ve got it.”

He nodded once but still didn’t move.

You glanced over your shoulder.

“…Michael.”

He blinked.

“What?”

“Sit.”

He did, almost too fast, like he’d been waiting for the instruction. And that did something strange to his chest. He picked up his fork just to have something to do with his hands, eyes dropping to the plate like it might give him something steady to focus on.

You turned back to the stove. And for a second, neither of you spoke. But the room felt different. 

Quieter. Closer.

Like something had shifted just enough that neither of you knew what to do with it yet.

You flipped the last pancake, then turned off the burner like you’d done it a hundred times in that kitchen.

Robby noticed that too.

The way you didn’t hesitate. The way you didn’t ask. The way you still looked like you were bracing for him to tell you to stop.

You brought your plate over and sat across from him. Not too close. Not far enough to feel intentional. Just… there.

He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed.

“They’re good,” he said.

It came out quieter than he meant.

You looked up, a little caught off guard. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

You nodded once, small, like you weren’t sure what to do with that. “Thanks.”

Robby dropped his gaze back to the plate. He didn’t know what any of your answers meant anymore. Not since you’d shown up. Not since you’d stayed. Not since you’d started doing things like this, making coffee, making breakfast, moving through his house like you were trying not to take up space and still somehow changing the way it felt anyway.

He took another bite just so he wouldn’t keep looking at you.

“Do you… have anything planned today?” you asked. 

Your voice was careful. Like you were stepping around something neither of you had named yet.

He shook his head, then corrected himself. “Yeah. A few things.”

You nodded, waiting.

“I was going to clean out the spare room,” he said. “Get the boxes out. Make it usable.”

Your fork slowed. “You don’t have to do that today.”

“I know.”

“It can wait.”

“Yeah.” He glanced down at his plate. “It’s been waiting.”

He hadn’t meant it to sound like that. He heard it after. You did too. Your eyes stayed on him a second longer than they should have. He didn’t look up.

“This is your first day off,” you said. “Since I got here.”

“I’m aware.”

“You could just… not do anything.”

He let out a small breath through his nose. “I don’t think I’m very good at that.”

“No,” you said softly. “I’m starting to notice.”

That almost pulled a smile out of him. Almost. He looked up then. Caught you already looking at him.

You looked away first. Back to your plate.

“I can help,” you said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You glanced back up. “I want to.”

That stopped him. Not because he didn’t believe you. Because he did. And he didn’t know what to do with that yet.

“You made breakfast,” he said.

“That doesn’t count.”

“It does.”

“It really doesn’t.” You shifted in your seat. “You’ve been sleeping on the couch for four days.”

He looked at you. “You’ve been pregnant longer than that.”

You blinked then narrowed your eyes. “That is not the same thing.”

“No,” he said, reaching for his coffee. “Mine has more back pain.”

A small laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it.

He felt it land. Felt something in his chest loosen just a fraction.

You shook your head, still smiling faintly. “I’m serious.”

“I know.”

“I can carry things.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then let me help.”

He set the mug down. “You can help by not worrying about it.”

You gave him a look. He held it for a second. Then looked away first.

“Besides,” he added, quieter, “Jack’s coming later to help.”

“Jack?”

“My friend from work.”

You nodded slowly. “Okay.”

Silence settled again. Not as sharp. Still there.

You both went back to your plates. And Robby found himself watching you again, the way you ate, slower now. The way your shoulders weren’t as tight. The way you still didn’t quite relax all the way. Like you were waiting for something to shift back. Like this could still go wrong.

He didn’t know how to fix that. Didn’t know if he could. But he wanted to. More than he expected. More than he was ready to admit out loud.

He looked down at his plate again. Took another bite. And stayed quiet, because right now, quiet was the only thing that didn’t seem to make it worse.

You cut into your pancakes again, then glanced at him like you were trying to decide whether to ask the next question.

He waited. That was easier than guessing wrong.

“Jack’s bringing a truck?” you asked.

“Yeah.”

“To move things out?”

“Some of it,” he said. “Storage unit. Donation. Trash.”

You nodded, then looked toward the hallway like you could see the closed spare room door from where you sat. “That sounds like a lot.”

“It’s mostly boxes.”

You looked back at him, a little braver now. “Are you sure you don’t want me to help?”

“No.”

The answer came out too fast.

Your eyebrows lifted.

He sighed. “I mean—no, I don’t want you lifting anything.”

“I didn’t say lifting.”

“You were going to.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

He nodded once. “Yeah.”

A reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. “Okay, fine.”

“Thank you.”

“But I reserve the right to judge from a safe distance.”

“That seems fair.”

“And make comments.”

“Less fair.”

“And possibly snacks.”

He looked up at that.

You looked down at your plate like you hadn’t meant to offer that part out loud.

Robby didn’t say anything for a second.

The house settled around you both, quiet except for the soft scrape of your fork and the low hum of the fridge.

Then he said, carefully, “Snacks are allowed.”

Your smile came back, small and unsure, but there.

“Good to know.”

He took another sip of coffee, mostly to hide the fact that he liked it. 

Liked this.

Liked you in his kitchen, arguing about boxes and making breakfast and offering snacks like you weren’t quietly rearranging the shape of his whole day. Like you weren’t making it harder and harder for him to pretend this was just temporary.

The word sat there.

Temporary.

He didn’t say it. Didn’t have to.

It was in the spare room waiting to be cleared. In the couch where he’d been sleeping. In the way you kept asking before using things and then quietly made them better anyway.

You reached for your coffee, both hands wrapping around the mug.

“So,” you said, trying for light and not quite making it. “Safe distance. Snacks. No heavy lifting.”

“Correct.”

“Very strict rules.”

“Basic safety.”

“Mm.” You took a sip. “Sounds suspiciously like control.”

Robby looked up fast enough that your expression changed. Just a flicker. Like you hadn’t meant it seriously. Like maybe you had.

His grip tightened around his mug.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said.

Your eyes held his for a second.

“I know.”

But there was something behind it. Not accusation. Not anger. Something more careful than that. Something that reminded him you had reasons to be careful. Reasons he had helped create.

He nodded once, slower this time. “You tell me if it starts feeling that way.”

You looked down into your coffee. The kitchen went quiet again. Not easy this time. But honest.

“Okay,” you said.

Robby didn’t push. He wanted to. Wanted to explain. Wanted to promise. Wanted to reach across the table and somehow make the shape of all of this less sharp. Instead, he stayed still. Let you have the quiet.

After a moment, you looked up again and gave him a small, crooked smile.

“Still judging from a safe distance though.”

His chest loosened.

“Wouldn’t expect anything else.”

“Good.”

You took another bite of pancake, and he did the same.

The silence came back, but it softened around the edges. Not fixed. Not simple. Just survivable. And maybe, for this morning, that was enough.

Robby was still thinking about what you’d said when a horn sounded outside. Once. Then again. Loud enough to make both of you look toward the front of the house.

You lowered your fork. “Subtle?”

Robby closed his eyes. “Jack.”

Another knock followed almost immediately, heavy and impatient against the door.

You glanced back at him, one brow lifting.

“He’s early,” Robby said.

“He seems patient.”

“He’s not.”

He stood, but didn’t move right away. For one small second, he looked like he wanted to say something else.

Then the knock came again.

Robby exhaled. “And now he’s worse.”

That pulled a small laugh out of you.

He looked at you when it happened. Just for half a second. Then he turned toward the door, leaving the plates on the table, the coffee still warm, and whatever had almost been said sitting quietly behind him.

By the time he opened it, Jack was already halfway inside. Solid build, posture that didn’t slump even this early, movements efficient without being rushed. He had that quiet, controlled energy of someone used to chaos and not impressed by it. The kind of man who could walk into a room and take it over without raising his voice.

Which, unfortunately, made you stand a little straighter.

Your hand moved to the hem of your shirt before you could stop it, fingers worrying the fabric once. You didn’t know this man. Not really. You only knew his name from a piece of paper taped to the fridge.

Emergency contact. Friend from work. Bringing a truck.

Your eyes flicked to Robby for half a second before settling back on Jack. 

Jack’s gaze landed on you, sharp for a second, taking in more than you wanted him to, before his expression shifted, just enough to make it easier to breathe.

“Morning,” Jack said, easy, like this wasn’t an intrusion at all.

Then, like he’d decided to make this easier on you by making it worse for Robby, he added, “You must be the famous Vegas wife.”

You blinked and then laughed, a little surprised by it. “Yeah,” you said. “The pregnant, one-night-stand edition.”

Robby dragged a hand over his face, but the sound had already gotten to him. 

That laugh. Small. Unprepared. Real.

It loosened something in him before he could stop it, even while he muttered, “Jesus, Jack.”

Jack only looked pleased with himself.

“Nice to meet you,” Jack said. “I’m Jack Abbot. One of Robby’s… three friends.”

You smiled, still a little unsure. “I figured.”

Jack tilted his head. “Oh yeah?”

“Your number’s on the fridge,” you said. “Emergency contact.”

Jack glanced at Robby, something amused and softer passing over his face. “That right?”

Robby muttered, “Don’t make it weird.”

Jack looked back at you. “Too late. Deeply honored.”

Then he nodded toward the hallway. “Guest room?”

“Yeah.”

His gaze flicked between you and Robby, catching the stiffness still sitting there.

Jack opened the door. It stuck for half a second before giving way with a soft scrape, like it hadn’t been opened in a while. He stepped just far enough to clear the frame then stopped. The room sat exactly as promised.

Boxes stacked unevenly against one wall. Some sealed, some half-open, flaps bent and curling. A desk buried under papers, cords, things that had been set down and never picked back up. A printer pushed to the side like it had offended someone. Dust catching in the light coming through the window, thin and pale across everything. It wasn’t chaos. It was… paused.

“…this is worse than I thought.”

Robby, right behind him, didn’t even look fully into the room. “Don’t.”

Jack shifted his weight, eyes moving slowly over the space, taking in more than he needed to.

“I’m not judging,” he said.

“You are.”

“I’m assessing.”

You laughed, softer this time, from just behind them, the sound filling the doorway in a way the room hadn’t been.

Robby felt it before he meant to. The tension in his shoulders eased by a fraction. His grip loosened at his side. Something in his chest, tight since he’d walked back into the house, let up just enough for him to breathe around it. He didn’t look back at you. He didn’t want to make it obvious.

Jack stepped inside, nudging one of the boxes lightly with his foot. It didn’t budge much.

He glanced back at Robby, then toward you. “Alright. Where do we start?”

Robby scanned the room, already sorting it in his head. “That wall goes to storage. Desk comes out. Everything else—”

“Absolutely not.”

Robby stopped.

You blinked. “What?”

Jack still wasn’t looking at him. His eyes were on you.

You’d already shifted forward without realizing it, hand half-reaching toward the nearest small box like maybe if it looked light enough, no one would count it.

Jack pointed toward the hallway without turning. “You’re not lifting boxes.”

“I didn’t say I was lifting boxes.”

“You had the face.”

You frowned. “The face?”

“The ‘I’m just going to grab one little thing and pretend it doesn’t count’ face.”

Robby nodded once. “You did.”

You looked at him. “I was standing here.”

“Preparing,” Robby said.

You opened your mouth. Closed it.

“…maybe.”

Jack nodded, satisfied. “Good. We’re learning honesty.”

“I can carry light things,” you tried.

“No,” Robby said.

“No,” Jack said at the exact same time.

You looked between them. “Really?”

Jack shrugged. “Two against one.”

Robby added, “Overruled.”

You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not fragile.”

“No one said you were,” Jack said easily. “We said you’re not carrying boxes.”

“That feels like the same thing.”

“It’s not,” Robby said.

You glanced at him.

He held your eyes for half a second, then looked down like he’d heard how quickly that came out. Like maybe it had been more honest than he meant it to be.

“It’s me not wanting you to carry boxes,” he added, quieter.

Something in the room tightened. Not badly. Just enough.

Jack caught it immediately. He looked away first, giving both of you somewhere else to put your faces, then pointed toward the hallway. 

“Kitchen. Couch. Somewhere not here.”

You crossed your arms lightly. “Did you just look me in the eye and send a woman to the kitchen?”

Jack stopped mid-point, hand still in the air. His expression barely changed, but something behind his eyes definitely recalculated.

Robby looked down, shoulders already giving him away.

“…I would like to withdraw that sentence,” Jack said.

“Good call,” you said.

Robby huffed a quiet laugh. The sound was small, but you heard it. So did Jack. And for a second, the tension eased again.

Jack pointed at Robby. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.”

“No, you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Maybe a little.”

You smiled before you could stop it. Robby saw that too, and something in his face softened before he looked away.

Jack turned back to you, hand still hovering like he wasn’t sure where it was safe to point anymore. “Okay. New plan. Anywhere in the house that isn’t this room.”

“That’s a little better.”

“Growth,” Jack said.

“Minimal,” Robby muttered.

You shifted back a step into the hallway, still smiling. “I’ll just… stay out of the way.”

Robby looked at you then. “You’re not in the way.”

It came out automatic. Too quick to be polished. Your smile faded into something smaller. Jack, for once, didn’t touch it.

He just cleared his throat lightly. “Safer for everyone if you supervise from a non-disastrous location.”

You laughed under your breath. Robby’s shoulders loosened again.

You glanced between them, the room feeling a little less sharp than it had five minutes ago. “You’re both very reassuring.”

“Professionals,” Jack said.

“At some things,” Robby added.

You shook your head, turning toward the kitchen. “Yell if you need anything.”

“We won’t,” Robby said.

“Water,” Jack said at the same time.

Robby closed his eyes.

You laughed again as you walked away. And this time, Robby let himself look after you for one second longer than he should have.

Jack leaned back slightly, looking toward the doorway you’d just left through.

“You two aren’t being awkward at all.”

Robby dragged a box toward him. “…this is the most time I’ve actually spent around her.”

Jack looked at him. “Seriously?”

Robby nodded once. “Yeah. We’ve mostly just passed each other before and after work.”

Jack’s gaze shifted back toward the hallway, listening to the faint sounds of you moving around in the kitchen.

“You can hear it, right?”

Robby frowned. “What.”

“The nerves,” Jack said. “Yours. Hers.”

Robby didn’t answer.

Jack shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. “At least you’re matching.”

Robby huffed quietly, shaking his head, but he didn’t argue.

From the kitchen, something clinked, ceramic against the counter, soft and careful.

Both of them stilled for just long enough to hear it.

Jack glanced at him. “Go easy.”

Robby didn’t look away from the doorway. “I am.”

Jack nodded once.

“Yeah,” he said. “I can see that.”

Then he grabbed the nearest box and shifted it toward the door.

“Come on,” he added, lighter now. “Before I start labeling your emotional baggage.”

Robby exhaled, dragging the next box after him. And the moment, whatever it had been, settled back into the quiet.

-

For the next hour, the room got worse before it got better.

Boxes came out first. One by one, then two at a time, sliding into the hallway with cardboard scraping over wood and dust lifting into the morning light. Robby made piles with the kind of focus that suggested he had rules for all of it.

Storage. Donate. Trash. Maybe.

Jack took one look at the system and immediately ruined it. He picked up a box from the maybe pile, opened it, and looked inside. Then he closed it. Then opened it again, like maybe the contents would improve on the second try.

Robby watched him. “What.”

Jack lifted his eyes. “This is seven cables and a receipt from 2019.”

“It might be important.”

“The receipt?”

“The cables.”

“For what?”

Robby paused.

Jack nodded. “Exactly.”

From the kitchen, your laugh carried down the hall. Not loud. Not fully comfortable yet. But there.

Robby pointed toward the doorway. “You’re not supposed to be part of this.”

“I’m not,” you called back, softer. “I’m just… listening from a distance.”

Jack looked toward the hall, then back at Robby. “Safe distance has ears.”

Robby shook his head, but his shoulders eased a little.

Jack held the box out. “Pick one.”

Robby frowned. “What.”

“One cable. The rest go.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“It is today.”

From the kitchen, you said, “I mean… he has a point.”

Robby turned toward the hallway. “You too?”

“Sorry,” you said, though you sounded like you were smiling.

Jack nodded. “Two against one.”

Robby stared at the box like it had betrayed him.

“…fine,” he muttered, pulling one cable out.

Jack immediately took the box. “Progress.”

“This feels wrong,” Robby said.

