cold cold cold

Not in a normal way, either.

No.

In a heart skipping, thoughts evaporating, face heating so fast you could probably be used as a warming device kind of way.

The first time it happened, you’d barely registered it.

A packed trauma bay, too many bodies moving at once, monitors beeping incessantly in the background.

You’d stepped exactly where you shouldn’t have, and suddenly there had been a warm hand on your shoulder and Dr. Robby’s calm voice at your side.

“Ah-ah. Not there.”

He’d turned you with easy efficiency, guiding you neatly out of a nurse’s path without even looking directly at you.

Entirely innocent.

Entirely professional.

And yet somehow your brain had taken that simple interaction, wrapped it in neon lights, and filed it away under important.

The second time had been worse.

“Other side.”

A brief touch between your shoulders.

Gone in seconds.

You had then proceeded to forget the medication you’d been specifically sent to retrieve.

By the third?

You knew this had become a serious personal issue.

“Doctor?”

You blinked.

A resident was staring at you.

Right.

Reality.

“Sorry.”

“Long shift?”

“Something like that.”

You avoided eye contact and kept moving.

What you failed to notice—initially—was that Dr Robby had started noticing too.

It happened during the busiest stretch of the shift.

The ER had descended into its usual controlled chaos; people moving quickly through corridors that suddenly felt too narrow, voices overlapping, overhead pages interrupting thoughts before they formed.

You were attempting to navigate around a crash cart while mentally reviewing patient notes when—

“Ah-ah-ah.”

Warm hands landed lightly on your shoulders.

Not rough. Not even firm.

Just enough pressure to turn you neatly out of someone’s path.

And your brain immediately blue-screened.

Again.

You froze for half a second too long.

Long enough that when you looked up, Dr Robby was already watching you.

Not confused.

Not concerned.

Interested.

And then you saw it.

That subtle shift in expression.

That tiny spark of amusement.

Oh no.

No, no, absolutely not.

He couldn’t possibly—

“Go assist with sutures in bay three,” he said smoothly.

Then, just before stepping away, his hand gave your shoulder the briefest squeeze.

“Try to stay with us.”

Oh, he knew.

You wanted the floor to open.

Instead, the universe chose cruelty.

Because once Dr Robby knew?

He became absolutely unbearable.

Suddenly, every correction involved touch.

Things that could have easily been communicated verbally somehow required physical intervention.

“Not that chart.”

A hand at your shoulder.

“You’re with me.”

A light guiding touch at your back.

“Other side.”

Fingers briefly curling around your upper arm.

Every single time, your thoughts dissolved into static.

It wasn’t fair.

He was a grown man. A doctor. A professional.

Surely he had better things to do than psychologically torture one medical student for sport.

And yet.

Halfway through shift, while you were reaching for something entirely correctly, a familiar voice sounded beside you.

“Ah-ah.”

You closed your eyes.

“No.”

A warm hand landed on your shoulder.

“Actually—”

“No,” you repeated, opening your eyes to glare at him. “I reject this.”

One of his eyebrows lifted.

“Reject what?”

“This.”

You gestured vaguely between the two of you.

“The unnecessary redirecting. The touching. The—”

“The touching?”

His expression was criminally neutral.

“Yes.”

“I physically direct people all the time.”

“Not like this.”

“Like what?”

You hated how innocent he sounded.

“You know exactly what.”

“Do I?”

Oh, he was enjoying this.

That was the worst part.

You opened your mouth, immediately realised you had no dignified way to explain yourself, and shut it again.

The corner of his mouth twitched.

Then—because clearly humiliation was the theme of your day—he stepped closer.

Not enough to be inappropriate.

Just enough that you noticed.

Both hands settled lightly on your shoulders.

Entirely professional.

Entirely devastating.

Your thoughts ceased functioning.

“There,” he said quietly, watching your expression with far too much satisfaction. “That.”

Your mouth opened.

Nothing came out.

He tilted his head slightly.

“Use your words.”

You stared at him.

Then, because honesty had violently abandoned you, managed a weak:

“Oh my God.”

That did it.

He actually smiled.

Not a polite little amused expression.

A real smile.

Warm. Brief. Devastating.

“Thought so.”

And then—because apparently destroying your nervous system wasn’t enough—he stepped back like nothing had happened.

“Come find me when you’re ready to admit it.”

Then walked away.

Just left you standing there.

Non-functional.

While a passing nurse took one look at your face and said—

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.

