💋Gillian💋Alexis Chiasson💋

it was a small while before the miami grand prix was to begin and franco had brought you to his drivers room. ‘a good luck kiss’ was all he wanted apparently.

god, you should’ve known better.

his hand was shoved down the front of your pants, fingers manoeuvring through your folds, almost dancing with your body.

the pad of his thumb pressed down against against your clit.

being touched by franco was the complete opposite of what most people would think.

his hands are smooth and soft, finger pads barely catching just by how smooth they are.

his thumb meeting the sensitive bundle of nerves was a different kind of pleasure, something that makes you ascend above your body.

while his thumb circled slightly around your pearl, his pointer and middle fingers glides through your folds softly.

franco’s lips were occupied with their own business. he let those soft, plump lips graze across your jaw, nose bumping against your cheek in the midst of it.

just as he delves a finger inside, franco presses a soft kiss to your jaw. “franco..” a soft whine slipped from your lips at the feeling of it all.

a smirk was the first thing you felt against you before another finger was brought to your senses as he slowly presses it inside once more.

one thing about franco, he always starts off sweet and slow. he fucks you into a state of numbness before turning slightly mean.

he’ll spread his fingers nice and slow, whispering sweet nothings into your ear while his fingers speed up to the point of white spots blurring your vision in a matter of minutes.

“déjame oírte, dulce niña..” (let me hear you, sweet girl..) he whispered into your ear, his own eyes fluttering shut at just the thought of you moaning for him.

a soft squelch could be heard faintly in the air, the small room echoing any and all noise.

as franco’s fingers sped up, your hand flew up and grabbed the back of his neck. nails scraped across his nape, tugging at his baby hairs which makes him whine softly in your ear.

“franco… franc- please.. ‘m so close-“ a moan caught in your throat when those smooth pads pressed against the spongey flesh inside, your hips writhing at the feeling.

you had teetered the point of no return, the point where nothing could stop the impending orgasm that will inevitably come along.

just as you fell off that edge, the door to franco’s drivers room opened.

now, one thing about drivers rooms are that they’re fair game to a particular driver who’s name starts with l and ends with ando norris.

“hey, franco, we’re all going to get a group pict-“ his words stopped immediately as the brit rakes his eyes over the situation in front of him.

franco’s eyes open to look at the man who had entered his room and his lovers most vulnerable moment and he just smirks.

“one moment lando, she’s so close.” he says it so gently that the words barely register in your brain, eyes too busy focusing on the inside of your eyelids as they roll back in ecstasy.

he moved his head back slightly to watch your face, ignoring the sharp tugs on the hair at his nape.

“vamos mi amor” (come on my love) he whispers sweetly, “dale un espectáculo a lando..” (give lando a show).

a soft cry spills out from your opened mouth, hips stuttering while you squeeze the life out of his fingers, “esa es una buena chica” (that’s a good girl) he whispers into your ear, encouraging you in his own sexual way.

slowly pulling his fingers out, franco admires the slick covered digits for a mere few seconds before pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

he pulled away, “i’ll be back later mi amor..” (my love) he spoke before putting the fingers to his lips and started sucking them softly.

you had to stand there, trembling and panting while your evil, sexy boyfriend smirked and pat the other man on the shoulder before walking past him.

lando stood there for a few moments before mumbling a rushed apology and walked awkwardly out of the room.

two drivers left that room, one proud of their erection and the other trying not to make it worse by thinking about whatever the fuck he just walked in on.

so, yeah..

Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. "We don't have a cat."

"We do now! Look how cute he is!" You lift the cat, who immediately starts purring. "I found him outside the store and he was all alone and hungry and look at his little face!"

"No."

"But-"

"We can't have a cat."

"We can! I already got food and litter and toys and-"

"When did you have time to get all that?"

"...I may have gotten the supplies before the groceries."

"YN."

"Oscar," you mimic his tone, holding the cat up so it's face-to-face with him. "Look at him. Look at his little nose. He looks just like you!"

"He does not- wait, is that why you named him Oscat?"

"He's grumpy but secretly sweet. Just like you!"

The cat meows again, reaching a paw toward Oscar.

"No," Oscar says firmly. "No way. We travel too much."

"Lando's sister already said she'd cat-sit during race weekends!"

"You called Lando's sister before talking to me?"

"I knew you'd say no!"

"Because it's a no!"

The cat chooses that moment to wriggle free from your hands, landing gracefully on Oscar's lap and immediately curling up.

"See?" you say triumphantly. "He loves you!"

"He's... just warm," Oscar says, very carefully not petting the cat despite its loud purring. "And we're not keeping him."

"But-"

"He can stay until we find him a proper home. That's it."

"Really?"

"Just until we find him a home."

You beam. "You're the best!"

"I mean it, YN. Just temporary."

"Of course, totally temporary," you agree, already taking pictures of Oscar and the cat. "Completely temporary."

One Week Later:

"Oscar? Have you seen Oscat's fish toy? The blue one?"

"It's under the couch," Oscar replies without looking up from his phone. "And don't give him the catnip one, he got too hyper last time."

"Says the person who bought him three new toys yesterday."

"They were on sale."

"Mhmm. And the custom bed with his name?"

"It was practical."

"And the special food you ordered from that fancy pet store?"

"He's picky!"

"Face it, babe," you grin as Oscat jumps onto Oscar's lap, immediately demanding attention. "You love him."

"I tolerate him," Oscar corrects, even as he scratches behind the cat's ears exactly where he likes it. "And we're still finding him a new home."

"Sure we are."

"We are!"

"Is that why you changed your phone background to that picture of him sleeping in your racing helmet?"

"He looked cute- I mean, it was funny."

"And why you FaceTimed him during the simulator session yesterday?"

"I was checking if he ate!"

"And why you're currently letting him sleep on your McLaren jacket?"

Oscar looks down at the cat, who has indeed made himself comfortable on the expensive team gear. "He has good taste."

"Just admit you love him."

"Never."

Oscat meows, headbutting Oscar's hand for more pets.

"Demanding little thing," Oscar mutters, but he's smiling as he strokes the cat's fur.

"Like owner, like cat."

"I'm not his owner."

"No?" You pull out your phone. "So I shouldn't show everyone the video of you singing him to sleep last night?"

Oscar's head snaps up. "You didn't."

"Want to bet?"

"Delete it."

"Make me."

Oscar moves to get up, but Oscat digs his claws into the jacket, giving him the most betrayed look a cat could manage.

"Ha!" you say triumphantly. "You won't move because you don't want to disturb him!"

"I just don't want him to ruin the jacket."

"Sure, that's why you let him sleep on it every day."

"I do not-"

"And why you're currently smiling at him like he's the cutest thing you've ever seen."

Oscar quickly schools his expression. "I'm not."

"Too late, already got a picture."

"You're the worst."

"And yet you love me."

"Unfortunately."

"Almost as much as you love Oscat."

"I don't-"

Oscat chooses that moment to stretch and yawn, then snuggles closer to Oscar, purring loudly.

"...fine," Oscar admits defeat. "Maybe I like him a little."

"A little?"

"Don't push it."

"Says the guy who installed a cat camera to watch him while we're away."

"It's for security!"

"The one that you check every hour?"

"I'm just being thorough."

Oscar looks down at the cat, who is now fully asleep on his lap. "This is your fault," he tells him. "You and your stupid cute face."

Oscat just purrs louder.

"Face it, babe," you sit next to them, scratching Oscat's chin. "You're a cat dad now."

"I hate that term."

"Would you prefer 'fur parent'?"

"I hate you."

"No you don't. You love me and our cat."

Oscar sighs, but he's fighting a smile. "Yeah," he says softly, watching Oscat sleep. "I really do."

"Both of us?"

"Both of you. Even when you're both impossibly annoying."

"We learned from the best."

Oscar doesn't argue, too busy taking another picture of Oscat for his growing collection. You hide your smile, watching your grumpy boyfriend completely smitten with your little orange cat.

ＬＡＮＤＯ ＮＯＲＲＩＳ 2 3

ϙᴜᴀᴅʀᴀɴᴛ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ - ᴏɴᴇ ꜱʜᴏᴛ ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ

ＯＳＣＡＲ ＰＩＡＳＴＲＩ

ＣＨＡＲＬＥＳ ＬＥＣＬＥＲＣ 2

ＭＡＸ ＶＥＲＳＴＡＰＰＥＮ

ＬＥＷＩＳ ＨＡＭＩＬＴＯＮ

ＧＥＯＲＧＥ ＲＵＳＳＥＬＬ

ＫＩＭＩ ＡＮＴＯＮＥＬＬＩ

⟡ ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰ ᢉ𐭩 ꜱᴍᴜᴛ ✎ ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ ➳ ꜱᴍ ᴀᴜ

ＰＯＳＴＳ ＦＲＯＭ ＴＨＥ ＰＡＤＤＯＣＫ:

ᴀ ᴄᴏʟʟᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏᴄɪᴀʟ-ᴍᴇᴅɪᴀ-ᴄᴏᴅᴇᴅ ᴄʜᴀᴏꜱ ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀᴄʀᴏꜱꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴅᴅᴏᴄᴋ - ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ʟᴀᴜɴᴄʜᴇꜱ, ʜᴀʀᴅ ʟᴀᴜɴᴄʜᴇꜱ, ɢʀɪᴅ ɢʀᴏᴜᴘ ᴄʜᴀᴛꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴜɴʜɪɴɢᴇᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ ꜱᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴꜱ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴇxᴘᴏꜱᴇ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅʀɪᴠᴇʀꜱ ᴛʜɪɴᴋ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʜɪᴅɪɴɢ.

ＰＡＷＳ ＯＦ ＴＨＥ ＰＡＤＤＯＣＫ:

ᴀ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ, ꜰʟᴜꜰꜰʏ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴏɴᴇ‑ꜱʜᴏᴛ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛꜱ ꜱᴛᴀʀʀɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟ ʀᴜʟᴇʀꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜰᴏʀᴍᴜʟᴀ ᴏɴᴇ: ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴇᴛꜱ. ꜰʀᴏᴍ ʟᴇᴏ ʟᴇᴄʟᴇʀᴄ’ꜱ ᴄʟɪɴɢʏ ᴅᴀᴄʜꜱʜᴜɴᴅ ᴅᴇᴠᴏᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴛᴏ ᴊɪᴍᴍʏ ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴀꜱꜱʏ ᴠᴇʀꜱᴛᴀᴘᴘᴇɴ’ꜱ ᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ᴅᴏᴜʙʟᴇ‑ᴀᴄᴛ, ᴛᴏ ʀᴏꜱᴄᴏᴇ ʜᴀᴍɪʟᴛᴏɴ’ꜱ ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴋɪɴɢ ᴇɴᴇʀɢʏ.

ＯＬＬＩＥ ＢＥＡＲＭＡＮ:

𝐻𝑜𝓁𝒹 𝒪𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝑀𝑒 ⟡

ᴛʜᴇʏ ꜰɪɢʜᴛ ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴀᴄᴇ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ꜱʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴛᴇʀʀɪꜰɪᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ʟᴏꜱɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ. ᴏʟʟɪᴇ ᴄʀᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ, ꜱʜᴀᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʙᴏᴛʜ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄᴏʀᴇ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ꜱᴀꜰᴇ, ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ꜱᴘɪʟʟꜱ ᴏᴜᴛ — ꜰᴇᴀʀ, ᴀᴘᴏʟᴏɢɪᴇꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇꜱᴘᴇʀᴀᴛᴇ ʀᴇʟɪᴇꜰ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇꜱ ᴛʜᴇᴍ ʜᴏʟᴅ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴛʜᴇʏ’ʟʟ ɴᴇᴠᴇʀ ʟᴇᴛ ɢᴏ.

𝒲𝑒’𝓇𝑒 𝒥𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒮𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑜𝓌𝓈 ᢉ𐭩

ᴏʟʟɪᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ɢɪʀʟꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅ ɢᴇᴛᴛɪɴɢ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴘᴀʀᴋᴇᴅ ᴄᴀʀ ᴏᴠᴇʀʟᴏᴏᴋɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ ᴄɪᴛʏ.

ＡＲＶＩＤ ＬＩＮＤＢＬＡＤ:

𝒞𝒶𝓊𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝒾𝓃 𝟜𝒦 {𝐵𝓎 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝐸𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓇𝑒 𝒢𝓇𝒾𝒹} ⟡

ᴀʀᴠɪᴅ ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ᴛʀʏ ᴛᴏ ᴋᴇᴇᴘ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ɴᴇᴡ ʀᴇʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴꜱʜɪᴘ ꜱᴇᴄʀᴇᴛ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ɢʀɪᴅ ᴋᴇᴇᴘꜱ ᴄᴀᴛᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇᴍ — ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴀᴄᴄɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴜᴅᴅʟᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ꜰᴜʟʟ‑ᴏɴ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ‑ᴏᴜᴛꜱ — ᴜɴᴛɪʟ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏᴏɴᴇ ꜰɪɢᴜʀᴇꜱ ɪᴛ ᴏᴜᴛ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇɪʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʜᴀᴏᴛɪᴄ ᴡᴀʏ.

ＴＯＴＯ ＷＯＬＦＦ:

𝒩𝑜𝓉 𝒥𝑒𝒶𝓁𝑜𝓊𝓈 ⟡

ᴀᴛ ᴀ ɢᴀʟᴀ, ᴀ ᴅᴏɴᴏʀ ꜰʟɪʀᴛꜱ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛᴏᴛᴏ’ꜱ ᴡɪꜰᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛᴏᴛᴏ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅꜱ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴜᴄʜ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴊᴇᴀʟᴏᴜꜱ

𝒜𝓅𝑜𝑔𝑒𝑒 ⟡

ᴛᴏᴛᴏ ᴘᴀɴɪᴄꜱ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ ʜɪꜱ ᴀꜱᴛʀᴏɴᴀᴜᴛ ᴡɪꜰᴇ’ꜱ ᴀʀᴛᴇᴍɪꜱ ɪɪ ᴍɪꜱꜱɪᴏɴ, ʙᴜᴛ ᴡʜᴇɴ ꜱʜᴇ ꜱᴘʟᴀꜱʜᴇꜱ ᴅᴏᴡɴ ꜱᴀꜰᴇʟʏ, ᴍᴇʀᴄᴇᴅᴇꜱ ᴄᴇʟᴇʙʀᴀᴛᴇꜱ ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴍᴘɪᴏɴꜱ—ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇ ᴘʀᴏᴜᴅʟʏ ꜱʜᴏᴡꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴏꜰꜰ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴅᴅᴏᴄᴋ ᴀꜱ ᴏɴᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴡᴏᴍᴇɴ ᴛᴏ ꜰʟʏ ᴀʀᴏᴜɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴏᴏɴ.

ＳＥＢＡＳＴＩＡＮ ＶＥＴＴＥＬ:

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒲𝒶𝓎 𝐻𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝐹𝑒𝑒𝓁𝓈 ⟡

ꜱᴇʙᴀꜱᴛɪᴀɴ ᴄᴏᴍᴇꜱ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʜɪꜱ ᴡɪꜰᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ᴛᴡᴏ ᴄᴜʀʟ ᴜᴘ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴡᴀʀᴍ, ϙᴜɪᴇᴛ ᴇᴠᴇɴɪɴɢ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴏꜰᴛ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ, ɢᴇɴᴛʟᴇ ᴀꜰꜰᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴ, ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴄᴇʀᴛᴀɪɴᴛʏ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ʜᴏᴍᴇ ɪꜱ ᴡʜᴇʀᴇᴠᴇʀ ᴛʜᴇʏ'ʀᴇ ʜᴏʟᴅɪɴɢ ᴇᴀᴄʜ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ.

ＦＥＲＮＡＮＤＯ ＡＬＯＮＳＯ:

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒞𝒶𝓉 𝒞𝑜𝓂𝓅𝓇𝑜𝓂𝒾𝓈𝑒 ⟡

ꜰᴇʀɴᴀɴᴅᴏ ʀᴇꜰᴜꜱᴇꜱ ᴛᴏ ᴀᴅᴏᴘᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴋɪᴛᴛᴇɴ ʜɪꜱ ᴡɪꜰᴇ ꜰᴀʟʟꜱ ɪɴ ʟᴏᴠᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ, ꜱᴘᴀʀᴋɪɴɢ ᴀ ϙᴜɪᴇᴛ ʀɪꜰᴛ ʙᴇᴛᴡᴇᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇᴍ. ᴡʜᴇɴ ʜᴇʀ ʜᴜʀᴛ ᴛᴜʀɴꜱ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴅᴀʏꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴛ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ, ʜᴇ ʀᴇᴀʟɪᴢᴇꜱ ʜᴇ’ꜱ ᴘᴜꜱʜᴇᴅ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰᴀʀ—ᴀɴᴅ ꜱᴜʀᴘʀɪꜱᴇꜱ ʜᴇʀ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ᴠᴇʀʏ ᴄᴀᴛ ꜱʜᴇ ᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ, ᴡɪɴɴɪɴɢ ʙᴀᴄᴋ ʜᴇʀ ꜱᴍɪʟᴇ ᴀɴᴅ ʜᴇʀ ᴡᴀʀᴍᴛʜ.

ＫＩＭＩ ＲＡＩＫＫＯＮＥＮ：

𝒯𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝒮𝒶𝒾𝒹 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒩𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝒜𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃 ⟡

ᴋɪᴍɪ’ꜱ ϙᴜɪᴇᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ ɪꜱ ʀᴜɪɴᴇᴅ ᴡʜᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɪɴᴛᴇʀɴᴇᴛ ʙʟᴏᴡꜱ ᴜᴘ ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴋɪᴍɪ ᴀɴᴛᴏɴᴇʟʟɪ’ꜱ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ᴘᴏᴅɪᴜᴍ, ᴀɴᴅ ʜɪꜱ ᴡɪꜰᴇ ꜱᴘᴇɴᴅꜱ ᴛʜᴇ ᴇᴠᴇɴɪɴɢ ᴛᴇᴀꜱɪɴɢ ʜɪᴍ ꜰᴏʀ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴛʜᴇ “ᴏʀɪɢɪɴᴀʟ ᴋɪᴍɪ” ᴡʜɪʟᴇ ʜᴇ ᴘʀᴇᴛᴇɴᴅꜱ ɴᴏᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴊᴏʏ ɪᴛ.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

Oscar doesn’t even make it ten minutes into Cinderella before your daughter ends up half‑asleep on his chest, her curls spilling over his hoodie, one of her tiny hands fisted in the fabric like she’s anchoring herself to him.

