If you don't terrify people, what's the point.

There is already a small crowd accumulating in the cramped North Shore dive bar when you, Samira Mohan, and Mel King breeze through the door. It’s unseasonably warm, the late winter fading to a tease of early spring you know the city won’t be able to sustain for long. You bring the temperate air in with you, a stray gust catching the hems of your dress, and it takes you all a moment to right yourselves.

Over the last month of immersing yourself among the crew of PTMC, you have learned that this is a favorite haunt of theirs – relatively close to the hospital, casual, homey in the way that these small, unpretentious establishments tend to be. You’ve been here twice before, once with Dana at the end of your first week on the job and once with a larger group to celebrate the nurse practitioner Donnie’s birthday. This time, the celebrant is Samira.

“Over here!”

A voice cuts through the sound of nineties rock blaring through the speakers, and you glance up to find Alpha resident Trinity Santos flagging you down from a booth near the back of the bar. She has a cocktail in hand already – tequila soda with lime, if you remember correctly from the last outing – and her dark hair hangs in limp waves around her cheeks, crimped in that specific way that tells you she has just taken it out of a ponytail.

Clustered around the booth with her are the rest of the day crew who have just finished their shifts – Dennis, Cassie, Princess, Victoria, all looking a bit haggard though in good enough spirits. Victoria has dark circles under her eyes, and Princess’s signature braids are starting to frizz along her hairline. Even still, the cries of “happy birthday!” are loud and earnest, and you can sense the happiness and embarrassment rolling off of Samira in waves as she smiles back.

The three of you make your way through the press of other patrons, squeezing your way down the narrow stretch between the bar and the booths along the wall. The others spill out to greet you, and although you know the celebration isn’t for you, you can’t help but respond with the same warmth and fondness. Working shoulder to shoulder with this team has brought you closer to them than you would have expected, certainly more than you’ve experienced while on other travel contracts. Though you might only count a few as true friends, the camaraderie between you all is undeniable. You’re happy to spend your precious free time in their company, particularly if it means getting out of Dana and Benji’s house for the night.

Not that you aren’t grateful for their hospitality; of course, you are, and you love them both dearly. But something about living in their home, sharing their meals, and sleeping in their youngest daughter’s old bedroom has you feeling a bit like a teenager again. You need a night to breathe.

“Hey, Cassie,” you say with an easy smile as the older Alpha pulls you into a friendly embrace. There are bright red patches of skin at the base of her pale neck, evidence of the irritation left behind by the hospital’s scent blocker patches. Without the dulling effects of the medicated cotton and hospital antiseptic, she smells like late October in your nostrils – fallen leaves and baking spices. It’s comforting, maternal, and lived-in.

“Thank god,” she groans into your hair. “I feel like I’ve been babysitting.”

You snort a laugh as, around you, a chorus of protests fill the air.

“Fuck off, you love us,” Trinity says, giving Cassie a playful shove. The young resident’s eyes shine tellingly in the dim light of the bar, and you’re suddenly certain that the drink in her hand is not the first one she has imbibed this evening.

“How on earth did you get here before us? Didn’t you all work today?” you ask with a frown.

Trinity shrugs. “Maybe we’re just that good.” You arch an eyebrow at her, hitting her with a pointed stare, and she smirks. “Nah,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Honestly, we got lucky today. And everyone was super motivated to get the hell out of there. Aaaand speaking of, there she is, the birthday queen herself!”

You turn just in time to see Samira shrugging off her jacket and tossing it into the booth. The dress she’s wearing is truly befitting the milestone of her thirtieth birthday – a deep plummy-purple silk thing that hugs the curve of her waist, its plunging neckline showing off the freshly-healed mating bite where her neck meets her shoulder. Her long legs are clad in sheer black stockings, the heels on her feet sure to bring her to at least eye level with her mate when he arrives.

“Goddamn. Look at you!” Trinity sounds physically pained as she takes in the senior resident’s apparel. You can hardly blame her for the reaction; it’s certainly a far cry from the nondescript black and gray scrubs you typically see each other in. “C’mon, give us a twirl.”

Samira hides her face in her hands for a moment, embarrassed by the attention, but you can tell there’s a part of her that is pleased, too. Obligingly she gives a little turn, spinning on the smooth soles of her heels, and you join the others in whistling and cheering her on.

“Jesus Christ,” Trinity sighs. “Abbot is one lucky bastard.”

The evidence of her interest is blatant, a wave of enticing sweetness scenting the air, the fragrance making you laugh while Dennis Whitaker grimaces. “Okay, okay, we get it, Dr. Mohan’s hot. Lay off the pheromones,” the young Omega scolds. His pale cheeks are tinged pink.