Tags: @motelgloss @generation-zero @noisynightmarepoetry @youknowiloveyou-so @xoxabs88xox @princessofthalia @proudlyvastlake @jam3s-x @ozwriterchick @the-annoying-fan @realwhoreforfictionalmen @thesewordsareallihavetogive @whatupbuttercup2019 @lifetimeofadventue @1dhoe93 @v33mustdie @rkentzler9 @agentknowitall @thehockeynerd30 @staystrongsoa @ilocuras24 @liveeverydaylikepretzelday @lillly-ofthevalley @sushirollprincess @kittenlittle24 @xpeachyesx @killora1708 @ap1390 @optimistictacosaladcloud @danah-20 @msliz @adrestlyd @countryandsweetbabygirl @justjoanhere @lovehadlovelost @777bambi777 @fudge13 @amberpanda99 @shashasimba1996 @kishie8 @vicky066 @snovvv @imabapical @prettyflowerlily @stardream14 @pinguphd @southernshorty @noob-saibotx @louisbelongstome28 @violetdelrey007 @kay8907 @valentinevampp @mscreativity @unsaidjaelinrose @possiblyafangirl @hauntedduckdefendor @kissalready @nellabear @aleemendoza2425-blog @toxicwasteee @iiuliae @inkededucatednnerdy

If you would like to be added to the tag list, just let me know —>Taglist

You stared at your phone uncertain of what to do. It was a humid Saturday night. You had seen in your shared calendar that Robby had blocked the night with a “Dinner”. He could be with friends, on a date or even something far more intimate. But you had promised each other you would put your children first every single time. And as you looked at your son’s wide eyes you guessed this would be one of those times.

The phone barely finished its first ring before Robby answered. His voice was impatient. “What’s up?”

You heard some distant music in the background.

You pressed the device harder against your ear, your breath hitching. “Robby,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the violent thumping of your heart. “I’m sorry to wake yo—”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he breathed out.

You glanced at the clock. 11:50 PM. You knew he wasn’t sleeping, but at least he didn’t sound agitated. “Okay,” you whispered, swallowing hard against the lump of terror in your throat. “Okay.”

“Is everything alright?” he pressed, the static on the line sharpening his concern.

“Are you busy?”

“What’s going on?” His voice dropped an octave, no longer just concerned, but commanding.

“Don’t freak out.”

He said your name like a warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your daughter tighter against your chest; she was shivering despite the humid air. “There was an… issue a few houses away from ours.”

“What kind of issue?”

You took a shaky breath, your gaze darting to the bathroom door, then down to your son, Isaac. He was perched on the edge of the tub, his small frame rigid, eyes blown wide with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “An intruder. And—”

“Intruder?!” The word exploded into your ear, loud enough that you had to pull the phone away from your face.

“But the owners,” you rushed to explain, frantic to keep his volume down, “the owners—they, ummm, shot him.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re safe, Robby. I promise.”

“Where are you?” He repeated the question, his voice vibrating.

“In the master’s bathroom.”

You heard him scoff—a dry, humorless sound. “The three of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Has the police arrived yet?”

“I think so. I called 911 ten minutes ago. They said they were on their way.” You let out a jagged sigh, your hand trembling as you smoothed your daughter’s hair. “I can’t tell because I don’t want to get close to the windows. We’re okay. I just… I didn’t want you finding out about this on the news or something.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment; in the background you could hear sirens growing closer.

“Yeah, no,” he said, his voice softening, though the intensity remained. “Thank you.”

“And,” you cleared your throat, glancing at Isaac, who was currently clutching his little baseball bat like a weapon. “Isaac doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He says he’s the man of the house and has to stay alert.”

Robby went quiet for a long thirty seconds.

You wanted to choose your words carefully, you didn’t want your son to think he wasn’t his father’s priority. So you settled for a breathy: “I can go to my parents’”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Robby said quickly. “Can I get the check, please?” You heard him ask in the background.

The connection filled with the frantic sounds of movement: the jingle of keys, an exchange of words, a woman insisting that he stayed, and Robby’s insistence that he couldn’t.

“Michael?” You asked, uncertain if you should still be listening.

When he finally spoke, his voice was absolute.

“I’ll be there in five.”

By the time Robby arrived, you had finally coaxed Isaac out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. Your daughter was curled against your chest, her small breaths hitching occasionally in her sleep, but Isaac remained upright on the edge of the bed. The image of a five year old in dinosaur pajamas scanning the shadows of the room to defend you was cute. But also, worrying.

Robby appeared in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the hallway light.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered.

Isaac’s posture broke instantly. “Dad!” He scrambled off the mattress and threw himself at Robby. “You came.”