“You’ll survive.”

Your laugh came again. Still small. Still careful. But easier than before.

Robby didn’t tell you to stop listening this time. He just glanced toward the hallway, almost like he was checking that you were still there.

You were. Not in the room. Not in the way. But close enough that your voice kept finding them. Close enough that every time you laughed, something in Robby loosened.

The room kept shifting after that.

Boxes dragged into the hall. Old papers stacked. Dust lifted and settled again. Jack found reasons to comment on nearly everything he touched, and every so often, your voice drifted in from the kitchen.

A small laugh.

A quiet, “That sounds important.”

Or, “That sounds like trash.”

Never too loud. Never too sure. But each time, you sounded a little less like you were waiting to be told you’d stepped too far. 

Eventually, you appeared in the doorway with two glasses of water held carefully in both hands.

“I’m not lifting anything,” you said before either of them could speak.

Jack lifted one hand. “No accusations have been made.”

You glanced between them. “You both looked like you were about to say it.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “We were.”

You smiled, small but real. Robby noticed. 

You stepped only as far as the doorway, holding one glass out to him. “Water.”

He crossed the room to take it, careful not to let his fingers linger when they brushed yours.

“Thanks,” he said.

You nodded, then handed the other glass to Jack.

Jack accepted it easily. “See? You’re helping.”

“I was told morale support was essential,” you said.

“It is,” Jack said. “Vital work.”

Robby looked at the mess around them. “Is it?”

Jack took a sip. “Morale is delicate.”

You laughed under your breath. The tension in Robby’s shoulders slipped a fraction.

Jack saw it. But this time, he didn’t say anything. He just nodded toward the next box.

“Alright,” he said. “Back to brave choices.”

You stayed in the doorway for a few more seconds, looking around the room like you were trying to understand the shape of it under the mess. 

Then you stepped back. Not far. Just enough to stay out of the way. Still close enough to be part of it.

Jack reached for the next box, grunting slightly at the weight. He glanced at the label.

“Med school?”

Robby didn’t look up. “Keep.”

Jack blinked. “You don’t even know what’s in it.”

“Textbooks.”

“From when?”

“Medical school.”

Jack stared at him.

“They were expensive,” Robby said.

Jack nodded. “So were my twenties, but I let those go too.”

From the kitchen, you laughed.

Robby pointed toward the hallway. “You’re not part of this.”

“I’m morale support,” you called back.

Jack opened the box and lifted one out. “This reference material still thinks pagers are cutting edge.”

Robby reached for it. “They can go in storage.”

Jack shook his head. “One box. Not all of them.”

Robby stared at him, then exhaled. “…fine.”

Jack moved the rest. “Look at that. Progress.”

-

You made it all of ten minutes before standing still felt wrong.

The kitchen was clean. Too clean. Counter wiped twice. Dishes rinsed. Coffee pot set back where you’d found it. The sponge squeezed out and placed neatly by the sink like that mattered. Like any of it mattered.

You stood there for a second, hands resting on the edge of the counter, listening to the sound of men clearing out a room down the hall.

Boxes scraping. Jack saying something low and dry. Robby answering in that clipped, tired voice that somehow still managed to sound amused.

You couldn’t hear every word. You didn’t need to. The sound filled the house anyway. Not loud. Not overwhelming.

Just… present.

You turned slowly, looking around the kitchen.

Michael’s kitchen.

The mug you had used sat upside down on the drying towel. His coffee still smelled warm in the pot. Morning light slid across the counter, catching on crumbs you’d missed near the plate. The house felt lived in now. Not perfectly. Not permanently.

But more than before. Because of you.

That thought should have scared you. It did. A little. But not enough to make you run from it.

You moved into the living room, barefoot against the floor, and stopped near the couch where Robby had slept for four nights. The blanket was folded over the arm now, not the way he folded it. The way you folded it. Tighter. Neater. Smoothed at the corners.

Your hand reached out before you meant for it to, brushing lightly over the fabric. He had slept there because of you. Because he’d given you the room. Because he’d made a choice before you ever asked him to.

You swallowed. 

Down the hall, something thudded.

“Easy,” Robby called.

“I’m being easy,” Jack answered.

“That was not easy.”

“That was controlled impact.”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. Small. Private. Just yours. And then the quiet settled again.

You looked around the living room. The couch. The blanket. The coffee table. The shoes by the door. Your shoes next to his.

That was what got you.

Not the breakfast. Not the boxes. Not even the room.

Your shoes. Sitting there beside his like they had any right to. Like this was normal. Like you were someone who came home here.

Your breath caught in a way that embarrassed you, even alone. Your hand left the blanket and drifted down, settling against your stomach. Not because you felt anything.

You didn’t.

There was no flutter. No movement. No tiny confirmation from inside you. Just your hand. Your body. 

The truth of it.

You stood there with your palm against yourself and let the weight of the morning catch up.

You were pregnant. In Michael’s house. Listening to him clear a room for you. Not because someone forced him. Not because you begged.

Because he wanted to.

Because somewhere between panic and paperwork and all the things neither of you knew how to say, he had woken up on his first day off and decided to make space.

For you. For this. For whatever came next.

Your eyes burned suddenly, and you hated that. Not because it hurt. Because it didn’t. 

That was the problem. 

It felt soft. It felt dangerous. It felt like standing in front of a door you didn’t know how to open while someone on the other side quietly unlocked it for you.

You looked down at your hand against your stomach.

“Hey,” you whispered.

The word barely made it into the room. 

You weren’t talking to a kick. Or a heartbeat you could hear. Or anything you could hold. You were talking to the idea of someone.

To the tiny, impossible future inside you. To the part of yourself that still didn’t know whether it was allowed to want anything this badly.

“Hi,” you tried again, even softer.

Your thumb moved against your shirt. For a second, you let yourself imagine it. Not all of it. Not the big things. Not forever.

Just one morning.

A room with softer light. A drawer that belonged to you. Michael’s coffee in the kitchen. Jack making terrible jokes from down the hall. Your baby growing somewhere safe.

You, not temporary.

You, not borrowing air.

You, not apologizing for needing a place to land.

The image came so suddenly it almost knocked the breath out of you.

You closed your eyes.

No.

Not no.

Just… Careful.

Wanting was dangerous when you didn’t know what people would do with it. Wanting made you soft in places you had spent years trying to protect. Wanting turned kindness into something you could lose.

But your hand stayed where it was.

Your body didn’t move away from the thought. That scared you more than anything. Because for the first time since you’d said the words I’m pregnant, the future didn’t look like a door slamming shut.

It looked like a room being cleared. Messy. Dusty. Unfinished. But opening.

You inhaled slowly.

“One day at a time,” you whispered.

It wasn’t a promise. Not quite.

It was permission.

Permission not to run from the good just because it was good. Permission not to decide the ending before the morning was even over. Permission to stand in Michael's living room with your hand on your stomach and admit, only to yourself, that maybe some part of you wanted this house to keep sounding like this.

Like work. Like voices. Like someone making room.

Down the hall, Jack said something you couldn’t hear. Robby laughed. Not much. Barely. But enough.

Your chest tightened again, only this time you didn’t fight it. You opened your eyes and looked toward the hallway.

“Your dad’s kind of a lot,” you murmured.

The words startled you as soon as you said them.

Your dad.

You pressed your lips together, breathing through the sudden ache of it. It felt too soon. Too intimate. Too much. But it didn’t feel wrong.

That was the part you didn’t know what to do with.

A small, helpless smile pulled at your mouth.

“Don’t get attached,” you whispered.

Then, after a second, quieter…

“Or maybe… don’t listen to me.”

You stood there a moment longer, palm warm against your stomach, letting yourself have the thought without punishing yourself for it.

Then you dropped your hand. Not because the moment was over. Because you needed something to do with all of it.

You went back to the kitchen, pulled two glasses from the cabinet, and filled them with water.

Your hands were steady. Mostly.

You balanced the glasses carefully and looked once more down the hall, toward the room that was slowly becoming something else.

“Morale support,” you murmured.

It sounded like a joke. It wasn’t entirely one.

Then you picked up the waters and walked back toward the noise.

You balanced the glasses carefully and walked back toward the noise.

The hallway looked different now.

Boxes lined one side of it, some taped shut, some open, some labeled in Robby’s handwriting and some clearly relabeled in Jack’s, because one of them said DO NOT LET ROBBY KEEP THIS in thick black marker.

You slowed when you saw it.

“Really?” you called.

From inside the room, Jack answered, “Accurate labeling prevents future confusion.”

Robby muttered, “He’s been given too much power.”

You stepped into the doorway with both glasses in hand.

The room had gotten worse. Somehow. There were boxes everywhere now. Piles where there hadn’t been piles before. Dust on the floor. A stack of old textbooks near the wall. One lonely cable sitting on the desk like it had survived a war.

But under all of it, you could see the shape of something new. Floor. Actual floor. A stretch of bare wall. Sunlight falling through the window without being blocked by cardboard.

Your chest tightened again, but softer this time.

Jack looked up first, wiping his hands on his jeans. “Morale support returns.”

You lifted the glasses. “Hydration support.”

“Even better.”

Robby glanced over from where he was kneeling beside a box, and for half a second his expression changed. Not much. Just enough. Like he noticed you were quieter than before. Like he noticed something had shifted, even if he didn’t know what.

“You okay?” he asked.

The question landed gently. Too gently.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Jack looked between the two of you, then very deliberately became fascinated with the box in front of him.

Robby stayed looking at you.

You held one glass out to him. “Water.”

He took it, fingers brushing yours for barely a second. Nothing dramatic. Still, you felt it.

“Thanks,” he said.

You nodded again, then handed the other glass to Jack.

Jack accepted it easily. “See? You’re helping.”

You smiled, stepping just inside the room before remembering you weren’t supposed to. “It looks different.”

Robby followed your gaze around the room. “Different bad or different good?”

You took a second before answering. The space didn’t feel like a storage room anymore.

The wall that had been buried was finally visible, scuffed in places, a few old nail holes catching the light, but open. The floor stretched farther than it had before, wood showing through in uneven patches where boxes had been dragged away, dust pushed into soft lines along the edges.

The desk had been pulled out from the wall, its surface cleared just enough to see what it actually was instead of what had been piled on top of it. Cords were gone. Papers stacked. The clutter didn’t disappear, it just stopped owning the space.

And the window…The light came through clean now. Not filtered through cardboard or blocked by something forgotten. It cut across the room in a long strip, catching the air, the dust still settling, the edges of what was left behind.

It wasn’t finished. It wasn’t even close. But it didn’t feel stuck anymore.

“Different,” you said. “Possible.”

Robby looked back at you.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter. “That’s what I was going for.”

And there it was again. That soft thing. That dangerous thing.

You looked down first, because if you kept looking at him, the morning was going to become something you didn’t know how to hold.

Jack cleared his throat.

“Well,” he said, “before we start congratulating ourselves, we should probably move the desk.”

Robby closed his eyes. “You were so close to being quiet.”

“I know. Scared me too.”

You laughed, grateful for the interruption.

Robby stood, setting his glass on the cleared corner of the desk. “You should probably stay out there while we move the desk.”

You lifted both hands. “I know. I know. No boxes. No lifting. No standing under falling cardboard.”

You shook your head and stepped into the hallway again, but this time you didn’t go far. You stayed just outside the room, leaning lightly against the wall with your arms folded, watching as they each took one side of the desk.

Robby looked over at you.

“What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

Jack grunted as he lifted his side. “He’s checking to make sure you’re not secretly helping.”

“I am standing here.”

“That’s how it starts,” Robby said.

You smiled. Robby tried not to. Failed a little.

Together, they eased the desk away from the wall, slow and careful, wood scraping softly against the floor. And for the first time, standing just outside the room didn’t feel like being kept out.

It felt like being watched over. It felt like being included without being asked to prove you deserved to be there.

That was new. That was terrifying. That was nice.

They got the desk out after three awkward turns, one near injury, and Jack saying, “Pivot,” exactly once before Robby threatened to leave him in the hallway.

After that, the room emptied fast.

Boxes disappeared into the hall. The old chair went to the garage. The stack of textbooks got narrowed down to one, which Robby treated like a personal sacrifice and Jack called “character development.”

When the last box was gone, the room looked strange. Bare. Dusty. Open.

You stood in the doorway with a roll of paper towels in one hand and a trash bag in the other.

Robby looked at you. “What are you doing?”

“Cleaning.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

Jack leaned against the doorframe. “I’d let this one go.”

You pointed at him with the paper towels. “I’m not lifting anything.”

Robby narrowed his eyes.

“I’m wiping,” you said. “Very low-risk activity.”

Jack nodded. “Historically safer than lifting.”

Robby sighed. “Fine.”

So you cleaned. Not because anyone asked you to. Because the room felt like it needed it.

You wiped dust from the windowsill while Robby swept the floor, pushing thin gray lines into a growing pile by the door. Jack moved in and out of the room with trash bags, the space gradually emptying of everything that didn’t belong.

The window resisted at first, then gave with a stubborn scrape. Fresh air slipped in, cool and clean, stirring the dust in the sunlight and pulling the stale cardboard smell out of the room.

For the first time, it didn’t look like a storage room. It looked like a room waiting for someone.

Jack clapped once. “Alright. Now we make it worse again.”

You looked at him.

He grinned. “Furniture.”

“Furniture?”

Jack nodded toward the door. “Come see.”

You hesitated, but then followed.

The truck was open. And it wasn’t random. A mattress. Still wrapped. Boxes stacked in clean lines. A dresser that had been picked, not grabbed. A lamp sitting on top like someone had thought about where it would go.

You stared at it longer than you meant to.

“Oh.”

Robby shifted beside you. “I should’ve asked what you liked.”

You looked at him.

He didn’t quite meet your eyes. “I didn’t want to overcomplicate it. Just… get something in here.”

You looked back at the truck. At the mattress. The dresser. The nightstand. The lamp. At the way everything had been chosen like it mattered.

“If you hate any of it,” he added, quieter, “we’ll take it back.”

You blinked.

“All of it,” he said.

That got you to look at him again.

Robby’s hand moved to the back of his neck. “I mean it.”

You swallowed, then looked back at the truck.

“I don’t hate it,” you said softly.

For a second, neither of you moved.

“It works.”

Robby nodded once, like he was taking that in. But he didn’t move.

“Does it feel… like too much?” he asked, careful.

You shook your head.

“No,” you said. “It feels like you thought about it.”

That hit him. You could see it.

He glanced away first this time, like he didn’t quite know what to do with that.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”

The quiet stretched just long enough to feel full.

You nodded once. “Thank you.”

Robby looked like he almost asked something. Then didn’t.

You glanced back at the truck. “We should probably start bringing it in.”

“Yeah,” he said.

Jack cleared his throat loudly. “Hey, Romeo, a little help would be nice.”

Robby didn’t look back at you. He just stepped forward and took the other end.

You stepped out of the way. But your eyes stayed on him. On the way he moved. Careful. Steady. Like this wasn’t just a task. Like it meant something. You hadn’t expected that. Not from him. Not like this.

They carried the first piece inside.

Came back out for the next. And you stayed there, watching the room change before it even existed.

The first box went in. Then another. And another. You lost count after that. You just watched.

Watched Robby move back and forth between the truck and the house, steady, focused, careful in a way that didn’t feel like habit.

It felt like intention. That was the part that stayed with you. Not the furniture. Not the effort. The intention. You hadn’t expected him to go this far.

Robby came back for another box and paused when he reached you.

“You okay?” he asked.

You nodded. Your voice didn’t trust itself yet.

He studied you for half a second, then nodded back, like that was enough. And kept moving.

When they disappeared back down the hall for the last trip, you stepped into the room.

It was still in pieces.

Boxes stacked. Frame unbuilt. The mattress leaning against the wall. Not finished. But not empty.

You moved slowly, like the space might change if you rushed it. Your hand brushed the edge of the nightstand as you passed.

Solid. Real. Yours.

You stood there for a second longer than you meant to. Then exhaled, quiet. And didn’t step back out.

-

Jack set the last box against the wall and wiped his hands on his jeans.

“Alright,” he said. “That’s everything out of the truck.”

You looked around the room. “It looks like a furniture store exploded.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “But tastefully.”

Robby gave him a look. “That’s not helpful.”

