sweetie

The call comes while Mel is asleep beside you.

Your phone vibrates across the nightstand at 4:17 in the morning. The sound is small, almost polite, but it pulls you awake with your heart already racing. Calls at that hour belong to hospitals, wrong numbers, and sentences people spend the rest of their lives wishing they hadn’t heard.

Mel makes a sleepy sound when you reach across her. Her hand lands on your hip before she’s fully conscious, an instinctive attempt to keep some part of you close.

You answer without checking the number.

The person on the other end says your name. Then they tell you that your father died suddenly during the night.

Your father is dead.

You sit upright so quickly that the blanket falls to your waist.

Mel wakes at once. “What happened?”

“Yes,” you say into the phone. Your mouth is dry. “I understand.”

You don’t understand.

When the call ends, you keep the phone against your ear. The room remains completely ordinary. Mel’s book is open facedown beside the lamp. One of her socks is caught in the blankets near your knee. A glass of water waits on the nightstand with a circle of condensation beneath it.

Your father can’t be dead in a room this ordinary.

“Who was it?” Mel asks.

You lower the phone. “My dad died.”

Mel inhales sharply. Her hands lift toward you and stop in the space between your bodies.

“Do you want me to hold you?” she asks. Her voice is soft but precise. “I can hold you, sit beside you without touching, or get up and start making calls. You don’t have to decide anything else yet.”

You stare at her hands.

“Hold me.”

Mel moves immediately. She wraps both arms around you and draws you into her chest, one palm spreading between your shoulder blades. Her body is warm from sleep. Her heartbeat is steady beneath your cheek.

You wait for grief to arrive.

Nothing happens.

No tears come. You don’t shake or scream. Your mind circles the same impossible sentence while Mel holds you tightly enough to give your body edges.

“I need to call him,” you whisper.

Mel’s fingers pause in your hair. “Okay.”

You pull away and tap your father’s name before she can say anything else. The phone rings. Once. Twice. Three times.

His voicemail answers in the familiar, mildly irritated tone he always used when technology required him to perform on command.

You hang up.

“See?” you say. Your breath leaves in a strange laugh. “His phone works.”

“It does,” she says.

You call again.

Mel stays beside you through every ring.

By sunrise, the kitchen table is covered in paper.

“Your aunt said she’ll meet us there,” Mel says. She sits across from you with her laptop open. “I called the Pitt. Robby took me off the schedule for the next three days, and Dana said to tell you she’s sorry.”

You look up. “You can’t miss three days.”

“I can.”

“You just changed rotations.”

“I know.” Mel closes the laptop carefully. “I’m still not going to work.”

“I don’t need you to stay home.”

She studies you, her fingers rubbing the edge of one thumbnail. “Do you want me to go?”

The question makes your chest tighten.

“No.”

“Then I’m staying.”

You push the nearest envelope away. “I don’t know why everyone is acting like this is happening now. He was fine yesterday.”

“You talked to him yesterday?” she asks instead.

“Two days ago.” You rub your forehead. “He wanted to know whether we were coming for dinner next month. I told him I’d check your schedule.”

The unfinished plan rises between you. Dinner next month. A date no one will cancel because it can no longer exist.

You stand abruptly. “I need to pack.”

Mel rises too, then remains near the table rather than following. “Would a list help, or would a list make you angry?”

The specificity nearly breaks through your numbness.

“A list,” you say.

She turns over one of the envelopes and writes in neat, compact lines: clothes, medications, toiletries, charger, funeral clothes, something comfortable, your father’s spare house key.

Her pen stops at the last item.

“Do you know where the key is?”

“In the blue bowl by the door.”

You both look toward it.

The key has been there for years, used for holiday visits and emergencies that always ended with your father alive. It shines beneath the entryway light.

You sit down again because your legs have stopped feeling dependable.

Mel leaves the list on the table and kneels beside your chair. She doesn’t touch you until you open your hand.

Then she places her palm against yours.

The first days pass through rooms you’ll later struggle to remember.

Mel stays close without attaching herself to you.

She learns when to place a hand at the base of your spine and when to stand several feet away. She keeps water within reach. She repeats information when someone asks you a question you’ve already answered and waits for your nod before answering on your behalf.

At the funeral home, a staff member slides a folder across the desk and asks you to choose among options you didn’t know existed.

Your vision fixes on the printed headings.

“I can’t,” you say.

The staff member begins explaining again, slower this time.

Mel leans toward you. “Do you want me to narrow the choices, or do you want ten minutes alone?”

“Narrow them.”

She asks the staff member three direct questions, removes the options that don’t fit what your father wanted, and turns the remaining pages toward you. Her finger rests beside each line without selecting it.

“These two match what you told me,” she says. “You still choose.”

You choose because she makes the decision small enough to hold.

Afterward, in the parking lot, you stand beside the car and stare at the gray sky.

“I just planned my father’s funeral,” you say.

Mel’s hand tightens around the folder. “Yes.”

“Why am I not crying?”

She places the folder on the hood of the car. “Your nervous system is doing what it can. There isn’t a correct amount of crying.”

“Everyone keeps watching me.”

“People get uncomfortable when grief doesn’t look the way they expect.” Mel steps in front of you, blocking the view of two relatives near the entrance. “You don’t have to perform it for them.”

You look at her. Mel’s own parents have been gone for years. You know the facts, some stories, and the dates she grows quieter around. You know she took on responsibilities for Becca while she was still trying to become an adult herself. You have never asked her to turn those losses into instructions for surviving yours.

“Did you cry right away?” you ask.

Mel’s gaze drops to a crack in the pavement. “Not with my dad. With my mom, I started before anyone finished telling me.” She presses her lips together. “It was different each time.”

“Which one was worse?”

She looks up. There is no offense in her expression, only sorrow. “I don’t know how to rank them.”

Shame warms your face. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize for asking.” Mel reaches for your hand. “But grief isn’t a measurement. Yours doesn’t have to resemble mine to be real.”

You let her link your fingers.

The tears still don’t come.

Mel drives you back to your father’s house in silence.

At the funeral, you cry because someone says the word was.

Your father was generous. Your father was stubborn. Your father was proud of you.

Each past-tense sentence removes him again.

The first sob folds you forward in your chair. Mel reacts before anyone else. She moves close enough that your shoulder fits beneath her chin and wraps an arm firmly around your ribs. Her other hand closes over yours in your lap.

You cry through the next story and the one after that. You cry until your face aches and your breath keeps catching halfway into your lungs.

“Slow it down with me,” Mel whispers. She presses your joined hands against her sternum so you can feel the rhythm of her breathing. “Not because you have to stop. I just want you to get air.”

You copy her inhale badly. She doesn’t praise you or count. She keeps breathing where you can feel it until your body remembers how.

After the service, people surround you with condolences and offers that have no shape.

Call if you need anything.

Let us know how we can help.

He is in a better place.

Mel intercepts the last one before it reaches you a second time. She steps between you and a distant family friend with an apologetic smile that isn’t quite an apology.