Patting him soothingly on the back, you, too, shed your jacket and adjust the ruffles on your skirt as you settle in. There’s something so freeing about getting to look like yourself for once, to not have to make yourself bland and sexless for the sake of the workplace. If you’re honest, most of your time outside of scrubs is spent in your pajamas, so the flirty little number you have on tonight is a particular treat.

Feeling flush with warmth, you announce to the table, “First round’s on me!” And then softer, to Samira, you add, “What can I get for you, birthday girl?”

“Whatever you’re having,” she replies, shrugging noncommittally. “I’m not picky.”

You blink at her. “It’s your birthday. Whatever you want, it’s yours.”

“I know.” She slides into the booth with a mischievous smile. “And for my birthday, I would very much like to not have to make any decisions.”

Barking a laugh, you give her a mock salute. Samira is a girl after your own heart – exhausted, a bit strung out, and ready to be pampered. “Of course. I can do that. Now, what about for the rest of you?”

Robby can’t remember the last time he joined the crew for a night out. It has to have been more than a year, maybe two. It isn’t as though he hasn’t been invited; on the contrary, Whitaker makes it a point to ask every time. Santos, too, on occasion. He keeps a handful of excuses in his back pocket for when the question arises – he has other plans, he’s promised a neighbor he’ll let their dog out, just let him wrap up this one patient and he’ll meet them there, he swears.

Lately, he can never quite muster the energy it would take to laugh through a few beers and play a round of darts. He can’t imagine sitting around a high-top or crowding himself into a booth and talking for hours. These days, every bit of himself goes to the hospital, every scrap of enthusiasm and identity siphoned from him by the ceaseless pace, the endless demand. Outside of those walls, he is hollow, devoid of substance.

Which is why, when Jack had asked him to come to Mohan’s birthday celebration, Robby had been quick to decline. It sounded like precisely the sort of gathering he preferred to avoid, and that wasn’t even taking into account the…strained relationship between himself and his senior resident. Admittedly, he has been trying to mend fences there, but he knows he has a long way to go to get back to a place where her hackles don’t immediately go up when he enters the room. Would she even want him there, he wonders? Somehow, he doubts it.

Jack, however, assure him that she does – once when he first invites him and then again when Robby had attempted to back out of their plans not half an hour ago. The older Alpha still has his reservations, but he chooses to trust his friend. After all, if anyone were to know what Samira Mohan wants, it would be her mate.

The bar is crowded when they arrive. There are a few faces Robby doesn’t recognize, a few pockets of neighborhood regulars not associated with PTMC, but the majority of the people he spots from the doorway are part of his team. A gaggle of night shift congregated by the bar, a table full of nurses he barely recognizes out of their scrubs, and there, nearly to the back of the bar, a cluster of day shift, half draped across the nearest booth, half hanging out into the narrow aisle, uproarious laughter spilling through the bar almost loud enough to drown out the music.

Just as he expects, Jack spots Samira immediately – holding court with her day shift colleagues, arm looped through one of Mel King’s, leaning into her shoulder companionably. He doesn’t bother to excuse himself from Robby’s side, simply locks eyes with her through the crowd and makes a beeline through the throng of bodies to meet her.

The crowd parts for him effortlessly, the space deferring to him without question or thought, and Robby shakes his head ruefully. Jack has always worn his Alpha status with such grace.

He gets to the collection of day-shifters before Robby does, and it takes him all of about two seconds to extend a hand and coax Samira out of the booth. The older attending can’t quite hear what the two say to each other, though the tone of their voices is warm and intimate, and it’s impossible to mistake the joy pouring out of each of them as Jack takes her into his arms.

It’s been years since his best friend has looked at another person like that, with deep wrinkles around his eyes and an even deeper softness in his smile. The loss of his first mate, his wife, had nearly killed him, and Robby had done his best to help him pick up the pieces in the aftermath. Looking at him now, watching him pull Mohan in for a deep kiss in front of the entire bar, is like looking at a different person in all the best ways.

Though Robby would be lying if he said he didn’t feel a twinge of jealousy at the whole display. Jack had somehow managed to find a great love not once, but twice. Two other halves of his soul, two marks of devotion scored into the meat of his neck. For something that he had never really thought he might want, the other Alpha certainly did make it look appealing.

The kiss drags on for a handful of seconds too long, and the crowd responds appropriately – cat calls and wolf whistles, a stray crumpled straw wrapper tossed and landed perfectly in Jack’s salt-and-pepper hair. By the time he finally lets Mohan go, the senior resident is laughing and hiding her face in his neck, and Robby has taken to busying himself reviewing the chalkboard beer menu hanging behind the bar.