You’re curled up on the other end of the sofa, watching the two of them more than the movie — because honestly, how could you not. Oscar’s arm is around her automatically, thumb brushing slow circles on her shoulder, eyes soft in that way he never quite realises he does.

It’s domestic. It’s stupidly sweet. It’s everything you never thought you’d get again.

The movie plays on, the wicked stepmother being her usual dramatic self, when your daughter suddenly sits up a little, frowning at the screen.

“Why do step parents get such a bad rep?” she asks, completely serious. “My step dad is awesome.”

Oscar freezes.

You freeze.

The world freezes.

Because she has never — not once — used that word for him.

She doesn’t even seem to realise what she’s said. She just leans back against him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Oscar’s eyes flick to yours, wide, stunned, a little glassy. He mouths, did you hear that? and you nod, biting back the kind of smile that makes your chest ache.

He swallows, voice soft. “Hey, sweetheart… what made you say that?”

She shrugs, still watching the movie. “Well, she’s mean. You’re not mean. You make pancakes and you braid my hair and you do the voices when you read bedtime stories. So you’re a good step dad.”

Oscar’s breath catches — actually catches — and he presses a kiss to the top of her head like he can’t help himself.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and his voice cracks just a little. “That means a lot.”

She beams, completely oblivious to the emotional earthquake she’s caused, and snuggles back into him. Within minutes she’s asleep again, tiny snores puffing against his chest.

Oscar looks at you over her head, and the expression on his face is something you’ll remember forever — awe, love, disbelief, and something fiercely protective.

He mouths, I love her.

Then, after a beat, I love you.

You shift closer, tucking a blanket around all three of you, and rest your hand over his where it sits on her back.

“She meant it,” you whisper.

“I know,” he whispers back, eyes shining. “I just… I didn’t think I’d ever get to be this for someone.”

You lean your forehead against his shoulder. “You earned it. Every bit of it.”

He exhales shakily, holding both of you a little tighter, like he’s anchoring himself now.

On the TV, Cinderella gets her happily ever after.

On your sofa, Oscar Piastri quietly gets his.

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

Care Without Cruelty by @antisirkbitch

After a bad fall lands her in the ER, she comes face-to-face with the ex who shattered her self-worth during the darkest part of his addiction. But this time, she’s not alone—and when Park the Shark steps in, protective and unexpectedly soft, she finally gets to see what care without cruelty looks like.

Smutty Blurb by @titus-danforth

Orthopedic surgeon Dr. Park “the Shark” didn’t earn his nickname by being nice and friendly- he’s an asshole and for good reason but to you? 🔥

Casual Secret by @amnatreal

Five POVs discovering a new side to Park The Shark + one very revealing incident.

Ride or Die by @bullet-prooflove

(part of a series) You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Brendon’s Pregnant Wife Blurb by @starlord-s

Park Defends You by @rr-after-dark

Park’s Secret Wife by @totallynotashieldagent

Attack of the Baby Shark by @imaginesofwonder

A routine ER shift takes a sharp turn when fear sends you rushing to Brendon, and he drops everything the moment he hears your voice

Bendon’s Wife in the ER BY @almostabsent

Lured by the Light by @redsakura101

Brendon never anticipated falling so effortlessly in love. But with you. With all the consideration and care that you hold for him. How could he do anything but love you.

The Kind of Fate that Hurts by @thelightofday

an accident with a familiar, brooding ortho surgeon has you exploring an unlikely connection 🔥

Sugar Talking SMAU Series by @/thelightofday

it’s a mystery to most— the way park “the shark” is only truly kind to one ED resident. the only one he brings coffee to. doesn’t glare at or mutter snide comments toward. the only one he tolerates. little miss sunshine, who unlike her colleagues, doesn’t shy away from the intimidating ortho surgeon. never hesitates to put him in his place, actually. and he’s… starting to like it?

Brendon Park Says Please by @f1amejob

Shark Off Duty by @imaginesofwonder

A casual lunch accidentally reveals a secret you never mentioned. You're married to Dr. Park, leaving your coworkers completely shocked.

Brendon Park x Single Mom by @tumbleweedstillhaspanic

One Fish Two Fish by @f1amejob

it wasn’t a question of reasoning but rather a an echo of his request. a clarification to make sure she heard him right. robby nodded. tight lipped as he swiveled his head to the side. “yes.” but the way the word was said made it seem like he was second guessing. robby looked to baby jane doe and then to samira. exhaling through his nose and nodding without saying anything. his hand wiped across his face. “yes, get peds in.” and left.

You have it all wrong by @thefictionalmanswhxre

The drive should’ve been normal.

It was a sunny, quiet afternoon, the kind where the world feels soft around the edges. You were heading toward the coast, Lando’s idea — “just a little day out, babe, nothing crazy.” He’d kissed your cheek when you got in the car, smiled like he always did, but something was off.

He was silent.

Not the comfortable kind of silence he sometimes fell into when he was tired or letting you pick the music. This was the tight‑shouldered, knee‑bouncing, jaw‑clenching kind. His fingers tapped the steering wheel like he was trying to send Morse code to the universe.

You watched him for a minute.

“Lan… you okay?”

He nodded too quickly. “Yep. Fine. Totally fine. Why wouldn’t I be fine.”

Which, of course, meant he was absolutely not fine.

You reached over, resting your hand on his thigh. He jumped like you’d tasered him.

“Jesus, babe,” you laughed, “you’re twitchy.”

“I’m not twitchy,” he said, twitching.

He kept glancing at you, then back at the road, then at you again, like he was checking you were still there. Like he was checking you hadn’t somehow evaporated.

Another ten minutes passed before he blurted, out of nowhere:

“Wait—what’s your middle name again?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your middle name. I know it. I know I know it. I just—just say it. For… for reasons.”

You stared at him. “Lando, you literally wrote it on my birthday card last month.”

“Yeah, but maybe you changed it.”

“My middle name.”

“It happens.”

“It does not happen.”

He gripped the wheel tighter. “Just tell me, please.”

You told him. He repeated it under his breath like he was memorising a password. Then he nodded, exhaled, and went silent again.

You were officially concerned.

---

The Cliffside

He parked near a quiet overlook, the sea stretching out in front of you, wind brushing your hair. It was beautiful — but he didn’t even look at the view. He just stood there, hands on his hips, breathing like he’d run a marathon.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay. Okayokayokay.”

“Lando,” you said softly, stepping closer, “what’s going on.”

He turned to you, eyes wide, boyish, terrified in the sweetest way.

“I’m trying to do something,” he said. “And I’m trying really hard not to mess it up. And I’m trying not to throw up. And I’m trying to remember your middle name because I feel like that’s important.”

Your heart dropped straight into your stomach.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once, twice, then stopping in front of you.

“You make me nervous,” he said quietly. “Not in a bad way. In a… ‘I want to get everything right’ way. I’ve never felt like this about anyone. Ever.”

Your breath caught.

“And I’ve been planning this for months, and I had a whole speech, and I forgot all of it the second you got in the car because you looked really pretty and now my brain is soup.”

He reached into his pocket.

Your knees nearly gave out.

He froze. “Don’t—don’t look like that, babe, I’m gonna pass out.”

You laughed, tears already forming.

He pulled out a small velvet box, holding it like it might explode.

“I love you,” he said, voice shaking. “I love you so much it scares me sometimes. And I want… I want to spend my whole life being stupidly in love with you. Even when I’m old and wrinkly and still asking you your middle name because I panic.”

He opened the box.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

“Will you—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “Will you marry me?”

You didn’t even let him finish the sentence before you threw your arms around him, nearly knocking him backward.

“Yes,” you whispered against his neck. “Yes, Lando. Of course I will.”

He let out a breath that sounded like relief and disbelief and pure joy all at once. His arms wrapped around you, tight, warm, shaking.

“I thought I was gonna die,” he mumbled into your shoulder.

“You were very dramatic.”

“I was terrified.”

You pulled back, cupping his face. “You did perfect.”

He smiled — that soft, boyish, heart‑melting smile he only ever gave you.

“Yeah?” he whispered.

“Yeah.”

He kissed you, slow and trembling and full of every emotion he couldn’t put into words. When he finally pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“So… you’re sure about the middle name?”

“Lando.”

“Okay, okay. Just checking.”

ᴀʟʟ ᴏꜰ ᴛʜᴇꜱᴇ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ᴀʀᴇ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ - ɪ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡ ᴀɴʏᴏɴᴇ ᴛᴏ ᴄᴏᴘʏ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ.

You can't remember if it was always that way, truthfully. All you can is the way things are now. It's like what's happened to you has eaten holes in your brain—but only through the pleasant memories. Maybe it's a strange sort of coping mechanism. Can't miss something if you don't remember ever having it, like safety or happiness.

You watch as people flit by the door—always seemingly in a hurry. You wonder what your providers must think of you since you'd indicated 'homemaker' on your patient forms. Here, they spend their days saving lives while you have to vacuum and dust to keep him happy. Nothing wrong with maintaining a household or family, but that's only when it's your own choice to do so.

He has something in common with them, though: preferring things to be neat.

That's your job.

You glance up when the door swooshes open and the cacophony of the ED ushers in before it seals thankfully shut again, once again bathing you in calming silence.

You watch as a tall middle-aged man with a well-trimmed beard and kind brown eyes enters the unoccupied space next to you, followed by him pulling on a pair of robin's egg colored gloves. A color you would find pretty under different circumstances.

"My name is Dr. Robinavitch," he says with a smile before seating himself on a stool and wheeling it toward you. "But you can call me Dr. Robby. So, you've come in for a wrist fracture today?"

You nod while trying to think of a polite way to request a female doctor.

He won't be pleased that you've been seen, touched by, or are talking to a man. No, he'll be angry.

"And did this happen today?" he asks while reaching for your wrist.

"A couple days ago," you reply. So quietly that it's practically a whisper. "I...I fell on it. I was bringing groceries in. Tomatoes went everywhere," you say with a smile, hoping that humor will throw him off the trail he may soon stumble his way onto.

You must always be attuned to other people's reactions, lest they discover the horrible truth you mean to hide.

"May I ask why you didn't come in when it happened?" Dr. Robby asks while folding back the cuff of your sweater.

He'll see.

If he goes any further up, he'll see. You have to stop him. Answer his question, pull away, get out of the bed and go back home and try to fix it yourself.

"I—I just—I tried resetting it like always. It—it didn't work. It hurt, and—" You clamp your mouth shut then.

You only made it worse.

And now he sees it anyway.

The more he rolled, the more horrified he became. It'd been like peeling back decorative wallpaper, only to reveal rotting mold beneath. An attractive veneer on the out, but its purpose solely being to hide something malignant that swarmed under it.

Brushing his thumb along the dark bruising which paints the smooth skin of your arm, his brows furrow. "What did you mean by resetting it like always?" he asks while looking at you.

You read his lips, but didn't really hear him—you couldn't over the ringing in your ears.

"W-What?"

"Have you reset injuries before? On yourself?"

You blink back tears while considering a trash can in the corner.

You think you may be sick.

"I don't know why I said that," you blurt out. "No. No, of course not. I wouldn't even know how to do something like that," you say with a nervous laugh, which doesn't reassure like you intend for it to, but instead only further cements Robby's suspicions.

His eyes flit between yours, and for a moment, you think he may hit you.

That's what happens when things grow quiet and a man stares you down—they're considering violence.

Just as you open your mouth to begin apologizing, he stands. An action which causes you to flinch.

He notes it.

"Just to rule out a break and see exactly how severe the fracture is, I'm going to do a portable X-ray. Is there any chance you could be pregnant?"

A hand flutters toward your stomach subconsciously. "No. I took a test a couple days ago. It was negative."

Always a relief when that's the case, since you're not allowed to use condoms anymore. He's not a fan of birth control either, but at least he's permitted it.

For now.

Dr. Robby nods while swinging around a strange looking apparatus that's attached to a tall, sterile white machine. "Alright, just hold your wrist still for me while I take a few pictures."

Your heart quivers in your chest as you wait for Dr. Robby's return. Maybe if you'd just dug further online—watched a couple more YouTube videos—you could've figured it out on your own.

He was already enraged when you asked to go to the hospital, but you couldn't sleep because you were in so much pain, so you didn't see any other choice. When you began to cry and apologize, he softened before finally taking you into his arms and telling you that he was sorry—how it's all his fault in the first place.

Then he'd started in on hospital bills that he wouldn't be able to afford. You remained quiet as he backtracked and told you that you could go—but because he had to work, you needed to be very careful in what you told them in terms of the explanations you provided for the bruises which littered your body.

Stupidly, you'd almost asked about vaginal tearing, but refrained because there'd be no reason for them to venture past your forearm at most.

You jolt when Robby returns. "Got your results back," he begins while pushing a few dark colored floppy images onto a display next to you, which you turn to see. Switching it on, you stare at X-rays you've little idea how to read.

"Wow, that's inside of me?" you ask while glancing to him.

At least it earns you a chuckle.

"Hairline fracture," he says while tracing what looks to be a a thin crack in your wrist with his pinky finger. "It'll require a splint, as well as you keeping mobilization of the area to an absolute minimum for the next month and a half." He switches the light off, then comes to stand next to you with crossed arms. "A follow-up appointment will be scheduled so the injury can be reexamined and the splint taken off if the fracture has healed."

You nod, despite knowing that you won't be coming back.

He steps over to a supply cart and pops open a drawer before removing a newly packaged splint. Returning to your side, he seats himself again while taking your wrist between his hands. "I saw what looked to be an old break in your forearm."

His eyes flit to yours. "You wanna tell me about that?"

Lie, lie, lie. "It was from when I was a kid."

He grabs the splint. "It didn't heal clean. You know that injury may end up causing you long-term chronic pain, right? Not to mention deformity, arthritis, nerve damage—"

"It was a long time ago," you sputter, interrupting him.

And then you look at the doctor in a panic. Why didn't you let him finish speaking?

"Sorry," you mumble while looking away.

Once he's securely tightened the velcro straps, you settle your wrist back into your lap.

"Sweetheart, look at me."

You wince. You know what's about to happen, but being given even a modicum of kindness makes you feel indebted to him. That's what has been taught to you: for every thing you are given, you owe repayment. Ten fold.

It's why you hate when he brings home flowers or dinner in apology. Would save you energy if he just gifted you another punch instead. You don't have to pay him back for those with spread legs or an open mouth at least.

You glance to Robby before hanging your head in shame.

"Can you pull down the neck of your sweater for me?"

You slowly shake your head while biting your lower lip.

He reaches up and you slam yourself back against the bed in panic.

Robby hesitates, then hooks both his index fingers over the neck of your sweater before pulling it down to your clavicle. "Jesus," he whispers.

He'd hoped with futility.

Settling your clothing back into place, he sits once more. "Did you know that you are 750% more likely to be murdered by him after he's strangled you?" Robby asks gently. "Your body is covered in signs of his abuse. He's broken bones, fractured them, cut off your airflow, grabbed you with enough force to leave bruises all over your arm," he says while counting off on his fingers before resting his palms on his knees.

You shouldn't have come.

Robby shakes his head. "And those are just what I've been able to see. I don't want to imagine what's still covered."

"Am I free to go?" you whimper.

"I'm obligated to report this to law enforcement," he informs you—his tone gravely and low.

Your head jerks in his direction and your heart lurches into your injured throat. You grab for his hands to make him listen while shaking your head. "No, no, no, you can't do that! They—They'll—You just don't understand. It's not always like this. I promise. I promise I can fix it. I can do this. He'll stop. I can fix him. I can't go into a shelter. I won't survive without him. He—He takes care of me. He works and I—"

You swing your legs over the side of the bed. "I have to go home. I need to—"

Robby rests a palm over your knee. "Nothing has happened yet. We're just talking. I am begging you to stay. Please."

You waver.

"I know that we don't know one another, but, as your doctor, my obligation is to your wellbeing and safety. If I let you go back to him, I would be breaking my Hippocratic Oath."

Your brows furrow.

"I'm obliged to abstain from intentional wrong-doing. Letting you return to someone who is physically and psychologically harming you would be doing just that."

You swipe hot tears from your eyes. "You don't know him," you begin softly. "I do. His parents weren't there for him like they should've been. He... He wasn't mothered the way he deserved to be."

His eye twitches.

"It's my job as his... As his to give him what he's missing. I take care of him," you insist while resting a hand over your heart. "He just gets so overwhelmed. He doesn't know where to put it. Talking isn't easy for him."

Robby grimaces.

"I know he doesn't mean the things he does in moments of anger. I have to love him through it. I will not abandon him like everyone else. You don't just..." You shake your head. "When things get hard, you don't just walk out. You cling to them, despite it."

You sniffle. "He works so hard; too much. He... Without me, he'd fall apart. I cook and clean, and comfort him. We'll die without each other. Don't you see that?"

Staring at the floor, he blinks, breathes, then looks at you. "You'll die if you stay."

Why won't he just listen? All he sees are bruises, whereas you see a man who's hurting and just doesn't know how to handle it yet. But he always promises that he'll change for the better—for the sake of his love for you.

And when he's kind... It's so wonderful. Because he's warm and affectionate, and tells you all those things you've been so starved to hear.

You chase those moments to hold them close. Such as right now.

Now quietly crying, you grab his hands unexpectedly. "Please. Dr. Robinavitch, I am begging you not to do this. The arrest won't stick. You and I both know he'll get a slap on the wrist, then released soon after on bond. Proceedings won't even get a chance to begin because I'll refuse to press charges. He'll come home—because I am not living in some temporary shelter that doesn't know or care about me like he does—and things will get worse."

Brushing his thumbs over your knuckles, he sighs while shaking his head. "I'm being put in an impossible position. By reporting, a process can be started—"

You scoot further toward the edge of the bed, indicating that you're ready to leave.

"Fine!" he relents. "Fine. Just...stay a little longer while I try to figure out a way to help you."

A gentle sob crests up your throat and over your lips. "I can't trust you to walk out that door and not make a call. I need to go home to him. I have to get started on dinner."

Hesitantly, you raise a trembling hand and cup his cheek.

Robby's breath catches, and all his nerve endings converge into that one patch of skin where you've made contact.

You know how to bring a man to a standstill, he'll give you that much.

"Thank you for your concern," you say quietly while brushing your thumb along the apple of his cheek. "I know you're right. But I'm not ready for that yet. I am not done loving him yet."

Gingerly, he slides your hand from his face to hold between each of his own instead. "The next time I see you will be on the news as another statistic. He doesn't deserve someone so dedicated and kind. He's not going to change."