“They need some air,” she says.

She guides you outside, where cold wind hits the wet tracks on your face.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Mel rubs both hands along your upper arms. “Do you want to leave?”

“I should stay.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I want to go home,” you say.

Mel takes your coat from the rack.

No one is allowed to make you stay.

The numbness ends nine days after the funeral.

It ends over a coffee mug.

When she comes home, she finds you standing in the kitchen with your father’s old mug in both hands. You brought it back from his house because he used it every morning. The chipped lettering across the front advertises a hardware store that closed years ago.

“Hi,” Mel says carefully. She sets her bag near the door. “How was today?”

“Fine.”

Her attention moves to the mug. “Did you eat?”

“I wasn’t hungry.”

“There’s soup in the refrigerator. I can heat it up, or I can make toast if the texture is too much.” She crosses to the counter and reaches for the mug. “Let me wash that first.”

You pull it away so sharply that coffee splashes across your wrist.

“Don’t touch it.”

Mel stops. “Okay.”

“You can’t just come in and move things.”

“I wasn’t going to move it. I thought you wanted it washed.”

“I didn’t ask you to wash it.” Your voice rises with every word. “I didn’t ask for soup. I didn’t ask you to monitor whether I ate. I’m not one of your patients.”

Mel goes very still.

“I know that,” she says.

“Do you? Because you keep giving me choices like I can’t make a decision without you reducing it to two options.”

The cruelty of the sentence is visible as soon as it lands. Mel’s face closes, not dramatically, but with a small withdrawal around her eyes.

She picks up her bag again.

“You can be angry,” she says. Her fingers tighten around the strap. “You can tell me that I’m helping in the wrong way. You can’t make my care for you into something shameful because you need somewhere to put the anger.”

You stare at her.

“I’m going to shower,” she continues. Her voice shakes despite its evenness. “I won’t touch the mug. When I’m done, you can tell me whether you want company.”

She walks away before you can answer.

The bedroom door closes gently. That gentleness feels worse than a slam.

You set the mug on the counter. Your father drank from it on the last morning you visited him. He complained that you used too much coffee and not enough water. You told him his coffee tasted like burnt dirt.

The memory is so ordinary that anger tears through you.

You shove the mug into the sink.

It strikes the metal basin with a hard crack.

The handle breaks cleanly away.

For one stunned second, you stare at the two pieces.

Then grief arrives as rage.

You scream into both hands. The sound rips your throat raw. You are angry at the mug, at the funeral, at every person who still has a father they can call. You are angry at Mel for understanding. You are angrier that she understands because the world took both of her parents and still expected her to keep moving.

Mel appears in the doorway with her scrub top half removed and a T-shirt underneath. She takes in the broken ceramic and your shaking body.

“Are you hurt?” she asks.

You shake your head.

“Can I come closer?”

Another sob breaks through the rage. “I broke it.”

“I see that.”

“It was his.”

Mel crosses the kitchen only after you nod. She checks your hands for cuts, turning them carefully beneath the light. When she finds none, she lowers both of you to the floor.

You fold against her. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“For the mug or for what you said?”

“Both.”

Mel’s hand moves slowly over your back. “I accept the apology for what you said. I’m not the person who decides whether you’re forgiven for the mug.”

You make a wet, startled sound that becomes half a laugh.

“That was a terrible joke,” you say.

“It wasn’t entirely a joke.” She rests her cheek against your hair. “You loved him. The mug mattered. Breaking it doesn’t change either fact.”

You grip the hem of her T-shirt. “Were you angry?”

“After my parents died?”

You nod.

Mel looks toward the broken handle beside the sink. “I was furious at people in grocery stores. They were buying cereal while my life was ruined. I hated forms that asked for an emergency contact. I hated friends who complained about their parents.” Her fingers flex against your spine. “Sometimes I was angry at my parents for leaving, even though they didn’t choose to.”

You close your eyes.

“Did it stop?”

“It changed.” Mel presses a kiss to your temple. “That’s the most honest answer I have.”

Three weeks later, your father leaves you a voicemail.

It isn’t new. Your phone has preserved it beneath dozens of newer messages, dated two months before his death. You find it while searching for an address.

His name appears on the screen. The small triangle waits beneath it.

You don’t press play.

Mel finds you sitting on the bedroom floor with your back against the dresser. She has learned not to ask what is wrong as if grief is a fresh event every time it surfaces. She lowers herself beside you and waits.

You turn the screen toward her.

“I missed his last call,” you say.

Mel looks at the date. “This voicemail is from two months ago.”

“He called the week before he died too. I was busy, so I texted him. What if he wanted to tell me something?”

“Did he leave a message then?”

“No.”

“Did he usually leave messages?”

“Sometimes.” You pull your knees closer. “I should’ve called back.”

Mel twists one of her rings around her finger. “Do you want a logical answer or do you want me to listen?”

“Both.”

“The logical answer is that you couldn’t know how much time you had. You responded in the way you normally responded on a busy day. One missed call doesn’t define your relationship.” She tilts her head toward you. “The listening answer is that I know logic probably won’t make the guilt stop.”

Your thumb hovers over the old voicemail. “If I had called him more, maybe I wouldn’t feel like this.”

“You would feel different details.”

“What does that mean?”

Mel draws one knee up, mirroring you. “After my dad died, I thought about every conversation I ended first. After my mom died, I thought about every time I got impatient when she needed help. My brain kept building a version where I did everything perfectly and then believed perfect behavior would have made losing them less painful.”

“Did it help?”

“No.” A sad smile moves across her face. “It made me feel busy. Bargaining is busy. It gives you equations to solve when the real problem has no solution.”

You rest your head against the dresser. “That sounds like something from a grief pamphlet.”

“I hate grief pamphlets.”

“You brought three home.”

“Dana gave them to me, and refusing felt rude.” Mel reaches over and turns your phone facedown on the carpet. “They always put the stages in a line. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. That makes them look like steps.”

“They aren’t?”

“Not for me.” Her shoulder touches yours. “They were rooms. I kept walking into the same ones through different doors.”

You let the image settle.

“What if I never listen to the voicemail?”

“Then you don’t.”

“What if I delete it by accident?”

“We can back it up when you’re ready.”

“What if hearing him makes everything worse?”

Mel turns her palm upward between you. “Then I’ll be here when it gets worse.”

You place your hand in hers.

You don’t play the message that night.

For the first time, leaving it unheard feels like a choice instead of a failure.

People stop checking in before you stop needing them to.

The messages thin. Food no longer appears at the door. Conversations begin with ordinary questions, and people look startled when your honest answer includes your father.

Six weeks after the funeral, you wake beneath a heaviness that feels physical.

Mel has already left for the Pitt. A note waits beside the bed in her uneven handwriting.

Water is on the nightstand. Food is in the fridge. Shower is optional. Text me one word so I know you saw this. Any word counts.

You read it three times.