“Oh! Dr. Robby!”

He blinks, turning to find Mohan running a nervous hand over her now-disheveled curls, an embarrassed half-smile quirking the corners of her lips.

“I didn’t think you were going to make it,” she continues, and goddamn it, Jack was right. She looks a bit confused but undeniably pleased to see him. Her big, dark eyes give her away. She looks like someone has given her a gift she’s afraid she’s not allowed to accept, and Robby’s chest aches.

Glancing down at the scuffed, sticky floor, he replies haltingly, “My, uh. My schedule opened up. And I didn’t want to miss telling you happy birthday, so.” He tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans, meets her gaze through his eyebrows. “Happy birthday, Dr. Mohan.”

He watches as she blinks at him, taken aback. “Thank you.” Her voice is soft and painfully earnest and tinged disbelief. He hates that something as simple as a birthday wish from him is so unexpected, but he has no one but himself to blame for that. So he bears it with a toothless smile and tries not to let loose a sigh of relief when she adds, “I’m happy you’re here.”

“Me, too.” Clearing his throat, Robby shifts on his feet and redirects his attention to the rest of the table. There’s a collection of empty beer bottles and cocktail glasses scattered across its surface, as well as a round of shots that he suddenly feels thankful he missed. It’s been a long time since his tired body could tolerate that kind of night out. Still, he offers, “Let me know when you all are ready for another, next round’s on me.”

At that, Trinity Santos lets out a triumphant sound and bangs both of her palms down onto the surface of the table, shaking glasses and sending bottles rolling. “That’s what I’m talking about – drinks on Dr. Robby!”

The lingering crowd bursts into laughter, and feeling lighter than he has in a long time, Robby can’t help but join them.

You are two amaretto sours deep by the time the attendings make their conspicuous entrance.

It would be impossible not to notice their approach, two broad-shouldered, graying men with the same competent swagger, the same quiet authority in the way they cut through the crowd. It’s a rarity to see either of them outside of the hospital, even rarer to see them in anything other than scrubs, and there are just enough drinks in your system for the sight to send heat rushing to your cheeks. Dr. Abbot, of course, has eyes only for Samira (as he should). But Dr. Robby…

Booze humming in your bloodstream, syrupy sugar and tart lemon juice coating your tongue, you watch the way the older Alpha’s ears flush pink at the group’s attention. You watch the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles, the way his dark, silver-threaded hair fluffs and ruffles as he passes a large hand over his head in self-consciousness. In the month you’ve been working in his ED, you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve heard him laugh like this, and it never fails to make your chest tighten.

It’s honestly frustrating how intriguing you find him. Even after that first stilted, off-putting introduction, there’s a pull to him, a gravity that you can’t quite shake.

It’s all innocuous, all professional, but you can’t deny that over the last month, you have spent more time on Dr. Robby’s patients than anyone else’s. You take every opportunity to work cases at his side in the trauma bays, standing elbow-to-elbow with Jesse and Kim and the other seasoned nursing staff, all the while learning his methods, his preferred instruments, the shorthand of his commands. You’ve started to be able to anticipate his orders before he gives them, and you tell yourself that it’s all in the name of the job. You assure yourself that you’re doing the same things you’ve always done, that you’re simply living up to the central tenet of travel nursing – get good, and do it fast. It’s not a lie. But it’s not the whole truth, either.

Even now, even in a crowd of your peers, free from the confines of the sterile hospital walls, you can feel the tug of his presence in your gut. It’s like he’s got a homing beacon in the pocket of his classic Levi’s, and the receiver is tucked behind your navel. He mingles with your colleagues, floating from table to table, and it does not matter how invested you are in your conversation with Princess about Love is Blind or how interested you are in Cassie’s story about her last family vacation. A part of you is always focused on him.

And fuck, but he looks good. Not that he wasn’t handsome in his scrubs, but there’s something intimate about seeing his familiar figure in this new context. The bulk of his well-loved canvas coat, the softness of the navy-blue flannel he wears beneath it, the way the buttons of that flannel pull slightly against the breadth of his chest and the gentle curve of his belly. His jeans are effortless and perfectly-fitted, and you are embarrassed to acknowledge that you recognize the brown boots on his feet from the days when he rides his motorcycle to work. He looks rugged. Strong. Stupidly masculine in a way that speaks to the basest part of your psyche.

You’re such a goddamn cliché – the younger, subordinate Omega squirming in her seat over the older Alpha in a position of power. You’d be mortified if you weren’t so…distracted.