"It's easier if I stay," you whisper. "It's a convoluted process which I'll throw in the towel over before it even gets a chance to begin."

"You can file a protection order—"

"Which is temporary," you retort. "Yes, they would probably give me a long-term one. But it will eventually expire, and I'll be required to keep refiling it. That's given that he even honors it. It's just a piece of paper—"

"You've researched this," he says with realization.

"And every time I did, my resolve crumbled when I saw how futile my efforts would be." Your chin wobbles. "I'm tired. I don't want to fight anymore. It's easier just to give him what he wants. That much I can do because it's all I know now."

His eyes flit between yours before he stands and begins to pace.

You watch idly as he walks this way and that with slow, measured steps of silent contemplation.

Just as you think to settle your feet on the floor, he crosses his arms while turning to face you. Walking over to the bedside curtain, he draws it forward so that no one can curiously peek inside.

You stare up at him with weary eyes.

"I'm risking everything by making you this offer: my career, my medical license..." He sighs while running a nervous hand down the back of his head. "I'm not trying to be another man who tells you what to do, or to keep his secrets, but if you decline, I implore you to keep this between us," he begs with hands folded like they're in prayer.

You shift in uncertainty, but ultimately nod in agreement.

Returning to your bedside, you gaze up at him while he settles a hand on your upper arm. "I have an extra room... And it's yours if you want it."

Time slowing to a standstill, you stare up at this man who is both stranger and familiar to you now. In the last twenty something minutes, you've divulged more of your personal truth to him than you have anyone else since you gave up every facet of your life to please the man at home. Familial connections, friends, employment, savings, reproductive freedoms.

It had been...important to him that you rely upon him and find him to be deserving of the privilege once that process began.

It had seemed like a choice when you relinquished your freedom. With hindsight, you realize he had just been very persuasive in achieving his own selfish ends at the cost of your autonomy.

"I can't become a burden to someone else—"

Robby shakes his head. "You wouldn't be." He gestures toward himself. "I wouldn't be asking if I wasn't certain."

Your brows knit together and your nose tingles. With a slowly tightening throat, you force a response. "You don't know me."

With a gentle smile, he slides his hand to the crown of your shoulder. "I know enough to be sure that I'm doing the right thing."

Standing in the doorway of your new home—you're not wholly sure that it's right to think of it as such just yet—it's with bags of your things clutched to your chest and dangling from the crooks of your arms.

You jolt when Robby plants a hand against the small of your back. "You want me to show you to your new room?"

You stare up at him and nod dully.

Leaning against the doorway, Robby watches as you wander around the limited space curiously. "It's yours to decorate as you please. You can rearrange the furniture... Just, do whatever you need to to feel at home. Safe." He taps the doorknob. "It has a lock on it." Robby nods toward an empty chest of drawers. "The only keys are on top of the dresser. I will never come in here unless you invite me to. This is your space."

You plop your bags down on the bed and begin to softly cry from exhaustion.

Robby pads over to you and draws you into the comfort of his chest while reassuring you that no one will ever harm you again.

Not here.

The sun has only just crested when you're awoken by the sound of shuffling footsteps not far from where your bedroom lies.

Forcing yourself out of a sleepy, morning fog, you plant your bare feet on warm hardwood floors and pad to the door before peeling it open and heading toward the living room.

It's going to take getting used to, to be certain: awakening in a new place each morning.

"Are you leaving for work?" you ask while watching Robby gather his things before shrugging on a backpack.

"Did I wake you?" Robby rasps while pulling on his shoes.

You come closer. "I'm a light sleeper."

The truth is, you tossed and turned for hours as your mind raced with horrifying thoughts. What if he found you? Hurt Robby? Killed you both? Set fire to Robby's home just for trying to save you?

You had seriously considered at one point leaving to go back to him, but staring at your shoes near Robby's by the doorway, you couldn't bring yourself to do it.

You're not entirely sure why. When you did fall asleep, you were awoken by a nightmare of him strangling you in your new bed while something painful was shoved inside you.

But you can't tell Robby about any of that. You don't think you should, anyway. Much that you want to.

"I should make you breakfast," you state in a hushed tone before turning to head for the kitchen.

"No. No, sweetheart, it's fine. I don't have time. I really do have to get going."

You turn back to him with hooded lids and a head of messy hair. With only an oversized t-shirt hanging from your frame, he's given cause to swallow thickly from nerves.

"I'm sorry," you whine. "I would've gotten up earlier if—"

Robby advances toward you before cupping the back of your head and planting a soft kiss atop it.

He doesn't notice how your body goes rigid from what you had thought he meant to do.

You squeeze your eyes shut to fight back tears, and your hands into fists to prevent their shaking.

"I'll see you tonight. Just try and go back to sleep for awhile, honey," he murmurs before turning back toward the door, grabbing his keys, and making an exit.

Being alone you know; can make do with. But in such a spacious home still yet left unexplored... You feel a bit out of your depth.

You decide to go back to bed like he suggested. Taking orders you can do, too.

After retrieving you while he was at work, Robby had taken you to get a new phone—you were only afforded an old landline at the house—so you spend awhile familiarizing yourself with the shiny new device. It's been a handful of years since you've been afforded such flashy technology, so the learning curve is steeper than you initially anticipated it would be.

You steer clear of all social media and don't even bother with an email. Instead, you spend awhile playing match-3 and hidden object games to pass the time.

The only number stored in your contacts being that of Robby and his workplace—the ED at PTMC—it's not like you have anyone to chat with, either.

You consider asking permission to clean his house, but don't want to interrupt him at the hospital. Plus, men seem to like when women do that: mop and do laundry and wipe down surfaces laden with crumbs. Not that his living space looks like it really needs it, but you've become an expert at locating overlooked nooks and crannies that've been sorely neglected.

He'll be pleased once the place is sparkling top to bottom.

It'll put him in a better mood when he gets home. Less chance of him yelling at you because you've been wasting time all day playing mobile games.

When Robby steps over the threshold of his house, it's to the sight of a faintly flickering candle set atop the entryway's narrow table, and the scent of seasoned chicken and roasted vegetables wafting down the hall from the kitchen.

Toeing off his shoes, he takes note of how his boots and running shoes, and even an old forgotten pair of slides have been polished and aligned by designated purpose.

Even the crooked rug he kept meaning to wash and recenter against the doorway looks freshly laundered.

"Welcome home," chimes a musical, feminine voice from the end of the hall.

Jerking his head up, he stares at you in surprise.

"I made you dinner. I... I hope that's okay."

"You did?" he asks foolishly.

You nod while clasping your hands together. "Does... Does that bother you? I used food from your fridge—"

He shakes his head with a contented grin while walking toward you. "No, honey, that doesn't bother me at all."

Robby seems very pleased that you took painstaking care to clean every inch of his home that you could reach and think of. He apparently forgot he had an iron. You learned as much when you disclosed that you used it on his scrubs.

While taking small bites of your food—never wolfing or scarfing, as that would be unattractive—you watch attentively as he dines on a hot, homecooked meal made by your own two hands.

His pots and pans had been far fancier than anything you were accustomed to. So shiny and brass that you'd been afraid to use them, in fact. You had considered it a treat as you dallied around the kitchen and acquainted yourself with a thick wooden cutting board, an expensive looking knife block, and a collection of hard to pronounce spices.

Sliding your socked feet together, you take another bite of steamed broccoli. "Is it...good?"

Robby hardly looks at you as he continues digging in. Popping up a thumb, he nods. "'S fuckin' great," he drawls.

You grin and breathe a sigh of relief you'd not realized you'd been holding. "I'm so glad."

"While I can't begin tell you just how much I appreciate everything you did today, I do want you to know," Robby begins while shutting the dishwasher and switching it on, "That it's not necessary. I know that with him, it was expected of you to keep house; to tend to all domestic duties."

You watch as he wipes his hands with a dishtowel.

"But I don't."

He tosses the towel down, and you mentally note that you need to refold it. Leaning his hip against the kitchen island you each stand at, he loosely crosses his arms. "The only thing I care about is that you feel safe. Happy. That you're given a chance to heal." He slides a hand over your splint. "In every way you need to."

Your eyes flit to his. "I folded your laundry. I hope it's okay that I went in your room."

His brows furrow.

Perhaps you just don't have any idea how to respond to reassurance and concern; care. Maybe it came with an ulterior motive before, at least a portion of the time. Or expectations. Nothing being allowed to come from something.

"Yeah, honey," he says while giving your fingers a reassuring squeeze. "That's fine. You're free to go wherever you like in this house. Nothing is off-limits."

On your way for a midnight trip to the bathroom, you're just passing by Robby's room when you catch, out of the corner of your eye, the familiar glow of a TV casting a darkened room in muted neon colors.

Gently pushing his bedroom door open, you hesitate in the hall before finally stepping over the transition strip and sinking your toes into soft brown carpet.

Starfished across the bed, Robby snores quietly with a comforter thrown haphazardly over his waist and legs. A smile tugs at your lips when you see one of his feet peeking out. You right this by tugging a blanket over it and rounding the foot of the bed to watch him from the other side for just a moment. With a pillow shoved beneath his chin, he draws in a deep breath before releasing a snore, and you giggle quietly.

He's peaceful like this. Lost in dreamland.

Part of you wants to smooth tousled hair from his brow and run a soft hand down his naked back, but refrain.

You miss being touched very much.

Swiping the remote from his bedside table, you click off the TV before quietly settling it atop his bedside table. You exit the room then and softly shut the door behind you.

Despite Robby's protestations, you've been getting up early every morning before him so you can make him breakfast.

The dishes vary, because variety seems to be important to you. One morning, it's a burrito with cheesy scrambled eggs, chopped bacon, and diced peppers. Another, pancakes with butter, strawberry syrup, and freshly sliced fruit. This one? Waffles with bits of fried chicken and cups of fresh-squeezed orange juice to accompany.

He'd half considered taking your phone away so you wouldn't have an alarm to wake you anymore—it's important to him that you get plenty of rest—but knew any trust you now feel toward him would dissipate entirely if he did so.

At least he's not operating for hours on-end with nothing on his stomach but black coffee and a cheap protein bar now.

Speaking of, you even bother with filling a tumbler for him each time he's readying himself at the door with fresh coffee—complete with plenty of cream and sugar mixed in for him to take along during his commute.

He's worried you feel obligated to do all that you are. Rather, he knows that you do. But he's also aware that you want to feel useful—are keeping yourself occupied when he's not here with you.

He offered to buy you an e-reader, or puzzles, or supplies for any hobby you think you'd like to try to busy yourself with, but had been met with resistance when you told him "not to waste money on you".

He picked you up the most expensive Kindle he could find anyway, as well as a hundred dollar gift card for it, a protective case, and a felting kit that's supposed to make a kitten holding a daisy.

Not exactly his thing, but you seem sweet enough that he'd hoped it would pique your interest.

"Did you turn my TV off last night?" Robby asks between chews of crispy chicken.

Your utensils clatter against your plate. "I... I was going to use the bathroom and saw that it was still on. I didn't want it to wake you—"

He shakes his head while taking another bite. "I sleep with it on," he explains. "Just a habit I can't seem to kick," he states with a casual shrug.

You slide your trembling hands between your thighs and swallow down the lump in your throat. "I'm so sorry," you whimper. "I didn't mean to upset you—"

His head jerks up.

"I won't ever go in there again. I promise. I—"

"No, sweetheart, you didn't upset me. I'm not angry. I was just telling you that I left it on on purpose."

You nod fervently. "I'll do better. I promise."

He stands, lifts his chair, then settles it next to your own before sliding an arm around your shoulders. "I appreciated it: you trying to look out for me." He chuckles. "Now you understand why I've tried insisting you not get up to make me breakfast."

You turn to look at him.

"Your sleep is just as important to me as mine is to you."

Heat rushes to your cheeks when he presses his lips to your left one, and you cross your legs at the ankles when his beard scratches pleasantly against the soft skin. "Thank you," he rumbles.

"You're welcome," you chirp.

You're not sure why, but every time your phone dings with a text from Robby, your heart flip-flops in your chest. Maybe because you're not used to such communication methods, so you're always worried about your tone being misread because of it being typed words.

It's usually about the same time every day the thing goes off now with a Having a good day? message occupying your lockscreen.

What you don't know, is that Robby watches with eager anticipation as those three dots pop up... Then disappear. Pop up... And disappear.

Then, Yes, thank you 😊

Need me to pick up anything on my way home to you?

He shakes his head with a frown and proceeds to delete the last two words before pressing send.

Same song and dance: dots, disappear, and so on.

Almost out of your coffee.☕ And if it's not any trouble, a pack of strawberries.🍓

Your constant inclusion of emojis only serves to endear him to you further. He assumes it's because they're new to you, and you have a mild fascination with their being a new sort of lexicon.

You got it, sweetheart.

Once again, he deletes the last tacked-on word.

Thank you!🐝

He doesn't ask about the bee. Instead, Robby stares down at the photo he took with you a couple weeks back which he has set as your contact photo: the two of you sat on the couch, and his lips pressed to your cheek while you smile shyly at the camera.

You'd been so flustered when he surprised you by snapping it, but could see from the way you squirmed after that it wasn't due to discomfort, but something else entirely.

And now, every morning before he leaves for work, it's become an unspoken part of his routine: you padding over with a tumbler of coffee, which he takes while leaning forward to kiss one of your cheeks, or forehead, or the crown of your head while telling you to have a good day. In return, you tell him to be safe.

You've become something he looks forward to seeing again once each impossible shift is finally through.

He never knew just how worth having someone to come home to could be.

Robby doesn't acknowledge the one word which sums up the warmth that's developed in his chest every time he thinks of, or sets eyes or hands on you as he turns to head back inside to tend to a trauma case.

"Oh," you quip before dropping a stack of Robby's clothes onto the edge of his bed. Unable to stop yourself from greedily studying every inch of his half-naked form, your eyes flit from one facet of his body to another like you're trying to memorize it before this moment passes.

He's just exited the bathroom and his hair is a damp, tousled mess. A towel is wrapped loosely around his waist, which his belly that's smattered with dark hair hangs heavily over.

Your mouth grows dry at the generous swell of it.

Is it strange if you want to press your hands into the plump skin while straddling his bare waist?

You nearly glance down at your own waist when you feel a foreign fluttering start up between your thighs.

For so long, even just watching kissing on TV disgusted you. The thought of intimacy which went any further made you feel downright nauseous.

But seeing Robby like this... It stirs something within you which you once thought lost.

You study your slippered feet. "Sorry," you mumble. "I thought you were still in there."

He plucks a pair of briefs from the top of the folded pile and pulls them on beneath his towel before removing it from his waist and balling it up to toss into the hamper in the bathroom. "It's okay. Just glad I had a towel on."

You bite back a smirk because the thought of him without it...

"Would you like for me to put your clothes away?"

He turns back toward the bathroom. "I can do it. Don't worry about it."

You chew your lip for a moment, then grab his underthings and pad over to his dresser anyway.

When Robby emerges from the bathroom again, it's to the predictable sight of you tending to yet another chore that you've made your responsibility.

He does appreciate the unspoken intimacy of you folding his underwear, though. Only woman who ever has, in fact. Minus one other, but that ended decades ago.

He pulls a dark t-shirt from the pile as well—one less thing for you to throw on a hanger, he figures—and just as he goes to pull it on over his head, you turn back to him.

"You don't have to," you say quietly. "Incase you're...still hot from your shower."

At times before, he would go shirtless, but not with you here now. Everything he does, he does while trying to keep your comfort in mind. "Not as fit as I was twenty years ago," he says with a chuckle.

"I didn't know you then," you say while grabbing a couple pairs of his scrubs. "But I find it hard to believe that you looked better than you do right now."

When you turn to place the items in his closet, it's with him being left utterly speechless.

Robby forgoes the shirt, much to your satisfaction.

It'd sent you into an utter tizzy, but the day Robby brought home the charming little sedan he purchased for you is the day the dam broke.

Abbot pulled up behind him, still somewhat fuming, because only that afternoon when he accompanied him to the car lot so there would be someone to get his truck back home for him is when Robby finally divulged the dirty little secret he'd been hoarding for months: he was living with a patient. Not just any patient, either, but one that should've been referred to law enforcement or a battered woman's shelter instead of taken into his home to receive the professional help she needed.

Jack had lain into him with no sign of stopping before Robby finally blew his top and screamed at him that he was in love with you, and that you were his to care for now. That he was just as professional as they and knew good and well how to take care of things. And that if he had an issue with it, then it was his shit to sort out. Not Robby's goddamn problem, because he couldn't lose you.

The two of you helped fix each other in so many wonderful ways, and he couldn't bear the thought of relinquishing the home he'd found in you by providing you with a literal one in exchange just because some may think it "unethical". Unethical would've been letting you go back to him when Robby had a safe place to take you to.

It would be a cold day in Hell before he allowed that to happen.

When Jack watches from the driver's seat of Robby's truck, however, and sees the way you wrap yourself around him—literally—when he sweeps you off the ground before circling his waist with your legs and your arms around his neck before you each cradle the other's head while showering one another with kisses and happy tears, he vows to keep his mouth shut about things.

He once told Robby that he spent too much time alone, and that it wasn't doing him any favors. So how can he be angry when he sees that he's rectified it?

Jack exits the cab to come and meet you—the girl who saved his best friend from himself.

Things continue to be gradual, but you've come far from where you once were.

You now work part-time at a small local library, and sleep in the same bed as Robby. You haven't been intimate yet, but he did watch one night as you touched yourself while pawing excitedly at his stomach, while you straddled his lap.

He couldn't quantify how flattered it made him feel with mere words—the fact that you find his one insecurity to be so incredibly erotic.

He hardly wears a shirt around the house now because of it.

Not that you ever complain.

You still play homemaker, and Robby has assured you that you don't have to work, but if it brings you joy, then by all means.

He even helped you set up a bank account that's solely in your name.

In the morning, you now kiss on the lips before Robby leaves you for patients and leading his ED staff, while you flit around the house and do chores before heading off to work yourself.

And biggest of all: you're now in therapy. You had to manipulate the truth as to how you and Robby met, lest you risk him being reported, but your ex is what you focus on discussing—it's the trauma he caused which you mean to work through.

Robby pays for the sessions so you can save your money for whatever else you like. You've recently gotten into adult coloring books, for example.

Jack sometimes comes over for dinner, and it makes you smile to see he and Robby joking around; that he has such a close friendship. You had worried that Jack would have opinions as to your two's relationship, given that he's an attending just like Robby, but to your relief, he seems rather fond of you.