You don’t text.

The day passes without becoming distinct. You move from the bed to the couch and sit beneath the blanket without turning on the television. Your father’s voicemail remains unplayed. The broken mug, repaired with a thin line of visible adhesive, sits on a high shelf where Mel placed it after asking permission.

At noon, she sends a picture of a badly shaped cookie from the staff room.

At two, she writes: No explanation needed. Please send a punctuation mark.

At four, your phone rings.

She comes home shortly after seven. You hear her key in the door, the quick drop of her bag, and her shoes crossing the floor.

Mel kneels in front of the couch. She doesn’t hide her fear.

“I need to ask you something directly,” she says. Her hands remain on her own thighs. “Are you thinking about hurting yourself or not wanting to be alive?”

“No.” The answer costs effort, but it’s true. “I don’t want to die.”

Her shoulders lower slightly.

“I just don’t want to do this.” You stare at the blanket. “I don’t want to wake up and remember again. I don’t want every day to be the first day he’s still dead.”

Mel sits on the floor. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.”

“Have you had water?”

You shake your head.

She reaches toward the glass on the coffee table, then stops. “Can I hand it to you?”

The memory of the mug flashes between you. Mel hasn’t forgotten your accusation. She has adjusted without making you beg forgiveness again.

“Yes.”

She gives you the glass. You drink two swallows and return it.

“I think we need more help,” Mel says. Her thumb rubs rapidly across her fingertips, a sign that she’s choosing every word carefully. “Not because you’re grieving incorrectly. Because you’re carrying something very heavy, and I’m one person who sometimes works fifteen-hour shifts.”

“You think I’m too much.”

“No.” Her answer is immediate. “I think this is too much for two people to hold without support.”

You turn your face away.

Mel stays on the floor. “I found three grief therapists who take your insurance. I haven’t contacted them. I won’t contact them unless you ask.”

“I don’t want to tell a stranger about him.”

“Okay.”

“You’re supposed to convince me.”

“I gave you the information. You said no.” She folds her hands together. “I can ask again another day, but I won’t trap you into agreeing because I’m scared.”

“Ask tomorrow,” you whisper.

Mel nods. “I can do that.”

“Will you sit up here?”

She climbs onto the couch. You turn into her before she has settled, pressing your face against her neck. Mel wraps the blanket around both of you and holds you with one hand cupping the back of your head.

“You smell like the hospital,” you mumble.

“I can shower.”

Your fingers close around her shirt. “Not yet.”

“Okay.” She rests her lips against your hair. “Not yet.”

The next afternoon, you let her place the list of therapists on the table.

Two days later, you make one call.

Therapy doesn’t make grief orderly.

Mel listens when you want to describe the anger at home.

She also tells you when she doesn’t have the capacity to listen well.

“I want to hear this,” she says one night after a difficult shift. She stands in the kitchen, pressing both palms against the counter. “My brain is still in three trauma rooms. Can I shower, eat, and come back in twenty minutes?”

The request stings before it makes sense.

“You won’t forget?”

Mel crosses the room and touches her forehead to yours. “I put a timer on my phone.”

Twenty minutes later, she returns with damp hair, two bowls of cereal, and her attention fully yours.

You learn that support can include a boundary without becoming abandonment.

Mel learns that not every silence means you want space. Sometimes you need her to ask twice. Sometimes you need pressure, her full weight along your side beneath the blankets. Sometimes you need her in the same room doing something unrelated while you miss your father privately.

You build a language for it.

“Near or far?” she asks.

“Near, no talking.”

Or, “Do you want comfort, solutions, or witness?”

“Witness.”

She sits beside you while you sort through photographs. She doesn’t tell you which ones to keep. When you laugh at a picture of your father wearing a terrible holiday sweater, guilt follows so quickly that the photograph shakes in your hand.

“I shouldn’t be laughing.”

Mel looks from the picture to your face. “Why?”

“Because he’s dead.”

“He was funny before he died.”

“Not on purpose.”

“That is often the funniest category.”

Your second laugh turns into tears. Mel takes the stack before it slips from your lap, places it safely on the table, and gathers you against her.

Joy and grief move through the same opening.

This time, you let both come.

On your father’s birthday, nearly five months after his death, you wake before dawn.

Mel is already awake. She lies on her side facing you, one hand tucked beneath her cheek.

“How long have you been watching me?” you ask.

“Not long.” Her eyes move over your face. “I didn’t know what today would feel like.”

“Neither did I.”

“I want to go to his house,” you say.

Mel nods. “Okay.”

“I want to finish the kitchen.”

You have delayed that room for months. His spices remain arranged beside the stove. A grocery list is still held to the refrigerator with a magnet you made in elementary school.

“Do you want me to come?”

“Yes.” You reach for her hand beneath the blanket. “But I need to choose what happens to things.”

“I’ll only touch what you hand me.”

At the house, afternoon sunlight reveals dust on the counters.

You stand in the doorway until Mel’s shoulder presses lightly against yours.

“Near,” you say.

“No talking?”

“Talking is okay.”

You begin with the spices. Most are expired. Your father kept three containers of cinnamon and no salt because he repeatedly forgot what he had.

Mel reads each date aloud only when you ask. She holds open the trash bag and lets you decide.

At the back of a drawer, you find his handwritten recipe for pancakes. The measurements are inconsistent, the instructions incomplete, and one corner is stained with batter.

“He made these every birthday,” you say.

Mel leans close without taking the card. “For you or for himself?”

“For everyone. He thought pancakes counted as a universal celebration.”

“He was correct.”

You trace the faded ink. “We should make them.”

The first batch burns because you misread the heat setting while telling Mel about the year your father tried to flip a pancake onto your plate, only to have it land on the floor.

The second batch is raw in the center.

Mel cuts into one and studies it with professional concern. “This would be an embarrassing reason to visit my workplace.”

“You’re the doctor. Fix it.”

“My recommendation is more cooking.”

The third batch comes out uneven but edible. You sit together at your father’s kitchen table with two plates between you.

Before taking a bite, you place one small pancake on an empty plate at the head of the table.

Mel looks at it and then at you.

“Too strange?” you ask.

“No.” She adjusts the plate so it sits square with the table’s edge. “It looks right.”

You eat in the quiet house.

Halfway through breakfast, you begin crying. The tears fall without panic, slipping down your face while you chew and breathe.

Mel reaches across the table, palm upward.

You take her hand.

“I miss him,” you say.

“I know.”

She doesn’t say he would want you to be happy. She doesn’t tell you the pain will fade or that he’s still with you. Mel has never filled uncertainty with promises she can’t verify.

She rubs her thumb across your knuckles and lets missing him be enough.

After breakfast, you pack the recipe card, the magnet, and his favorite wooden spoon into the box you’re taking home. You donate most of the dishes. You keep the scratched frying pan even though Mel points out that the coating is damaged and unsafe.

“We won’t cook with it,” you say.

“Then its danger becomes decorative.”