“It is emotionally helpful.” Jack glanced at you, then nodded toward the boxes. “I’ll come back tomorrow and help put it together.”

You blinked. “You don’t have to do that.”

Jack smiled. “I know.”

Then he looked at Robby. “But he’s old, and I don’t trust him alone with instructions.”

Robby stared at him. “You’re forty-five.”

“Exactly,” Jack said. “Young and experienced.”

Jack grabbed his keys off the counter like he’d been there a hundred times instead of just that morning.

“Try not to make it weird,” he said, already halfway to the door.

Robby didn’t look at him. “Leave.”

Jack paused long enough to glance back at you. “I’ll be back tomorrow. We’ll get it put together.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

Then he was gone.

The door shut, and just like that, the house went quiet. Not empty. Not uncomfortable. Just… quieter.

You stood where you were, listening to the absence of movement. No footsteps. No boxes shifting. No voice cutting through the space to keep things moving.

Robby moved first. He crossed back toward the room, pushing one of the boxes a few inches with his foot like he needed something to do with his hands.

“Sorry,” he said.

You blinked. “For what?”

He shrugged, not looking at you. “All of it. Today. Just—” He gestured vaguely toward the room. “I didn’t mean to take over.”

You leaned lightly against the doorway. “You didn’t.”

He glanced up.

You held his gaze. “You made space.”

Robby exhaled slowly, like something in his chest had loosened just enough to let air through.

“Yeah,” he said.

The quiet settled again.

You pushed off the doorway and stepped into the room. The boxes were stacked where they’d been left. The mattress leaned against the wall, still wrapped. The lamp sat on the nightstand like it was waiting for someone to turn it on.

You reached out without thinking, brushing your fingers lightly along the edge of the dresser. Solid. Real.

You pulled your hand back.

“It’s a lot,” you admitted. “Thank you.”

Robby nodded. “Yeah.”

But he didn’t say it like it was a problem.

You looked around the room again. Not finished. Not set up. But yours. At least for now.

You glanced back at him. “You don’t have to sleep on the couch tonight.”

Robby shook his head immediately. “It’s fine.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” He gave a small shrug. “So do I.”

That stopped you. Not defensive. Not stubborn. Just decided.

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Another quiet moment settled between you. Different from before. Not as sharp. Just unfamiliar.

You stepped back toward the doorway, hands brushing together like you needed something to do with them.

“Do you—” you started, then stopped.

Robby looked at you. “What?”

You shrugged a little, glancing toward the kitchen. “I could make dinner.”

It wasn’t a strange offer. You had made breakfast. You had already been in his kitchen. Already learned where some things were. Already filled his fridge with groceries neither of you had quite talked about.

Still, the words came out softer than you meant them to. Like you were checking if the day had changed the rules.

Robby’s brows pulled together slightly. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.” You nodded. “I just want to. If that’s okay.”

He studied you for a moment.

Then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

You let out a small breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Okay.”

He shifted, pushing off the wall. “I’ll help.”

You shook your head immediately. “You’ve been lifting furniture all day.”

“I can still stand in a kitchen.”

“That’s exactly what I’m trying to prevent,” you said lightly.

His mouth twitched.

“Sit,” you added, nodding toward the living room. “I’ve got it.”

Robby hesitated. Then, for once, didn’t argue.

“Alright,” he said.

You gave a small nod and turned toward the kitchen, already scanning what was there. Behind you, you heard him move. Not toward you. Toward the couch.

For the first time that day, doing something for him didn’t feel like proving anything. It just felt normal. Or close to it.

You moved into the kitchen. Robby didn’t follow. He stayed just outside it, one shoulder against the wall, arms crossed loosely because he needed somewhere to put his hands.

Watching.

You opened the fridge without hesitation. That caught him first. Not because opening a fridge mattered. It didn’t. But because you didn’t pause before doing it. You didn’t look back at him for permission. You didn’t ask if it was okay.

You just opened it. Like you knew what was inside. Like you had a reason to know. 

Of course you did.

You’d gone grocery shopping. You had filled the drawers and shelves with things that hadn’t been there before. Food he hadn’t bought. Food he wouldn’t have thought to buy. Small things. Normal things. Domestic things.

Robby let out a slow breath through his nose. That word had been following him all day.

Domestic.

It shouldn’t have fit.

Not with the mess of how this started. Not with Vegas and paperwork and pregnancy tests and the kind of history that made both of you stand too carefully in the same room.

But it did. 

It fit when he came home and found coffee waiting. It fit when you made breakfast in his kitchen like you were still afraid to want the right to be there. It fit when you stood in the doorway of that cleaned-out room and said it looked possible. It fit now, watching you pull things from the fridge and set them on the counter like this was a house that belonged to more than one person.

He didn’t know when you had stopped being angry with him. Maybe you hadn’t. Maybe it was still there, tucked under politeness and pancakes and the fact that Jack had been around all day making it easier not to look straight at anything. Maybe you were tired. Maybe you were being kind because that was what you did when you didn’t know what else to do.

Maybe the anger hadn’t gone anywhere. Maybe you had just learned how to carry it quietly.

That thought sat badly in his chest.

He watched you reach for a pan. Watched your hand move across the handle before you set it on the stove. Steady. Calm. Like you weren’t standing in his house after he had already given you reasons not to trust him. Like you weren’t carrying his child.

That thought landed heavier. His eyes dropped before he could stop them. Not long. Just a flicker. To your stomach.

There was nothing to see yet. Nothing obvious. Nothing changed enough for the world to know. You were still just you in soft clothes, hair slightly loose from the day, moving around his kitchen with groceries you had bought and a quietness he didn’t know how to read.

But he knew. And once he knew, he couldn’t unknow it. The baby was there in every decision now. In the room down the hall. In the dresser still in pieces. In the lamp he had chosen after standing in a store for six minutes like the wrong shade of beige might ruin both your lives. 

In the way he wanted to ask if you were tired.

If you were hungry. If you were scared. If you still felt angry. If you wanted any of this to stay. Not him. Not like that.

He wasn’t asking for romance. He wasn’t asking to be loved. He wasn’t asking you to forgive him on a timeline just because he had cleared out a room and bought furniture.

That wasn’t what this was.

Or maybe it was the beginning of something, but not that. Not yet.

What he wanted was simpler. Harder. He wanted to learn how to be better for you.

Not in a grand, polished, overnight way. Not in a way that erased what had happened or made any of this suddenly easy. He wanted to learn how to be steady. How to listen without defending himself. How to help without taking over. How to be present without making you feel trapped by his presence.

He wanted a relationship built around trust before anything else. Respect before expectation. Safety before closeness. He wanted to be enough as a partner. As the person standing beside you when things got hard. As the father of your child.

Not perfect.

Not suddenly transformed into someone who knew what to say. 

Just enough.

Enough that you didn’t feel alone. Enough that the room didn’t feel borrowed. Enough that when you opened his fridge, you didn’t feel like you had to apologize for taking up space.

You cracked something into a bowl, the small sound too sharp in the quiet kitchen.

Robby shifted against the wall.

You didn’t look back.

“You can sit,” you said.

He blinked, dragged back into the room.

“I am sitting.”

You glanced over your shoulder. He was still standing. Your eyes moved over him once, slow and unimpressed.

“That’s not sitting.”

“It’s close.”

“It’s leaning.”

“Adjacent.”

A small smile touched your mouth before you turned back to the counter.

There it was again.

That ease. That tiny thing you gave him without warning. 

He didn’t know what to do with it.

All day, little moments had kept happening before he could prepare for them. You laughing at Jack. You teasing him about his back. You standing beside the truck and saying the furniture worked. You looking at the room like it scared you and mattered to you at the same time.

Every time, Robby had found himself wanting one more second. One more laugh. One more glance. One more piece of proof that maybe you felt it too.

Not romance. Not yet. Just the shift. The house changing around both of you. The shape of something less hostile than before.

The stove clicked on.

You moved through the kitchen slowly, comfortable enough to know where some things were and careful enough to still avoid opening the wrong drawer. That nearly undid him more than confidence would have.

Because you were still learning the space. Still negotiating with it. Still not fully certain. And he wanted to give you that certainty so badly it made his chest ache.

“You went grocery shopping,” he said.

It came out quieter than he meant.

You glanced back. “Yeah.”

“Thank you.”

Your mouth twitched faintly. “I figured you would eventually.”

He nodded once. The quiet stretched. Then stretched again.

“You didn’t have to,” he said.

You looked down at the counter. “I know.”

There it was again.

I know.

The same thing you said when you did something anyway.

He wondered how many things in your life you had done because you knew you didn’t have to, but still felt like you should. He hated that thought.

You reached for a spatula. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is,” he said.

You paused. Not fully. Just enough.

Robby pushed off the wall, but didn’t come closer.

“I mean…” He exhaled softly, choosing the words with more care than he was used to. “It makes the house feel different.”

You didn’t turn around right away. The pan warmed between you. The smell of butter started to fill the kitchen. When you finally looked back, your expression was guarded.

Not cold. Not angry. Just careful. Like you were deciding whether the floor would hold if you put weight on it.

“Different good or different bad?” you asked.

He almost smiled at the echo of earlier. But he didn’t. Because this one mattered.

“Good,” he said.

Your eyes stayed on him.

He held them.

“It feels good.”

The words were simple. Too simple for what they did to the room.

Your fingers tightened lightly around the spatula. Robby saw it. Filed it away. Didn’t push.

You looked away first, turning back to the stove.

“Okay,” you said softly.

Again, he didn’t know what that meant. But this time, he didn’t need to force it into an answer. The food cooked quietly. You moved. He watched.

And the whole time, the same thought stayed with him…

I don’t want this to end.

Not the cooking. Not the room. Not the sound of you in his kitchen. Not the baby, still invisible and already changing everything. Not the fragile, half-built trust between you that neither of you had named because naming it would make it too real too fast.

He wanted time. That was all. 

Time to prove he could be steady. Time to prove he could listen. Time to prove he could be more than the man who made the mess. Time to become someone you could trust beside you.

Not in front of you. Not over you. Beside you.

You plated the food without ceremony, then turned with one plate in your hand.

Robby stepped forward before you could call him over.

Your fingers brushed when he took it. Barely. But neither of you moved away right away.

His thumb hovered near yours for a second longer than necessary.

“Thanks,” he said.

Your eyes lifted to his.

“Yeah.”

The silence settled between you. Small. Full. The kind that felt like a question neither of you was ready to ask.

Robby looked at you and wondered if you felt it too. 

If the house felt different to you. If this morning had gotten under your skin the way it had gotten under his. If some small, cautious part of you wanted this to last longer than the arrangement. Longer than convenience. Longer than temporary.

He wanted to ask. He didn’t. Instead, he nodded toward the living room.

“Couch?”

You looked at him for a second longer than you had to. Then nodded.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Couch.”

And when you followed him out of the kitchen, plate in hand, Robby let himself hope.

Just a little. That you weren’t only staying because you had nowhere else to go.

The living room felt smaller with both of you in it.

Not cramped.

Just aware.

Robby sat at one end of the couch, his plate balanced carefully in one hand, the remote loose in the other. You sat at the opposite end with your knees angled slightly toward the coffee table, your plate resting in your lap, both of you leaving enough space between your bodies to pretend the distance wasn’t intentional.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

Forks moved quietly against plates. The refrigerator hummed from the kitchen. Somewhere down the hall, the room sat full of unopened boxes and things neither of you knew how to name yet.

Robby shifted first. Not much. Just his thumb moving over the remote. His eyes stayed on his plate for a second longer, like he was deciding something ordinary. Then he lifted the remote and turned the TV on.

The screen bloomed to life, filling the quiet with color. Low volume. Barely more than a murmur. A woman in an expensive kitchen pointed at another woman like the fate of the world rested on whether someone had been invited to brunch.

You glanced at the TV. Then at him. He didn’t look embarrassed exactly. But he didn’t look proud either. His jaw shifted once, like he was waiting for you to say something.

You looked back at the screen and held your fork a little tighter than necessary.

“I noticed something,” you said carefully.

Robby’s eyes moved to you. Not all the way. Just enough.

“What?”

You kept your gaze on the TV because it felt safer there. “You always have something on.”

His thumb stilled on the remote.

“The TV,” you added softly. “Or music. The radio sometimes.”

He didn’t answer.

You wished immediately that you had found a better way to say it.

“I don’t mean that like I was keeping track,” you said. “I just… noticed.”

Robby looked back at the screen.

The TV light moved over his face, catching the tiredness around his eyes, the hard line of his mouth, the part of him that was sitting beside you and the part that was somewhere else entirely.

He drew in a slow breath. Let it out through his nose.

“Yeah,” he said.

One word. Careful. You didn’t push.

Your fork rested against the edge of your plate. Your food had gone warm instead of hot, but you couldn’t quite make yourself take another bite.

Robby’s hand shifted around the remote. He turned it once in his palm, then set it down between you on the couch cushion. Like he didn’t trust himself to hold it.

“It gets…” He stopped.

His eyes stayed forward.

The woman on TV laughed too loudly at something no one in the room seemed to find funny.

Robby swallowed.

“It gets too quiet sometimes,” he said finally.

The words were so simple. So plain. But they changed the room anyway.

You looked at him then. Not quickly. Not sharply. Just enough to let him know you were listening.

Robby didn’t look back.

“When it’s quiet,” he said, slower now, like every word had to be pulled out and checked before he gave it to you, “my head gets loud.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t say anything. You were afraid if you spoke too fast, he would take it back.

He shifted his plate from one hand to the other, then set it carefully on the coffee table. The small sound of ceramic against wood seemed too loud.

He leaned back, but not like he was relaxed. More like he needed the couch behind him.

“The noise helps,” he said.

His voice was lower now. A little rougher.

“Gives me something else to listen to.”

You looked at the TV again. At the bright kitchen. At the expensive clothes. At people arguing about something that probably did not matter and somehow mattered enormously to them.

You understood it differently now. Not the show. 

The need for it. The need for anything that could stand between a person and their own thoughts.

Your fingers loosened around your fork. You thought about your own head. How quiet could turn mean if you gave it enough room. How fear knew your voice well enough to imitate truth. How sometimes the worst things you heard were the things no one else said out loud.

You didn’t know what Robby’s thoughts sounded like. You wouldn’t pretend you did. But you could imagine they weren’t gentle. Not if he needed the TV this loud, this often, this automatically. Not if silence made him reach for noise before he even thought about it.

You set your plate down too. Slowly. Carefully. Not because you were finished. Because this felt like something you should have both hands for.

“Michael,” you said softly.

His name changed something. It always did.

His eyes moved to you then. Fully this time.

You held his gaze for as long as you could, then looked down at your hands.

“I get that,” you said.

He didn’t answer.

You rubbed your thumb over the side of your palm, trying to find the right words before they became too much.

“I mean, not…” You shook your head once. “Not exactly. I’m not saying I know what it sounds like for you.”

His face stayed still. But his attention sharpened.

You felt it. You kept going carefully.

“I just know quiet can get mean.”

Robby’s expression changed. Barely. But enough. His eyes dropped for a second, then came back to you.

You let out a breath.

“And sometimes,” you said, voice smaller now, “it helps to have something else in the room.”

The TV murmured between you. Not interrupting. Not covering. Just there.

Robby looked at you for a long moment. He looked like he wanted to say something. He didn’t. Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe neither of you did.

So you gave him something smaller. Something easier to hold.

“If it ever gets too loud,” you said, and stopped because the sentence felt bigger once it was in the air.

Robby didn’t move. Didn’t blink away.

You swallowed.

“I can help make it quieter.”

His eyes stayed on yours. Still. Too still.

You hurried, but softly, afraid of making it sound like a promise you had no right to make.

“Not fix it,” you said. “I don’t mean fix it. I just mean…”

You looked toward the TV, then back down at your hands.

“I can sit with you.”

The words were almost nothing. They felt like everything.

“Or we can talk,” you added. “Or not talk.”

Your mouth twitched faintly, nervous now, needing somewhere for the weight to go.

“Or watch Housewives.”

Robby’s gaze finally broke. It dropped to the TV. For the first time, his mouth moved. Not a smile. Not yet. But something close enough to feel like one.

“It’s not what you think it is.”

You glanced at him, careful but a little amused. “Michael.”

His eyes flicked back to you.