You may've tried to bribe his good graces early on by purchasing him a special polish for his prosthetic, as well as a cream for his amputation. He took it from you with thanks and a grateful smile before joking that maybe he and Robby take turns over having you when the other is at the hospital.

You'd wandered away with a bashful laugh.

The waiting room looks like hell.

Not metaphorically. Literally.

Too bright. Too loud. Too many people packed shoulder-to-shoulder beneath fluorescent lights that wash everyone the same sick shade of exhausted gray. A toddler screams somewhere near triage. Somebody vomits into a plastic bag near the reception desk. EMTs burst through the ambulance bay doors every six minutes carrying fresh disasters like offerings.

And over all of it: the constant overhead paging.

The ER never really sleeps. It just bleeds into the next catastrophe.

“You got a room for a possible bowel perf?” a paramedic barks, already wheeling the patient forward.

“Trauma Two,” You answer automatically without looking up from your chart.

“Trauma Two’s occupied.”

“Then hallway bed six.”

“That guy’s psych hold.”

“Then put him literally anywhere with oxygen and a pulse ox.” The paramedic grins tiredly.

“That’s why I like you.”

“Yeah, well, poor judgment’s a recurring theme around here.”Behind you, a familiar voice cuts through the noise immediately.

“She flirts with everybody before midnight. Don’t take it personal.”

You don't have to turn around to know it’s Dr. Robby. Still, your stomach betrays you anyway.

Stupid thing.

The paramedic laughs.

“Damn, Robby. Possessive tonight.”

“That’s not what this is,” Robby mutters immediately.

You finally glance up. Big mistake. He looks exhausted. Not regular exhausted. Hospital exhausted. The kind that settles into the bones after too many double shifts and too many people dying under your hands no matter how fast you work. His dark curls are damp at the temples from hours under harsh ER heat, scrub top wrinkled, stethoscope hanging crooked around his neck. And still— still unfairly handsome. You hate that about him.

Hatesthat after fourteen hours on shift he can still look across a trauma bay and make your brain briefly stop functioning like a licensed medical professional. The paramedic wheels off laughing. Robby steps into the space beside you immediately, eyes dropping to the chart in your hands.

“You re-order the labs on Bed Nine?”

“Mmhm.”

“He needs another lactate.”

“Already done." Robby’s mouth twitches faintly.

Of course it is.

Working with him became dangerous months ago.

Not because he’s difficult. The opposite.

Because somewhere along the line the two of you became… this.

Too synced up. Too aware of each other. Too comfortable.

You know how he takes his coffee. He knows when your migraines start before you say anything. You hand him instruments before he asks during procedures. He automatically moves people out of your path during traumas without even looking.

Nobody misses it. Especially not Dana.

“You two are way past appropriate,” she muttered three shifts ago while watching you two argue over a chest tube placement like a divorced couple.

You laughed.

Robby didn't.

Now he leans slightly over your shoulder, scanning the chart.

“You eat yet?” There it is. Every damn shift. You keep your eyes on the paperwork.

“I had coffee.”

“That ain’t food.”

“It has nutritional value emotionally.”

“Cute.” His tone flattens immediately. “Eat somethin’.” You scribble another note onto the chart.

“Yes, dad.” Robby sighs through his nose. Not annoyed. Worse. Concerned.

“Seriously.”

“I’m fine.”

“You said that six hours ago.”

“And look.” You gesture vaguely at yourself. “Still vertical.” His eyes flick over your face briefly. Too briefly for anybody else to notice. Long enough for you to feel it anyway.

“You got that headache again?” he asks quietly. You blink.

“How the hell do you always know that?”

“Because you rub your temple every thirty seconds when it starts.” your hand drops immediately away from your face. Robby’s expression shifts just slightly.

Victory.

Tiny.

Private.

Dangerous.

Before either of you can say another word, the overhead speakers crackle violently:

“CODE TRAUMA. MULTIPLE GSWs EN ROUTE. ETA THREE MINUTES.”

The entire ER changes shape instantly. Everybody moves. Nurses sprint toward trauma bays. Stretchers reposition. Gloves snap on. The easy rhythm of conversation disappears beneath adrenaline and practiced chaos. Robby is already moving.

“So much for food,” you mutter.

“You’re still eatin’ after this,” he throws over his shoulder.

“You can’t legally force me.”

“I know where your locker is.”

You snort despite yourself and follow him into Trauma One. Three minutes later the ambulance bay doors explode open. And suddenly nobody has time to breathe anymore. The first patient crashes before the second stretcher even clears the ambulance bay.

“Twenty-three-year-old male,” the paramedic shouts while helping transfer the body over. “Multiple GSWs to the chest and abdomen, lost pulse twice in transport—”

“We got him,” Robby cuts in immediately. And just like that, he changes. Not physically. Something else. The warmth disappears first. The dry humor. The tired little almost-smiles he only really gives staff he trusts. Everything narrows into sharp-edged focus so complete it almost feels frightening to witness up close.

“Tube him,” he orders. You’re already moving before he finishes speaking.

“On it." The room erupts into controlled chaos around you. Monitors screaming. Gloves snapping. Blood everywhere. The patient looks young. Too young. Baby-faced beneath the oxygen mask, skin already going gray around the lips. Robby climbs onto the side rail slightly to get better leverage while assessing the chest wounds.

“No breath sounds left side.”

“Tension pneumo?” you ask.

“Looks like it.” He points instantly. “Needle.” You slap the decompression needle into his waiting hand before the nurse beside you can even react. Robby doesn’t look at you when he takes it. Doesn’t need to. That’s the problem. You work together too well now. A hiss of trapped air escapes the patient’s chest.

“Pressure’s tanking,” Langdon says.

“How bad?”

“Seventy systolic.”

“Blood now.” You move automatically, cutting through clothing while Robby barks orders over the noise. Another stretcher bursts through the doors behind you.

Second GSW. Teenager this time. Jesus Christ.

“Trauma Two ready?” Dana yells.

“No,” you answer immediately. “Use Three.”

“We need you in there too.” You glance toward Robby instinctively. Big mistake. Because he’s already looking at you. Just for a second. Long enough for that familiar awareness to pass silently between you both beneath the chaos.

Go.

You peel away instantly toward the second trauma bay. The teenager is conscious at least. Barely. Crying. Blood soaking through both hands where he’s trying to hold pressure against his own stomach.

“Hey, hey—look at me,” you say firmly while climbing beside the stretcher. “Stay with me.”

“I don’t wanna die,” he chokes out immediately. God. You hate when they say that.

“You’re not gonna die.”

“You promise?” You don’t answer fast enough. Because nobody smart makes promises in an ER. Behind you, through the open trauma bay doors, you can still hear Robby running his room like a battlefield commander.

“Push epi.”

“Again.”

“Clear.” The defibrillator cracks loud enough to echo. Your own patient starts crashing ten minutes later. Then everything becomes movement again. Blood transfusions. Suction. Pressure. Yelling.

At some point somebody presses a protein bar into your scrub pocket without explanation. You already know it was Robby. You don’t even have to look. Two hours pass like that. Then three. The teenager survives surgery. The first patient doesn’t. You know the exact second Robby loses him because the entire energy of Trauma One changes. The noise drops. Voices lower. A silence settles that only really exists in hospitals after death. You finish dictating notes at the nurses’ station forty minutes later with aching shoulders and blood dried stiff across your scrub sleeves. The ER has calmed slightly. Not quiet. Never quiet. But survivable. You rub at your eyes tiredly while signing discharge paperwork.

“You didn’t eat that.” Your head lifts immediately. Robby stands beside the desk holding the untouched protein bar from your pocket. Shit.

“I forgot.”

“You forgot for three hours?”

“It was busy.”

“It’s always busy.” You sigh dramatically and reach for the bar. He doesn’t hand it over yet.

“Robby.”

“You get dizzy again?”

“No.”

“You lyin’?”

“…maybe a little.” His jaw tightens. Not angry. Worried. Again. You hate how much that affects you.

“I’m fine,” you insist more quietly this time.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That phrase means absolutely nothin’ when it comes outta your mouth anymore.” Before you can answer, Dana walks past carrying charts and immediately stops dead seeing the two of you standing too close again.

“Oh my God,” she says flatly.

You blink. “What?”

“This.” She gestures vaguely between you both. “Whatever weird emotionally repressed slow-burn nonsense this is.” Robby pinches the bridge of his nose immediately.

“Dana—”

“No, seriously. It’s painful.” She points at you. “You look at him like he personally hung the moon.” Your entire soul leaves your body.

“Excuse me?”

“And Robby looks at her like somebody put a live grenade in his chest.”

“I’m literally standing right here,” Robby mutters.

“You two have been divorced-married for like six months.”

“We are not—”

“You shared fries yesterday.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“You remembered her migraine medication before she did.” Robby opens his mouth. Stops. Closes it again. Dana looks vindicated immediately.

“Oh, my God.”

“Dana,” you warn weakly.

“No wonder the whole department thinks you’re sleeping together.” Silence. Complete silence. A nearby nurse actually turns around trying not to look interested. Robby stares at Dana like he’s reconsidering several HR policies simultaneously. You can physically feel heat crawling up your neck.

“We are not sleeping together,” you say tightly. Dana snorts.

“Honestly that’s worse. The tension in this department could power the city grid.” Then she walks away before either of you can recover. You stare at the floor. Robby stares somewhere over your shoulder. The protein bar gets silently placed into your hand at last. A wave of nausea fills you head to toe as your migrain pounds against your skull, and you wince and push away from the desk.

"Eat it." Robby pushes. You nod, turning away from him.

"Yeah, i will. Later-" You barely finish your sentence when your vision tunnels and you stumble. You sway a little in place before gravity does it's job and you go crashing for the floor.

"Shit !" Robby catches you before you have the chance to crack your skull open on the linoleum, fingers pressed to your neck to check your vitals. A stupid reflex. He looks up at Dana, who is walking away. "Dana ! A little help here !" He calls. Dana stops and spins around on high alert, and her eyes blow wide.

"Oh for pete's sake." She breathes, slinging her stethoscope off her neck as she runs forward. "What the hell happened ?" Robby shifts you in his arms, one hand supporting your limp neck.

"She's dehydrated. Only had coffee." He explains, his voice rough. Dana swears under breath and looks up.

"Perlah, get me some saline !" She shouts, "Santos, Whittaker, get me a bed !" Everything moves at once after that. The ER shifts shape around emergencies automatically, instinctively, like a living organism responding to injury. Nurses break into motion. A gurney appears from somewhere down the hall. Somebody lowers the volume on the television overhead. And through all of it, Robby doesn’t let go of you for even a second.

“She hit her head?” Dana asks quickly, already checking your pupils while Robby keeps you upright against his chest.

“No,” he answers immediately. “I caught her.” The speed of that answer makes Dana’s eyebrows climb. Interesting.

“BP?” she asks.

“Couldn’t get one yet.”

“She breathing okay?”

“Yes.”

“Pulse?”

“Fast.” His jaw tightens. “Too fast.” You lie limp against him completely unconscious, cheek pressed against the navy-blue fabric of his scrub top. One of your hands is curled loosely against his chest like your body just gave up trying to hold itself upright. And Jesus Christ— Robby looks terrified. Not visibly to most people. But everybody here knows him. They know the difference between Dr. Robby handling a crisis and Robby barely holding himself together through one. Langdon skids to a stop beside Mel and Samira, who have stopped in their tracks to stare at their friend passed out on the ground.

"Jesus, what happened ?" He asks, his tone wuipped.

Robby looks up, incredulous.

"The fuck does it look like Frank ? She's unconcsious !" He swears under his breath. "Whittaker ! Where the fuck is that bed ?"

“Coming through!” A stretcher rattles around the corner at full speed. Whittaker wheels a bed over fast while Santos helps clear space beside the nurses’ station.

“We got her,” Santos says carefully. Robby doesn’t move.

“Robby,” Dana says slower this time. Like she’s talking him down off something. His eyes flick up finally. For half a second he genuinely looks like he forgot anyone else was there. Then his face shutters immediately back into professional composure.

Right.

Doctor mode.

He carefully transfers you onto the bed, one hand still bracing the back of your head even after you’re safely down against the mattress.

“She’s burning up,” he mutters. Dana presses a thermometer against your forehead.

“Low-grade fever.” She frowns. “Probably running herself into the ground.”

“Shocking,” Santos mutters under his breath. Robby shoots him a look sharp enough to cut steel. Santos immediately raises both hands. “I’m just saying.”

“Get fluids running,” Robby says flatly. Dana watches him for a second too long. Then:

“How long’s this been going on?” Robby doesn’t look away from you.

“What?”

“This martyr complex of hers.” Dana gestures vaguely toward your unconscious body. “She’s looked like hell all week.”

“She said she was fine.”

“Oh my God.” Dana actually laughs once. “And you believed that?” His expression darkens immediately because— No. He didn’t. That’s the problem. He knew. He knew you were overworking. Knew you were skipping meals. Knew the migraines were getting worse because he memorized your tells months ago without meaning to. And somehow he still let this happen. The guilt crawls visibly across his face. Dana sees it instantly.

“Hey,” she says, voice softening slightly. “This isn’t on you.” Robby exhales sharply through his nose.

“She passed out standing next to me.”

“Because she’s an idiot.” A beat. Then quieter: “And because this place eats people alive.” Nobody argues with that. Perlah arrives with saline while Princess hooks you up to monitors. Your pulse flashes too fast across the screen immediately. Robby stares at it like he personally offended the laws of medicine.

“She’s gonna wake up pissed we made a scene,” Dana says knowingly. That almost gets a smile out of him. Almost. Instead he reaches down absentmindedly and brushes a strand of hair back away from your face. The entire room goes still for exactly one second. Because that— That was not a coworker gesture. Robby realizes it immediately after doing it. His hand stills. Dana’s eyes widen slowly like she just found proof of life on another planet.

“Oh,” she says very quietly. Robby straightens instantly. Professional again. Too late. Way too late. “You are so screwed,” Dana informs him with the calm certainty of someone announcing a weather forecast.

“I’m not discussing this with you.”

“You’re in love with her.” Whittaker nearly chokes in the background. Robby’s face hardens immediately.

“Dana.”

“No, no, this is actually insane now.” She points between him and your unconscious form. “You looked two seconds away from coding yourself when she hit the floor.”

“She fainted.”

“And you caught her like a grieving Victorian widower.” Silence. Santos turns around entirely to hide his laughter. Mel and Samira pretend to be busy with a chart as Mckay walks by, her brows furrowed at the scene. Langdon whistles and turns around, walking off his his hands in his pockets. Robby rubs both hands down his face hard enough to leave red marks behind.

“This conversation is over.”

“Mhmm.” Dana crosses her arms. “You gonna tell her before or after the next time she collapses from neglecting basic human survival needs?” His eyes drift back toward you automatically. Unconscious. Pale. IV running steadily now. Something in his expression shifts again. Softer this time. More dangerous.

“Soon,” he says quietly before he can stop himself. Dana goes completely still. She sighs, and her face breaks into a grin.

"Great. Abbot owes me a hundred bucks." Robby goes still.

"What ?"

-------------

The world is bright.

God, it's so bright.

You crack your eyes open and immediately regret it, groaning as the bustling sounds of the ER flood back in.

"Ah. Rise and shine, sleepy-head." You tilt your head to the side. Langdon and Mckay are in your room, Mckay down by the computer, checking your chart while Langdon is sat by your bed, adjusting the drip flow in the IV.

Wait.

Why are you in a room ?

Your voice is rough with sleep when you speak.

“…what?” Langdon grins immediately.

“Oh, she’s alive. Shame. I was just about to steal your locker.” You blink at him slowly, brain still buffering.

“…why am i in a room?” You croak. "Why are you guys in a room.. with me ?"

“Visiting hours,” McKay says dryly without looking up from the chart. “We brought flowers.” You glance around blearily. No flowers.

“…you’re both assholes.”

“Correct,” Langdon says pleasantly. Then your brain catches up.

Room.

IV.

Monitor.

The realization hits all at once and you groan, dragging a hand over your face.

“Oh my God.”

“There it is,” McKay mutters. “The embarrassment. Nature is healing.”

“How long was I out?” Langdon checks the watch on his wrist dramatically.

“Long enough for Robby to threaten three residents, snap at a nurse, and hover outside this curtain like a divorced father at a middle school dance recital.” Your stomach drops instantly.

“…what?” McKay finally looks over at you then, expression dangerously entertained.

“Oh, yeah. It was bad.”

“He scared Santos so badly she almost started crying,” Langdon adds.

“That’s not true.”

“She absolutely thought she was getting fired.”

“I did not snap at Santos,” Robby’s voice cuts in sharply from outside the curtain. Both of them immediately grin like sharks scenting blood. And then Robby steps into the room carrying a cup of coffee in one hand and an electrolyte drink in the other. He stops the second he sees your eyes open. Every inch of tension in him visibly shifts. Not gone. Just redirected.

“Oh, there he is,” Langdon says smugly. “The grieving widow.”

“Frank,” Robby says flatly.

“You were pacing.”

“I was working.”

“You checked on her seventeen times.” McKay snorts into her coffee. Robby ignores both of them completely, eyes already on you instead.

“You with us?” You nod weakly.

“Unfortunately.”

“Any dizziness?”

“Yes.”

“Nausea?”

“A little.”

“Headache?” You just stare at him. He sighs. “Right. Stupid question.” Robby looks like he wants the earth to physically open beneath him.

“Okay,” he says tightly. “Everybody out.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Langdon says immediately.

“Frank.”

“Nope. This is the best day of my life.” Robby points toward the door with terrifying calm.

“Get out.” McKay is already cackling as Langdon lets himself be physically shoved toward the curtain. The curtain swings shut behind them amid open laughter from the hallway. Then it’s quiet again. Well. Quiet except for the distant ER chaos and your own heartbeat trying to escape your body. You stare determinedly at the blanket over your lap. Robby stares somewhere over your left shoulder. Neither of you speak for a full five seconds. He sighs, pinching his nose.

"We put you on IV Saline. You were dehydrated." He explains, walking over to the seat Langdon had previously occupied. You gulp, nodding.

"My bad." He chokes on a laugh, shaking his head.

"Yeah, it is your bad. I can't have you collapsing like that in the middle of a shift." You groan, shaking your head.

"What, would you rather I do it before ? Or after ? I'm sorry, oh ER overlord, i'll try to control my unconscious state from now on." Robby lets out a short, incredulous breath through his nose.

“Don’t get smart with me.”

“I’m not getting smart,” you say, already pushing the blanket off your legs. “I’m getting out of here.” His head snaps toward you instantly.