“Exactly.”

Mel labels the box KITCHEN: KEEP in thick black marker.

When you close the front door that evening, you don’t feel finished. Acceptance doesn’t arrive as peace. It feels more like knowing the door will stay closed and turning the key anyway.

You cry in the car.

Mel holds your hand across the center console until you’re ready to leave.

That night, you finally play the voicemail.

You sit in bed with Mel beside you. The repaired mug rests on the nightstand, its broken handle joined by a pale seam.

“Are you sure?” Mel asks.

“No.” You unlock the phone. “Stay anyway.”

She settles against the headboard and opens her arms. You sit between her legs with your back against her chest. One of her hands covers yours around the phone. The other rests over your heart.

You press play.

Your father’s voice fills the bedroom.

He’s calling about nothing important. He wants to know whether you remember the name of a restaurant you visited together. He complains briefly about the weather, tells you there’s no hurry, and says he’ll talk to you later.

The message ends.

You stare at the silent screen.

“That’s it,” you whisper.

Mel’s chin rests on your shoulder. “That’s it.”

“I thought there would be something I missed.”

“There was.”

You turn your head slightly.

She touches the phone with one finger. “His voice. A normal day. Him expecting there would be another conversation.”

Your face crumples.

“I didn’t call him back,” you cry.

“I know.”

“I loved him.”

“I know that too.”

You turn within her arms until you can press your face into her neck. Mel rocks you in a slow rhythm, her cheek resting against the top of your head.

When the crying eases, you remain tangled together.

“Does it always come back?” you ask.

Mel is quiet for a long time.

“Yes,” she says finally. “But you won’t always meet it as the same person.”

You think about the first call, the funeral folder, the broken mug, the couch, and the pancakes cooling on an extra plate. You think about every room Mel described and every door that led you back into one.

“What stage is this?”

Her breath warms your hair. “I don’t know.”

“You’re a doctor.”

“Not that kind.” Mel kisses your forehead. “And I think the stages are mostly useful for explaining why people can feel five impossible things before lunch.”

You let out a tired laugh.

Mel reaches past you and sets the phone safely on the nightstand. “What do you need now?”

The question no longer sounds like a menu offered because she thinks you can’t decide. It sounds like respect. It sounds like love that has learned your grief without claiming ownership of it.

“Pressure,” you say. “And sleep, if it comes.”

Mel turns off the lamp. She curls around you beneath the blankets, one arm firm across your waist and her knees fitted behind yours.

The darkness doesn’t feel empty.

Your father is still dead. You still miss him. Tomorrow may hold anger, numbness, laughter, or another round of bargaining with a past that can’t change.

Mel can’t carry you through grief as if it’s a hallway with an exit. She can’t make the rooms disappear.

What she can do is enter them when you ask.

She can sit beside you without rearranging the furniture. She can help you find water, words, a therapist, or silence. She can tell you when your pain has struck her and still open her arms after you apologize. She can remember that holding you and healing you aren’t the same task.

You place your hand over hers in the dark.

Mel’s hand tightens beneath yours, a quiet reminder that staying isn’t passive. It’s something she chooses with you, again and again, every day that follows.

She can’t promise easy days, only that you won’t meet them alone.

“Mel?”

“I’m here.” Her answer comes without hesitation.

Your throat tightens, but the feeling isn’t only pain.

“I know,” you whisper.

For tonight, knowing is enough.

You felt like an idiot for letting your father make you feel this way. For giving him so much leverage over your outlook on life. The people around you thought you loved wholeheartedly because you’d learned it from someone else, but the reality was far more complicated than that.

You loved the way you did not because of someone you knew, but someone you wanted to. Someone who loved like the word had no limits, like the way you did.

Your father was incapable of such treatment. When you left Boston for Pittsburgh years prior, he barely bat an eye. Just wished you well and asked you come back for the holidays, but never complained when you didn’t. Never cared that you didn’t. The man hardly cared about you, period.

And so he calls sometimes. Tries to be a father. Tells you he’s thinking of you, but it always feels like you’re a check on a to-do list. An afterthought. Like talking to you is an obligation, a thing he does because he has to, not because he wants to.

He’d called you in the breakroom the minute you got the door closed. You’d forgotten about the juice you were about to indulge in before answering the phone, wondering what he wanted. The man had promptly asked for help with the bills, and you being the angel you were, unable to ignore someone in need, no matter how salty, sent it without complaints. He hadn’t even told you he loved you when he hung up. Just told you this is what your responsibility was as a daughter now. He’d taken care of you, nurtured you after your mother had left. So you should be thanking him.

Man, you thought. Your old man had a twisted sense of family.

That call had you questioning your own validity. What had you done to deserve the loneliness you’d accumulated? To have a father who used you like an ATM? Friends who knew you but didn’t see you? It felt like the world was on your shoulders, too heavy for one person to carry, especially for someone so young. 

The last place you wanted to be carrying all these feelings was the PTMC. But life didn’t stop just because you were having a go at it. So neither could you.

You all but sprinted to Trauma 2, not ready to get back to work, but at least able. Eleven in the morning was early for a fall out of a treehouse, and you’d hate to be the little girl who’d taken the damage, so you made quick work of your feet, willing them ahead until you arrived.

At the bedside were Doctors Santos and Garcia, as well as Langdon, Javadi, and your attending, Doctor Robby. Behind Santos and Garcia were the parents of the children who were in inconsolable tears, being comforted to no avail by Doctor Javadi.

“Still no consciousness,” said Santos with her lip between her teeth, her hands working quickly at the bleeding gash across the little girl’s forehead.

“How high’s this fucking treehouse?” said Garcia, ever the blunt one. You shook your head.

“Garcia,” you chided, because that was often your role. Keeping the flow of empathy in a room at any given time alive. Especially when that room contained people in dire need of it.

“Am I happy to see you,” said Robby. He excused himself from the bedside while the other doctors worked, handing you a chart. “Talk to the family before you jump on. Girl’s named Hailey, mom and dad are Janet and Carl Atkins. You know the drill, yeah?”

“Yes. Yes, of course, Robby,” you said with a nod. You tapped your fingers against the cardboard of the chart as you read its contents, like that’d somehow snap you back into doctor mode.

It’s the thought that counts, right?

“You’re an angel,” Robby said.

“Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Atkins,” you said when you approached the parents, introducing yourself. “Why don’t we take a step outside?”

“We’re not leaving our daughter,” said Mrs. Atkins, who was still in tears.

“I understand your pain, Mrs. Atkins, but these doctors are doing everything to care for your little girl. Soon, that’ll mean lots of blood and sights you won’t want to remember of her. I promise you can come back in as soon as they’re finished.”

Mrs. Atkins, Janet, looked at her husband with teary eyes. He nodded and turned to you. You took that as your cue to lead them out of the room. Robby nodded as you made your exit with the parents.

“What happened this morning?” you asked gently, keeping any accusation out of your voice. You knew from experience that families of patients never responded well to that.