“You have it on enough that I’m starting to think it’s exactly what I think it is.”

This time, the almost-smile stayed.

“It’s background noise.”

“Mm.”

“It is.”

“I didn’t argue.”

“You made a sound.”

“I made a very neutral sound.”

He glanced at you, and for once there wasn’t as much guardedness in it. Still there. Just not as sharp.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said.

“A little.”

The corner of his mouth lifted, quiet and reluctant. 

On the screen, someone gasped loud enough to make both of you look over.

You frowned. “Wait. Why is she mad?”

Robby exhaled through his nose, almost laughing. “You don’t have the context.”

“Then give me the context.”

He looked at you again. Longer this time. Like he was still deciding what to do with the fact that you had offered to sit inside his noise with him.

Then he shifted back against the couch, plate balanced in his lap, voice low and careful.

“Alright,” he said. “But you can’t take it back now.”

You nodded once, settling back a little deeper into your side of the couch, plate in your lap, eyes moving to the screen like you were actually ready to learn.

“Start from the beginning.”

Robby huffed quietly under his breath, but it wasn’t annoyed.

Not really.

“Okay,” he said. “So she didn’t invite her on purpose—”

You leaned forward slightly, immediately invested.

“—but she’s saying it was an oversight, which it wasn’t—”

“That feels intentional,” you said.

“It was.”

“I knew it. That bitch.”

Robby shook his head, but there was something softer in it now. “You’re not supposed to pick sides this fast.”

“You didn’t say there were rules.”

“There are always rules.”

“Then you should’ve explained them first, Michael.”

His name slipped out without hesitation this time. Not careful. Not second-guessed.

Robby stopped for just long enough to feel it. Then kept going.

“Alright. New rule. No forming strong opinions in the first five minutes.”

“Too late.”

“I can see that.”

You both looked back at the TV. Your shoulders weren’t pulled in as tight anymore. His weren’t either. The space between you hadn’t changed. But it didn’t feel like distance the same way it had before.

It felt intentional. Like something being held instead of avoided.

The TV kept talking. You asked questions. Robby answered them, quieter than he probably would have with anyone else, like he was still aware of how close this moment sat to something fragile.

Every now and then, you laughed. Not loud. Not forced. Just enough. And every time you did, something in his chest eased before he could stop it.

You didn’t notice. Or maybe you did. You didn’t say anything about it either way.

The episode moved on. Voices rose and fell. Arguments built and dissolved into something else. And underneath it, something quieter settled in the room.

Not silence. Not tension.

Something in between. Something shared.

You leaned back eventually, plate empty, eyes still on the screen but softer now.

You weren’t really watching anymore. You were listening.

To the TV. To him. To the way the house sounded with both of you in it.

Different.

You didn’t say that out loud. You weren’t ready to.

Robby glanced at you once. Then again, a second longer. Like he was checking. Not what you were doing. That you were still there.

You were. 

You didn’t move away.

On the screen, someone started yelling again.

You tilted your head slightly. “She’s wrong, right?”

Robby huffed out a quiet breath. “Completely.”

“Knew it.”

You settled back, a little more comfortable in your corner of the couch.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The TV filled the space. But it wasn’t doing all the work anymore.

Robby didn’t turn it up. Didn’t reach for the remote. Didn’t feel the need to. That was new.

He sat there, listening to the noise, to the show, to your quiet presence beside him, and realized the room didn’t feel like something he had to manage anymore.

It just existed.

And so did you.

Not passing through. Not temporary in the way he had told himself to expect. Just there.

Close enough that he could hear your breathing when the TV dipped quieter between scenes. Close enough that he didn’t feel the need to fill every second of silence before it started.

He didn’t know what this was yet. Didn’t try to name it. Didn’t want to rush it into something it wasn’t ready to be. But for the first time, the thought didn’t come with pressure.

Just something steadier.

Quieter.

If this was what it felt like to not be alone in his own head, he wasn’t in a hurry to break it.

You kept your eyes on the screen, but you weren’t really watching anymore. You were listening. To the voices. To the way they filled the room without crowding it. To the way the quiet in between didn’t feel as sharp as it had before.

And to him.

Not what he was saying.

Just… him.

The way he shifted sometimes. The way his voice lowered when he explained something. The way he didn’t reach for the remote again.

You noticed that. You didn’t comment on it. You just let it sit there. Like something you didn’t want to scare off. Your hand rested loosely in your lap, thumb moving once over your palm without you thinking about it.

The house felt different.

You had said that earlier. You meant it more now. Not because of the furniture. Not because of the room.

Because of this.

This noise. This shared space. This small, careful understanding neither of you had pushed too far.

You didn’t know what it would turn into. You didn’t try to.

For once, you didn’t feel the need to decide the ending before you let something begin.

You just sat there. And let it be enough.

For now.

Set After:

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

In for five.

Hold for five.

Out for five.

That’s how Brendon gets his hands to stop shaking. A simple breathing exercise taught to him by his grief counsellor for the nights he’d wake up and remember that Toby wasn’t alive. It works right here, in the midst of all the chaos as he holds a saw in his hands, preparing to amputate his fiancée’s leg.

“Ketamine’s kicking in.” Whitaker says as Abbot ties off the red tourniquet below your knee. It’s nothing more than blood and viscera underneath the joint. He can see the bone protruding through ravaged muscle, a flash of white amongst the meat.

“Rae, Whitaker is going to tell you the bison story, ok?” Brendon says softly as he watches the blood flow to your right leg start to staunch. Your eyes roll towards Whitaker, fastening on him as he clasps your hand tightly in his. “I want you to close your eyes and listen to him, try to envision what he’s telling you.”

Whitaker launches into the story about a baby bison named Phyllis, one that gate-crashed his small wedding reception back on his Nana’s farm. You love that story, you love the hijinks and mischief that can come from something so small but determined.

“Are you sure, you want to be the one to do it?” Abbot asks him as he checks your stats on the monitor. They’re staying steady for now, but he knows the decline is coming, that the longer you stay here the more blood your lungs soak up.

“You just told me your last amputation was fifteen years ago during a tour in the Middle East.” Brendon reminds him, using one hand to adjust his plastic safety glasses. “It needs to be me.”

“Well, we both know she’s in good hands.” Abbot murmurs as he shifts into position alongside the EMTs. Things are going to move fast once he amputates the leg, they’ll get you straight out and onto the waiting stretcher so they can work on the internal bleeding.

“Alright, here we go.” Brendon murmurs as he his finger on the trigger of the saw.

It jumps to life in his hands, the familiar thrum oddly comforting as he begins the process of removing the limb. He moves with precision, muscle memory kicking in as his mind dissociates from everything but the task at hand. The stench of burned hair, heated iron and wet chalk permeates his nostrils but Brendon, he’s used to that, just like he’s used to the taste of Fritos on the back of his tongue when he makes it through to the marrow.

The limb detaches, a clean break away from the remaining flesh. The saw clicks off, and he pulls away from the confined space, allowing Abbot and the paramedics to rush into the space. He sets the bloody saw back into his kit as you’re pulled free from the car and loaded onto the stretcher. Your eyes rove, finding his and you flash him the dopiest fucking smile on this earth, as if he hasn’t just maimed you, as if he hasn’t just changed your life irreparably. His eyes sting and his throat burns, his stomach roiling as his gaze lands on the bloody stump.  

“You know it was the right call.” Whitaker says from alongside him, blood matting his dirty blond waves. There’s lacerations on his face, from the glass exploding in the passenger seat window Brendon suspects. “She’s fit, healthy, she’ll come back from this.”

“I know.” He whispers.

The problem is, he’s not sure that he will.

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

So far, mixed results.

Charity Hospital was alright. The patients there made him feel needed. The Attendings had things to teach. The place never slept- just a never-ending revolving door of random shit that seemed to crawl out of the swamp. Robby was pretty sure he had seen a ghost at one point, he tried not to think about it.

The problem was over a hundred miles away and insisting frequent communication would “shorten the distance.”

Buzz. Buzz. BUZZ!

What the hell did she want?

Steph: Michael, we really should talk this out.

Steph: It was a little spat.

Steph: I talked to your Bubbe-

Fuck, he should have bought a second pack. Smoke filled his lungs, dulled the edge just enough. 

He didn’t want to deal with home.

He’d taken the residency in New Orleans partially to get away from all the baggage up north. Bubbe cooing about how “She’s such a nice girl, Michael!” and “It’s time to get serious about things,” and Stephanie only encouraged it. He should have picked a different girl to date. One that wasn’t so codependent. 

Were they still together?

…He hadn’t exactly ended things.

He also hadn’t answered any of her messages since he got here. 

She had been pretty pissed about him applying here, then saw red when he took it. Fuck if he knew.

What was he supposed to do?

Not further his career? Not take a once in a lifetime opportunity. Fuckin’ bullshit if you ask him. 

God his ears are still ringing from her screeching through the phone on his lunch break.

“Can I bum a smoke?”

He held the pack out without looking. Two fingers held up a dollar bill to him. He shook his head, waving them off. The faster this interaction was over then the faster he could hop the streetcar and pass the fuck out in his own bed.

“You have a light?” 

Fuck off already. 

He flicked it open. A hand settled lightly around his wrist as the stranger leaned in.

He really shouldn’t have looked.

He did anyway.

And that- yeah, that was a mistake. 

His entire body felt like it was turning to stone by the second when he caught sight of the most mesmerizing eyes he had ever seen. 

“Thanks,” you said as you let go of his wrist and settled against the concrete wall outside of the hospital.

‘Didn’t catch your name?” 

“I didn’t offer it.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, leaning beside you. His legs suddenly felt like jelly, but later he would attribute it to exhaustion. “You can bum a cigarette, but I don’t get to know your name? That doesn’t feel like a fair trade.” 

Come on, Michael make the play.

“You handed me a cigarette, not a nametag.”

“Ah,” he nodded. “Strictly business, then.”

You turned, flashing those eyes at him again, finally- quick assessing. “Is this how you usually handle your business deals?”

That threw him, just enough. He covered it with what he hoped was a charming smirk. “Depends. You planning on paying me back?”

“You didn’t want my dollar.”

You held the cigarette up between two fingers. “You want it back half-finished or-”

“Tempting,” he cut in, eyes flickering to your mouth before he could stop himself. “I think I can take the loss though.”

“Good,” you said, taking another drag. “I’m not in the business of owing random men on the street.”

“Yeah?”

“Men who keep score over a cigarette usually expect more.”

He barked out a short laugh at that. “You always assume the worst, or am I the expectation?”

“You lit a cigarette like you were trying to start a fight,” you said. “What do you think?”

Fair.

He tilted his head, studying you properly now. “That’s on me. Rough day.”

You take a moment to let your gaze rake over his form. Tall, a little stringbeanish, and definitely rough around the edges, but not bad on the eyes.

“I said I didn’t want to owe you,” you replied. “I didn’t say I wasn’t curious.”

He smiled at that- small and real. “I hear curiosity is a dangerous habit.”

“So is whatever you’ve got going on,” you shot back.

“What I’ve got going on?”

You gestured vaguely- to him, the cigarette, the hospital behind him. “This whole… dumped puppy thing.”

He let out a quiet breath, glancing past you toward Charity Hospital. Ambulance lights flickered somewhere down the street.

“I am not a ‘dumped puppy.’”

“No? Could’ve fooled me.”

The city noise pressed in around the two of you- distant music from a nearby bar, a passing car, the low hum of something that never really quieted in New Orleans.

You watched him carefully for a second. “It’s okay, the city likes to pick up strays.”

He dropped his almost gone cigarette and stomped it out under his shoe. He laughed. “You always talk to strangers like this?”

“Only the ones who look like they’ve got a good answer.”

That pulled his gaze back to you- sharper this time.

“Careful,” he said. “You might not like what you get.”

You shrugged, easy. “Then I’ll leave.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Neither of you moved.

The streetcar rattled somewhere down the line. Close enough to catch it if you hurried.

You didn’t.

He noticed. 

“Thought you were worried about owing me.”

“Put it on my tab.”

He hummed at that. Carefully, he reached over and took the cigarette from your fingers and brought it to his lips. He took a hard pull from it before offering it back to you.

You smiled- just a little. There’s your in, Robinavitch.

He could leave. He probably should leave. Early shift, long day, same excuses he’d been using all week to get out of going out with his new roommates.

Instead-

“I hear there’s a bar down the street,” he said, like it hadn’t already been decided.

“It’s New Orleans, there are bars everywhere.”

“Would you let me ask?”

You just hummed and took a drag from the now shared cigarette. “One drink.”

He nodded once. “One.”

One drink quickly turned into two which then turned into crossing Canal Street into the Quarter. The both of you stumbled on the uneven sidewalks, your hand hooked loosely through his arm. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Bourbon!” You said, your voice bouncing off the wall of the narrow street walls. “It’s like the tourist's wet dream.”

“I’m not a tourist.” He said, giggling as you caught him right before he could faceplant in something that definitely wasn’t water.

‘Then what are you?”

“Doctor.”

You glanced at him. “Oh yeah? What kind?”

“The still learning kind.”

“Mm. Dangerous.”

He wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or insult.

You pulled him to a stop at the corner. He had no idea where you were- just that you did. He wasn’t about to argue with a pretty girl with eyes that made his knees shake.

You smiled at him.

That was- 

Yeah. That didn’t help.

He reached for his cigarettes before he could think too hard about it, tapping one out and bringing it to his lips. 

The motion steadied him. A little.

Until you took it from him.

He blinked, caught off guard as you slipped it between your lips instead.

Fuck, maybe this wasn’t such a bad idea.

“Hey-”

“Relax,” you said lightly. “I’ll give it back.”

“That’s not how that works.”

“Seems like it is.”

You leaned in slightly. “Light… Doctor?”

He flipped it open automatically. The flame caught, and for a second, all he could focus on was the way you took up his space- close enough that he could feel the shift in air between you.

He didn’t move.

Neither did you, right away.

Then you pulled back, exhaling slowly.

“Fuck,” you said glancing away from him. “You’re at Big Charity, aren’t you? How’d you get stuck there?”

Admittedly, he wasn’t paying much attention. The smoke curled from your lips. He wished you were blowing it into his mouth. Kinky fucker.

He shrugged, though his hand had drifted- almost without him noticing- until it rested lightly on your hip.

You didn’t pull away.

You didn’t acknowledge it either.

That was worse.

“I like helping people.” He said.

You hummed, taking another drag before handing the cigarette back- your fingers brushing his for hand a second longer than necessary.

“Ah,” you said. “God complex.”

He let out a quiet laugh, but his eyes stayed on you. “That what you think?”

You tilted your head, considering him. “I think anyone desperate enough to work at Big Charity likes being needed.”

That landed closer than it should have.

He shifted slightly, his grip at your hip tightening just a fraction before he caught himself.

“And you?” he asked. “What do you like?”

You gaze flickered to his hand, then back up to his eyes.

You paused as if you were weighing your options. You tried to hide the smile forming on your face.

“Dumped puppies.”

The street felt quieter all of a sudden. Not actually quieter- there was still music bleeding out of open doors, people shouting somewhere down the block- but it all faded to smokey edges.

He was too aware of you despite the alcohol.

The way you were standing.

The way you were leaning closer.

The way you were looking at him like he was a meal you were about to feast on.

“Dumped puppies.” He repeats, it came out rougher than he meant it to.

“Dumped. Obvious. Puppies.”

That pulled a snort out of him. “Obvious how?”

You tilted your head as your hand creeped up his chest. You studied him like you could find every crack and there was nothing he could do about it.

“It’s like you’re trying to decide if this is a bad idea.”

He stilled.

“And?”

You shrugged, easy. “I think you already know it is.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grip didn’t loosen.

The air felt hot and electric between you. Like the static feeling of touching the screen of an old tv.

“You gonna stop me?” he asked quietly.

Your eyes flickered to his mouth, then back up.

“No.”

That was the moment.

He could’ve laughed it off. Stepped back. He probably should have.

It was a very bad idea. But it was his bad idea.

He leaned in- slow enough that you could’ve pulled away if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

And then his lips found yours. Like two crashing ships.

For a second, it felt like the whole street was holding its breath. His hand slid more firmly around your waist pulling you flush against him. He’d made a decision, he wasn’t going to take it back.

Your hand caught at his shirt, grounding, steady.