“…no, you’re not.” You pause mid-movement.

“Yes,” you say slowly, like he’s missed something obvious, “I am.” Robby stands up so fast the chair behind him scrapes the floor.

“You just passed out.”

“And I woke up.”

“That’s not how this works.”

“It’s exactly how it works.” You swing your legs over the side of the bed anyway, ignoring the slight sway in your balance as you reach for your shoes on instinct. Robby’s voice drops.

“Stop.” You freeze for half a second. Not because he told you to. Because of how he said it. But then you shake it off and pull your shoe on anyway.

“I’m going back to work,” you repeat. Robby moves closer immediately.

“You’re not cleared.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fine.” You glance up at him sharply.

“I didn’t ask for a second opinion.”

“And I’m not giving you one,” he snaps back. “I’m telling you, as the attending who just watched you hit the floor—”

“Because I forgot to eat,” you cut in. “Not because I’m dying.”

“That doesn’t make it better!” The words echo harder than either of you probably intend. Silence hits for a beat. Your fingers still on your shoe. Robby drags a hand down his face, breathing out through his nose like he’s trying not to explode.

“You don’t get to just—” He stops himself, jaw flexing. “You don’t get to walk back out there like nothing happened.” You stand up fully now. A little too fast. The room tilts slightly.

“I’ve got patients,” you say more quietly. Robby’s voice goes lower.

“So do I.” A beat. Then: “And as of right now, you are on of them. Now, I’m telling you to sit back down.” You stare at him. He stares right back. There’s no humor in it anymore. No teasing. No banter. Just that same pressure from earlier—too much concern packed into too little space. You exhale through your nose.

“…you don’t get to order me around.” Robby laughs once, sharp and disbelieving.

“Apparently I do, considering I just watched you hit the floor and scare half the department into thinking we were gonna lose you.” That lands. Harder than it should. You look away for a second. Then back at him.

“I’m not fragile,” you say again, quieter. Robby’s expression shifts instantly.

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You’re acting like I am.”

“I’m acting like you’re someone who almost cracked their skull open because they refused to take a break.” That makes you go still. A beat passes. Then you grab your badge from the bedside table. Robby’s eyes widen slightly.

“…don’t.” You clip it onto your scrub top.

“I’m going back to work.”

“No,” he says again, sharper now. You step around him. He moves with you immediately, blocking the exit. You stop. Look up at him.

“…move.” Robby doesn’t. For the first time since you woke up, he looks genuinely frustrated in a way that isn’t controlled anymore.

“You’re making a stupid call.”

“And you’re not my keeper.” That hits something in him. You see it. The flicker. The crack.

A pause. Then softer—but no less firm:

“I’m still not letting you walk out there like that.” You stare at him for a long second. Then, very deliberately, you step sideways. Not pushing past him. Not fighting. Just… going around. Robby turns instantly.

“Hey—”

“I said I’m fine,” you cut in, already heading for the curtain.

“You’re not—”

“I am,” you repeat, not stopping. Robby follows you out into the corridor. Langdon and McKay are still visible down the hall, both of them immediately clocking what’s happening and exchanging a look.

“Oh no,” Langdon murmurs. “She’s upright.” McKay winces.

“That’s worse.” Robby catches up to you.

“Seriously—stop.” You don’t.

“I’m not doing this with you right now.”

“You don’t get to just leave.” You finally stop in the middle of the hallway. Turn back to him. People move around you. A stretcher rolls past. A monitor alarm bleats somewhere in the distance. Life keeps going. Even when you’re both frozen in it.

“I have a shift,” you say calmly. “You have patients. We are both adults.” Robby looks at you like he wants to argue and can’t find the right angle anymore.

“You’re still dizzy.”

“I’ll sit if I need to.”

“You shouldn’t be standing.”

“And yet I am.” A beat. Langdon quietly mouths, this is insane, to McKay. Then you turn and keep walking. You wrap your arms around yourself, walking over to the nurse's station and picking up the chart you had left there. Your teenage patient. You sniffle and walk over to his room, pushing the curtain aside. Robby follows.

Of course he does.

You feel him before you even hear him—heavy footsteps that don’t belong to the usual ER rhythm, too deliberate, too controlled, like he’s forcing himself not to close the distance in three strides and drag you back by force.He stops just outside the curtain.You don’t look at him. You can’t afford to. There’s a chart in your hands and a patient who actually needs you upright, even if your skull still feels like it’s full of cotton and static.

“Vitals stable,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else.

“You don’t get to just—”

“Robby,” you cut in, sharper than you intend. A warning. Or maybe a plea. “Not here.” Silence. Then, quieter, dangerously controlled:

“You think I care where it is?” That finally makes you look at him. He’s standing half in the curtain light, half in the hallway chaos, scrubs wrinkled, hair slightly messed from running his hand through it too many times. He looks like he hasn’t stopped moving since you collapsed. His jaw is tight. Not angry anymore. Past angry.

“You passed out,” he says. “In my department. In my ER. In front of my staff. And you woke up and decided the appropriate response was to go back to work like nothing happened.”

“I am back to work.”

“No.” One step closer. “You are standing on adrenaline and spite and a saline bag that’s barely had time to do anything.” You let out a short breath, half laugh, half exhaustion.

“You always this dramatic with every patient, or am I special?” That lands. You see it hit him—right under the ribs. His expression shifts, like something in him finally snaps into place instead of being held together.

“No,” he says. Then he reaches for your wrist. Not hard. Not rough. But decisive.

“Hey—Robby—” He doesn’t answer. Just turns and walks you backward—not dragging, not forcing, but absolutely not giving you the option to argue your way out of it. You stumble once, annoyed, and he adjusts instantly without even looking, like he already knows exactly where your balance breaks.

“Seriously?” you hiss. “You’re doing this now?”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

“You can’t just abduct your attending in the middle of a shift.”

“I can when she’s about to drop again in front of Trauma One.”

“That is not—” He opens a door you didn’t even see him key into. On-call room. Small. Dim. Too quiet compared to the screaming outside. He guides you inside and shuts the door behind you. The click of the lock is loud. Final. He draws the curtains shut. For a second, neither of you moves. The room feels wrong in a different way—no monitors, no alarms, just the hum of the hospital through the walls and the two of you trapped in a space that suddenly feels way too intimate to be professional. You turn on him immediately.

“Are you serious right now?”

“Yes.” You stare at him. He stares back. Then he exhales sharply, like he’s been holding his breath for hours and finally gave up.

“Sit down.”

“No.”

“Sit,” he repeats, voice lower now. Not loud. Not angry. Final. Something in it makes your irritation falter for half a second.

“I don’t need—”

“You almost face-planted into a hallway cart,” he cuts in. “So forgive me if I don’t trust your assessment right now.” That stings. You hate that it stings.

“I told you I’m fine.”

“And I told you to stop saying that like it’s a magic spell that makes it true.” Silence snaps between you. You cross your arms. He runs a hand over his face, dragging it down like he’s physically trying to keep himself from losing control again. Then, softer—dangerously honest: “Do you have any idea what it looked like?” Your voice drops a fraction.

“No worse than what we see every day.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” He looks at you. And whatever restraint he’s been clinging to finally slips just enough for you to see what’s underneath it.

“I thought I was going to lose you in my own department,” he says, quiet and raw. “While I was standing ten feet away.” That shuts you up. Not because you don’t have a response. Because suddenly you don’t trust your voice. Robby steps closer again, slower this time, like he’s approaching something that could still break.

“You don’t get to decide that it’s nothing,” he says. “You don’t get to walk it off because it’s convenient.” Your throat tightens.

“I wasn’t trying to make it convenient.”

“Then what were you doing?” he asks immediately. A beat. Your answer comes out smaller than you want it to.

“Working.” He lets out a humorless breath.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s what scares me.” You frown slightly.

“What?” He looks at you like he regrets the words the second they leave him—but not enough to take them back.

“That you’ll always pick the job over your own body,” he says. “Even when it’s failing you.” Something shifts in your chest. You don’t like how seen that feels. Then he steps right in front of you. Close enough that the air changes. A pause. The hospital noise outside feels miles away. You swallow.

“This is inappropriate,” you mutter automatically, because your brain is scrambling for something safe to hold onto. His mouth twitches, not quite a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “We passed that a while ago.” You scoff, backing away from him.

"God, Robby - Why do you care ? I'm an adult, i can handle myself-" He moves with you instantly. Not chasing. Not grabbing. Just… matching you step for step until your back meets the wall and there’s nowhere left for you to retreat without admitting you’re retreating.

“You call that handling yourself?” he asks quietly. Your jaw tightens.

“I didn’t ask for a performance review.”

“I’m not performing,” he says. “I’m telling you you scared the hell out of me.” That lands harder than anything else so far. Because it’s not clinical. It’s not Dr. Robby. It’s just him. You force a short laugh, brittle at the edges.

“You, scared?” you repeat. “You? You run trauma codes like it’s any other Tuesday and you’re telling me I scared you?” His eyes don’t move from yours.

“Yes.”Simple. Unapologetic. That shuts you up for half a second too long. Then anger finds its way back in—because it’s easier than whatever is sitting underneath it.

“You don’t get to do this,” you say, voice sharper now. “You don’t get to pull me into a room, lock the door, and act like—like—”

“Like what?” he cuts in. You gesture vaguely between you.

“Like this matters more than everything else.” Robby goes still. That’s the wrong thing to say. You see it immediately.Something in his expression tightens, like he’s been holding something behind his teeth for too long and you just forced it open.

“It does,” he says. Quiet. Flat. Absolute. Your breath catches slightly.

“No, it doesn’t,” you say automatically, because that’s safer.

“It does to me.” Silence. You stare at him, trying to find the angle where this becomes a misunderstanding you can fix with sarcasm or distance or anything familiar. But there isn’t one. Robby exhales through his nose, frustrated now—not at you, but at himself.

“You really think I’d be doing this,” he gestures between you again, sharper this time, “if it didn’t matter?”

“You’re my attending,” you say quickly. He laughs once, humorless.

“That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s a boundary.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it.”Your pulse spikes.

“Excuse me?” Robby steps closer again, and this time you don’t move fast enough to stop it.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing?” he asks. “You think I don’t know exactly how this looks? How long this has been going on?” Your throat goes tight.

“Robby—”

“I’ve been watching you almost pass out for weeks,” he snaps suddenly, voice rising. “I’ve been watching you run yourself into the ground, and I keep telling myself it’s just work, it’s just stress, it’s just—”He stops. Jaw clenches. Then quieter, but sharper somehow: “And then you collapse in front of me and I realize I don’t care if it’s ‘appropriate’ anymore.”

Your breath stutters.

“Stop,” you whisper.

He shakes his head once.

“No.” A beat. Then it comes out—rough, unplanned, like it slips through a crack he didn’t know was there. “I can’t do this pretending I don’t—” he cuts off, swallows hard, eyes flicking down for half a second like he’s annoyed at himself for losing control. “I can’t stand there and watch you walk yourself into the ground and pretend it’s nothing to me.” Your voice barely works.

“Robby…” He looks back at you. And whatever restraint he had left finally breaks cleanly.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. No softness. No buildup. Just truth, thrown into the air like it’s been suffocating him. The room goes completely still. Even the hospital noise feels distant now, like it’s happening to someone else’s life. You don’t speak. Not because you don’t have words. Because you have too many and none of them fit right. Robby watches your face change like he’s bracing for impact. And then, almost immediately, regret floods in.

“Shit,” he says quietly. One step back. “No—forget I said that.” Your stomach drops. His jaw tightens like he’s trying to physically shove the words back into his chest.

“I shouldn’t have—” he starts again, voice rougher now. “That’s not—this isn’t—”

“Robby,” you say, finally. He stops. Doesn’t look at you immediately. That alone says everything.

“I didn’t mean to make it weird,” he says, almost bitter now, like he’s punishing himself. “I just—”

'Robby."

Venice

Your voice is quiet, but it cuts through his frantic backpedaling like a scalpel. He finally stops, his shoulders slumping slightly in defeat. He still won’t meet your eyes, staring at a point on the scuffed linoleum floor like it holds the secrets to avoiding this exact moment. The silence stretches, thick and suffocating, filled with everything he just said and everything you haven’t.

“Robby,” you say again, softer this time. You take a half-step forward, closing the tiny gap he’d created. “Look at me.” He hesitates, a war playing out across his face. The urge to flee warring with the command in your voice. Finally, slowly, he lifts his gaze. The raw vulnerability in his eyes is a punch to the gut. It’s the same look he had when you were on the floor, but magnified, stripped of all clinical pretense. It’s just him. Scared. Exposed.

“I…” he starts, then stops, his throat working. “I know I shouldn’t have said that. It’s out of line. It’s—” You don’t let him finish. You surge forward, grabbing the front of his scrub top in both fists and yanking him down to you. The movement is clumsy, desperate. Your mouth crashes against his. It’s not a kiss of gentle revelation. It’s a kiss of frustration, of relief, of months of unspoken tension finally detonating. It’s all teeth and desperate pressure, a clash that’s been brewing for longer than either of you would admit. He makes a sound against your lips, a harsh, surprised groan, and for a second he’s frozen. Then his hands are on you, not gentle, not asking. One hand clamps onto the back of your neck, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place with a grip that’s just this side of painful. The other arm bands around your waist, lifting you slightly, pulling you flush against him until there’s no air, no space, just the frantic hammering of his heart against yours through the thin fabric of your scrubs. You kiss him back with everything you have, pouring all the fear from the hallway, all the annoyance at his overbearing concern, all the traitorous warmth that’s been pooling in your stomach every time he looks at you for months. You bite his lower lip, hard, and he groans again, deepening the kiss, his tongue claiming yours in a way that’s possessive and demanding and utterly, completely Robby. He walks you backward, and your back hits the wall with a soft thud that doesn’t break the kiss. He pins you there, his body a solid, warm weight, one of his thighs wedging itself between yours. The pressure is intoxicating, a dizzying contrast to the lightheadedness from before. This is a different kind of spinning out of control. One you don’t want to stop. His hand slides from your neck down your side, tracing the curve of your ribs before coming to rest on your hip, his thumb digging in, holding you captive. You can feel the frantic, unsteady rhythm of his breathing, a mirror to your own. He finally breaks the kiss, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. Both of you are breathing hard, chests heaving. The room is silent except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the distant, muffled hum of the hospital that feels worlds away.

“Christ,” he rasps, his voice thick and wrecked. His eyes are still closed, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, and a shiver runs through you. “You can’t… you can’t just do that.”

“You’re the one who said you were in love with me,” you manage to get out, your voice shaky. “And then tried to take it back.”

“I wasn’t taking it back,” he says, lifting his head. His eyes are dark, pupils blown wide with a mix of adrenaline and something else, something hungry. “I was trying not to fuck everything up.”

“Too late for that,” you breathe, and then you’re kissing him again. It’s just as rough as before, maybe rougher. His hands are everywhere, roaming over your back, your sides, gripping your ass and pulling you harder against him. The wall is hard and unyielding at your back, and he’s solid and unyielding at your front, and you’re trapped in the best possible way. He rolls his hips against yours, a slow, deliberate grind that sends a bolt of heat straight through you, and you gasp into his mouth. He takes the opportunity to kiss a trail down your jaw, his scruff scraping deliciously against your skin. He nips at your collarbone, his hand sliding up under your scrub top, his palm hot and firm against the bare skin of your stomach.

“Robby,” you pant, your head falling back against the wall as his mouth finds that spot on your neck that makes your knees weak. “We’re… we’re in the on-call room.”

“Mhmm,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Locked the door.” His thumb brushes against the underside of your breast, and you arch into him, a soft moan escaping your lips. He chuckles, a low, smug sound that vibrates through you. “Someone could knock.”

“Don’t care,” you gasp, as his other hand tugs your scrub top out of your pants, his fingers finding the waistband of your pants. “God, don’t stop.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s a question there, a final check-in, but it’s buried under layers of raw want. You answer it by grabbing his hand and guiding it further down. He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated relief, and then his mouth is on yours again. He tastes like burnt coffee and the faint metallic tang of hospital air, but there’s something else, something bitter and sweet and rawly, desperately Robby that makes you want to climb inside his chest and break his ribs open from the inside. His hand is already down the front of your scrubs, palm hot against your hipbone, fingers trembling just enough to betray everything he won’t say aloud. You fumble at the drawstring on your own waistband, frustration clawing up your throat in a low, angry whine when the knot won’t loosen fast enough. You stare up at him—mess of dark hair, sweat on his brow, pupils wide enough to swallow the brown—and wonder absently if this is what it feels like to code. For a minute nobody says anything. You just breathe, harsh and hungry and desperate, noisy enough that if anybody is in the hallway they’d know exactly what was happening in here. It’s Robby that breaks first. He makes a strangled sound, forehead dropping to yours, so hard your noses smashed together. His voice comes out low and shredded and nearly begging.

“You gotta let me know if you want me to stop.”

You don’t.

Fuck, you don’t.

You want him to break you down to single-celled organisms. you turn your head and bite the meat of his bicep, just to feel him jerk.

“Shut up and do it, then,” You mutter. Your hands drop around his shoulders, pulling him down, and the next kiss is more teeth than lips. You don’t even notice his other hand has made it to your waistband until you feel the cool slide of his hand against your skin. You’re so far gone, you don’t even feel the fear or shame anyone normal would. Can’t bring yourself to care that you’re half-pinned to a drywall partition and the edge of a cot, moaning into your supervisor’s mouth like you’re both undergrad idiots caught in a blackout at frat formal. His hand is relentless, moving fast and clever, not even bothering to be delicate. You nearly lose your balance when he presses a thumb down just right over your scrubs, and your center of gravity hops about a foot left.