“H- Hailey wanted to play outside. It was beautiful out. We went into our backyard after breakfast, a- and Carl and I were having a bit of coffee after helping her into her treehouse. She’s a smart girl, so I thought—“ Janet stopped her sentence short to heave a sob. Carl rubbed her back.

“You thought you could trust her, like all parents do,” you finished. “She’s six. Still small, but she’s learning about the world in her own way, and you want to let her. There isn’t anything wrong with that. Then, what?”

“We didn’t even see her get out. Usually she stays inside and calls for one of us when she’s ready to come down. But this time, I guess she thought she could do it on her own,” Carl said. “She’d just hit the ground when we ran over. And we called 911.”

“I see. It’s to my understanding that Hailey’s very lucky,” you said after taking a good look at the chart. “No noticeable fractures, minimal chance of long-term brain damage. The worst she should walk away with is a concussion and a sprained ankle, but apart from that and her visible wounds, she should be back to health in no time,” you said.

“Then why is she not waking up?” said Janet.

“Her age and nature of the impact are likely to blame for her unconsciousness. Falling hard on your back is generally more dangerous, especially for teenagers and children. That doesn’t mean her injuries are severe,” you said calmly. “Hailey’s your only child?”

Janet nodded. “She’s the best little girl in the world. She was everything we prayed for.”

“Your love for her is palpable. You’re first time parents who are navigating the ups and downs of what it takes to raise a child. Mistakes don’t negate your progress. There’s no benefit in being hard on yourselves,” you said. “This wasn’t your fault. Children are naturally curious and occasionally unpredictable. That doesn’t mean you’re to blame for what happened today. The most you can do now is be there for Hailey. That’s all you can do.”

Janet sniffled, moved by your words. That was just the effect you had on people. 

Most people, anyway. 

It was your job at the PTMC to provide comfort to families in time of need, as well as finding balance in being a good doctor all the same. But it occurred to you more often than not that you had yet to acquire that same balance in your personal life. 

As per usual, that wasn’t the matter at hand right now.

The other woman took your hand in hers and squeezed. You squeezed back.

“Thank you. You’re a great doctor,” she said.

You smiled. “No, thank you. Now, why don’t you two take a seat over here? I’ll come back out with any updates on Hailey.”

After the parents sat on a bench outside Trauma 2, you braced yourself and went back in. Robby eyed you as you returned.

“Worked your magic out there, kiddo?”

You gave that same fabricated smile you’d offered Dina not too long prior and nodded, grabbing a pair of sterile gloves. “Sure did.”

He didn’t have to know that was just more of your magic.

After half an hour or so, Garcia finally threw her hands up, exhaling a sigh of relief. “My services are no longer required.”

You’d been helping keep the Hailey stabilized beside Robby, while Santos had been next to Garcia. Javadi and Langdon had since left to handle another case. You checked the monitor to view the girl’s heart rate and blood pressure and nodded your agreement.

“All set. Thanks for your help,” you saod.

“Sure thing. Call if you need the jazz hands again,” Garcia said before heading off.

“Good work, you two. Couple hours and she should be waking up,” said Robby.

“Great. I’ll give the parents the good news,” you said.

You discarded your gloves and put some hand sanitizer on before turning to face the parents who were still seated outside Trauma 2. They both stood up with urgency, looking frantic at your return.

“How is she?” said Janet.

You smiled. “Little Hailey’s going to pull through. She’s still unconscious, but we’ve completely stabilized her and she should incur no lasting brain damage from this incident. She’ll wake in a few hours.”

Janet threw her arms around you, and you responded with a little “Oh!” before reciprocating the hug.

“Thank you so much,” Janet said.

“Can we see her?” said Carl.

“Of course. Right this way.”

You led the way back into the room, where Robby was still standing opposite Santos. The latter backed away to allow the parents room to see their child.

“Thank you, Dr. Robby,” said Carl.

“You’re very welcome,” said Robby.

The two of them sat at their daughter’s bedside. Carl instantly grabbed Hailey’s hand, squeezing gently.

“We’re so sorry, honey,” Janet whispered in a quiet sob.

“Daddy loves you so much, Hailey,” Carl sniffled beside his wife. “We’ll never let anything like this happen again. I promise.”

I promise.

At the little declaration, you felt your throat tighten with a weird feeling. It felt like plain sadness at first, salt on the wound after your interaction with your own father. But it was more than that. Deeper.

It felt like fucking jealousy.

Tears filled your eyes and threatened to spill at the scene as Carl whispered all the ways he loved his daughter. The promises to take care of her. The dedication to doing better. All things you wish your father could do for you.

It was too much.

“Um, if you’ll excuse me,” you said with your fake smile, though you weren’t sure how convincing it was now that it was paired with teary eyes and a broken voice. You practically sprinted out of there and didn’t stop until you reached the breakroom.

You slammed the door closed behind you and went for the sink. Everybody was busy with their own cases—it was just one of those kinds of shifts—so there was no one around to see you break down for a second time that shift. While it didn’t necessarily feel good to be alone, you weren’t sure you wanted anyone to see you like this.

Splashing water on your face was futile for your nerves. The sobs you heaved that came from the innermost parts of you were so much more than tears. It felt like all the things your father had said to you since he created you, the words or lack thereof that you’d tried and now failed to suppress, were bubbling to the goddamn surface.

You were in the middle of pressing your thumb to your palm, a trick for anxiety you’d heard from Dr. Collins, when the sound of the break room door opening snapped you out of your thoughts. You took a large breath and didn’t immediately turn around, because you couldn’t give yourself away, couldn’t be vulnerable. Not on a day like this. Maybe not fucking ever.

You thought so, anyway, until the sound of Robby softly saying your name made your resolve crack in two.

“Y- Yeah?” you said without facing him.

“You alright? You kind of ran out of there,” he said. You could hear him coming closer.

“Oh, yeah, j- just needed a glass of water. Dehydrated,” you lied.

“Hydration is important,” he humored you. Yet his tone of voice gave way to the fact that you were a terrible liar. “But I’m not convinced that’s what this is.”

Fuck.

Tears spilled from your eyes. You still didn’t turn around, but when you felt your throat constricting again, your breath picking up speed, you realized it didn’t matter if Robby could see you or not. Your body language was going to betray you.

“I just need a m- minute,” you said, and that did him in. Your body started to shake with a familiar force, one nobody knew you dealt with on a daily basis.

A panic attack.

“Okay, okay, it’s okay,” Robby said as your legs started to fail you. He didn’t say anything about the mascara that was probably coming down your cheeks, or the blatant redness in your eyes when you finally turned around. Instead, he sat you down in one of the chairs in the breakroom, rubbing your back. “Head between your legs.”

You did as told. This tactic did sometimes work for you. But it wasn’t enough to stop your heaving sobs or uncontrollable breathing.

“Come on, s’okay, in through your nose, out through your mouth,” Robby said. “It’s not forever. S’all temporary, s’all temporary. Come on, kiddo, breathe with me.”