It wasn’t tentative.

It wasn’t careful.

It was hungry.

It was the kind of kiss that came from too much tension and not enough restraint.

Your hand ghosted over his throat and held his jaw firmly as your tongue caressed his. God, his blood felt like it was on fire. A whimper escaped his throat as you pulled back just enough to look at him. To check in, just once. You pressed him back against the stone wall, and he let you- head tipping slightly, breath uneven when you pulled away just enough to look at him.

“Look,” you said, voice low, a little breathless. “You look really cute, all baby-faced like this, but you should consider growing a beard.”

He blinked, still trying to catch up. “That your professional opinion?”

“Personal. It’d feel nice rubbing against my skin.”

Fuck.

That did something to him.

He was screwed. So, fucking screwed. In more ways than one.

His hands came up, framing your face this time, pulling you back in. His mouth captures yours again, in a demanding kiss. He felt like you were surrounding him. Your smell, your hand drifting cross the front of his pants, your hand pulling at his hair.

He could finish right here. How embarrassing.

Then-

Buzz.

He froze.

Buzz. Buzz.

The sound cut straight through everything- too loud, too sharp, too familiar.

You felt it before he even moved. The shift.

Reality crashing back in.

BUZZ.

His jaw tightened.

He didn’t reach for it.

Not yet.

But the moment-

The moment was already broken.

“Think someone needs you, Doctor.”

“Yeah- shit,” he let out a breath trying to will his heart to stop racing, “Fuck, can I walk you home or something.”

You take a step back, putting space between you. You let out a knowing laugh, like you had made a joke he wasn’t privy to.

“You already did.” You gesture down the alleyway between the tightly packed buildings. If he squinted he could make out a fountain and what looked like a building shoved in the courtyard space.

“Oh,” he nodded, “Look at me being unknowingly gentlemanly.”

“Does it count if it’s unintentional?”

“Yes.”

“Sure.” You said with a playful roll of your eyes.

You turned, already punching in the code for the gate. Why did he feel like this was the part where you left and didn’t look back.

He watched you for a half second too long as you shut the gate behind you.

His fingers wrapped around the cool steel. “Hey-”

You paused, glancing over your shoulder.

He hesitated. Right. Words.

“You think I can get your name now?”

That smile came back- smaller this time, like you’d been expecting the question.

“Robby,” he said, like it might be enough to make you stay.

You studied him for a beat, like you were deciding how much to give him.

“Maybe next time, Doctor.”

And just like that, you turned and disappeared down the alley. Leaving him alone, once again, in a new city with a phone burning a hole in his pocket.

Jack Abbot doesn’t catalog first impressions anymore. He used to, back when he lets people get close enough for them to matter; back when love doesn’t end in his wife’s blood on a hospital floor because a doctor makes a mistake that Jack fails to get there in time to correct.

These days, he’s all easy smiles, quick wit, and the kind of charm that keeps people at arm’s length while convincing them they’re closer to him than they actually are. It’s an art form, one he’s spent a lot of long years perfecting.

There are only two people he lets past that perimeter: Robby, his brother in everything but blood, and Livvie, who drags him out of burning metal and sand and keeps him breathing long enough to save almost all of him, save for his left leg below the knee.

Livvie, his best friend in the whole goddamn world, who introduces him to his wife, to his Natalie, and when Natalie dies, when grief blurs the edges and loneliness fills in the gaps, he thinks for a moment that maybe Livvie could be something more.

One awkward, ill-timed kiss proves him wrong.

And then there’s you.

Robby drags him over at the end of shift to introduce you, that familiar behave yourself, Abbot look already in place, like somehow he knows. You’re standing there, tired but steady, eyes sharp in a way that tells him you aren’t just surviving the chaos, you’re thriving in it.

He knows that look, has seen it in the mirror for years. 

Introductions happen, polite, professional, but then you fire something back about tequila and questionable life choices, and Jack realizes you aren’t just smart, you’re quick. The kind of quick that can keep up with him, that pushes back, that doesn’t flinch. 

The kind of quick that has the potential to be dangerous.

“Can I keep her?” Jack asks before he can stop himself, and Robby shuts it down immediately, citing HR, boundaries, the usual.

He glances at you over Robby’s shoulder then, and that is the first in a long line of mistakes, because eventually, without him noticing until it’s too late, those glances at you become a habit.

A couple weeks in, he figures it out; the way you save things for him, lead with certain cases, that subtle shift in your tone before a story you already know he’ll appreciate. It does something to him he doesn’t want to examine too closely, so he keeps everything where he knows how to handle it: wrapped inside of sarcasm and banter and harmless flirting.

Except somewhere along the line, it stops being any of those things.

He starts looking for you at shift change without meaning to, stretching handoffs, asking questions he already knows the answers to just to keep you talking to him. Small  joys. Contained. Until they aren’t.

He shouldn’t remember the exact feel of your hand in his during that stupid thumb war over a donut, but God help him, he does.

He hates that he does.

Then comes the softball game, which is a mistake from the start. Too much beer, too many blurred edges, and you out in right field, pretending you’re rusty when you aren’t, not even close. That throw in the fifth inning gives you away.

“Didn’t know you were packing heat, hotshot,” Jack calls out. 

“Can’t reveal all my secrets, Abbot. Gotta make you work for it,” you fire back, and in that moment he feels it, that flicker of something that he can’t easily file away as harmless.

Allegheny General wins. Robby buys a round of shots, then Jack buys another, because it’s better to keep things loud, keep them moving. Then, in the hallway outside the bathrooms, you walk past him, and for a second, everything stops. 

That’s when he makes the second mistake. 

He tells himself later that it was the alcohol, the adrenaline from the win, that it was anything other than what it actually was: the fact that he wanted you to know him. Not the version he’s spent years carefully crafting since Natalie died. The real him. So he follows you, presses you up against the wall, and kisses you like you’re the air he needs to breathe. 

In that moment, you were. 

“Come home with me,” he murmurs against your skin.

Later, in the dark, with your head tucked against him, in that half-space where the edges between asleep and awake blur, he’s suddenly somewhere else, somewhere with dust, and heat, and smoke; a place he doesn’t want to remember but can’t forget.

Livvie. 

He calls out not to her, but because of her; because she’s the reason he’s alive, because she’s the one who pulled him out of the wreckage when everything went white and then red and then nothing.

“Love you, Livvie,” he murmurs, muscle memory overriding thought, right before sleep takes him.

Jack wakes up at 3am alone. That part is familiar, This time, though, there’s a faint imprint on the pillow next to his that shouldn’t matter, but does; one that he stares at it longer than he would like to admit.

He pulls you aside well before the start of his shift, close to the end of yours, because whatever this is, despite everything inside of him telling him to, he isn’t sure he can outrun it any longer 

“Hey, so…” he starts, immediately hating how uncertain he sounds. “Are you okay? I woke up in the middle of the night and you weren’t there.”

You cut him off with a bright smile. Too bright.

He recognizes the boundary when he sees it, and the muscle memory of relief hits him first. This time, though, it’s followed by something else, something different, something that hurts. 

You joke about him being secretly in love with you, and for a split second, he freezes, because the answer is complicated; it’s not a yes, but it’s not something he can neatly  categorize, either, so he laughs. Deflects. And when you offer him an out, an escape route away from something that has the potential to wreck him entirely, like a coward, he takes it. 

After that, he tells himself it’s back to normal. Whatever that night was, it’s done. Except he still looks for you, still listens too closely, still feels that pull. He just manages it better.

That’s what he tells himself. 

When Robby mentions moving you to nights, Jack agrees immediately. You’re a phenomenal doctor, you just need to learn when not to jump in. He can teach that. The rest doesn’t matter.

That’s what he tells himself. 

That same week, he mentions you in therapy, casually, framed in logistics -  your transition, how to set you up to succeed. It’s the first time in years he brings up a woman who isn’t Natalie or Livvie. His therapist, Mia, lets the silence stretch long enough to make him shift uncomfortably in his chair. 

“This is new,” she says. 

“Professional courtesy,” he shrugs. 

But they both know it’s more than that. 

By the time he pushes into the trauma bay later that day, Robby’s already talking to you. When you say yes, something in Jack’s chest shifts, quick and unsettling. 

“Welcome to the night shift, soldier.” Jack throws you a mock salute, like it’s nothing, like you haven’t become the best part of every single one of his days. 

Behind him, Robby is still talking, something about paperwork, HR, and timelines. Jack catches it in fragments through the half-open door as he moves, his brain sorting priorities on autopilot. 

“…temp coverage,” he hears Robby say as the pieces fall into place. Livvie.

“She’s locum tenens, but Jack has known her since they were in the Army together. Dr. Olivia Carter. Goes by Dr. Livvie.”

Jack doesn’t look back toward the two of you, does’t feel the way the air shifts when her name lands, doesn’t hear the hurt in the silence it leaves behind.

Then you’re working nights beside him, and Livvie’s there too, and for the first time in a long time, he feels himself start to think that maybe he can have this, like maybe he can let his guard down just enough to enjoy it, like maybe this time everything won’t end in blood on a hospital floor. 

He learns you love Juicy Peach Alani Nu and, without saying a word, starts keeping the break room fridge stocked, restocking it whenever it runs low, like it’s nothing

“Professional courtesy, huh?” Livvie teases one night. “Where’s my endless supply of Chomps beef sticks?”

Jack hooks an arm around her neck, dragging her into a loose headlock before pressing a quick kiss to her forehead. “You’re a pain in my ass, you know that?”

She just hums, but he knows that look. She knows. She always does.

When he starts running through Bruce Springsteen albums on repeat during long shifts, Livvie doesn’t say anything. Later, she tells him that’s when she figured it out, but she waits for Jack to come to her.

He finally does, the night Hunter Lawson shows up with cold brew and protein bars for the entire ED, and you light up in a way that makes Jack feel like someone’s punched him in the ribs. He snaps at you without meaning to, then walks it back just as quickly, files it under concern for your the friendship - something safe, something explainable, but it’s getting harder to sell that story, even to himself. Livvie brings him coffee at shift change the next morning, and during a quiet moment after rounds they sit side by side on the steps by the ambulance bay. Jack leans forward, forearms on his knees, turning the cup between his hands. 

“I did something stupid,” he says finally.

Livvie huffs a quiet laugh. “That narrows it down exactly not at all.”

He doesn’t smile.

“I slept with her. The night of the softball game.” That’s all he says, but it’s enough.

Livvie studies him for a moment. “And that’s a problem…why?”

“It wasn’t,” he says quickly. “It isn’t.  I just,” He scrubs a hand over his face. “I was going to try, but she shut it down.’

“And?”

“And that should have been the end of it.”

Livvie’s quiet for a beat before she says, “But it wasn’t. It isn’t.”

Jack shakes his head, like if he denies it hard enough it’ll go away. “I’m not doing this again.”

“Doing what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, jaw clenching. “I don’t want to want anything from her.”

Livvie places a gentle hand between this shoulder blades. “That’s not really how this works, Jack.”

“Yeah, well, it’s how it’s gonna have to.” 

He pushes to his feet, and Livvie follows suit, watching him.

“You could just admit it,” she says. 

“No,” he says flatly.

“I like her for you, Jack.”

“No,” he says again. 

Livvie knows better than to push. 

When they head back inside, Jack catches Dana mid-conversation, something about a double date - her and her husband, you and Lawson - and that’s when he makes a decision he’s not proud of.

“I’m off tonight,” he says to Livvie casually. “Wanna grab dinner?”

She agrees, and somehow, coincidentally, they end up at the same restaurant as you.

When Rich invites Jack and Livvie to join them, Jack quickly accepts the invitation. Livvie shoots him a look of disbelief and annoyance that he skillfully ignores as he takes a seat on the other side of you.

The conversation moves, easy and chaotic, but Jack isn’t fully in it. Instead, he’s watching; watching the way Hunter smiles at you, the way you lean into him like a flower chasing the sun, the way Livvie notices him noticing. When Livvie praises Hunter for saying what he feels, Jack feels an irrational flash of anger, though he’s not sure if it’s at Livvie or at himself. 

When the bill comes, Hunter pays. Jack doesn’t argue, because if he does, he might say something he can’t take back. 

Outside, it gets worse because Jack sees it, the ease of it, the way the two of you fit, and for a second, just a second, he almost steps forward and begs you not to leave with him. Then you move toward Hunter, and Jack stops, breathless, like he’s run face-first into a wall that he didn’t even know was there. 

Livvie loops her arm through his, grounding him. “Come on, soldier.”

Jack lets her pull him away, and he doesn’t look back, because he knows if he does, if he sees you with Lawson again, even for a second, it will break him into pieces he won’t know how to put back together.

He doesn’t sleep that night, he just stares at the ceiling thinking about Hunter’s hands on you, touching you in all the ways Jack wishes that he was allowed to.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he tells Livvie at shift change the next night. 

“So we’ll figure it out together,” she says, wrapping an arm around his waist and squeezing gently. 

Then everything changes. 

Jack is with you in the ambulance bay, waiting for an incoming rig, and he asks about the rest of your night with Hunter like it’s nothing, like he’s just making conversation, torn between wanting to know and praying that there’s nothing to know. Then the ambulance arrives, and the patient is combative, and the second that restraint gives and the patient swings for you, something in Jack snaps too, sharp and violent. He’s moving before the thought to move even finishes forming, grabbing, shouting, controlling the chaos, but all he can see is you, frozen, in the corner of the room.

That scares him more than the punch.

“Out,” he orders you, sharp and insistent enough that you comply. 

He gets the situation under control, barely registering the rest of the team, and the second he can, he’s gone, out into the hall, tracking you down. When he finds you on the floor in an empty nearby room, the relief he feels hits so hard it brings him to his knees His hands are on you before he thinks better of it, checking, turning your face, needing to know you’re okay. The edge in his voice isn’t anger, it’s fear, bleeding from him in real time.

You say you’re fine and make a joke, but Jack doesn’t buy it. Then he realizes he’s still touching you so he pulls back, tries to walk everything back to steadier ground, but it’s already too late. The conversation shifts. You tell him about Hunter, about ending it, how you think he’s dating Livvie, and Jack’s understanding of the last few months tilts sideways.

When you tell him that he’d said Livvie’s name the night you’d spent together, he feels physically ill, so he does the one thing he’s been avoiding since Natalie died: he tells the truth. Not all of it, not the parts that feel too big to name, but enough, and the world doesn’t end. 

That’s something. 

He checks on you again before you leave, because he needs to hear one more time that you’re okay, that he didn’t almost lose something he hasn’t even figured out how to name yet, and when you stand, when he pulls you up, there’s a moment that has the potential to go in a hundred different directions, and he does what he never does: he takes a risk. 

He asks you out for coffee, outside of work, something that means something. When you say yes, it’s not a relief, not a victory. It’s something steadier. Something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Hope.

Jack drops into the chair during his next session with Mia, loose, almost restless, like he’s got too much energy and nowhere to put it.

“So,” she says mildly, “you seem different today.”

Jack grins. “I asked her out. Coffee. Simple, low stakes. She said yes.”

Mia watches him carefully. “How do you feel about that?”

“Good,” he says immediately, too quickly. “It’s good. She’s good. It’s easy with her. Not complicated.”

Mia watches him for a few moments before saying, “You seem excited.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “I am.”

“Not long ago,” Mia continues, “you told me that caring about someone felt dangerous.”

Jack leans back, dismissive. “This isn’t that.”

“Isn’t it?”

He shakes his head. “This is just a date. Well, three dates, if I’m lucky.”

Mia studies him. “And you don’t see this going anywhere beyond that?”

Jack shrugs, still smiling. “I mean, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

“Jack,” she says carefully, “it’s okay to be excited about something good. But it’s also worth noticing how quickly you’re deciding this is simple for you..”

His smile tightens, just a fraction. “It is simple. It’s coffee.”

“It’s not just coffee,” Mia replies gently. “Not for you.”

He exhales on a sigh. “You’re overthinking it.”

“Maybe,” she allows. “Or maybe you’re underthinking it.”

Jack looks away, jaw working, like he’s deciding whether to push back or nor. After a second, he shakes his head.

“It’s one date. I’m allowed to enjoy that.”

Mia nods. “You are. But enjoyment and avoidance can look very similar in the beginning.”