“Fuck—Robby, fuck—” You hiss it against his jawline, legs starting to shake. He gets a hand under your thigh, hefts it up, then hooks your knee on his belt so all you can do is hang there and let him wreck you. Somewhere in the back of your awareness you’re listing all the ways this is the worst idea you’ve ever had, but your body refuses to stop. He’s cursing too, breathing your name into your neck, voice so rough you can feel it vibrating in his chest. You want to put a hand over his mouth to keep him quiet but you know if anyone comes in, you’re both dead anyway. He fumbles at the drawstring with clumsy, single-handed urgency, finally manages to get it untied. The relief when his fingers actually slide past the waistband is so intense your vision goes white at the edges. He doesn’t even tease—just buries his hand against you and makes a noise so dark and satisfied it spikes something hot and relentless at the base of your spine.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You’re fucking soaked.” He says it like he means it as both a compliment and a diagnosis. Then he pushes his palm harder against you, finding every sensitive spot and working you with unerring, almost clinical precision, like he’s taking inventory of every way you can be taken apart. Your head thunks back against the wall with a little hollow sound. You want to tell him to stop, or slow down, or just breathe for maybe two seconds, but you don’t. You can’t. Instead you let yourself fall open and let him see it. The fact that you’re wrapped this tightly around him is not new information, but this—exposed, desperate—is a new evolutionary stage. He leans in, mouth back on yours, and you taste sweat, salt, and faint chemical hospital on his skin. The wall is cold at your back and his hand is molten at your front and your whole body is nothing but contrast and overload and hunger. You barely register your own hands, but they’re on him, pulling up the hem of his shirt, searching for bare skin, something to ground yourself. You feel the heat of him even through layers, alive and pulsing and real. He holds you still, fingers working in brutal, short pulses, driving you mercilessly toward the edge. It’s not careful. It’s not gentle. It’s like he’s making a point. Like he’s proving to you, to himself, to God, that you’re not going to scare him off, not ever. You come like a detonation. It rips through you so hard your vision whites out again and you clench around his hand. He groans, slowly slipping his fingers out of you before taking a step back away from your and pulling down your scrub pants. You gulp as you watch him undo the drawstring on his own pants, your mouth watering with need. The cold air against your exposed cunt is making you clench involuntarily, and the only thing you want right now is to have him inside of you. He pulls his pants down, only enough to free himself, and the air feels like it’s knocked out of your chest. His cock slaps up against his stomach, flushed dark, thick and heavy with blood, and the sight alone is enough to make you squeeze your thighs together in anticipation, shivering even though the room is sweltering. He spits in his palm, slicks himself, then walks over to you. His hands hook beneath your thighs and you jump up, wrapping your legs around his waist as he presses you against the wall. He pushes your hair back from your face, kisses your nose. He doesn’t waste a second. The first thrust is brutal, messy, all pent-up frustration and months of not acting on impulse. He’s thick—bigger than you’d let yourself admit in all those late-night, shamefaced fantasies—and the stretch steals the air from your lungs. Your jaw drops open, eyes rolling back as you lock on to the faces he’s making: mouth slack, eyebrows knit, a bead of sweat at his temple that you want to lick off more than you want to live. He’s got both hands under your ass, fingers digging hard enough to bruise, holding you up so all you can do is take it. And you do, with everything you have, bearing down on him so you can feel every inch, every twitch. He huffs a shaky, humorless laugh, the kind you only make when you’re so overwhelmed you can’t do anything else.

“You okay ?” He rasps, kissing his way up your neck. The sound that comes out of you isn’t even a word. He pounds into you with another deep, brutal stroke and your body locks up so tight you’re glad he’s the one holding you or you’d have fallen flat. Every thrust slams your spine into the drywall and it should hurt, it should, but all you can do is claw at his shirt, nails catching the rough cotton, dragging it up over his ribs so you can feel him—real, alive, so much hotter than any fever you’ve ever run in the hospital. The slap of skin, the hiss of your breathing, the mangled noises you’re making—all of it so loud, vulgar, so perfectly, awfully public even behind the locked door. He’s whispering shit into your neck. At first you think it’s curse words, but then you catch your own name buried in there, and then more, like instructions, like hymns.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says, the words punching out of him like he’s angry about it. “God, you’re unreal.” His hips snap again, harder, and your shoulders knock back against the wall, sharp bite of drywall dust filling your nose. Each time he thrusts in, your vision smears around the edges, the pleasure so hot it borders on pain. It isn’t like you pictured, not really—it’s better. The angle, the rush, the way he bullies all the air out of your lungs with every movement. Your hands are in his hair, clawing tight, pulling him down so you can mouth at his neck, take the taste of him into yourself. He shoves your scrubs up higher, rough hands leaving trails of heat on cold skin, then fists one hand in the fabric at your shoulder, pinning you harder to the cinderblock. There is nothing gentle, nothing careful, nothing but his body taking yours apart, and yours letting him, wild for it. He keeps muttering, a string of filthy reverence against your ear:

“Can’t believe it’s you, can’t believe you let me—fuck, you’re so—Jesus, clench again, just like that—” The words run together, get lost under the wet slap of skin and the broken sounds you’re making. You can’t answer except to dig your heels into his lower back, desperate to keep him as close as possible, to force him deeper, to make certain it’s real. This has to be real. For months you both acted like this wasn’t going to happen, like you didn’t live your whole life in inches, waiting for the day the rules would break and you’d get to see what would actually happen if you let go. Now you’re against the wall, and he’s inside of you raw and fast and a little bit mean, and every expectation is dissolving in a haze of salt and friction and heat. You want to tell him he can do anything to you, that there is nothing off-limits, but all that comes out is a shattered little whine, just his name, again and again. He bites your collarbone, sucks a mark there, and the pain is almost enough to bring you back down, but you’re already spiraling. Robby’s voice is a chant in your ear, weirdly reverent, filthy and devotional all at once. He’s running hot, sweat trickling down his neck, the muscles in his forearms taut as bowed steel where he brackets your hips. Each thrust slams you against the wall hard enough to rattle the fluorescent hum down to your teeth. You know you’ll have drywall dust embedded under your nails, maybe even in your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to care. Your world is reduced to the vicious, deliberate drag of his cock inside you, the scratch of his stubble jaw against your cheek, the gasp-and-hitch cadence of your own lungs. His hand slips, finds your jaw, thumb prying your mouth open.

“Look at me,” he grates. It’s not a request. You do, eyelids dragging heavy, drool stringing from your lips. He shoves his thumb inside and you clamp down on it, tongue greedy, and watch his resolve ripple and snap at the edges. “Fuck, you love this,” he hisses. A hot, shameful thrill blooms in your gut. You can’t even nod; your brain’s gone chemical, all instinct and nerve and the urge to let him ruin you properly. He pulls his thumb free from your teeth, then brings his hand back to grip your jaw, rough, almost cruel.

“You gonna come for me like this?” His pelvis snaps up, grinding you against concrete. “You gonna soak me, right here, where anybody could walk in?” He means it as a threat, but the promise makes something deep in you uncurl and spiral tight. You dig your nails into his back and feel the give of his skin, the helpless rocking of your own hips. You’re close again—embarrassingly, stupidly fast—and he can tell, because he starts fucking you even meaner, chasing the edge with all the subtlety of a gunshot.

“Jesus,” he says, “you feel so good, I can’t—fuck. I can’t stop.” Like he’s ever going to. You snarl something incoherent, probably his name, and you feel the tension crest, shatter, and pour out in waves so intense you lose track of your own body. Robby keeps moving, not letting up for a second. Everything’s too much: the raw thud of your shoulderblades grinding cinderblock, the way your ankles have locked behind his back, the friction and heat and static spit-glue between your skin. You try to tell him you’re gonna lose it but only manage a wild, choked keening that doesn’t sound like it could belong to you. He drops his head to your shoulder, teeth scraping, and groans your name so low and honest it makes your toes curl. There is nothing in the world but this. Nothing but him pinning you, holding you, fucking you like he’s lost count of where the rest of the world even is. Your hands are in his hair, wrenching, and you yank his head up so you can bite at his bottom lip. He lets you, gives a little gasp, then locks eyes with you and pours all that manic, frantic reverence right into the next kiss, mouthing at your skin and then burying his face in your neck like he’s drowning. The pace gets relentless—body-shocking, staccato, sharp even through the haze of it. He fucks through your aftershocks as if it’s a challenge, like the goal is to keep your body from ever regaining equilibrium. When you come again it’s so loud you’re sure the ward must hear; he clamps his hand over your mouth, eyes blown so scared and wild, but the pulse of his cock inside you says he’s not really trying to stop you so much as channel every iota of your body back into his. His own rhythm gets jerky, sloppier, and his mouth drops open against your jaw as he pins you tight and starts to lose it.

“Fuck, oh fuck, gonna—” His body locks, hips jammed flush against you, and you feel him pulse hard, the warmth spilling inside you like he’s pumping more heat into an already-overloaded core. He’s breathless, shaking, still pressed in deep as if he can’t trust gravity to hold you together otherwise. You stay like that, tangled, your cunt still rippling around him, both gulping at the hot, sick air, until your numb legs make you both slide down the wall in a graceless heap.

You’re both wrecked. Sweaty and glassy-eyed, scrub shirts sweat-stuck to your ribs, bodies still twitching in the late echoes of what the fuck just happened. There’s a sheet of drywall dust on your back and your own fingernail crescented into his skin; he’s smiling, shit-eating, delirious, and you’d punch him if you weren’t still shaking like a defibrillator just went off under your sternum.

He leans in, a gentle press of lips to your forehead, and you want to tell yourself it’s just an autonomic reaction, that the only thing happening here is a literal pressure release after months of idiotic, unyielding need. But you know better. The way he holds your face, the way he says your name soft into your hair, the way he’s still—still—inside you, hips slotted to hips, like he can’t bear to break the circuit.

You roll your head to stare at him. He meets your gaze, a thundercrack of worry, awe, and something else you don’t have the energy to name. You want to say something pointed and clever, but you can’t ; all you manage is a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a whimper.

It should be awkward.

It should be so fucking awkward.

He kisses your face as he slips out of you and shoves himself back inside his pants before dropping you slowly to the floor, hands braced at your waist as your legs wobble. He slips your own pants and underwear back up your thighs, looking up at you.

“You okay ?” He asks, his voice soft.

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s weird, how true it is. You blink, vision still dazzled and dopplered, and catch Robby’s hand trembling where it rests on your hip. The shake is microscopic, like a skipped frame in film, but it’s there, and it’s only then you realize you’re vibrating too. You try to laugh, and the sound cracks, warbles, but he mirrors it, leaning in until your foreheads tap, bone on bone. He smells like fresh sweat and latex and the antiseptic tang of someone who’s spent an entire adulthood hunched over sterile trays. He rubs his thumb slow circles at your waist, and the gentleness is so unexpected, so at odds with the way he just had you, that you almost start crying on the spot. You swallow it back and close your hand over his, try to will him not to let go just yet. You listen together to the radiators pop and the wild rattle of your pulse. He keeps his head dipped, mouth resting on the curve where your neck meets your shoulder. Neither of you moves. He’s still breathing you in, slow, like he’s afraid if he does it too fast, it’ll all be over.

“Didn’t hurt you, did I?” he whispers, so low you almost miss it beneath the thonk of your heart in your ears. You want to make a joke, something flippant, but you’re too raw. It all comes out honest, whether you like it or not.

“No. You could’ve hurt me more.” The silence after feels like a dropped glass; sharp, fragile, ready to split the air. Robby closes his eyes. You see every microflinch, the way his throat sticks around the swallow, how he steadies himself before answering.

“‘Kay. Just—” He hesitates, and you sense it’s the kind of pause he’d usually grease over with a quip. Not now. Now he’s counting on you to stay, just a little, and not run. “I’ll be gentle next time. Or not. Whatever you want.” He tries to smile, but it turns lopsided, uncertain. You grab him by the collar, tug him in for a kiss that’s less a collision and more a hinge opening, slow, like letting light into a dark corridor. You can taste the apology before he says it. You hate that you love it. Robby pulls away, eyes shiny in the half-light. He nudges your nose with his, then plants a kiss at the corner of your mouth, softer than anything he’s ever done. It feels as reverent as a benediction.

“You should lie down,” he says. “Your legs are—” he gestures with a shrug, then glances down and grins sheepish. “Sorta toast.”

“My legs are awesome, thank you,” you say, but you lean your full weight into him anyway, allowing yourself to be steered to the bed. He maneuvers you down with surprising care, one arm looped around your back, the other smoothing your hair off your sweaty forehead. He smiles down at you, sighing.

“I’ll go get you some saline. You are on bedrest for the next two hours.” You frown, gasping.

“Oh you devious fuckwad.” You mutter. "This was your plan all along.' You grumble.

"No." He says, and then winces. "Okay. Maybe. I was initially planning to just lock you in here.. I didn't play on telling you I love you and coming inside you. That... was a slight hitch in my plan." You roll your eyes.

"You're an asshole."

"An asshole who doesn't want you to run yourself into the ground." He mutters, brushing your hair away from your face. You sigh annoyedly.

"Fine. You win. Two hours." Robby grins, triumphant.

"Ah. Look who finally is listening to reason." He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I'll go get the Saline from Perlah. Don't move." You roll your eyes, swatting at him.

"Ha-Ha."

“And water. And probably something vaguely edible that passes for food in this place.” You reach out and catch his wrist before he can leave. He stops instantly.

“Robby.”

“Yeah?” You look at him for a second—really look. Tired. Stressed. Still half in doctor mode even after everything. And completely, unapologetically here.

“I love you too,” you say quietly. Something in his expression breaks open again. It’s not dramatic.It’s worse than that. It’s steady.

"I know.” You let go of his wrist. He holds your gaze one more second, then forces himself to move—because he still knows how to function even when his entire emotional life is on fire. The hallway is chaos again the second Robby steps out. He’s halfway to the supply station when he sees him. Abbot. Clocking in. Standing dead still. Staring straight at the on-call room door like he’s just witnessed a miracle or a crime or both. Robby doesn’t even slow down. He walks past him, grabs the saline bags, and says flatly, without looking up:

“You owe Dana a hundred bucks.” Abbot blinks.

A beat. Abbot stares at the door again. Then lets out a long, defeated breath.

“Son of a bitch.”

taglist !

Whitaker's hand hesitated in the air like they were in class. “Well I think by casual she means-”

“I know what casual means, Fuckle-berry,” said Santos quickly. “But it was casual now it's just weird.”

You nodded along, humming.

She groaned, hands running through her hair in frustration. “I don't get it!”

You took a long gulp of your wine.

“How do you handle it?” Trinity asked, arms wide in question at you.

“Me?”

“Yeah, how do you and Robby do casual?”

“Oh- we... it's- um-” you stumbled over your words, hoping that if you let it up long enough she'd take it back and start on her problems again. She didn't and she stood in front of you and Whitaker, waiting for an explanation.

The whole thing between you and Robby had started about the same time Santos and Garcia started. In an awkward confrontation that was you and Trinity bumping into each other in your shared bathroom, both your hairs messed up and both supporting bruises suspiciously in the shape of lips on your necks.

When you returned to your room you and Robby waited eagerly to see who would flee Santos's room. Neither too shocked to find Garcia.

“It's um?” Trinity asked.

“It's going,” you said into your wine glass, finishing it and pouring in more. The truth was for a while things had been odd, on your end more so.

Casual was a label you thought you could do, that when Robby said to you a week after sleeping together, his sheets over the both of your bodies that he liked keeping it simple. Sex. Release. You thought you could do it.

Almost three months since then and you were regretting it because every time you saw doctors eyes lingering over Robby, every time you heard his 'seven-week rule' and every time you saw happy couples fawning over each other in the ED your stomach twisted.

You didn't realise you wanted that until it was dangled in front of you and snatched away all in the same minute.

Trinity's brows rose. “Oh?”

You looked to where Whitaker was next to you, hoping for sympathy. You only found curious eyes. “It's just different than before.”

“Different how?” asked Dennis.

“Is it still casual?”

You scoffed, mumbling under your breath. “Yeah to him.”

“You want to be more?”

You didn't know if she was accusing but your room-mates expecting eyes on you heated your body in shame and embarrassment. “And you don't with Garcia?"

“Ok, enough!” suddenly Whitaker stood up. “The two of you, we need to sort this out.”

With a vacant seat next to you Trinity plopped herself down and you gave her your wine. You just decided to take the bottle.

“I cannot stand it anymore, okay! The two of you, we're gonna change this,” he said. “Trin- no more pining and waiting for Garcia to call at like one am.”

She was wanting to retort but only folded her arms over her chest as he carried on.

“And you-” he focused on you. “Need to stop crying over Robby. You guys can do better.”

“Yeah in a world where we're not working twelve hour shifts five days a week,” you said. The idea of casual hook ups wasn't anything new to the ED, not even the hospital. It was easy way of escape without the pressure of dating when all their time was spent saving lives or charting about saving lives or studying how to save lives.

On the coffee table in front of you Trinity's phone pinged and she reached for it like it was seconds away from self-destructing.

She tucked her phone into her chest to read the text before slamming it back down.

You caught a glance at the words and the contact. Can't make it tonight, I'll hit you up tomorrow- G

“You're gonna leave them,” he said.

You and Trinity sat up. “What?”

“No!”

There was a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“Okay- I take it back,” he said, surrendering. “Then how about give them a taste of their own medicine.”

“Their medicine?” you asked.

Whitaker gently nudged the empty glasses and cans of beer aside, perching on the edge of the coffee table, appealing to the two of you. “How many times have they cancelled plans, or said you couldn't come over to ask you to come over two hours later?”

You hadn't realised how perceptive he was.

“Now, make it so you guys call the shots. They want to come round, you say no.”

The idea was new to you. You'd always wanted Robby. You spent half your spare time wanting him and the other half having sex with him. You'd never even wanted to say no.

“So then we what, don't have sex?” asked Santos.

“You will,” he said. “You create distance, get them wanting and crying or what-whatever and then they'll realise they've messed up.”

You thought we was giving them too much credit.

Santos chuckled. “Huckleberry, are you telling us to play hard to get?”

He thought about it, eyes moving as if he was calculating it. “Yes!”

That's how plan 'hard to get' started. It was agreed you and Santos, the next time Garcia and Robby asked you to come over you'd say no.

Easier in practise when you work with them.

The next day was a slower day, un-usual in that sense. It meant everyone had more time to linger around each other.

“And so I said to him- officer-” said Myrna, lying on the bed between you and Robby. She'd seizure, hurt her leg and needed it disinfected and cleaned- not for the first time in her life. There was a mix of glass and gravel that needed plucking out and apparently the attending of the ED had nothing better to do that join you in the task. “What would you have done if you caught your third husband eating out another woman?”

“And did he say shoot him?” asked Robby. He was bent over the same leg as you, your heads so close you were either gonna head butt or kiss. Not likely over the state of her leg.

“No, he didn't say anything, he just arrested me!”

Robby hummed, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. “Imagine that.”

“You know Myrna sometimes I can't tell if all these stories are true,” you said, taking a small bit of glass and adding it to the pile you'd already created.

“Oh they're all true, honey, I never lie. Unlike Mark that two faced bastard.”

“Which one was Mark?” you asked.

“The fourth husband. Good body and shit everything else!” she said with a wheeze. Abruptly she grabbed your hand. “Are you single?”