You make it about another 15 minutes before you find yourself slipping from the booth and retreating to the bar. You’re going to need another drink if you’re going to survive the rest of the night without making a fool of yourself at the feet of the chief attending. Perhaps something a bit stronger than amaretto this time…

Flagging down a bartender, you order a whiskey ginger. You busy yourself studying the countless dusty neon signs that cling to the walls while you wait, nodding along to the thump of the music in the background. Trinity had insisted that once it got late enough, the music would switch to something funkier, something with more of a groove, and the far end of the bar would become a makeshift dance floor. You could hardly remember the last time you had gone dancing…

Beside you, someone clears their throat and leans against the bar.

You startle at the sound, but the surprise quickly morphs into a dizzying flush of pleasure as the scent hits you. Clean, masculine soap floating over woodsy base notes of oakmoss and black tea leaves. Unfiltered, unblocked, completely lacking the sanitized, antiseptic qualities you associate with the hospital. Just…him.

Swallowing thickly against the sudden surge of nerves, you flash the older man a weak smile and a wave. “Hey, Dr. Robby.”

Robby’s gaze flicks to yours, and he returns your smile with one of his own. It deepens the creases at the corners of his eyes in a way that you find senselessly charming. “Hey,” he replies, voice warm and rasping, almost too soft to hear over the music. Thoughtlessly, you shift closer to catch it better.

“I was told not to expect you here tonight.” The words leave your lips of their own accord, your tone light and open while still carrying a hint of accusation. This was meant to be a fun night out celebrating one of your new friends. The disruption of his presence was never meant to be a factor.

Thankfully, he merely laughs at the suggestion, as though the idea pleases him. “Oh?”

The sparkle in his dark eyes is contagious, and you fight a grin in spite of yourself. “Way to prove everybody wrong.”

“Well, I’d hate to think I was getting predictable in my old age,” he quips, rapping his knuckles against the sticky lacquered surface of the bar. “It’s good for the kids. Keeps them on their toes.”

His words settle low and heavy in your abdomen, and you pray to whatever higher power might exist that he can’t sense how he’s affected you. It’s honestly humiliating the way your stomach tightens, the way you have to press your thighs together against the pulsing there. You’ve always had a preference for older men, but this might be the first time an explicit reference to one’s age has gotten you wet.  

Clearing your throat, you make a big show out of rolling your eyes and make a desperate play for humor instead of arousal. “Oh, come on,” you groan lightheartedly. “You’re not that old.”

At that, Dr. Robby merely scoffs. “Tell that to my back. And my knees.”

You are saved from having to craft a response by the return of the bartender. He drops a thin, flimsy cocktail napkin onto the bar top and slides your whiskey ginger across its surface before redirecting his attention to Robby.

“What can I get you, man?”

The attending orders several drinks, a combination of shots, beers, and a single tequila soda that you know is going directly to Trinity Santos. It seems he’s made good on his offer of a round for the table. The bartender listens with a mildly-concerned arched brow but doesn’t question it. Instead, he simply nods along as he absorbs the long list. Giving Robby a short nod, he returns to the backbar and starts pulling glasses out from beneath the counter.

You take a sip of your drink as the lull in conversation lingers. It’s precisely what you wanted, sharper and smokier than the sweetness you had started the evening with, stinging your throat on the way down in a way that feels more grounding than uncomfortable. It sharpens you, pulls you out of the Alpha scent-induced haze that had you wanting to press closer, to bury your face in the weathered skin of this man’s neck and just breathe.

“So how’ve you been settling in?”

The second sip of whiskey catches strangely in your throat, and you smother a cough in the crook of your arm.

Well. Perhaps you’re not all the way out of the haze just yet.

Gathering yourself, you put on a smile and offer him a carefully unaffected shrug. “You tell me.”

“Well, of course, your work is exceptional,” Robby says easily. “Only took you what, a week? Two? To figure out the rhythm of the department?”

This time, the heat that blooms across your neck and chest has nothing to do with pheromones. “I’ve been doing this for a while,” you demure, brushing off the compliment. “It gets easier over time.”

He accepts the response with a gracious nod, but corrects, “I meant more…interpersonally.”

Quirking your brow, you blink back at him in surprise.

“I just…the ED is a team sport. Sometimes it takes new players a bit to find their footing,” he stammers in explanation. It must be a trick of the neon lights that has his cheeks turning red under your stunned gaze.

Either way, you warm at the sight. Stirring your drink with its little black cocktail straw, you swallow and reply, “If I’m being honest, I’ve felt more welcomed in the Pitt than anywhere else since I left Philly.”