But he doesn’t care, because right now, he’s thinking about you, about the way you smiled when you said yes, about the fact that for once, something feels uncomplicated and good and his.

The next day, standing in front of that lecture hall speaking on mass casualty incidents, Jack slips into the version of himself he knows well; measured, composed, untouchable. It’s easy until he finds you in the crowd and is immediately thrown by the way you’re looking at him like you see him. Like you always have.

He texts you afterwards, picks the place, brings you flowers, and when you walk in, it hits him immediately: this matters, more than it should, more than he’s ready for, but it doesn’t slow him down. He just leans in, lets it feel easy, lets it feel right. He doesn’t notice he’s skipping all the hard questions. He just knows he doesn’t want to stop.

When he finally gets to kiss you, for the first time that matters, for him, for just a moment, the whole goddamn world stops.

Before Jack can take you on a second date, you come down with the flu. Sending you home is easy, though watching you leave isn’t. After shift, he's standing outside your door with a bag of supplies in his hand, and it feels harmless. You look wrecked when you open the door, dressed in sweatpants, flushed, barely upright, and his instincts kick in. His body knows the rhythm of this kind of care too well. He moves through your kitchen without asking where anything is, like he belongs there, like he’s done this a hundred times before.

Like a husband. 

The realization lands sharp and quiet, somewhere under his ribs.

He stays that first night, not sleeping, just moving on instinct. Meds, water, blankets, your hair pushed back from your face. It’s automatic in a way that unsettles him, muscle memory he didn’t realize he still had. He tells himself it’s just because you’re sick, because he’d do the same for anyone, but he knows that’s not true.

He doesn’t do this for just anyone.

By the second night, he’s running on fumes, splitting himself between the hospital and your apartment, ordering the things you mentioned offhandedly, anticipating what you’ll need before you ask. It feels good to take care of you, to be let into your space like he belongs there, but that’s the problem. 

By day three you’re improving and when he finally goes home, and the quiet hits him hard. No fever to chase, no distractions, just the realization of how easily he'd slipped into it all again, how natural it felt to be in your kitchen at three in the morning, like it was something he’d already lived.

It was something he had already lived. 

When he sees you back at work, alive and upright and smiling, relief is there, but he keeps his distance without meaning to, because everything feels like it’s careening out of control, and there are two undeniable truths at war in his brain:

He’s not supposed to look at you and feel like he’s stepping into a life he already lost,

and,

He doesn’t know how to survive losing you now.

He isn’t on the roof of the hospital for long before you find him there.

“Come here often?” you say, and it almost undoes him, how easy it is for you to slip back into that kind of banter like nothing’s changed, like he hasn’t been avoiding you all night. You ask him to talk, and that’s the problem; once he starts, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop.

“It’s how fast it happened,” Jack admits, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. He can feel the words building, pressing, and you just stand there, waiting him out.

“You’ve been the best part of my day for a long time, and then suddenly I’m standing in your apartment at three in the morning and it feels so familiar. And it shouldn’t. Not already.”

“Jack…” you trail off, but he pushes through, because this is the part he doesn’t know how to say cleanly.

“I loved her. I still do.  And this, us, I’m not supposed to look at you and feel like I’m stepping into something I already had. Like I’m replacing her.”

He’s aware of how it sounds, of what it might do to you, but it’s the truth.

“I thought I was past this,” he admits, frustrated, more to himself than to you. “I worked so hard to get past this.”

You tell him that whatever this is between you, it’s not a replacement. He knows that. He knows that.

“But it doesn’t feel that way,” you say. 

“No.”

You don’t run. You don’t push. You just stand there and give him space to be a mess. You tell him not to shut you out.

God, he’s trying not to.

“I’m not trying to shut you out,” he says. “I’m trying to not ruin this.”

You say okay like it’s that simple, and he studies you, trying to understand how you can be this calm when he feels like he’s coming apart at the seams.

“I can’t lose you,” Jack says again, softer now, and when you tell him you’re not going anywhere, something in his chest loosens.

“I just need a second. To think. To breathe. To not feel like I’m messing everything up,” he explains.

Then, to himself: to catch up to something my heart has already decided.

You tell him you’ll wait. It almost breaks him, but he just nods, glancing toward the door, pulling himself back together piece by piece. 

“We should get back before Robby sends a search party,” he says, but at the door, he hesitates.

“Thanks,” he says quietly.

For staying. For not walking away. For making this both harder and easier at the same time.

Your answer is light, familiar, and it steadies him. His hand finds your waist before he can overthink it, tentative, giving you time to pull away. You don’t, so he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your forehead, the beginning of a promise he’s not sure he deserves to make.

“I’m not going anywhere either,” he murmurs.

Then he pulls back and leads you back inside.

__

Taglist:

"I can get you coffee?" she asked, opening her door.

"If it's not a bother!" John chimed in.

John didn't comment on the bareness of her apartment as he sat down on her couch.

"Is it still 2 sugars and creamer?" she softly asked.

"You still remember?" John chirped up.

"Of course, I do." A small smile made its way to her lips as she fixed the coffees and brought them to the small coffee table, heart pounding as she sat on the couch.

“It’s crazy that we ended up at the same hospital”, John spoke, grabbing the cup and blowing on it.

“Small word, right?”

John was still awkward as she watched. He still slightly fumbled when he didn’t blow on the coffee, burning his tongue and she couldn’t help but giggle.

“Laughing at my pain?”

“You should know better. You spent all those years in literal etiquette school!”

John groaned, “I hated those classes.”

“As much as you hated posing for your literal portrait?” She asked, pushing her hair from her face as she blew on her drink.

“It’s funny remembering that you were around for those moments”, John softly replied. “And that you remember.”

“Of course I remember”, Y/N said, “you… were a big part of my life.”

A comfortable silence fell between them for a few moments.

“How’re your parents?” he asked, putting down the cup.

“Good!” Y/N smiled, "My mom works at a hotel now and my dad works in environmental services at a university hospital."

"That's great", John grinned widely, "your parents were always my favorite."

"Pretty sure that was because my mom used to let you get away with anything", she lightly teased.

"She never ratted me out when she'd find my Snickers wrappers", he sighed, "a true confidant."

Y/N remembered how against candy John's family was; if it didn't have a high-end name attached to it, it didn't belong in their mouths or home.

Her mother had been a maid, replacing one when Y/N had been thirteen and sitting next to John, she remembered the first time she had met him.

It had been only a few months into her mother's employment for the Carter family; by that point, she had only briefly made Mr. and Mrs. Carter, both in the standing of looking down at 'the working class' and acting as if the people who worked in the estate didn't exist.

The Carters were fine with her being there, as long as she didn't go into the rooms and stayed 'where the servants had to be', she could wait for her mom to finish her day at the estate after school.

She had only briefly seen John in the oil-painted portraits that hung on the walls of the estate, only hearing brief inklings of the Carter family heir.

And it had been a storming day, rain pelting down on the ground in hard pelts when she first met John.

Her hair was frizzy from the rain, her mouth full of metal from the braces her parents were able to afford when she first saw John.

~

John's eyes watched as she talked and it was something that he never really realized he missed.

Even back then, John could remember how heart his heart thumped in his ears when he first saw Y/N as a preteen; her dark hair frizzy and wet from the storm outside and her raincoat drenched in water, and bright yellow.

Usually, after school he spent his time at his riding lessons, but the rain did not allow it that day.

Seeing her had made his heart stuttered in its pace as he watched her trail behind her mother. Her eyes looking around, absent minded in their gaze as she held the straps of her backpack.

John felt himself gulp down saliva as she made eye contact with him and a shy smile graced his eyes as he saw the braces on her teeth.

With a hard thump of his heart, John shyly brought a hand up to wave, cheeks red and a matching smile on his lips.

And at that time, it felt like the rest of history: shy glances, secret phone calls led to eventual hidden away kisses, sneaking out.

As John sat beside her, listening to her talk, it felt as if nothing has changed in the past years.

And maybe, just maybe things could be just as they were…

taglist: @zulema222 @goawaysha

Robby felt the morning sun on his back as he rode his bike down the familiar streets of Pittsburgh. The city hadn’t changed at all in the three months since he left. Sure there were new lost and found signs taped to light poles. The Pirates Baseball signs had been taken down and replaced with Steeler Football signs. The air had grown cooler than it was in July when he took off without a second look back. Robby looked over his shoulder, like he had been doing for the last three months, and frowned. He wasn’t sure why he did it, or why he ever expected it to change. The second seat on his motorcycle had been empty for months. 

An ambulance was already parked in the bay when Robby found his usual parking spot. Though it was October now, the temperature was still warm, the leaves just starting to change. He took off his sunglasses, tucking them into the pocket of his coat. He looked around the parking lot, looking at the cars already there. A bit of anxiety settled into his stomach. It was his first day back since he took off on the Fourth of July. He had turned his phone off once he got outside of Pittsburgh city limits and it had remained that way until about a week ago, when he started to drive back. The hospital was still standing, and the emergency department was still open which had to be a good sign. 

Robby swung his bag over his shoulder, and took a deep breath as he walked through the doors of the ambulance bay. The smell of antiseptic hit him instantly. He had to squint a bit at the harsh bright lighting of the Pitt. His brown eyes scanned his department, seeing the quiet hustle of his staff moving about. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. Robby wasn’t a cake and banners type of guy, but he was expecting. . . something? 

Instead, not a single person acknowledged him as he walked up to the nurses station. Dana was busy reading over a chart as Robby approached. A smile crawled across her face as she stood up, pocketing her glasses and crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Well, well, well, look who came crawling back to us,” Dana said, rounding the nurses station to greet Robby. 

Robby smiled and pulled her into a tight hug. “It’s good to see you.” 

“You too,” Dana said, pulling back and looking him over. “I see your head is still on your shoulders.” 

“Yeah,” Robby walked around to the other side of the nurses station to take off his backpack and coat. “I didn’t end up smashing my head open like some people thought I was.” 

“Can’t blame us for worrying,” Dana shrugged. “You look good, Robinavitch.” 

“Thank you. I feel. . .” Robby wasn’t sure what to say. Good? Better? Healed? He wasn’t so sure about all that. He wasn’t sure if the result of his sabbatical was exactly what he wanted. He felt refreshed, it was the first time in years he slept more than five hours a night. But he still felt like he was missing something. Instead of diving into all that, he picked a safe topic of conversation. “Where is everybody?” 

“Mm, Samira is in south five with an elderly head-lac. Santos is in central two with a five year old with an ear ache. Y/N is in-“

“Y/N?” Robby cuts Dana off. Dana winces at the hopeful sound in his voice. “She’s working today?”

Dana nods apprehensively, “She got called in. We’re short staffed.”

Robby nods, scratching the back of his neck. “H-how is she?” 

“Fine,” Dana’s eyes narrow at him. 

“Is she-” 

“If you’re about to ask if she’s seeing anybody, you’re asking the wrong person,” Dana puts her hands on her hips. Robby knew that she wasn’t going to air out any of your dirty laundry or tell him what you had been up to since he left. If there was one thing about Dana Evans, it was that she would take any and all secrets to the grave. She looked out for not only her nurses, but her doctors and staff. If you had told her anything, she was going to be harder than a safe to crack. “I’d just stay out of her way. Let her do her thing.” 

Robby scoffs, “I’m kind of the chief of the department. It's kind of hard to stay out of my residents’ way when it’s my name on the line.”

“Co-Chief,” Dana corrected. Robby had to refrain from rolling his eyes. He had checked his email last night and saw that the hospital had officially given Baran Al-Hashimi a permanent position as Co-Chief of the Emergency Department. 

— — — 

You gently pushed the exam room door open with your hip, grabbing some hand sanitizer on your way out. It was the first morning in about ten weeks that you had felt like yourself. You woke up to your alarm instead of the churning of your stomach. 

“You look better,” Dr Al-Hashimi said as you stepped out of an exam room. “Your color has come back.” 

You were glad that you seemed to finally get your morning sickness under control. It had been hell those first few weeks, spending most of your shift with your head in a toilet, or sleeping in a dark exam room with an IV in your arm. You were seriously starting to doubt if you could do this. Pregnancy was no easy feat, and you had gained a whole other level of respect for the mothers of the world. 

“I feel better,” You tucked the tablet under your hand to get some hand sanitizer, “Thank you for all you did during those first few weeks. You seriously helped me out, Dr. Al.” 

“Of course,” Baran gave you a soft smile. “It takes a village. I’m happy I could help. Now. . .” Her voice grew softer as she fell in step next to you. “As you know, Dr. Robinavitch is coming back today.” 

You sighed, “Yep.” 

“It’s not my job to disclose your condition, but. . . I think it would be beneficial if you told him.” 

Dr. Al had never flat out asked who the father of your baby was, but she put the pieces of the puzzle together rather quickly. She had only worked with Robby one day, but she could tell something was going on between you. She was intuitive like that. So when she caught you throwing your guts up one morning, she had made the conclusion of what your argument in the ambulance bay had been about on the day Robby left. 

It had been three months since you had even seen Robby, let alone spoke to him. You had heard from Jack that he had turned his phone off, so you knew it was useless trying to contact him. And you weren’t all that sure that you wanted to talk to him. The last conversation you had with him hadn’t been all that friendly. You said words that you regretted, he said words that he regretted. 

You glanced across the department, watching him fall easily back into place as chief, as if he had never missed a day. To everyone else, Robby looked refreshed. His skin still was still sunkissed from hours of riding his motorcycle to God knows where and back. His hair was lighter, and a bit fuller on top. His beard was trimmed to perfection. But to you, he still had that same exhausted, haunted look in his eyes. You had learned early on that Robby’s eyes told the story that he was always trying to hide. 

Robby had looked up briefly, catching your eyes. You blushed and quickly looked down at your shoes. Your stomach started to do flips and you put your hand on your belly, trying to will the baby inside you to still (even though they weren’t big enough to actually feel any kicks yet). 

You chewed on your lip, before looking up at Dr. Al, “Thank you, Dr. Al, but I don’t think I’m ready for that conversation yet.” 

Baran nodded her head, “It’s never an easy one. Let me know if you need help.” She squeezed your arm before walking off. 

— — — 

You had been dodging him all day. He knew it. You knew it. Hell, you bet even Myrna knew it. You had only laid eyes on him once, but it was enough for you for one day. He tried to talk to you, but you totally stiffed him. 

If Robby was walking to the nurses station, you were walking away. If he walked into a trauma room, you walked out of it. If you had to present a patient, you would search the entire ED for Dr. Al-Hashimi or swap the patient with one of your fellow residents. It was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone that you wanted nothing to do with Robby. The rumor mill was starting to turn. You swore you saw Ahmad building a betting board. 

You were currently sitting at the nurses station, sipping on a ginger ale. This had to have been your longest stretch of not having to rush to the bathroom to go throw up. You thought the nausea patches Dr. Al had prescribed you were finally doing their job, until you walked out of an exam room and the all too familiar twisting in your stomach started. You took a deep breath, giving your med student a task before running to the nurses station and chewing on a ginger tablet. 

“You going to make it?” Dana asked, eyeing you suspiciously. Though you hadn’t officially announced your pregnancy to everyone in the ED, you knew that the senior charge nurse knew. 

“I think so,” You said, leaning back in your chair. “Can I get swapped for triage?” 

“I’m not the one who makes that decision,” Dana pocketed her glasses. “You know who can-” 

You huff, sitting back up straight. A movement you deeply regretted as the room started to spin again. You blinked a couple of times, letting your vision even out before responding. “I’d rather suffer.” Dana chuckles, as her charge phone rings. You log back into your charting, hoping that maybe sitting down for a bit will help regulate you again. 

“Robby, Baran!” Dana calls out to the two attendings. You can feel Robby’s eyes on you as he walks up to the nurses station, but you keep your head down, hoping he doesn’t decide to strike up a conversation right now. You weren’t sure if you could stand fast enough to get away from him. “Two gunshot victims incoming. Looks like an attempted murder-suicide.” 

“Alright,” Baran says, her eyes scanning the department for extra hands. “McKay and Santos, with us.” 

“Y/N,” Robby’s voice calls out. You lift your head meeting his stare. 

Baran looks between the two of you. “Uh, she’s got-” 

“She’s been dodging traumas all day,” Robby justifies his choice. “She’s gunning for chief resident. She needs to stop hiding from the trauma room.” You clench your jaw at his words, but you know he’s right. Baran huffs, wanting to argue with him, but refrains. 