Robby’s words felt like honey. But even the sweetest of candies can’t overpower the taste of salt.

It wasn’t Robby’s fault. Robby didn’t know. He didn’t know much about your life beyond the city you’d come from or who you are now. No one did. 

But that was just the thing. Even without truly, truly knowing you, Robby still wanted to help. That was more than your own father could ever say.

“It’s going to be okay,” Robby said finally. “Breathe with me.”

Every word had your nervous system slowly regulating again, and you tried to listen to the sound of his voice. After a few minutes of crying and shaky breaths, the world started to come back into focus.

“That’s a girl, just breathe. Breathe with me,” Robby hummed. “Let me get you some water.”

You felt the aftermath of your panic attack starting to hit the moment Robby returned with a glass of water. You drank it down in one quick gulp as your breath finally slowed back to normal pace.

“I’m. . .sorry you had to see that, I—“

“Don’t apologize. It happens to the best of us,” Robby said. You’d never seen the older man look so concerned. His eyebrows were wrinkled with worry, and there was a frown pasted on his lips.

After a beat, Robby spoke up again. “Did you. . .wanna talk about it?”

You shrugged, looking away. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid if it’s making you cry.”

You shook your head and let out a bitter laugh. You’d tell anyone else the same thing, but you felt stupid for feeling the way you did about a man you’d known for a long time would never change. The stupid thing was holding out hope that he would.

“My dad called me. Just before I hopped on that case,” you said shakily. “He didn’t even ask how I was or what I was doing. He. . .he needed money f- for his bills. So I just sent it without thinking twice. He didn’t even tell me he loved me or anything before he hung up. Just told me this was my responsibility now. So that little girl. . .her father caring so much,” you sniffled. “Just felt like salt to the wound.”

You looked away from Robby completely now, turning your head to the side. “It’s dumb, right? I’m in my mid twenties and I’m still getting hurt by the man when he’s always been this way. Anyone else would have given up by now, but not me.”

“Now, that’s not entirely true,” Robby said sharply. “You need your father today as much as you did when you were born. Your age doesn’t have anything to do with it, kid. And if he can’t show up like he’s supposed to, that’s on him.”

Robby tilted your face to meet his and caught your eyes. “He has no idea what he’s missing.”

You sniffled at the sweet reassurance, leaning your cheek into his palm.

“You’re sure you’re fit to stay?” Robby asked, stroking your cheek.

You almost thought you’d misheard him. There was a loudly spoken rule about all hands on deck at this hospital. Confusedly, you returned,  “It’s been crazy in here today. Don’t you guys need me?”

Robby shrugged. “We have the staff, for once. If you’re not 100%, we’ll be okay if you need to leave. Seems like you need to relax, and this place is definitely not helping with that.”

You giggled at that. “Yeah, probably not,” you agreed. Your smile then faded. “But it’s alright. I took the bus here and with midday traffic, who knows how long I’ll be waiting, anyway,” you sniffled.

“That’s true. And you can stay if you want,” Robby said as he stood up. “Or I can bring you home.”

You looked up at him confusedly. “Bring me home? But, Robby, you—“

“—Jack wanted to come in early,” Robby said. “S’no problem.”

The offer made your heart ache. “You’re sure?”

Robby gave you a small smile. “Wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”

That’s what wound you in the passenger seat of Robby’s truck the second Jack walked into the ER. He opened the door for you and buckled you in before getting into the driver’s side, putting the keys into the ignition.

“I’m sorry I’m making you do this,” you said with a small voice, leaning your head against the window. Even after his reassurance, you still felt guilty for pulling him away from work. “You have a job to do.”

“You’re not making me do anything. And Jack’s a good doctor. He’s got it under control,” Robby said. “How far are you?”

“I’m a little far. It’s about a half hour commute,” you replied. “You really don’t have to bring me, Robby.”

“How about we go to my place instead? It’s closer. You’ll want to decompress sooner rather than later, I imagine.”

You nod. “Okay,” you replied. Robby did the same and began to drive.

Your hands were still restless from the aftermath of your attacks. You leaned your head back against the leather seat, closing your eyes while shaky breaths left your lips. Robby didn’t say anything until he heard you hiccup another sob. He’d stopped at a red light and turned to look at you.

“Sweetheart? You okay?”

You cringed at the whimper that left your lips. “I don’t know.”

“Hey,” Robby said. He reached over and looped his fingers through yours, squeezing your hand to reassure you. “Don’t think about him. It’s not doing you any good. Put the window down, kiddo. That’ll help.”

You did as told, putting the window down ever so slightly. You used Robby’s hand like a lifeline while he drove, and not once did he let go.

Leaving the Pitt made you realize instantly how drastically it was affecting you. You had your anxiety under control most days, but it was easy for anybody to snap in a place like that. Now that you were here, you didn’t feel so frenzied. How Robby could run the show on a daily basis like he did, you had no idea.

The drive was mostly silent, save for the wind from your window and the low hum of the radio. The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable, not with Robby’s hand in your lap and intertwined with your own, grounding you throughout the trip.

He pulled up to a family home about fifteen minutes later. It was a beautiful place with flowers out front and two stories. Robby opened your door for you as you got out, and smiled when you immediately slotted your hand through his again.

“Come on, kiddo. Let’s get you inside,” Robby said.

You followed behind him and watched him unlock the door, letting you inside before following. You took the place in, shockingly neat for your sarcastic attending, while he slipped his shoes off at the door.

“You can shower upstairs if you want. I can give you some clothes to change into,” Robby said. “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t think I’m ready to eat yet. But thank you, Robby. A shower would be nice,” you said.

“Okay, sweetheart. Come on, you can have your pick of my closet.”

You followed Robby upstairs, taking in the various picture frames that lined the walls of the staircase. Most were with Jack or your other coworkers in group pictures. You were even in some of these.

Robby opened the door to his large room, his bed messy with strewn pillows and scattered books on the nightstand. There were some clothes on the floor and Robby grimaced as he retrieved them.

“Sorry about the mess. Don’t ever have company,” Robby said. “You can look through my dresser.”

“Don’t be sorry,” you said as you approached it. You went through his drawers and picked out an old band tee and baggy sweatpants. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll get you a towel.”

After Robby did so, you took the shower you’d been in desperate need of, hoping the cold water would cleanse your nerves. They still felt incredibly frayed even after leaving work, and part of you was still in panic mode. 

Most of it was just plain sadness.

When you came out of the bathroom, Robby was sitting on the edge of the bed, which was now neatly made. He perked up when he saw you, standing up and pulling the covers back. “You didn’t like the sweatpants?”

You shook your head. The tee was long enough to cover the bareness underneath it, and your body temperature wasn’t regulated enough for pants yet. “No. I’m hot,” you said, folding the pants neatly back into the dresser.

“I see,” Robby said. “Feeling better?”

You shrugged, approaching the bed and settling in. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” you said meekly.