You watch as Robby’s eyes soften, your words hitting him someplace quiet and vulnerable.

“Dana helps, of course,” you’re quick to add. “I’ve known her my whole life – she’s basically family. But really, this team seems to be…especially accepting of new players.”

Now, it is his turn to shift uncomfortably on his feet, to shutter a bit at the earnestness of your praise. “It’s a teaching hospital. We’re pretty used to people coming and going.”

“Still. It’s appreciated.” You pick up your drink, raising it in his direction in a casual toast. “Compliments to the team captain.”

Robby scoffs a soft laugh, and now you’re certain he’s blushing. Satisfaction swells in your chest. He will be able to smell it on you, surely, but you’re not certain how much you care anymore. You made him smile. Made him laugh. In spite of the amount of time you’ve spent at his side over the last month, you think you can count on one hand the number of times you’ve witnessed both of those gifts in a single interaction.

Thankfully, the bartender returns before you can let it go to your head, before you can start formulating increasingly more ridiculous things you might say or do to elicit such a response from the older Alpha again. The number of drinks deposited onto the bar top feels truly absurd, entirely too many for one person to carry, but Robby does not balk. Instead, he thanks the bartender and begins gathering them into his hands.

“Need help with those?” you ask, eyebrows raised as you watch him artfully arrange the glasses so that he can carry four in each hand.

“No thanks, I’ve got it,” he replies. “Think I’d better get these to the parched masses.”

Fuck, his hands are huge. It’s not the first time you’ve noticed – as he rubs hand sanitizer into his skin, as he scratches his beard while deep in thought, as he snaps extra-large nitrile gloves on and off while breezing through trauma bay doors. It’s distracting every time, and this display only adds to the Robby-shaped fantasy fodder stored carefully away in the back of your mind. Wide palms, long, thick fingers… He manages everything in one single pass.  

Throat suddenly dry, you take another drink of your whiskey ginger before responding. “Probably for the best. Trinity might mutiny otherwise.”

The noise the attending makes in response is gruff and warm and full of good humor, not laughter but something with more substance, low in his throat. It makes you feel hot under your dress. Makes you feel…reckless.

“Catch you on the dance floor later?” The question is out of your mouth before you can swallow it back, and you’re not sure you’ve ever wanted to disappear more than you do right now as the older man glances up from the drinks in his hands. He bites down on his bottom lip, smothering a smile, and shakes his head.

“Ohhh no, I don’t think so.” Though clearly taken aback, his refusal is tinged with laughter, and you are suddenly grateful for the cold press of your drink against your palm. You’re in real danger of overheating under his sparkling gaze.

“That’s a shame,” you manage to reply. “I’d have saved you a dance.”

You can’t bear to stick around long enough to allow him to respond. Instead, you duck around him and make a beeline for the table where most of the nursing staff have congregated. With any luck, he won’t follow you there, and you’ll be able to slam the rest of your drink in peace.

Robby may have turned down your invitation, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t allowed to watch.

At least, that’s what he tells himself as he lingers against the bar, twirling a half-empty IPA bottle in his fingers while trying (and failing) to be discrete in the way his eyes follow you. It’s late now, the drinks and the atmosphere settling heavy and loose in everyone’s system, and if he were a stronger man, he would have made his excuses and gone home by now. He would have clapped Jack on the shoulder, bid Mohan one final “happy birthday,” and disappeared into the night.

But he can’t remember the last time he felt strong. These days, he mostly feels tired. And old. And desperately lonely.

But you? Since the day Dana brought you into his ED, you’ve been…a revelation.

You’re a goddamn ray of sunshine. Bright and warm and giving, a smile on your face for every patient, a helping hand at the ready for every colleague. Whip-smart, quick on your feet, experienced enough to not require much oversight yet always eager to learn something new. Clear-eyed, unafraid, kind down to your bones... He could go on.

He’s only known you a month; it’s embarrassing how much time he could fill extolling your virtues.

And now, as of tonight, he has even more to add to the ever-growing list. A far cry from your typical gray scrubs and well-worn Brooks sneakers, the ruffled, body-hugging dress you’ve got on leaves little to the imagination. There’s something achingly feminine about the way it clings so softly to the swell of your breasts, the nip of your waist, the full plush of your ass. It’s frothy and sweet with just enough sex appeal to keep it from looking too girlish. Even still, watching you sway through the crowd, head thrown back in laughter, pulling Samira into your lithe arms as you move to the beat, Robby feels like a dirty old man. But he can’t seem to make himself look away.