“Fine,” You say, pushing up from your spot at the desk. “Let’s do this.” 

Robby turns on his heel, grabbing a gown and gloves before walking out to the ambulance bay. You suck in a deep breath, taking one more swig of your ginger ale before following him out. He doesn’t even say anything as he stands waiting for the ambulance to arrive. You wordlessly stand next to him. This feels all too familiar to the both of you. He could smell your perfume and you could feel his body heat. 

Robby swallows as the first rig pulls up, and he’s quick to the back door. “What do we got?” 

“Male, 54 years old, gunshot wounds to the upper chest, stomach, and thigh,” The paramedic says, stepping down from the rig. The stench of blood hits you like a tidal wave. Your stomach lurches, your mouth starting to water with extra saliva as you walk behind the paramedics. 

“The victim?” Robby asks, using his penlight to look quickly at the patient’s reflexes. “How much blood loss?” 

“At least 600 milliliters," The paramedic said, “We kept losing him on the ride in, and then he quit bleeding.” 

“Which could mean, Dr. L/N?” 

You held your fist to your mouth to hide a gag. “It’s internal.” 

“Excellent,” Robby said, positioning the gurney beside the exam bed. “On my count. . . 1, 2, 3.”  They transfer the patient over, a rehearsed movement you’ve done so many times you’ve lost count. You stand back, taking deep breaths to try and settle your stomach. “Y/N, check for reflexes.” 

You nod, stepping towards the patient. You can’t even look at the wounds, without gagging, pressing your fist into his sternum. “Responds to pain.” You step away as your eyes begin to water. Black spots start to dance in your vision, as nurses and staff crowd around the patient. The walls started to cave in, your body feeling uncomfortably hot as you stepped back. 

“We need to tube him, he’s hardly moving air,” Robby instructs. “7.5 tube and a laryngescope. Y/N, intubate him.” 

You don’t even register that Robby is calling your name as you try to reach for the wall. You’re hoping to just slide down the wall and sit down. You can’t hear anything around you, your legs feeling like lead and your head swimming. 

“Y/N-“ The words fell on deaf ears as your knees buckled and you went crashing to the floor. Robby cursed quickly, handing off the instruments in his hands, and moving over to you. Jesse and Princess were already by you, Princess lifting your head up, and Jesse breaking an ice pack to put on the back of your neck. The cold slowly brought you back to the land of consciousness, your heart racing as you blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of how you were on the floor.

“You’re okay,” Robby said softly, as he grabbed your wrist and pressed his fingers to your pulse point. “Heart rate is elevated. Get her into a room, I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Robby quickly turned back to the patient on the bed, jumping right back in, not missing a beat.

As Jesse stood to follow Robby’s instruction, you grabbed his hand. “I’m pregnant,” You whisper. Realization dawned on his face of what could be happening to you. Jesse nodded his head, as Antoine came in with a wheelchair. Your legs were still shaky as they helped you up and into the wheelchair, thankfully you didn’t have to go far and it saved you the embarrassment of being wheeled in front of the whole department.

“How far along?” Jesse asked as you sat down on the bed. Princess moved around you, wrapping a blood pressure cuff around your arm, and getting your pulse ox.

“10 weeks,” You flushed from embarrassment but Jesse just nodded in understanding. “Get Dr. Al, please. And keep Robby away.” Again, Jesse didn’t need to be told anything else or asked any questions as to why you didn’t want the chief of the department stopping by. He glanced up at Princess who did a small cross on her heart, as if to say that she wouldn’t say anything.

“Princess will start your IV, and I’ll go find Dr. Al.” Jesse asked softly.

“Please, keep this off the books,” Jesse gave you a small smile, squeezing your shoulder before leaving the exam room.

— — — 

“What happened?” Baran’s voice cut through the exam room like a knife. 

“She passed out during a trauma,” Jesse answered, finishing up hooking you up to the IV. “No LOC, but complaining of neck pain. Vitals are normal, BP 80 over 120, pulse 67, O2 98% on room air.” 

“And. . .” Baran glanced between you and Jesse. A silent question if you had told him. Jesse looked down at you and you nodded your head. 

“She’s 10 weeks pregnant, and has HG. No complaints of nausea or vomiting, no cramping or spotting. But ran a full lab panel, including hCG. Waiting on ultrasound,” Jesse added, handing the tablet to Dr. Al. 

“Sounds good,” Baran nodded, and looked at you, “How are you feeling?” 

“Just when I thought I had the morning sickness under control,” You let out a defeated chuckle. 

“You’re dehydrated,” Baran answers, her brown eyes narrowing at the screen in front of her. “And exhausted. When was the last time you had a full night's sleep?” 

“Three months ago,” You mumbled. You couldn’t help but worry every night when you closed your eyes about Robby. You had vivid dreams about walking into the hospital the next morning to the news that he had crashed his motorcycle. 

Baran gives you a sad smile, “I know this hasn’t been easy, but you need to make sure you’re taking care of yourself. I know you don’t want to have to repeat your R3 year. . . but maybe it’s worth it?” 

You lick your lips. This is a conversation that has definitely crossed your mind in the last three months, especially since you might be doing this on your own. Dr. Al had assured you that you could still work at The Pitt, even if it was just part time. But the idea of being a year behind in your schedule pissed you off, and made you even more mad at Robby and his stupid motorcycle. 

“I know, I just-” You were cut off by a single knock on the door, and then the curtain being pulled back. 

“Dr. Robinavitch,” Dr. Al scolded the man standing in the doorway, “I don’t think I have to tell you how inappropriate this is.” Robby didn’t even acknowledge her, his eyes were locked on you, “Dr. Robinavitch-” 

“It’s fine,” You said, looking at Dr. Al, “He can stay. I promise, I’m fine.” 

Baran clenched her jaw, looking between you and him. You could see her protective defenses up. It was one of the things you had come to like about her. “If you want him out of here, you say the word.” You nodded, and she stood up from the stool to leave. On her way out, she made sure to give Robby a death glare, and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

The door shuts with a loud click. Robby hesitantly took a step toward you. He sat down in the chair across from your bed, his eyes trained on the ground. He was lost in thought, and you could almost see the gears turning in his head. 

“How far along are you?” Robby asks after a beat. 

“Ten weeks.” Robby just nods, running his hands down his cheeks. Rarely ever have you seen Doctor Michael Robinavitch speechless, and it was honestly starting to scare you. “I didn’t know until after you left. I wanted to call and tell you, but I knew how much this sabbatical-” 

“I would’ve come back.” 

“And that’s what I didn’t want to happen.” 

Robby clenches his jaw. “You don’t get to be the judge of that.” 

“But I do, Michael. I’m the one growing this baby, therefore, I get to make the decisions. I didn’t want you to come back just because I’m pregnant. I wanted you to come back because you were ready to come back.” 

Robby licks his lips. “But I’m here now.” 

“Are you?” You snap your head towards him. “Because I’m giving you an out, right here. This isn’t something you can be half in on whenever it is convenient for you.” He knew that you weren’t just talking about the baby. You were talking about your relationship. Robby had always had one foot out the door when he was with you. He was too scared to settle down, too scared to give up the one thing he had control over. 

“I am,” Robby says, leaning forward and grabbing your hand. You let him take it, intertwining your fingers. “I’m all in with this. Whatever you want us to be.” 

You blink back tears. Fucking hormones. “Looks like we’re exes. . . having a baby.” 

Robby nods in agreement, “We’re exes having a baby.”

The flu takes you down hard.

You miss two days of work, which is unprecedented. You’re used to pushing through it. No rest for a resident and all that.

Jack stays the first night, feeding you meds to help fight your fever. You sleep through most of it, and you’re worried about the fact that he doesn’t seem to get any sleep at all. 

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” he tells you. 

“It’s just the flu, Jack.”

“Shut up and let me take care of you.”

By the time he heads into work the next night, you’re feeling incrementally better, though still overall miserable. Even from work, he makes sure you everything you need before you even realize you need it, DoorDashing you the Gatorade and Wheat Thins you’d told him you used to eat when you were sick as a kid.

By day three, you start to get some of your strength back. Jack texts you at the end of his shift that he’s going to head home and get some sleep, and you’re glad he is. At this point, he needs it more than you do. 

You don’t think anything of the fact that you don’t hear from him for the rest of the day,

“Look who’s alive,” Dana from the central desk when you arrive on shift clutching a leftover bottle of Gatorade in one hand. 

“Barely,” you shoot back, managing a smile. 

“Good to see you, kiddo,” Lena smiles from behind her. 

“Have you heard the news? Collins is the proud mama to a bouncing baby girl,” Dana tells you.

“And,” Shen adds as he approaches, “Ellis and I joined a kickball league.”

“One of these things is not like the other…” McKay half-sings as she drops off her tablet at the desk. 

“I’m so happy for her,” you smile. Shen narrows his eyes at you, so you add, “I’m happy for you and Ellis too, Shen.”

He nods, satisfied, and you turn back to Dana and Lena. 

“I assume mom and baby are healthy?”

“Perfectly,” Lena tells you. “Gonna miss her around here, though. Hard to believe she’s worked her last shift.”

“Good thing this one is primed and ready to go,” Dana winks at you. 

Jack is there, too, looking up the patient board, one hand braced against the counter. He looks exactly like he always does; focused, steady, competent and ruggedly, effortlessly handsome in a way that’s just unfair.  He doesn’t look at you, not right away, and that’s your first clue, because he always looks at you. 

Even when he’s busy, even when he shouldn’t, with that half a second almost smile that feels like a secret, only for you, despite it being out in the open for everyone to see. 

Something uneasy blooms snd curls low in your stomach. You step closer to him, closer than you should with so many people around. 

“Hey,” you say softly. 

He glances over at you then, brief, clinical. 

“Hey. Glad you’re feeling better.” 

No smile, no teasing, just polite. 

You search his face for any sign of the man who had recently camped out in your apartment, feeding you soup and hate-watching your favorite movie with you; the man who had brushed your hair back with a gentleness that had made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with the flu you were fighting. The man who had looked at you like you mattered. 

“Yeah,” you say, then add quietly, “Thanks to you.”

“Good,” he replies, already turning his attention back to the board. “Like Dana said, we’re short tonight.”

You look over at Dana, who’s watching the entire encounter. She glances at you over the top of her glasses, raises her eyebrows, and shrugs.

“Can you and Joy take triage after rounds?” Jack asks you.

Before you can respond, Livvie appears from around the corner, smiling when she sees you. 

“Welcome back to the land of the living! Feeling better?”

You nod, turning back towards Jack with a hesitant smile. “Turns out my insurance covers round-the-clock in-home care.” 

Jack shifts on his feet, sliding his hands into the pockets of his scrubs, but he doesn’t respond, doesn’t reach for you in any of the small, invisible ways that you’ve become so used to. 

Robby calls for Jack from a trauma bay down the hall, and he glances over at you again. 

“Triage?”

You nod, fighting against the trepidation rising in your throat when he turns and walks away. 

“Is Jack okay?” you ask Livvie quietly. 

You hate having to ask her, hate that you don’t know already know the answer yourself. 

She glances down the hallway at his retreating figure, then back at you. “He hasn’t said anything to me. Should I be worried?”

“No, no.” You force a smile. “We’re both just tired.”

She raises an eyebrow in concern, but thankfully she doesn’t press. 

“I have to get out of here, kiddo. Check in with me later, let me know how you’re feeling?” Dana says with a knowing look. You nod, smiling gratefully.

Things don’t get better from there. 

Not during rounds, not after the day shift has left for the night, not between triaging patients, not even when it’s just the two of you in a trauma bay during a rare moment of quiet after reviving a patient who has been whisked upstairs to surgery. 

You try again anyway. 

“Is everything okay?”

He stills, but only for a fraction of a second, so brief that if you weren’t watching him so closely, you might have missed it, busying himself in tidying the chaos of the room while avoiding your gaze. 

“Just tired tonight.” He smiles, but it doesn’t match the tension in his shoulders.

“That’s my fault,” you say. “I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for. You were sick.”

“Yeah, and you took care of me, and-“

“I’m a doctor. I was just doing my job.”

The cold and clinical description of the way he’d been there for you over the past few nights is so far removed from the way you remember it.

“No,” you say, shaking your head slightly. “You don’t sit on someone’s couch at three in the morning and argue with them about taking Tylenol because it’s your job. You don’t look at them the way you looked at me because it’s your job.”

He finally looks up at you, and you see it then - not indifference, but fear, raw, unsteady, and barely contained. It steals the air from your lungs. 

A stretch of silence falls between you, thick and suffocating, and that’s when you realize that it’s not that he suddenly somehow realized he doesn’t feel the same way you do; it’s that he’s scared, and he’s choosing to run. 

You step back, putting space between the two of you, real space, the kind that hurts, and something in his expression finally shifts.

“Hey,” he says. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between the two of you, frustrated, like he can’t quite find the words. “Pull away, like I said something wrong.”

“You didn’t say anything,” you reply. “That’s kind of the point.”

He exhales after a beat, long and steady, dragging a hand through his hair. 

“You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me,” you say, hating the way your voice cracks around the edges. 

“Trauma incoming!” you hear Lena call from the central desk, “Peds, ETA two minutes!”

Everything shifts in an instant, and he’s already moving.

“Talk to me, Lena,” he calls as he pulls open the curtain and grabs a set of gloves, all sharp focus and controlled urgency. 

“Eight year-old, MVC, unresponsive at the scene, unstable vitals.” 

He’s halfway out of the room, and then he pauses, just for a second, and looks back at you. 

“Later, okay?” he says, low, like it’s both a request and a promise. 

You nod, grabbing your own set of gloves, and follow him into the next trauma bay.

“Coming through!”

The gurney slams into the room in a rush of movement.

“Eight-year-old male,” one of the EMT’s rattles off. “Restrained passenger, T-boned on the driver’s side. Lost consciousness on scene, GCS dropped to six en route. BP’s been tanking—last read 78 over palp. Pulse 150, thready. We’ve got an IV in, fluids running.”

Muscle memory takes over, slotting you into place at the side of the gurney. Across from you, Jack’s the same; focused, precise, every trace of whatever the was transpiring between you stripped away.

“Parents?” you ask.

“Shen’s working on dad next door,” Ellis tells you as she steps into the room.

“Alright, I’ve got airway,” Jack says, voice clear and controlled. “Let’s get him on the monitor. I need full vitals now.”

“On it,” you reply automatically, reaching for leads.

The boy is so small. There’s blood matted into his hair, streaking down one side of his face. His chest rises unevenly, shallow, wrong.

You force yourself to focus.

“Pulse ox is dropping—eighty-two,” you tell the team. “Heart rate one-forty-eight. BP’s still low.”

“Bag him,” Jack says immediately, already positioning himself at the head of the bed. “He’s not protecting his airway.”

You grab the bag-valve mask, seal it over the boy’s face, and start ventilating, slow, controlled squeezes, watching for chest rise.

Ellis cuts in, “We’ve got decreased breath sounds on the left.”

Jack swears under his breath. “Possible pneumothorax. Get me a chest tray, now.”

You don’t think, you just move, reaching, opening, handing him what he needs before he even finishes asking. It’s instinct, the kind built from too many moments like these.

“BP’s dropping again,” Lyndsey calls out. “Sixty systolic.”

“Hang another bolus,” Jack says. “And page peds and surgery.”

You keep bagging, counting breaths under your breath to stay steady.

Jacks’ hands are sure as he works, locating landmarks, voice calm even as everything around him threatens to spiral.

“Stay with me,” he says quietly - not to you, but to the boy. Still, it lands somewhere in your chest.

There’s a sharp movement, a controlled puncture, and then the hiss of air escaping.

“Got it,” Jack says. “Chest tube.”

Almost immediately, the monitor responds, oxygen creeping up, numbers stabilizing just a fraction.

“Good,” you breathe.

“Not good,” Jack says, but there’s a softness in his tone. “Better.”

He glances up at you, quick, barely there, but it’s him again, and you feel small tendrils of hope growing inside your chest. 

“BP’s responding—eighty-four systolic,” Lyndsey says. 

“Okay,” he nods. “We’re buying time.”

For a second, everything steadies, and then Hunter enters the room, briefly surveying. 