Robby caught him easily, anchoring him against his chest as he walked into the room. The floorboards groaned slightly under his weight. “Of course,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that Isaac seemed to need. “I’ll always be there when you need me, okay?” He pressed a firm, reassuring kiss into the boy’s dark hair before looking toward the bed. “How are my girls doing?”

You were too drained, too wrapped in the heavy, humid fog of adrenaline-crash to correct him on the possessive adjective. You simply tapped the empty space on the mattress, a wordless, tired plea. “Come here.”

Robby moved quickly, settling onto the bed with Isaac still tucked securely in his arms. He reached out with his free hand, his knuckles grazing the flushed, velvet skin of your daughter’s cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “How are you?” he murmured.

You could smell his fancy cologne, the leather of his jacket and a sniff of wine on him. And you found yourself gravitating towards it.

“Better,” you breathed, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. “Just… exhausted.”

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, shifting as if to stand. “I’ll take him into his room so you have space.”

Your hand shot out, your fingers clamping firmly around his wrist. The contact was impulsive, desperate. “Stay, please.” You felt a flush of self-consciousness as the words hung in the air, so you softened them, adding, “I don’t want him far from me tonight.”

Isaac’s breathing had already leveled out, the rhythm of his father’s steady heartbeat acting like a tether that finally allowed him to drift off.

Robby didn’t pull away. He turned your hand over, pressing a slow, chaste kiss against your palm before settling back against the pillows. “Of course,” he promised.

Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of a police cruiser rolling slowly down the street outside. You felt the pull of sleep, heavy and inevitable, but the lingering curiosity of the phone call pricked at the back of your mind.

“Did I interrupt something?” you mumbled, your eyelids fluttering.

Robby went still. You felt his chest rise and fall in a sharp, jagged motion. “I…” He swallowed hard, a sound that seemed loud in the quiet room. “I had a date tonight. With Noelle.”

“Aahh.” You slowly moved your hand to cradle your daughter’s hair, your thumb tracing the curve of her temple. “Again? Must be getting serious.” Your eyes were already drifting shut, the darkness behind your lids feeling safer than the world outside.

“Well,” Robby said, his voice tight, stripped of its earlier warmth. “She wasn’t very happy about me leaving in the middle of it, so I don’t think so.”

Your brows creased. “She was upset because your son needed you?”

He scoffed lightly. “She rather thinks that I still love you, and that I take any chance to spend time with you.” His voice was rough, warm and dozy.

“Mmmhmm.” You tried to hide the satisfaction and failed terribly. Reaching out for his hand, you tangled your fingers together. “Well I still love you too, Misha.”

You stared at your phone uncertain of what to do. It was a humid Saturday night. You had seen in your shared calendar that Robby had blocked the night with a “Dinner”. He could be with friends, on a date or even something far more intimate. But you had promised each other you would put your children first every single time. And as you looked at your son’s wide eyes you guessed this would be one of those times.

The phone barely finished its first ring before Robby answered. His voice was impatient. “What’s up?”

You heard some distant music in the background.

You pressed the device harder against your ear, your breath hitching. “Robby,” you murmured, your voice barely audible over the violent thumping of your heart. “I’m sorry to wake yo—”

“I wasn’t sleeping,” he breathed out.

You glanced at the clock. 11:50 PM. You knew he wasn’t sleeping, but at least he didn’t sound agitated. “Okay,” you whispered, swallowing hard against the lump of terror in your throat. “Okay.”

“Is everything alright?” he pressed, the static on the line sharpening his concern.

“Are you busy?”

“What’s going on?” His voice dropped an octave, no longer just concerned, but commanding.

“Don’t freak out.”

He said your name like a warning.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clutching your daughter tighter against your chest; she was shivering despite the humid air. “There was an… issue a few houses away from ours.”

“What kind of issue?”

You took a shaky breath, your gaze darting to the bathroom door, then down to your son, Isaac. He was perched on the edge of the tub, his small frame rigid, eyes blown wide with an intensity that made your skin crawl. “An intruder. And—”

“Intruder?!” The word exploded into your ear, loud enough that you had to pull the phone away from your face.

“But the owners,” you rushed to explain, frantic to keep his volume down, “the owners—they, ummm, shot him.”

“Where are you?”

“We’re safe, Robby. I promise.”

“Where are you?” He repeated the question, his voice vibrating.

“In the master’s bathroom.”

You heard him scoff—a dry, humorless sound. “The three of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Has the police arrived yet?”