He’d gotten a whiff of your scent earlier. It was warm and light and musky, almost sparkling, amber and champagne and white florals. It’s taken residence under his skin, clouding his thoughts with gauzy, half-formed images of tenderness that make his chest ache. You smell like tangled sheets and satin pillowcases. Soft sweaters and bare feet and cups of coffee in the sunshine on his back patio. The fucking farmer’s market on Sundays.

Sweet. Painful. Like pressing too hard on a bruise left by a lover.

“Still with me, brother?”

Robby blinks, clears his throat, and turns to find Jack watching him with raised eyebrows and that little quirk of his mouth he does when he’s got something to say but is choosing not to. Shaking his head, the older Alpha smiles ruefully. “‘Course. Continue.”

Everything is beautiful.

The music is loud in your ears, throbbing in your chest, fusing with your bones. Whiskey in your veins, floaty and warm, you feel like all the sharp angles and edges of you have blurred and softened. Surrounded on all sides by your new friends, you bleed into each other like watercolors on a wet canvas. Samira spins with you, her dark curls wild against her cheeks, her mate’s leather jacket draped around her shoulders. Nearby, Mel holds hands with Trinity, jumping more than dancing but still managing to keep perfect time with the song. Victoria and Dennis both look like they’ve never been on a dance floor in their lives, but they’re grinning so big and singing at the top of their lungs, dripping sweat and spilling the sweet, intoxicating scent of Omega joy from every pore.

You’re cocooned here – bodies pressed close, eyes half shut, hips swaying, fingers catching on Dr. Abbot’s coat, on Mel’s loose blonde hair, on the silver chain resting on Dennis’s chest. And still, the back of your neck burns.

Dr. Robby is watching you. You can feel it like a brand on your skin, and you savor the heat. It’s wrong. God, it’s so wrong, for too many reasons to count. He’s got almost 20 years on you. He’s the chief of the ED. You hardly know him. And you cannot forget that you’re temporary here, already a third of the way through your contract. When it ends, there will be another, and who knows where you will find yourself next?

But those thoughts are too heavy, too real for this moment. In this moment, with the music and the booze and the dress and all your beautiful friends, you feel beautiful, too. You feel sexy. You feel desired in a way that’s more exciting than intimidating. And you’re perfectly content to allow this gruff, mysterious, older Alpha to watch you dance for as long as he likes. Perhaps you’ll even put on a bit of a show for him…

One song fades into the next, then again, and before long, you’ve utterly lost track of time. You’re sweaty and fuzzy and so happy, so lost in the music and the moment that you don’t notice the approaching stranger until he is close enough to snake his hands around your hips and pull you into him.

You flinch, loose body stiffening instantly. An Alpha. A face you’ve never seen before towering over you, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded eyes finding yours in the darkness. He’s young, maybe two or three years your junior, with a square, clean-shaven jaw and shoulder-length blonde hair he wears pushed back from his face. And holy shit, he reeks – like smoke and ash and sickly, cloying flowers, an exotic greenhouse someone doused in vodka and lit on fire. There’s arousal there, too, the scent distinctly Alpha. It invades your nostrils as he presses your hips into his pelvis, using his grip on your body to grind you against him.

“I like your moves, Omega,” he says, leaning down and speaking directly into your ear. His breath is boozy and hot on the skin of your neck, and you recoil at the feel of it brushing over your scent glands.

Stomach soured, palms firm against his wiry chest, you shove him hard. “Hey! Back off!”

But this stranger is wasted, and he’s got almost a foot of height on you, and in his single-minded lust, he’s stronger than you expect.

“C’mon, baby, don’t be like that,” he groans with a laugh, as though your disgust and your refusal are no more than an inconvenience to him. His fingers dig hard into the soft flesh of your hips, blunt nails scraping the filmy fabric of your dress. “Could smell you all the way on the other side of the dance floor. I know how bad you need this.”

Your stomach drops, and you let out an involuntary whine as you scramble ineffectually against his hold. A young, strong, cocksure Alpha has caught the scent of an aroused, unmarked Omega. It’s the stuff public safety announcements are made of. You’re in danger.

“Get your hands off me!” you cry. And with that, chaos breaks out on the dance floor.

Samira’s dark eyes flash with fury as she fearlessly charges into the strange Alpha’s space and wraps both her hands around one of his elbows. You can tell she’s throwing her whole bodyweight into trying to yank his paws off of you, but the man doesn’t budge.

Dennis tucks Victoria under his arm and shepherds her off the dance floor, and you feel a swell of gratefulness for his quick thinking; Victoria is so young, even more vulnerable here than you are.