“Pneumothorax. Nice save,” he says.

“Did you draw the short straw, Dr. Lawson?” Ellis grins. “Not used to seeing you at this time of night.”

Hunter smile easily. “Covering for Matthews. He’s on sabbatical.”

“Must be nice,” Ellis muses. 

Hunter moves in fast from there, already pulling on gloves, eyes locking onto the kid, shifting into peds mode; focused, protective, a little more intense because the patient is so small.

“Give me a rundown,” he says, stepping up beside you, and you notice Jack stiffen slightly across the table. You want to reach out to him, to ground him, to remind him that he’s the one you chose, but it’s not the time. 

“Eight-year-old male, MVC,” you tell Hunter. “Unresponsive on scene, hypotensive, we just placed a chest tube for a left pneumo. He’s responding, but barely.”

Hunter nods once, processing, already leaning in to assess, hands gentle but efficient as he checks pupils, presses lightly along the abdomen.

“Hey, buddy,” he murmurs.. “You’re okay. We’ve got you.”

“We need to think head injury. GCS?”

“Six,” you reply.

“Alright. We’re intubating,” Hunter says, decisive. Then, glancing toward the head of the bed, toward Jack. “You good to take airway?”

“Yeah,” Jack answers, voice tight. “I’ve got it.”

Hunter nods, like that’s all it is. Like there’s nothing sitting under the surface between the three of you.

“Let’s move, then,” Hunter says. “I want him stable for CT in the next ten.”

For a moment, the three of you exist in the same orbit, moving, working, not looking directly at each other but acutely aware nonetheless.

“Hey,” he says, quieter now, stepping closer to you while the others stabilize lines and prep transport. “How are things going?” He asks, giving a small nod towards Jack. 

You don’t have time to answer. You’re not sure how to anyway.

“Alright, you’re moving on three,” Ellis calls. “I’ll stay here and cover?”

Jack nods.

The gurney rolls. You fall into step beside it, one hand steady on the rail, the other keeping the bag-valve mask in rhythm. The hallway blurs past in a rush of fluorescent light and noise.

“BP?” Hunter asks, already walking backward at the head of the gurney.

“Ninety over sixty,” you answer. “Holding.”

“Good. Keep him there.”

Jack is on the other side, one hand on the tube, eyes locked on the kid, but you can feel him, the awareness of him, like a current just under your skin.

“Watch that line,” he says, low and steady. 

“I’ve got it,” you reply.

Your hands brush for half a second as you adjust the tubing. It’s nothing. It’s everything.

“CT is ready,” someone calls as you round the corner.

The doors swing open, and the team shifts again, transferring him onto the scanner table. You step back just enough, but you don’t leave. No one does.

Hunter’s phone rings and he steps out to take a call, voice low, and clinical, which leaves you and Jack, standing side by side, not touching, not looking, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him anyway. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then Jack says quietly, “You didn’t answer him.”

Your throat tightens. “There wasn’t time.”

“There’s time now.”

You finally turn your head, and he’s already looking at you, not guarded like before, and the weight of everything unfinished settles back in. 

“I didn’t know what to say,” you admit.

He looks away, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. The door opens behind you.

“Alright,” Hunter says, stepping back in, a tablet in hand. “CT’s up.”

Jack straightens, the shift back to clinical almost seamless, but not as complete as before.

“We’ve got a small subdural, but no midline shift yet. Pulmonary contusion on the left, chest tube’s in good position. Abdomen’s questionable, there’s some free fluid. I want surgery looped in.”

“Already paged,” you say.

“Let’s get him upstairs,” Hunter continues. “PICU. Keep him intubated, monitor pressures, and I want repeat imaging if anything changes.”

“Got it.” You move back into position without thinking, falling into step beside the bed.

“Good to see you,” Hunter smiles. 

“You, too,” you tell him quietly. 

Jack doesn’t say a word. 

When you get back to the trauma center, you fall into triage with Joy and Ogilvie, letting the flood of patients waiting in Chairs drown out the swirl of your own thoughts. Dana calls you around midnight to check in, and you duck into one of the bathrooms to answer, locking the door behind you. 

“What the fuck was that about?” she asks, bypassing any greeting, referencing the conversation she’d witnessed between you and Jack earlier that night. 

You blow out a sigh. “I think he’s scared, Dana.”

“Yeah, taking care of someone who’s sick is terrifying,” she says dryly. 

“Livvie told me the night I got sick that he hasn’t dated anyone seriously since Natalie died.”

Dana’s quiet for a moment on the other end of the line. 

“So he’s in love with you,” she says finally, and you choke on the breath you’re in the middle of taking. 

“I didn’t say that,” you manage after a moment. 

“You didn’t, but I did. It’s either that, or he’s a fuckboy.”

“We haven’t even slept together,” you argue. 

“Exactly,” she shoots back, and the weight of her argument hits you straight in the chest. 

“Are you okay?”

You tilt your head back, staring at the ceiling tiles like they might offer something useful.

“Yeah,” you say automatically.

Dana hums. She doesn’t buy it.

You let out a small, tired laugh, scrubbing a hand over your face. 

“I don’t know. It’s just—it felt real. It feels real. And then he looks at me like I’m something he has to manage.”

“Because he does,” Dana says simply.

“That sucks.”

“Yeah, well. Welcome to emotionally unavailable men with unresolved trauma.”

You laugh in spite of yourself.

“For what it’s worth, that whole stocking the fridge with your favorite energy drink thing? Not fuckboy behavior.”

“I know.”

“No matter what, you’re gonna be okay,” she tells you. 

“I know that, too. Get some sleep. Thanks for checking on me.”

“See you in a few hours, kid.”

You end the call, slip your phone back into your pocket, take a deep breath, and head back to triage. 

At 4 a.m., Jack appears quietly at your side and silently hands you an Alani Nu. He hesitates briefly before retreating toward the central desk. It feels like a peace offering but instead of comforting you, it only leaves you more confused.

By the time the day shift bleeds in through the ambulance bay doors, you’re exhausted from both teaching the interns and dancing around whatever’s going on between you and Jack all night. 

Robby moves through the department with that steady, grounded presence that everyone leans into without thinking, coffee in one hand, bag slung over his shoulder, already scanning the board.

“Morning,” he says to no one in particular, voice rough. 

“Morning,” Joy calls back.

You watch him clock the numbers, the patient load, the overnight notes.

“Anyone seen Jack?” Robby asks, glancing around the Pitt.

Lena looks up, too careful, too controlled. 

“He went to check on a peds trauma from earlier. Hasn’t been back down since.”

Robby stills.

Then, quiet, more to himself than anyone else, “He go up?”

Lena doesn’t answer. She doesn’t have to.

Your stomach drops.

Robby exhales slowly, setting his coffee down on the desk with deliberate care.

You’re on your feet before you’re planning to move. Dana walks in then, and you almost plow into her in your haste. 

“Morning, kid, Hey, where are you-“

“Back in a minute,” you say quickly and quietly, shifting around her, already heading for the elevator. “Keep Robby down here.”

You pray that somehow she puts the pieces together.

You take the elevator to the top floor, then jog up the stairwell to the roof, opening the door to the early morning light that’s stretching pale pinks and oranges across the skyline. Jack’s leaning over the safety rail, head slightly bowed, shoulders tight. After a moment, he turns his head slightly, surprise flashing across his face when he sees you, followed immediately by something softer. 

“Come here often?” you ask, falling back on habit, hoping he’ll meet you halfway. 

He huffs out a laugh. “Only when I’m trying to avoid the interns.”

It’s close enough. 

“Lena said you were up here.”

Jack nods once, eyes drifting back out over the city. “Yeah.”

“I was scared,” you admit. That gets his attention. 

“No,” he says, steady and certain, as he straightens and turns to face you head on. “That’s not what this is, hotshot. I promise. I just needed a minute.”

“Jack,” you say softly. “Talk to me.”

“It’s how fast it happened,” he says after a beat. 

You don’t interrupt. You just wait. 

“You’ve been the best part of my day for a long time, and then suddenly I’m standing in your apartment at three in the morning and it feels so familiar. And it shouldn’t. Not already.”

“Jack…”

“I loved her,” he says.. “I still do. And this, us, I’m not supposed to look at you and feel like I’m stepping into something I already had. Like I’m replacing her.”

His words settle between you, fragile and sharp.

“I thought I was past this,” he says, frustration in his voice. “I worked so hard to get past this.”

“Jack, this, us, it doesn’t replace what you had.”

“I know that,” he says quickly. “Logically, I know that.”

“But it doesn’t feel that way.”

He exhales. “No.”

You nod like it’s not hard for you to hear. 

For a moment, neither of you says anything. The city hums quietly below, the hospital waking up behind you.

“You don’t have to have it all figured out right now,” you say finally.

“I feel like I do,” he admits. “Because if I don’t—” He stops, jaw tightening. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“I’m not asking you to have all the answers,” you add, quieter now. “I’m just asking you not to shut me out because you’re scared.” 

He looks at you then, something conflicted and tired in his expression.

“I’m not trying to shut you out,” he says. “I’m trying to not ruin this.”

“Okay.”

He studies you quietly, like he’s trying to understand what that means.

“I can’t lose you,” he says again, softer this time.

“I’m not going anywhere, Jack,” you say, your voice steady, even though it feels like your heart might break.

He exhales slowly, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “I just need a second. To think. To breathe. To not feel like I’m messing everything up.”

“Okay,” you say softly. “I can wait.”

After a beat, he looks over at the door, then back at you. “We should head back down before Robby sends a search party.”

You fall into step beside him as he pushes the door open, and Jack pauses at the threshold. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs.

“For what?” you ask. 

“For all of it,” he says, a small, tired smile tugging at his lips.

“Anytime, Starsky.” 

His hand finds the curve of your waist, hesitant, unsure. When you don’t pull away, he leans in slowly, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. You close your eyes at the contact, letting the warmth settle over the tension in your chest. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, there’s a softness in his eyes that wasn’t there before.

“I’m not going anywhere either,” he whispers.

You tuck the promise away and follow him back inside. 

__

Taglist:

“What if they don’t like me?”

Bradley scoffs from beside you, “Who cares if they don’t?”

The look you shoot him wipes the teasing from his tone. “I'm kidding, sweetheart. They're gonna love you.”

You press your lips together and nod. “Deep breath in and out,” you whisper the reminder to yourself.

Hand-in-hand, you walk into The Hard Deck, the sounds mingling with the smell of the ocean to almost whack you down into the sand. Immediately, you can pick out your boyfriend’s group of friends gathered around the pool table. 

“If it isn’t Rooster and the chick!” a blond man — Hangman, you can tell— exclaims. 

“Watch it, Seresin," Bradley warns as he wraps an arm around Jake in a loose embrace. He goes around the group, doing the same while introducing you.

“Hi guys. I've heard a lot about you.”

“All fantastic things, I bet.” Mickey surmises with a raised brow.

“Eh. depends on the day,” you respond, encouraged by Bradley's steady arm around your waist. 

“Their egos don’t need more milking. Just ignore them,” Natasha pipes up. “Nice to finally meet the girl Rooster can’t shut up about.”

“It’s nice to meet the hero that has to work around this every day,” you gesture to the men surrounding you. 

Bradley’s arm squeezes your side once, “Don’t throw a parade in her honor now.”

“What, are you jealous your girlfriend might like me more?”

All you can do is laugh between the two of them. “I like both of you equally.”

“Equally?” Bradley says like you’ve just broken his heart in two. He tilts his head as he leans in closer to you. 

The proximity makes you giggle like you’re a teenager again. The arm around your waist pulls you in even closer against him (if that’s even possible). You’re drowning in a smell that you can only describe as Bradley and his soft honey-brown gaze. 

A gag interrupts you. “Get a room!”, says someone else at the other end of the pool table. The side of Bradley’s mouth ticks up and he leans in to kiss you loudly. Natasha grips your arm before you can return the obnoxious gesture and drags you toward the bar. 

“Let’s go get drinks before he sticks his tongue down your throat in front of us.” Bradley’s laugh booms behind you. 

You gladly follow her, eager for the sense that at least one of your boyfriend’s friends likes you. She orders a beer for herself and some fruity cocktail that you barely register the name of; it should be weirder that she knows you so well already. Across the bar, Pete interrupts his conversation with Penny to wave. The man had become a staple at barbecues, impromptu beach days, and everything in between. 

Natasha glances between the both of you, “Mav is also really fond of you. You’ve got him and Roo wrapped around your finger.”

A pang of affection – the same one that occurs every time you think about Bradley – hits at the bottom of your gut. “I’m honestly just glad he has someone else in his corner – the closest thing to family he’s got.”

She lets out a low whistle, “I don’t know if I could ever forgive someone that did that to me.”

“Pulling your papers?”

“Yeah, Roo told me it set him back 4 years. The Academy was long enough. I couldn’t imagine wasting time like that.” she shakes her head like the mere thought would cause similar events to fall into place. 

But you’re not thinking about what Natasha is talking about. The words “set him back” echoes in your mind mixed with a dull ringing sound. He had told her that Pete pulling his papers set him back. Set him back. 

The four years he spent at UVA before the Naval Academy had been a setback, an obstacle he had to overcome. Is that genuinely what he thought about the time of your life that had forced the two of you to meet?

Painfully aware of your surroundings, you blink a few times to stop the tears from welling. “I think I need some air.” is all you can manage before your throat closes up. You can almost hear Natasha say something but you turn on a swivel and push past the drunk patrons to get to the door. 

The breeze is a little cooler now and goosebumps erupt all over your arms. You sit on the steps, placing your head in your hands. In as much privacy as you’re going to get, the tears start to fall. You were aware that maybe you were being the slightest bit dramatic but you couldn’t help it. Bradley had never told you that he seemingly despised his UVA years, despised the time of his life that you stepped into. Would he have preferred going to the Academy “on time” if it meant you would never meet? Was that a bargain he was willing to make? Your stomach churned just thinking about it. 

Back inside the bar, Natasha marches straight to Bradley. He looks pointedly at the empty spot beside her, “Did you forget someone?”

“She’s outside. Wanted to get some fresh air? I thought maybe she was a little overwhelmed with this place. Not like I blame her,” she murmurs as she gets sucked into the new pool game. 

Bradley furrows his brows. He was almost 100% positive that you would have come to him first if you needed a little break. It was a ritual at most social gatherings at this point. He follows your steps out and he sees your hunched form on the stairs. 

“Woah, honey. What’s going on? Are you okay?” He settles next to you on the step, his hand coming up to rub between your shoulder blades. 

“Leave m’lone,” you mumble into your arms.

“Honey, I’m not doing that. Did someone do something to you? You can tell me. You know that,” he starts again. 

You finally crack and look up at him. Your lashes are defined by the tears and frame your red-rimmed eyes. He thought you were always the most beautiful person he’d ever met but with tears on your face, he could barely stand to look at you. 

“Natasha told me that Mav pulling your papers was a setback,” you start, wiping your tears on your sleeve. 

“Yeah?” He isn’t completely sure what’s made you this upset. You already know everything about his past with Mav.

“Was I a setback?” You ask, ripping the bandaid off. His face crumples so immediately that you wish you could take the question back. You wish you never uttered those words but you needed to know. You had to know.

He blinks once. Twice. The silence curdles between you. 

“You can’t even answer that?” your voice cracks and tears threaten to spill again. 

“No, no no. I –” Bradley starts frantically, hands waving in front of him. “Why would you ever think that? I love you.”

“Going to UVA pushed back your start time at the Academy. You called it a setback to Natasha. We met at Virginia, Bradley, in case you forgot. If you started at the Academy when you wanted to, we never would’ve met. We never –”

Bradley interrupts your rambling with his hands on each side of your face. “Honey, please take a breath. I-I never meant you were a setback. Not you. Never you. You were the best thing that came out of college.”

“Yeah?” you sniffle.

“Yeah. Would’ve let him pull my papers a million times if it meant I’d meet you.” Bradley's mustache lifts with his smile. 

You purse your lips to hide your growing grin, “Okay, Romeo.” 

He presses his lips to your forehead, “Never want you to think you’re something holding me back.” 

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” he reassures you with a kiss on your cheek. 

“I don’t really wanna go back inside,” you mutter, tilting your head against his shoulder. 

“You’re in luck. Neither do I.”