“I think so. I called 911 ten minutes ago. They said they were on their way.” You let out a jagged sigh, your hand trembling as you smoothed your daughter’s hair. “I can’t tell because I don’t want to get close to the windows. We’re okay. I just… I didn’t want you finding out about this on the news or something.”

Silence stretched between you for a moment; in the background you could hear sirens growing closer.

“Yeah, no,” he said, his voice softening, though the intensity remained. “Thank you.”

“And,” you cleared your throat, glancing at Isaac, who was currently clutching his little baseball bat like a weapon. “Isaac doesn’t want to go back to sleep. He says he’s the man of the house and has to stay alert.”

Robby went quiet for a long thirty seconds.

You wanted to choose your words carefully, you didn’t want your son to think he wasn’t his father’s priority. So you settled for a breathy: “I can go to my parents’”

“Don’t go anywhere,” Robby said quickly. “Can I get the check, please?” You heard him ask in the background.

The connection filled with the frantic sounds of movement: the jingle of keys, an exchange of words, a woman insisting that he stayed, and Robby’s insistence that he couldn’t.

“Michael?” You asked, uncertain if you should still be listening.

When he finally spoke, his voice was absolute.

“I’ll be there in five.”

By the time Robby arrived, you had finally coaxed Isaac out of the bathroom and into the master bedroom. Your daughter was curled against your chest, her small breaths hitching occasionally in her sleep, but Isaac remained upright on the edge of the bed. The image of a five year old in dinosaur pajamas scanning the shadows of the room to defend you was cute. But also, worrying.

Robby appeared in the doorway, his silhouette stark against the hallway light.

“Hey, buddy,” he whispered.

Isaac’s posture broke instantly. “Dad!” He scrambled off the mattress and threw himself at Robby. “You came.”

Robby caught him easily, anchoring him against his chest as he walked into the room. The floorboards groaned slightly under his weight. “Of course,” he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register that Isaac seemed to need. “I’ll always be there when you need me, okay?” He pressed a firm, reassuring kiss into the boy’s dark hair before looking toward the bed. “How are my girls doing?”

You were too drained, too wrapped in the heavy, humid fog of adrenaline-crash to correct him on the possessive adjective. You simply tapped the empty space on the mattress, a wordless, tired plea. “Come here.”

Robby moved quickly, settling onto the bed with Isaac still tucked securely in his arms. He reached out with his free hand, his knuckles grazing the flushed, velvet skin of your daughter’s cheek with a tenderness that made your chest ache. “How are you?” he murmured.

You could smell his fancy cologne, the leather of his jacket and a sniff of wine on him. And you found yourself gravitating towards it.

“Better,” you breathed, your voice sounding thin even to your own ears. “Just… exhausted.”

“Get some sleep,” he whispered, shifting as if to stand. “I’ll take him into his room so you have space.”

Your hand shot out, your fingers clamping firmly around his wrist. The contact was impulsive, desperate. “Stay, please.” You felt a flush of self-consciousness as the words hung in the air, so you softened them, adding, “I don’t want him far from me tonight.”

Isaac’s breathing had already leveled out, the rhythm of his father’s steady heartbeat acting like a tether that finally allowed him to drift off.

Robby didn’t pull away. He turned your hand over, pressing a slow, chaste kiss against your palm before settling back against the pillows. “Of course,” he promised.

Silence reclaimed the room, broken only by the distant, muffled sound of a police cruiser rolling slowly down the street outside. You felt the pull of sleep, heavy and inevitable, but the lingering curiosity of the phone call pricked at the back of your mind.

“Did I interrupt something?” you mumbled, your eyelids fluttering.

Robby went still. You felt his chest rise and fall in a sharp, jagged motion. “I…” He swallowed hard, a sound that seemed loud in the quiet room. “I had a date tonight. With Noelle.”

“Aahh.” You slowly moved your hand to cradle your daughter’s hair, your thumb tracing the curve of her temple. “Again? Must be getting serious.” Your eyes were already drifting shut, the darkness behind your lids feeling safer than the world outside.

“Well,” Robby said, his voice tight, stripped of its earlier warmth. “She wasn’t very happy about me leaving in the middle of it, so I don’t think so.”

Your brows creased. “She was upset because your son needed you?”

He scoffed lightly. “She rather thinks that I still love you, and that I take any chance to spend time with you.” His voice was rough, warm and dozy.

“Mmmhmm.” You tried to hide the satisfaction and failed terribly. Reaching out for his hand, you tangled your fingers together. “Well I still love you too, Misha.”