From a few feet away, you hear a growl of “oh, fuck no”, and out of the crowd, you can smell Trinity approaching before you see her – the bright green notes of the mint and lime in her scent sour and sharpen with rage as she bullies her way through the press of bodies to get to you. There’s a brief, instinctual surge of relief the moment you lock eyes with her – the only thing this man might listen to right now is another Alpha – but the feeling is short-lived. Trinity is fierce and scrappy and famously protective, as virile as any other of her designation, but the stranger currently grinding a growing erection into your stomach is so tall –

“Let. Her. Go.”

Barked in a low, gravelly voice, the Command drowns out the beat of the music and sends ripples through the crowd of dancers – gasps, shudders, a groan through gritted teeth as Trinity Santos halts in her tracks. Even without being directed at her, the will of a more senior Alpha is too strong for her to resist. The sound of it makes your knees tremble with a wave of fear and bone-deep gratitude. You twist in the stranger’s grip and crane your neck to find the source of the words that have taken such swift control of the scene.

It does not take you long. There, standing almost directly behind you, tall and square-shouldered and stinking of rage, is –

“Dr. Robby.”

His name leaves your lips like a plea, and you watch as his frown deepens. You’ve never seen him like this – he’s radiating dominance and territorialism, his scent darker, thicker, every inch of softness you’ve ever observed in him evaporated into the night air. He looks…formidable. Strong and broad, still not quite as tall as the young Alpha holding you but infinitely more daunting. The threads of silver in his hair and the dense patch of it in his beard practically glow in the neon lights, and you feel certain that when you think back on this moment, you will remember him as a barrel-chested old wolf standing undaunted in the face of an enemy upstart.

“I said, let her go,” he repeats, taking a step forward.

The stranger scoffs and turns you around in his grip, this time tugging hard enough to make you stumble as he pulls you back into him. “She’s unmarked, man,” he says as he grabs a fistful of your hair and tugs your head to the side, exposing your bare neck.

He touches you like the mere fact that no bite mark scores your flesh entitles him to your body; the thought alone disgusts you. You yelp in pain, and you swear you can feel the vibration of Robby’s growl as it thunders through the air.

“I don’t give a shit,” the attending snaps. “She doesn’t want your hands on her.”

“She doesn’t know what she wants.” The blonde man grinds against your ass, and you swallow a wave of nausea. “I smelled her first. Get your own bitch!”

That seems to be the final straw. Closing the distance between you in two long-legged strides, Robby’s hand darts out and clutches onto the back of the younger man’s neck.

“I would think very carefully about what you do next,” he snarls, almost too soft for you to hear over the music. “I’ve been putting pups like you in their place for longer than you’ve been alive, and I swear, if you hurt her, I will let every other Alpha in this room take their turn with you before I kick your ass from here to Philadelphia.”

The acrid, burnt-rubber scent of fury pouring from the young Alpha is enough to make your eyes water and your throat swell, but there’s something else there now, too. Fear. Intimidation. Submission. His hands tighten against you even further.

“Now,” Robby says. “Let her go. And then get the fuck out of here.”

For a moment, you don’t breathe. The challenge hangs in the air as Robby maintains his grip on the other man’s scruff, holding him fast and certain in what is quite possibly the most aggressive, provoking move one Alpha could pull on another. Had he attempted to hold you like that, you feel certain you would have turned into a pile of goo, limp and pliant and utterly boneless as you dangled from his fingers. Instead, this Alpha merely whimpers and shudders against your back.

There is a beat where he continues to cling to you, the hold suddenly feeling less possessive and more stubborn, but in the end, the younger man cannot resist following the attending’s orders. It’s sudden when he finally drops you, and without this stranger’s hands keeping you upright, your legs give out beneath you.

Robby is there in less than a heartbeat – releasing the scruff hold on the younger man, catching you in his strong arms before you can slump to the floor. The former staggers backward and lets out a weak, unconvincing sneer.

“Whatever, man. She’s a fucking tease, anyway.”

Out of the darkness, Dr. Abbot appears then, his face like a storm cloud as he inserts himself between a furious Robby and this overconfident pup. Wrapping his thick fingers around the younger man’s upper arm, he growls, “Time to go, buddy.”

Without another word, Abbot drags the man toward the door. You think you see him pass his fingers over the back of Samira’s hand on his way by, but truthfully, you weren’t certain. You’ve started to shake in Robby’s arms, the edges of your vision have begun to blur, and you feel as though you could collapse again at any moment.

Around you, the dance floor abruptly surges back to life.