“I don’t. But I want to,” Robby said. He tucked you in and turned the TV in the room on, handing you the remote. “I’ve got a few streaming platforms. Watch whatever you’d like. Let me know when you’re ready to eat.”

With that, Robby turned to leave the room, evidently wanting to give you your space, but before he could, you sat back up in bed. “Robby?”

Robby turned to look at you with a foot out of the door. “Yeah, kiddo?”

“Stay? Please, don’t. . .don’t go.”

Robby looked slightly startled by the request, but his expression shifted back into a smile just as quickly. He closed the door and joined you in bed, laying down over the covers. “Whatever you need.”

You turned the TV on and pretended to be interested in the channels, but even entertainment couldn’t do its part in distracting you. You flipped a random movie on before turning to Robby, laying on your side.

Robby rubbed your forehead, then stroked your hair with such care that you thought you might cry all over again. Maybe you would. “Comfortable, kiddo?” he asked.

You nuzzled into his touch, scooting closer. “Mhm. Thank you, Robby.”

“You’re welcome,” Robby said. “You let me know if you need anything, yeah?”

That simple comment worked you right up again, tears brimming in your eyes. All this sweetness from your somewhat gruff attending, the one who’d tucked you in after taking you home and giving you his clothes, no less, had you wondering how hard it really was for your father to do the same.

“Oh, honey,” Robby said as you broke down all over again. “Come here, baby.”

You followed the instruction of Robby patting his lap, sitting up and settling into it. You buried your face into his neck while he held you, cradling you like you were a baby. The gesture made you sob harder as he soothed you, rubbing your back tenderly while he shushed away your tears.

“Your father doesn’t deserve you. You’re too sweet to feel so neglected by him,” Robby said.

“Wh- What’s wrong with me? I just want him to care and somehow I feel like an asshole, because all I do is beg for the man to love me.”

“That doesn’t make you an asshole. It’s normal to want your father. Even more normal when he’s mostly absent.”

“I just want to be enough.”

“You are enough. More than enough,” Robby reassured you.

You pulled back to look at Robby, tears swimming in your eyes. “You’d. . .you’d take care of me, right?” you said without thinking. “If I was your daughter? You wouldn’t let me go?”

Robby smoothed his thumb over your cheek. “No, baby. I wouldn't ever let you go.”

You moved impossibly closer to Robby at the reassurance, now sitting up with your thighs on either side of his legs. He had a hand on your waist, the other coming up to cradle your cheek as he watched you stare.

“What is it, kiddo?” he said softly.

“I. . .I want. . .” you whimpered, bottom lip between your teeth. You of all people knew how unprofessional this position alone was, with your attending, no less, but you were craving more. Comfort. Touch. Love. All things Robby was willing to give you. All things your father never had.

Before you could overthink it, and before your brain could even process what you were doing, for that matter, you leaned slightly forward in Robby’s lap so that your lips ghosted over his. You pressed your hands to his chest in a silent plea, hitting him with those sweet eyes he’d known and admired since you joined PTMC.

But it was different now.

“Please?” you whispered.

“Sweetheart,” Robby huffed. He held his hand on the small of your back and left it there, making no effort to pull you closer or push you away. “We shouldn’t. Hell, I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t even be holding you like this.”

“I know, Robby, but. . .please, I won’t say anything. No one will ever know, I just. . .” you trailed off. 

Too late to back out now.

“Make me forget. Forget him, forget everything,” you said. Your fingers dug into his shirt, another wordless beg for more. “Please.”

Robby stared at you for a few long seconds, the silence louder than the sobs you’d heaved earlier in the breakroom. Your head was spinning from said tears, and it occurred to you that you should go home, lay in bed, pretend this never happened—

Until Robby cupped your cheek with a gentleness you’d hardly known he possessed, and pulled you in for a kiss.

The kiss was electric despite its initial slowness. He was soft with you like he was afraid to break you, as if you needed to be handled with fragility. Except when aggression is all you know, it’s natural to exert—which is why you push your tongue past his lips and wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.

Robby understands instantly and settles a hand on your hip, the other finding its way to your neck. He holds but doesn’t squeeze, again, like you’re too soft to be handled in such a fashion, and works his lips against yours ravenously. You can already feel the hardness of his cock below you and it has you embarrassingly soaked.

“That what you needed, baby?” Robby said with a small smile, cupping your face as he said it. You shook your head, to which he replied, “Oh, no? Then, what?”

You let your hand drift downwards before you could think twice about it, rubbing the aching bulge in his pants with shaking fingers.

“Fuck, honey,” Robby groaned. “Big girl words.”

“I. . .I want your cock, Robby,” you whined.

“That right?”

“M- Mhm, please,” you managed through a few more rubs. Then, the cherry on top to completely seal the deal—

“Please, Daddy.”

He’d said to use your words, right?

“Shit,” was all Robby said. His pupils were completely blown at the name, but the disgust you half expected to see when you looked at him wasn’t there. No, when you looked at him, he held a different expression entirely.

And it looked a lot like lust.

“Y’want me to be your daddy, huh? Guess you really meant you wanted to forget,” Robby hummed like it was a normal Tuesday, and you hadn’t just asked your attending of all the people to play the part. Luckily, for you, Robby was happy to oblige—evidently so, as he yanked you closer by the waist, pressing a quick kiss to your mouth.

“S’okay, sweetheart. I can be his replacement.”

With that, Robby flipped you onto your back and pinned you underneath him with his body, using a hand to prop himself up. You continued to rub at the bulge in his scrubs, only now, you’d begun to tug them down, already ready for more.

Robby followed your lead and released his hardened cock from his jeans, the tip aching and bright. You tried not to think too hard about how the hell that’d fit inside you as you started to stroke him carefully.

“Let me take care of you, Daddy,” you said. “After everything you did today.”

“You’re such a sweet girl, honey,” Robby said through a grunt. “But I’m afraid that’s your Daddy’s job, now, isn’t it?”

The sentiment made your cheeks flare, and you simply nodded.

“Good girl,” Robby cooed. He slowly tucked his dick back into his pants. Confusion filled your face until he started to lift your shirt—his shirt—up so that your skin was exposed to him. He smirked at the sight of you without panties on.

“Someone was ready,” he teased. He tucked his dick back into his pants and pressed featherlight pecks to your belly, then started his descent down your body, starting with your inner thighs. He kissed and sucked at the skin there which had you squirming instantaneously, watching your every move to gauge how you were feeling.

“This okay?” he asked. You nodded.

Robby did the same and continued his ministrations. When he finally locked eyes with your pussy, a little sigh left his lips at the sight of your wetness. “Fuck, honey. You’re soaked.”

“Couldn’t h- help it, Robby. Need you.”

“Ah-ah, that’s not my name,” Robby chided with a sharp bite to your inner thigh. “You wanna try again?”

“I need you, Daddy,” you corrected.