Robby glanced up at you, creases of amusement at the corner of his eyes.

You looked away first. “Why, you asking me out?”

“If you're single, stay single!” she said. “Men, all they are are liars! Lying bastards! And babies! I hardly even shot the guy!”

“Am I so bad, Doctor?” asked Robby looking over the frames of his glasses at you.

Was he so bad? No. He was short-tempered sometimes, moody, didn't accept help from anyone. But you knew he could be gentle, you knew his true belly laugh and the smile he gave at mornings when you were still in bed. You just wish you knew if he ever saw himself staying in that bed a little longer, if he ever wanted to make breakfast and take the day together, stealing moments throughout.

“No,” you said, looking back down to her leg that was almost clean. “You're not.”

Myrna was oddly silent but you could see her head moving between the two of you. “Don't go there sweetheart,” she said, a word of warning. “This one might look fun but he's all danger and heartbreak.”

“Me? No,” said Robby with an air of un-care. “I'm a teddy bear.”

Five minutes later you and Robby were instructing Perlah wrapping her leg before throwing off your gloves and leaving her to it.

“How many husbands you think Myrna had?” he asked.

“Oh there's no telling,” you replied, fetching her chart to finish off the notes. At some point someone had put a star next to her name, as if she was VIP.

Robby leant next to you, scanning around the ED. “Any plans tonight?”

“On a Wednesday? Nop.”

“Wanna come over?”

There was an abrupt and loud clear of a throat.

You hadn't realised Whitaker was there but he was watching the two of you, closely. When you met his eyes he gave a small subtle shake of his head.

Robby looked. “You got a cough, Whitaker?”

He cleared his throat, sliding down in his chair. “No.”

The agreement. It was all fine in practise but how were you supposed to say no when you just said you had no plans and you really wanted to have sex with him! It was the glasses, you were sure that was what did it. The way he pulled them on and pulled them off, the focus it gave him and the way they slipped down his nose.

“So, tonight?” he asked again, voice low.

Only a few people knew, like your room-mates and you were sure others had guessed. Robby wanted to keep it private. Or a secret, you'd never asked for clarification.

You caught Whitakers gaze on yours, watchful. He didn't say anything but you wondered if he'd be disappointed. Would you even be disappointed in yourself? “I can't tonight.”

“Oh,” he said, nodding. “Okay.”

He didn't sound annoyed. He didn't sound anything. It was impossible to tell.

“Yeah, we just- there's this thing-”

“Thought you had no plans?” he asked, an almost amused rise in his brows.

Ah. “It's like- not a plan- just a- a room mate thing. You know?”

Robby looked to Whitaker as if to confirm.

He nodded. “Yeah! Every Wednesday. We watch films.”

“Films,” you confirm.

“And talk.”

“We talk.”

Robby nodded. “Sounds thrilling.”

“Robby!” Dana called. “Got a trauma, woman in her thirties. Five minutes.”

“Got it," he said but he was still slumping over the counter. He took his time moving, stretching up till his shirt rode up enough to expose that slither of skin that held so many promises. “Some other time then.” His hand ghosted the small of your back before he disappeared.

You watched him go, realising you wouldn't spend the night buried in his bored but sleepless and restless.

Whitaker replaced Robby at your side. “See? Doesn't that feel good?”

You answered truthfully. “No.”

That night you, Santos and Whitaker sulked on the sofa, face masks over your faces with a bowl of popcorn left on the table and a shitty movie filling the silence.

Your phone lay face up with nothing from Robby and from Trinity's expression you figured she'd had nothing either.

You'd been to the bathroom once, took your phone with you and debated texting him but you never got that far. You only flicked through texts, casual one's at first. Small 'Are you coming over?' or 'You left your shirt at mine.' There were some dotted from him, on times you were both too busy to meet where things got more... riskier. His texts started simple but you could always catch on to his wants, leading his want.

Things like 'Thought about you today,' or 'you looked good today,' but he never just complimented you for the sake of it.

The texts didn't help so you turned your phone off and re-joined the two all the while your head and heart were in bed with Robby.

The next day passed like another dry spell.

It was busy- too make up for the quiet day beforehand. You didn't have time to greet Robby before being thrown into the chaos from a pile up on the highway. All day your bodies shuffled past each other, his hands lingering on your arms when he passed or always standing next to you in trauma.

It felt something like punishment.

Or a test.

By Friday you were crawling out of your skin, still dealing with the ramifications of the last two days. You hadn't even seen that Robby had text you the night before, so exhausted from work you crashed only spotting his name on your phone the morning you woke from the blare of your alarm.

“You're avoiding me,” he said, kneeling at the computer you typed furiously at to get your charting down. It was a casual move he used, usually un-tying and re-tying his shoes. This time, he simply knelt, seemingly done with pretence.

“What? No.”

“I've barely seen you the last few days," he said, wetting his lips. “Is there something wrong?”

“No, no, I've just been super busy,” you said, tapping on the computer.

Robby shuffled next to you. His hand laid next to yours. He didn't take your hand or stop you but his fingers fidgeted like he didn't know what else to do with himself. “Did I do something?”

You looked down at him, spotting the crease between his brows. “No.”

It was the closest you'd got to seeing him vulnerable.

“So tonight?” he asked. “Feel like I'm losing my damn mind.” His finger was light as it traced your hand, slowly drawing circles.

Tasting Robby was like the first sip of alcohol. It always left you wanting me. Sweet. Bitter. Whatever. You were just left wanting and nothing else, which was why you went crawling back every time. Why saying no had never crosse your mind before. Why the smallest touch from his hand was leaving you in shivers.

You squeezed your eyes shut. “I can't tonight-”

Robby smirked, breathing out a puff of air.

“I would,” you said quickly, turning in your chair to face him. “Believe me, I would, it's just... Trinity is going through some stuff and I just- I don't want to leave her alone, you know.”

It was the truth. Trinity was taking Garcia's silence worse than you or Dennis had anticipated. You knew there was more going on, you only wanted to be there to help her.

Robby perked. “You need me to speak to her?”

“No, no, it's just stuff. She'll be okay I just, want to be safe.”

He nodded but his finger fell from your hand. “Okay.”

“Doctor Robinavitch!” his name was called by the familiar dread of Gloria.

He sighed under his breath as he pushed himself up. “Oh so help me, God.”

By Saturday you were sure Robby thought you were lying and sort out to punish you. He was practically glued at your side all day long. He didn't ask to see you, didn't put his lips near you. But he lingered.

“Okay we don't have a lot of time, there's a lot of bleeding,” said Robby in the face of a trauma, looming over you. “We'll do a Hilar flip.”

“A Hilar flip, are you serious?” said Trinity.

“No other choice.”

You gulped, staring down at the bleeding and misplaced lung. “I've never done one of them before.”

“I'll talk you through it, we'll go easy,” he said, coming at your side. “You're gonna rotate the lung one-eighty, very slow. Very gentle.”

Perhaps it shouldn't have been as erotic as it was. The way his chest heaved against your back, his arm stretching along yours to hold your hand and guide it through the blood to his lung. His face was concentrated next to yours but his breath was hot on your cheek and breathless.

“Go slow.... go slow. Easy.... gentle.... just like that, there we go,” he uttered against your ear.

“Blood loss is slowing down.”

“There we go, you got it,” he mumbled as you slotted it back into its place. “Okay-” Robby moved on like your whole body wasn't trembling. You had to carry on trying to save the guys life after it, like you weren't picturing his entire body draped over yours, whispering filthy things in your ears.

“Thought I was watching a porno there,” said Santos as you all fled the room when the guy was stable.

“Jesus-” you caught your breath, throwing off the gloves and running your hands through your hair, trying to get some air to your neck that sweat.

Santos chuckled to herself. “So does Doctor Robby talk you through it?”

“Trin-” you snap.

“Does he praise you? Is that the kind of thing you're into.”

You didn't respond, hiding in the bathroom to throw cold water onto your face and calm the rush of blood but you could hear Santos outside the door. 'This is a teaching hospital!' she teased.

It became a thing you had to do, get away from him. You couldn't be distracted when dealing with patients. It was bad enough working with him when all you could think about was fucking him!

But Robby seemed to insist in helping you.

“Gaping wounds like this, under the skin we use sub-Q to bring it together,” he instructed as started the stitching for a mans wound on his leg. It was just like anything else, hardly a teaching wound when you knew how to do it. As it was under tissue and there was just no other nurse around Robby insisted.

“Five-O under skin, three-O after that,” he said.

“You think you could show me?”

You both knew you didn't need to be shown but Robby still gave you a small smile and sat on the stall, coming close to you till his meaty thigh was against your own. His hands- though gloved as yours were- still grazed yours as he took the instruments to do it.

“Guide it through... it's finer so you want to extra gentle... lotta care...”

You hummed but you couldn't say you were watching it with keen eyes. You weren't watching the way the stitches came together just the way his hands flexed, his fingers moved.

“Start deep... all the way in... bury the knot in... yeah, see how it comes together just like that?”

You nodded with an absent mind.

Robby held the equipment out to you. “Go ahead.”

You hesitated. Maybe you should have paid more attention.

He all but shoved them into your hand. “You're a big girl, you got it.”

Santos's voice played it your head. Were you into this?

With a breath you steadied yourself and went in. As he had before Robby leant over you, his body practically weighing you down.

You took the thread under the skin, pulling together just like he had.

“Bit deeper-” Robby's hands guided your arms. They were as light as a feather at your elbows before slowly sliding down your arms with a firmer hold, leading the threads.

You remembered his tight hold on you when he wanted you in place on the bed, when he was was dragging clothes off your body or wrapping a hand around your neck-

Robby called your name, watching you expectantly. His eyes were softened at the edges but they grew darker, the smallest bit of a smirk at the corner of his lips. Like he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

“Right... sorry-” you went as deep as he instructed, knowing his face was concentrated on you and your hands.

“Do you want me to leave?” asked the patient.

If he could leave his leg and leave it would've been great.

“We'll get you out of here in no time,” said Robby.

You'd thought that maybe the stitching at taken so long it was almost time to leave. Maybe you could talk to Whitaker and Santos about this hard to get thing. It was only eleven and you had more than six hours left with situations that constantly brought you and Robby together. Even when it didn't, there he was, whispering words of encouragement.

“You got this... nice and easy.... doing really good there...”

Or the simple phrase that had you hiding in the bathroom for five minutes.

“Good girl.”

When the end of the day came you ran out of there, gasping in air and rushing back back to your place.

“Hey,” you greeted walking through the door.

Trinity was already there, looking like she was ready to leave, jacket thrown over her scrubs she hadn't changed out of even though she finished an hour before you. “Hey.”

“Where's Huckleberry?”

“Oh he's at Amy's tonight.”

You scoffed. “Woah. What a speech about doing better and playing hard to get but as soon as the chance comes to play farm. So, movie tonight? I can order pizza?”

“Actually, I'm just on my way out too,” she said. “Garcia called.”

You slumped. Your entire body slumped. Your heart gave up. “What? I thought we all made a deal?”

“We did, I played hard to get now she wants to see me,” she said.

“I haven't seen Robby in three days!”

“So go to his, get dicked down, girl,” she said, moving past you with a breeze. “I'm sorry, we can talk about how much of a bitch I am when I'm back from having the best sex yet! Later!”

She was out the door before you could chastise her. You shut it after her, falling upon it.

You'd ran from the ED to stay strong, to avoid another interaction with Robby that would have you climbing his bones in an empty room. You'd happily have done it with the teasing he'd subjected you to all day. For your friends and the promise you'd made you remained strong.

You'd never do that again.

Saturday night after the longest shift of your life and you had the place to yourself. It was rare. Either Denis or Trinity were home or you were spending the night at Robby's.

Your phone was heavy in your pocket.

Call him.

But the problem still lied un-answered. You were still at Robby's beck and call, begging for his attention. Begging him to be hard thinking about you so he could fuck you into the mattress to be professional the net day and treat you like you were just another MR.

You didn't want special treatment so to say, didn't want him to give you the easy patients or get you into the traumas more. You just wanted a smile, or a glimpse of .... love.

Maybe your friends were okay with what they had. You weren't.

You turned your phone off for the night and stripped from your scrubs, changing into a large shirt and blasting music Trin hated and Denis claimed to hate (but you'd heard him playing your playlist in the shower). For a crazy night alone you caught up on washing several pairs of scrubs and anything else, cleaned out the freezer leaving you barren of anything to eat. Maybe you'd even iron some normal clothes-

That's at least what you were thinking when there was a knock at the door.

You'd hoped it was Denis or Trin coming back, tails between their legs, keys forgotten.

Robby stood on the other side of the door.

You stood, frozen, shocked to see him there. He was just as still, waiting with raised brows. “Doctor Robby. Is everything okay?”

His backpack was slung over his shoulder, his scrubs only slightly dirtied from the day. But his eyes were alive and his body didn't sag with exhaustion like usual. His eyes darted back behind you. “Can I come in?”

You held open the door, closing it slowly behind you.

Robby had only been to your place once before. He looked the open living space open with interest. Typically your meet ups were at his, on account he lived alone and his bed was much nicer to be down on than yours.

“Er- Whitaker and Santos aren't home, if- if this is a hospital thing.”

“It's not,” he said, lowering his bag at the sofa.

“Oh?”

He turned, leaning against the back of it. “It's a me and you thing.”

“Oh.”

His arms flexed as he folded them over his chest, the green of his top under his scrub bunched at the forearms. His head ducked, trying to get a read on you. “So?”

You rocked on your heels, realising the shortened of the shirt you wore. Not that it wasn't anything he had seen before. “So...”

“What's going on?” he asked. There was still nothing in his voice to give away his true thoughts, only a slight edge of urgency.

“What-what-what do you mean?”

Robby listed off what he saw was wrong like symptoms. “You've been avoiding me, you never answered my texts, you didn't want to see me the other night nor tonight though you have the place to yourself-”

“I didn't realise they were gone,” you said.

“Okay so every other time?” he asked. “If I did something you can tell me. I'm a big guy, I can take it.”

It was a chance to voice up every ill thought you'd had but all you could think about was how big he was. Standing there, jutted on the back of the couch with his scrubs around his arms and thighs.

“You didn't do anything,” you said, though you weren't looking at his eyes more his arms.

They flexed again like he knew what he was doing. His voice dropped, finally to something you could name. “So tell me. what's going on.”

If you threw yourself at him you knew the chances of him taking you to bed were high, but the chances of you regretting it in the morning when he had rolled out of bed, dressed and left you were higher.

“I just-” you blew out a breath, readying yourself for the dismiss. “I don't think I can do this anymore.”

Robby waited like he was listening to the words re-play. His head lowered as he nodded, taking it in. “May I ask why?”

“It's the casual thing,” you rushed out before you could take it back. “I don't think I can do casual. I thought I could, but I-I can't.”

He nodded, chin tucked into his chest and for a moment you thought you really had upset him. But then he straightened up, pushed himself from the sofa and shrugged. His boots thudded heavy as he stepped to you slow. “Okay then.”

Was this the moment when you got the door for him on the way out?

“Okay, so... um.... I guess I'll see you-”

Robby's hands grasped your cheeks and he kissed you quick, hard. His lips tasted as they always did with a hint of mint-freshness. They were rough as always as they worked against yours, opening you up to him as always-

You brushed away, shaking your head. “I um- Robby I can't-”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. He stepped closer to you, the heat of his body waving over you. “We don't have to be casual anymore, I don't want to be casual- not anymore.”

Everyone knew Robby only knew casual. Only selected few ever got past seven weeks. Heck you hadn't counted how long this had been going on for, maybe ten weeks but that could be nothing. You were good sex, that was all.

“Robby-”

“Listen, listen-” he said, arms waving around you before settling on your forearms. “You don't want casual, neither do I. You want me to ask? You want me to ask you to be my girlfriend, I'll ask.”

“Robby you don't date,” you tried to tell him.

He scoffed. “I date. But not anymore, not if I have you.”

Had word of the deal got out? Was Robby just tired after his shift? Delusional?

“Hey, hey-" his hands ran through your hair, cradling your cheeks. “I should've said it earlier, I know but I want this. I want serious.”

His eyes crinkled as he looked at you, the edges of his gaze soft. “You don't just have to say this. You can have anyone else-”

Robby's head ducked into the crook of your neck, brushing your hair back and pressing light kisses to the expanse of your neck. “I don't want anyone else, I want you.”

Your body awakened in shivers that he elicited.

His fingers wound to the front of your body, slowly peeling away the buttons of the shirt till it pooled at your ankles. He didn't move to ravage you, his lips remained light as they kissed down your neck, finding your collarbone and working a mark there.

Your hands wound up his arms, clutching at his shoulders. “Robby-”

“Not this time,” he uttered against your collarbone.

You knew what you called him when it was you and him. “Michael-”

“Good girl.”

You moaned out at the words, the moan you'd held all day revibrating around your flat.

He slowly kicked odd his boots and helped you throw off his scrub top before he kissed you again.

You only got a short glimpse at the body you craved before his tongue, hot and heavy, slid into you mouth, bathing in the warmth. His hands were rough as they studied every inch of your body, fingertips digging into skin.

“I want you, sweet girl,” he mumbled against your lips as you scaled your hands under his shirt and along his stomach till your fingers skimmed under his waistband.

His mouth opened against yours, groaning at this slightest touch. “Oh-”

His arms scooped you up, bringing your body up and flush against him as his arms were strong on your back, kissing you. It was all wet tongue and soft lips as he stumbled back on the edge of your couch.

“Santos will kill me if we have sex on our couch,” you gasped.

Robby rose a brow. “Oh, we're having sex?” he teased.

“I should hope so.”

You kissed you hard again, wetting the both of your mouths in delectable smacks of your lips. The two of you stumbled away to your room and his body caged you in as the two of you fell atop your sheets.

You crawled up the bed as Robby's face fell between your chest. His tongue made wet paths from each breast, taking a nipple in his mouth and his hand groping at the other one till you withered against his body.

“Michael-”

He moaned into your breast and shoved a meaty thigh between your legs. “Grind on me,” he demanded.

Your body did against him as if it only listened to his command.

He mouthed your other breast, groping where his tongue had pressed before. All the while you body moved against his thigh, dragging your pussy against him.

“Yeah.... jus' like that... god.... can feel you.... so good,” he uttered as he jutted his thigh against you.

Your hands went to his shoulders, messaging the skin there until he came back up your body and shoved his tongue down your throat again. Your arm wrapped around his neck, keeping him into you.

All the while you wet down his scrubs.

“You want serious?” he uttered against you, pulling back enough to see you.