“Much better, sweetheart,” Robby said. With that, he finally licked his first stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you. He started slowly to watch your reactions, tonguing your puffy clit in steady circles while his fingers joined the ministrations, entering your aching hole.

Robby alternated between licking your clit and diving between your folds, but whether that was more for you or him was unclear. He was completely drunk on your pussy, and paired with the sound of your pleasured noises, he was eating you up like a man starved.

“Fuck, babygirl, your pussy’s perfect. You’re perfect,” Robby grunted, driving his fingers inside you. You arched back with a particularly loud moan, the new nickname making you dizzy.

“F- Feels so g- good, Daddy,” you moaned. Robby smirked.

“Yeah? S’your Daddy making you feel good, kiddo?” he grunted between your folds, though it felt like he was talking more to your pussy then to you. “You deserve it, honey. My girl deserves to feel so good.”

He lifted your legs above his shoulders so he could dive deeper into your cunt, and you gasped at the change in position, his face almost completely blocked by your own body.

“D- Daddy, can you even breathe like that?” you asked worriedly.

Robby chuckled against your cunt, the sound vibrating between your legs. “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. Just focus on feeling good.”

With that, he started to eat you out again, only this time, it felt completely different. This time, with his hands wrapped around your thighs and your knees hooked over his shoulders, there was no limit to what Robby could do to you. His tongue entered your hole this time while his big nose rubbed against your clit, and you were convinced you were seeing stars.

“Fuck, D- Daddy, m’gonna—!” you moaned loudly, bucking your hips into the heat of his mouth. You were grinding against his face shamelessly now. Thankfully for you, Robby didn’t seem to mind.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Let go, Daddy’s got you,” Robby cooed before flicking his tongue against your clit, and not letting up until you were practically exploding against his face, coming with a loud cry.

Robby eased you through your orgasm with small licks against your sensitive clit. When the feeling became overstimulating, he switched gears and pressed kisses to your inner thighs, peppering them in a gentle path up your abdomen soon afterwards. He continued until he was hovering you again, and you took the opportunity to press your lips against his.

You tasted yourself on his mouth and felt your wetness from his beard, both facts working you up even so soon after your last orgasm. You wrapped your legs around his waist, and he immediately caught on.

“Needy little girl. So eager to cum again, huh?” Robby said, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. You nodded, to which Robby chided, “None of that, babygirl. You tell Daddy what you want.”

“Want you inside me, Daddy. Want your cock,” you managed through shaky breaths, bucking your hips against his for emphasis. “Please.”

“You sound so sweet when you use your words, honey,” Robby cooed. For the second time, he freed himself, only this time he was visibly more hard. The tip of his cock was an angry red and dribbling bouts of pre-cum, and, fuck, did he look so much fuller than before. You gasped as he ran his head between your folds.

“You’re sure you want this, sweetheart? Absolutely positive?”

“Yes, Daddy, m’sure. I want you so bad. Please.”

Robby didn’t need another word before he was thrusting inside you completely, filling you to the brim.

You’d thought he was big before, but this stretch was completely different. There was a visible bulge where your bodies were conjoined which became more prominent with every little thrust into your pussy. Robby watched, utterly transfixed, at the sight of his large cock causing such an imprint on your skin.

“Y’okay?” Robby grunted. He had one hand on your belly and the other next to your head.

“M- Mhm. You’re so big,” you huffed.

Robby chuckled. “Hope that’s a good thing, sweetheart.”

“I- It is, I—oh!” you were cut off by the feeling of Robby’s hips snapping against yours, trying to find his pace. His stamina isn’t exactly what it used to be, but he’ll be damned if he leaves this room without making you feel good.

“Too much, kiddo?”

“N- No, not at all.”

“Good,” Robby said. He kept a steady albeit rough pace, reaching the deepest parts of you. It wasn’t your first time having sex, but it was with a man who was set on really taking care of you and not chasing his own pleasure. The thought made it feel all the more better.

You pulled Robby in for a kiss he answered gladly. As your tongues pushed against each other, his hips rocked even harder, driving his thick cock into your spongy walls. He was starting to hit the part of you that made you see stars, and you weren’t doing a good job of hiding it.

“That’s it, babygirl. That feel good?” Robby grunted against your lips.

“M- Mhm, y- you’re s- so good, Robby. Feel so good,” you said.

Robby chuckled and decided to let the use of his name slide, deciding you were probably too fucked-out to even remember your own right now. “You feel good, too, sweetheart. You’re so pretty like this,” he praised.

It was only a few minutes before Robby’s steady pace was replaced with a stronger one, as much faster as it was rougher. At the blown look of your pupils, he figured as much that this was what you wanted, what you needed, and he was right.

His cock was driving so far into you that it felt like he was in your throat. Every push had your back arching off the bed, unable to make any noise beyond a few broken whimpers and moans.

“That’s it, sweet girl. I got you, I got you,” Robby said gently, a stark contrast to the way his dick was bullying into your pussy.

“You—fuck—you promise, Daddy?” 

“I promise, honey. M’never letting you go, alright? Never,” Robby assured. Despite the pace, his words had your heart lurching, and you almost got emotional all over again.

“Robby,” you gasped. “I’m g- getting there again. Close.”

“S’okay, kiddo. Your Daddy wants you to feel good,” he groaned. He wasn’t so much looking for his pleasure as he was trying to give you yours. “What do you need?”

Easy. 

“Just don’t stop,” you said.

And Robby didn’t. He pressed kisses down your neck and sucked hickeys into your skin while he fucked you hard and fast, setting an absolutely lethal pace. The same pressure from earlier when you’d cum in his mouth was starting to return, and you were seconds away from your second orgasm.

“Cum with me, Daddy, please, please, I wanna feel you,” you begged, framing his cheeks with your hands. Robby had his on either side of your head while he smirked down at you.

“Yeah, you want my cum, baby? Want me filling your pretty pussy with my load?”

You nodded quickly, pulling him in for another kiss. “Yes, please. S’all I want.”

“That’s what you’ll get,” Robby said.

He didn’t stop until you were right on the edge, and when you were, he kissed you through it, rocking his hips into your pelvis and driving his dick hard into your cunt while your second orgasm crashed over you. You clenched hard around his cock as he spilled into you, securing your legs even tighter around his waist so that every drop stayed inside.

Robby got the message and gave a few last thrusts that stirred his cum deep inside you. When he pulled out, small ropes of white dribbled out of your hole and stained the bed, while the rest of it remained nestled within you.

“Who knew my little girl could be so dirty?” Robby teased, kissing your cheek.

You giggled. “It takes two, you know.”

“Fair enough,” Robby chuckled. “I’m going to get a towel, honey. Get you cleaned up.”

As he made his move to leave, however, you tugged his arm. Robby was at the edge of the bed. “Robby, w- wait.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Did you. . .mean it? When you said you’d. . .never let me go?” you asked. “That you’d be his replacement?”

Robby smiled at you and pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, nodding. “Yeah, sweetheart. I meant every word.”