You nodded, hair splayed over your pillow.

Robby nodded along, eyes hooded. His hand slid down between your bodies. “I can do serious.”

His finger slid into you, working in and out in slow thrusts. But even the meassured curl of his finger had you holding him, back arching from the bed.

“Mmph-”

“Don't be quiet,” he said, nuzzling his head in you neck, biting the skin there. “Don't do that.”

Another finger curled in and you moaned on. You weren't quiet usually, there was nothing more than Robby liked than being loud. Everything was measured in the ED, out of it, buried inside of you or hot mouths on each other had Robby groaning, moaning and wanting you to do the same.

His fingers thrusted knuckle deep in and out again, the soft moving of skin moving around the room as your breaths covered the sound.

His fingers moved quick as your breaths grew laboured. He sucked the skin of your neck, thrusting and curling as his hips sort some sort of friction.

You withered against him. “I'm gonna- Michael I'm gonna-”

He released your skin with a small bite and laid his mouth open on yours. “Cum,” he uttered.

“Michael-”

His voice turned harder, the hand that wasn't inside of you wrapping around your neck, pushing you into your bed. “Cum.”

With just the right curl Robby had your pussy in the palm of his hand, slick with your release as he worked you through it, rubbing his hand along your clit with jolts of your body.

“God so good,” he said, looking up at you as a thin sheen of sweat glistened on your bodies. “And all mine?”

You nodded, cheeks flushed. You could feel the heat of your body as strong as it was when he walked in.

“All mine, huh?”

“Yes,” you said, breathless.

Robby slowly took out his fingers from you, putting his fingers in his mouth and licking them clean like it was nothing. He fell back on his feet, fingers working on the ties of his scrubs. “That why you were avoiding me?”

“I wasn't-” your words died in your throat as he dropped his scrubs and boxers in one.

You'd seen his cock enough to know it by memory but the size and fullness of him always rendered you speechless.

Robby knew it to. He stood there with a smirk. “You weren't avoiding me?”

Slowly, he sank to his knees.

“No,” you said, mesmerised by the sight of him going down.

Robby's hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them. He tapped your ankles, getting them on the bed as he got closer to your heat, still leaking from the last orgasm. “Promise?”

The words had hardly left your lips before his tongue pressed into you.

Your entire body moved into his but his arms wrapped around your hips, keeping you pressed into the bed. He moved further up, burying himself in you.

“Aw- fuck-” your hands waved for purchase before curling into the sheets.

He licked a stripe up and down before nudging your lips open and finding himself in there. It wasn't the slow drag of fingers but the desperate kisses and licks of a man hungry. He pulled back, spitting against you. “You won't avoid me again, will you baby?”

You shook your head.

Robby's eyes remained on yours until he buried himself in your pussy. You watched his eyes roll into the back of his head as he moaned into you.

His hands kept you spread open every time they quivered but it didn't take long for his hand to wind down to his cock. You prepped yourself up onto your elbows to watch as he pumped his cock agonizingly slow.

“Want your cock, Robby-”

He halted his movements and you but down on your lip.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, slowly moving up your body.

You knew you were supposed to call him Michael but watching the full swing of his cock stand to attention as he made his way over you was far too distracting.

“Hey-v his hand cupped your chin, forcing you to look up. “Michael.”

You nodded. Your hands reached for his cock, straining to wrap around him.

The only notice of the effect you had was the clench of his jaw.

“Michael,” he repeated, voice almost a growl.

“Michael.”

He nodded.

“Condom?” he asked, jutting back on his heels.

Your hand slowly worked his cock, the pre-cum beading at the tip. You shook your head. You were both clean, you were on the pill but tonight you wanted to feel everything, wanted him to even fill you-

Robby bent his head, spitting down on his cock and your hand. For a moment that's all it was, you hand moving on his cock as your other circled your clit. “God... your hand.... missed you...”

When your strokes got heavier, faster Robby's head fell back and he groaned. His cock was pink, heavy in your hand-

Quickly he grabbed your wrist and threw it off before grabbing the hilt of his own cock and slowly pushing into you.

His throat strained as he groaned at the push in and your back arched into him. “Fuck!” he fell atop you, arms braced at either side. “Shit- ah-”

Your arm wrapped around his shoulders, keeping you in.

“God, you make me crazy,” he uttered, searching for your lips.

The two of you collided in a mess of salvia, tongue, lips as he pushed into you, catching your gasps.

Eventually the rock of his hips grew steady. The creak of your old bed echoed the moves of him against you.

“Shit- ah-” he groaned, shaking off the sweat and the tension.

“Michael,” you said, holding him in closer. “I want you to... go hard.”

Hard he could do. Soft he could do. He would do anything you asked.

His tongue darted out, swiping your lips. “You missed me?”

“So much, so much, so much,” you pulled him down till his weight tested yours, cock deep. “On me.”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled to himself. He put all his weight down, crashing your body into his bed. He wasn't as young as he once was. By no means but if you wanted it, he'd give it.

Pressed into you his cock went far and deep and he couldn't fully withdraw so it was small, maddening movements.

“Oh god,” he uttered.

You moaned, loud, as he wanted and he was breathless, groaning.

The dull thump of your headboard banged on the wall and something on your bedside table fell off.

Robby's arm stretched out, grabbing your hand and stretching your arms to the headboard, trying to steady it. With the stretch of the bodies he reached that spot in you.

“Aw fuck!” You yelled out, louder than anticipated. “Michael I'm gonna- I'm gonna-”

“Fuck, fuck, fuck-” he grunted with you. His other hand threw to your hip, holding your pelvis flush into you. “Fuck!”

In seconds he let go inside of you and the gush of his cum and the sound of the wet bodies threw you over the edge. His clutch on your hand grew tighter as his body trembled with yours, the spurts of your releases cooling down.

If this was casual Robby wouldn't have lingered, he'd have pulled out, flashed you a smile before using the bathroom.

He moved slower, staying till the both of you were spent. He kissed you, soft and sweet, lips moving around to remember the taste. “I'll move out,” he whispered as he took out his cock.

You stole a glance of both of your release leaking from you and around him before Robby moved aside.

He didn't flee, he didn't go to the bathroom. He pulled the sheets from under your bodies and got the both of you into bed. He laid beside you.

Robby tucked you under his arm, sweat on both your bodies cooling as you laid together. “Feels better when we're serious.” His fingers moved slow on your shoulder, delicate touches like a feather.

If he woke with a new thought, woke with regret you'd deal with it. For the moment you allowed yourself to feel the thump of his heart as the two of you slowly lulled to sleep.

Your alarm was the first thing you picked up in the morning. It's beeping ringing in your ear as you moved to turn the thing off or throw it at the wall-

A weight over your stomach made the effort harder but you got it.

Last night came back to you in the spill of scrubs on the floor and the ache between your legs.

Robby stirred next to you. Last night.

He stayed.

“You on today?” he asked, morning voice rough. You got a look at him, it was a rare sight you got to see him in morning light. His eyes were still shut, his face without the stress the day job gave him. He asked so casual, as if this was a morning routine you'd slipped into years ago.

You hummed, nodding and readying to move-

His arm tightened, drawing you in. “Call in sick.”

You chuckled, but your eyes closed. You promised yourself five more minutes. “My attending might have something to say about that.”

Robby grumbled. “Have a word with him, I'm sure you can be very persuasive.”

Somewhere in you apartment you heard the front door open and close, voices moving around the place.

You hadn't closed the door.

“Hey! We brought coffee and bagels!” called Santos.

“We're sorry for leaving you- we- huh?” you heard Whitaker. “What the?”

The clothes on the floor. The scrub top that would have his doctors badge on it.

You groaned and suddenly Whitaker and Santos were passing the doorway, one smirking, the other shocked.

Robby beside you didn't even stir.

“Good morning, Doctor Robby!” called Santos.

He only lifted a hand in greeting before making sure the covers were over the two of you.

You reached for something heavy, landing on a cushion and aiming at the door. It closed in front of your laughing friends.

When Princess finally asked the question on everyone’s lips, tentatively, trying not to offend you, “who’s the father?” And you answered with a simple “Dr. Robby”, like it was the most obvious thing ever, no one believed you. 

You were joking, obviously. Dr. Robby. 

Sure, you and Robby got along well, just like any other colleagues in the hospital. But there was no way he was the father of your baby. No way the two of you were dating, or even just hooking up. You were never anything but professional with each other in the ER. 

So when you went into labour earlier than expected, gripping the counter of the central hub with white knuckles as a contraction washed over you, no one thought anything of it when Robby hurried over, helping you into a wheelchair and into a room. He was just being Dr. Robby, the good doctor they all knew him to be. They had seen him take off running multiple times when one of their own was injured on the job; of course he would stay with you while an OBGYN team came down to check you out. 

And when the baby was born, and everyone came to visit the Pitt crew’s newest addition, maybe there was some surprise to see Robby holding your baby in his large hands, cradled against his bare chest, a blanket over one shoulder. But it made sense, you clearly didn’t have anyone else in the picture — you were doing this on your own — why wouldn’t he give your baby some skin to skin while you rested? You were all family in the Pitt, at the end of the day. 

And when Robby told everyone you and your baby were settling in nicely at home, everyone was happy to hear it. They were happy for you and the baby, and why wouldn’t Robby know how well you were doing? They had all watched him wheel you out of the hospital, knew he helped place the carseat in the back of your car. He had even driven you home. 

It wasn’t until you came to visit nearly a year later, carrying your baby, when everyone realized that maybe, they had misunderstood the situation. 

You stood with Dana and Perlah at the central hub, smiling as your round faced, happy looking baby waved a chubby hand at Jesse juggling for them, when Robby turned the corner, stopping short. 

“My favourite person in the world” Robby crowed happily, and you watched as your baby’s face lit up at the sound of his voice. You set them down, letting them waddle as fast as they could over to Robby, who crouched low to catch them. 

And it was only when Robby stood up, holding your baby close in his arms that everyone came to a very sudden realization. 

Robby and your baby had the same brown eyes, the same nose, the same tilt of the head when someone spoke to them. But it was only when your baby scrubbed their tiny hand down their face the same way Robby did on particularly rough days and there was an incoming trauma, that Perlah shot a look at Princess, who looked at Dana, who looked at Jesse, who looked at Mateo.

Thankfully, the only thing incoming was nap time. 

“It’s about that time” Robby said quietly, glancing at his watch. 

“We should get going” you said, reaching out to take your baby back, but they stubbornly held on to Robby. 

“I’ll come to the car” Robby said, and with a happy wave, you said goodbye to everyone in the Pitt, following along as Robby led the way outside. Your baby rested their head on his shoulder, their brown hair the same shade as his. 

Your colleagues watched you all walk away, an awkward silence hanging over them before slowly turning to the security office. 

alex_albon uhm...you could've hired a professional to do the job 🤔

y/nusername what're you trying to say Albono

lando can you guys seriously not survive without eachother for 24 hours?

y/nusername never!

oscarpiastri I'm not answering that...

username wait. Oscar's dating y/n?? Since when?!

username F1 boyfriend + Rally girlfriend is such a peak motorsports representation

username oscar dating a RALLY DRIVER is the most Oscar Piastri thing imaginable

username y/n is mothering as usual 🤏

username I just know Lando knew about these two dating before us. How selfish

username imagine arguing with your girlfriend when she casually drives sideways through a forest for a living

Oscar, as everyone knows. Is all about precision, smooth circuits and perfect strategies. His girlfriend on the other hand? Thrives in chaos. Whether it be in snowy terrains or going flat out in the mud.

Nobody expected him to date someone equally as terrifying behind the wheel. Neither did he. That didn't stop him from falling for you hard when Lando introduced you to him after a rally event.

The dynamic felt less flashy 'celebrity couple,' and more of a nerdy motorsports couple. Oscar was dating a girl who shows up covered in mud while he's spotless in his team kit. Yet he's utterly lovestruck and obsessed with you. That's the type of couple you were.

Oscar is more protective of you rather than possesive. Checking that you get back safely from a stage. Watching onboard clips after rough rallies in a calm, yet concerned manner. Helping you decompress after bad weekends.

You two would argue once. Over a petty thing really. Oscar said to you that rally pace notes sound made up. Until you force him to take a ride with you in a rally car and he genuienly looks terrified for the first time in years. And you never let him forget it.

Oscar trusts you. Somewhat. Right up until you hit a Scandinavian flick at 100mph. And once the ride is over. He goes completely silent as he grips the edge of the passenger seat.

"I'm starting to understand why you enjoy this."

"Because it's fun?" You teasingly asked.

"No. Because you're insane." He'd retort with a deadpan look. Which you would reciprocate with a playful smack on the shoulder as Oscar laughs softly at your response. "You're lucky I like you."

Fans love to create edits of the pair on tiktok. Compilations of the two teasing one another or when they hang out in public spaces. Completely enamoured with eachother.

They also noticed many tiny details. One being that Oscar seemed to smile more around you. Every interaction would become a viral clip. Oscar fixing your headset. Carrying your bag without thinking. You stealing his cap and Oscar becoming a giggling mess. Or him unconsciously looking for you in the garage.

"They're either the calmest couple alive or the scariest."

"He went from '🙂' to '😊' around her and now I'm emotional."

"The way Oscar looks at her in interviews?? Your honour he is DOWN BAD."

Speaking of supporting one another. You had a flight to catch to meet with Oscar in Monza. Considering you hadn't seen him for almost 2 days due to your schedules clashing. So you were pretty excited to see your boyfriend again.

The paddock was chaos by Friday afternoon. Camera's everywhere. Team personnel moving in and around the garage in a stressed manner that only occurs during race weekends.

And somewhere in the midst of it all. Oscar Piastri was trying to finish an interview while pretending not to look towards the Mclaren hospitality entrance every few seconds.

Unfortunately for him, one reporter noticed. Making the Aussie quite flustered at his question.

"Waiting for someone special Oscar?"

Oscar tried to not seem fazed. But his body language gave him away. Swallowing nervously while trying to keep a straight face. The tips of his ears turning red and his cheeks, blinking a few times before answering.

"No." He's say at first. Soon changing it when the reporter raised an eyebrow at him. Clearly not buying it. "Maybe."

Ten minutes later, you arrive. Fresh from a rally event from Finland, still wearing your team jacket and sunglasses push into your hair. Cheeks flushed from the warm weather as you blew at a stray hair that dropped infront of your eyes.

The second Oscar spotted you. His whole demeanor changed. Subtle to most people. Obvious to everyone else who knew him. Especially his family. Hattie was the first to greet you, then Oscar's mum.

Lando spotted the lovesick look in his eyes from across the room and immediately goes over to you to point it out. Oscar was like a deer caught in headlights when Lando makes a gesture towards the Aussie with a smug grin.

"He was waiting for you all day." He muses. While you found it sweet that he missed you that much.

You barely step into the garage before he speed walks towards your direction. Calmly removing the bag from your shoulder and hand briefly going towards your waist. Whispering into your ear as he pulls you into a hug.

"You made it."

Oscar peered down at you. You looked exhausted, but happy nonetheless. "Told you I would."

"Love the hair by the way. You look cute." Oscar mumbled. Running his fingers through your soft locks as he appreciated how amazing you looked. You would smile up at him softly before leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. "I'm glad you like it."

You then took a look around the garage. Taking in the chaotic enviornment that the mechanics had to work with. You hummed before speaking in an amusing tone. "Wow. Everything looks suspicously clean."

Oscar snorted softly with the roll of his eyes. "That's because niether of us have driven yet." Referring to Lando as the curly haired brunette joined the young couple for a quick chat.

The mechanics adore you. Appreciating your imput and the vibes you bring to the team. Also because you bring them coffee and sweet treats. One time you saw Oscar's setup sheets and went : " You're still overworking the fronts?"

Oscar looks up from his laptop. Trying not to seem amused as the corner of his lips twitched. "...Why are you attacking me in my workplace?"

During practice sessions you stood at the back of the garage, wearing his spare headset. Watching the timing screen with intent. Every now and then you'd no approvingly. Muttering comments about tire temperatures. Or quietly asking engineers questions that made them realise you understood everything.

One mechanic whispered to a collegue about your racing knowledge. "She's terrifying. Respectfully."

After a difficult F2P session. Oscar would step out of his car in pure frustration. Not exactly happy of his performance. He was quieter than usual, giving short answers and shoulders visibly tense.

While engineers debriefed around him. You gently bump his shoulder with your own. Concerned for you boyfriend as he seemed down. "Hey. Wanna talk about what's on your mind handsome?"

Oscar exhaled slowly, tilting his head up with his eyes closed before turning to you. "Balance felt awful."

"Okay." You say calmly. Hands intertwining with gloved ones. "Then we'll fix it. Try not to let it get to you okay?"

No dramatic speech. Or empty reassurances. Just pure certainty. Oddly enough, that works better on him than anything else.

On race day, the paddock was increasingly louder than expected. You stood in your usual place with the team headphones on. While photographers kept trying to get pictures of you and Oscar together.

Right before the national anthem. Oscar suddenly felt the need for your presence. Reaching for you hand discreetly. Giving it a quick squeeze as he tried to ground himself. You squeeze back immediately, speaking softly. "Go do your thing."

Oscar nodded. And as he climbs back into the enclosed space of his cockpit. He glances back at you. Not because he was nervous. But to see you. His motivation for this race. And what would help him to get a podium at the end.

He'd look for you straight after the race ends.

You were congratulating Lando as laugh at something he says. Oscar meanwhile, has his helmet tucked under one arm before handing it to his race engineer. He wanted to play it cool at first. A calm yet relieved sigh leaving his lips as he felt himself smile.

Weaving through the crowd to reach you. Yet the second he gets a hold of you. All restraints would crack.

One hand sliding around your waist. Pulling you against him while the other tilted your chin up just enough to kiss your properly. He was ofcourse covered in sweat. But you payed no mind as you wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back.

He kisses you slow at first. Trying to calm himself after the intensity of the race. Then deepening the kiss with the same intensity. Adrenaline still buzzing in his veins and throughout his body as he let out a satisfied groan against your warm, inviting lips.

The mechanics and the camera's around them disappeared for a moment. Your heartbeat racing as Oscar grinned into the kiss at your enthusiasm. Seems it rubbed on him too since he wasn't usually so public with his relationship.

"You were insane out there," you whispered softly. Oscar's cheeks were flushed when you open your eyes to look at him. "Yeah. And I won because of you."

That would earn another kiss. Shorter this time. Teasing and proud before he rested his forehead against yours. Unable to keep himself from smiling while the paddock roared with cheers around them.