Everyone within the radius of Robby’s Command seems to descend on you at once, strangers and friends alike all rushing to check on the distraught Omega. The sounds of their voices, the touch of their hands, all of it feels oddly deadened and far away – as though they are talking to you through the wall of a quarantine bubble.

“Okay, everybody, back off – give her some space!”

You spot Mel’s wide, worried eyes. Trinity’s furious frown. There’s a Beta night shift nurse – Olive, maybe? – checking on the other Omegas in the crowd. Thankfully, the ones you can see look relatively unscathed…

And that is all you register before Dr. Robby is shucking his big brown coat, wrapping it around you, and ushering you away from the dance floor.

“D-Dr. Robby – ”

“Shh,” he soothes, his hands gentle but firm on your shoulders as he steers you toward the rear exit, the thick metal door labeled “Employees Only”. “I’m just taking you someplace quiet.”

As he guides you through the door, you find that all of the unseasonable warmth you had enjoyed earlier has dissipated with the setting of the sun. The late winter night is damp and bracingly cold as you step out into the back alley, but the relief you feel almost makes up for the sudden chill. Out here, the fresh air smells faintly of wet concrete and the nearby Allegheny River, and you find yourself gulping lungfuls of it to try to banish the ash-rubber-flower scent of the man whose bruises now decorate your skin.

“Okay, here we go,” Robby coaxes as he directs you away from the door. He is a steadying presence, his touch light but constant. When he encourages you to lean back and brace yourself against the brick exterior of the bar, you obey without a thought. “Better, right?”

“Yes.” Your response sounds tremulous to your own ears – dazed, weak, and far away…

“Look at me.”

Your eyes snap open. You didn’t realize you had closed them.

Robby’s gaze meets yours. Hands on your shoulders, brows gathered at the center in concern, you notice he has bent down in front of you so he can look you in the eye. This close, he’s all you can see, and he’s even more handsome than you thought. You’re fascinated by the wrinkles around his eyes, his long, dark lashes, the sharp, commanding line of his nose…

“Hey. I’ve got you. You’re safe now,” he says. The comforting words are muffled and distant. It’s like he’s talking to you through a pair of tin cans and some string from a block away. “Deep breaths, okay? Breathe with me. In.” He sucks a dramatic breath through his nose, nostrils flaring, and you do your best to imitate him. “Out.” His breath smells like the IPA he had been drinking as he exhales through his mouth. You breathe out, too, and he smiles faintly. “Good girl. Again. In. Out.”

You comply easily, breathing in rhythm, in and out, sinking into the cold, textured brick of the wall behind you. It takes a few rounds of this, your bleary eyes locked on his as he helps you regulate, but after a while, your heartrate slows, and your vision begins to sharpen.

He must be able to see the clarity come back to your expression because he asks, “Better?”

Jaw tight, you nod. “Mm hm.”

The confirmation, however, does not seem to do much to comfort him. Instead of the smile you expect, his frown deepens, and he runs his palms over your arms briskly, like he’s trying to warm you up. “You’re shaking,” he observes.

Oh. You are, aren’t you? You take another deep breath, the scent of your assailant blessedly faded now, and make a conscious effort to relax your rigid muscles. You start with your jaw, then down to your neck, your shoulders, your back, but every inch of you is wound so tightly, as though still braced for unwanted touch, that you make little progress. You may no longer be on the edge of hyperventilating, but still, your body clearly has not caught up with the sudden absence of threat.

“I’m s-sorry,” you reply. “I c-can’t stop.”

Robby shakes his head, brushing off the apology, and you watch as he examines you with a critical, almost clinical gaze. You weren’t injured – not really, not in any lasting sort of way. The man didn’t bite you (thank god) or even scent you. It had been scary, terrifying even, but more in the threat of it than the actual reality.

The more you sit with it, the more you recognize this feeling. The dread, the thoughtless, nauseating panic so intimately, biologically tied to your nature as an Omega that it feels doubly wounding, doubly personal. It’s been more than a year since you last felt this way. It’s the reason why you left your ex, why you packed your bags and fled Philadelphia, leaving behind a life you loved for the chance to get away from this.

You see it in his eyes the moment he recognizes it. Omega distress. A primal defense mechanism designed to encourage community protection and care when an Omega is in danger. Of course, as an Alpha and as a medical professional, it’s something you’re certain he’s seen before. Perfectly treatable, but prolonged distress could result in neurological damage, and it’s not as though most Omegas carry the necessary hormone treatments on their person –

Under his breath, Robby curses. “Fuck. Okay.”

You might be the one bracing your weight against the building right now, but Robby has never felt more backed into a wall.

Of course, it had to be you. So pretty, so sweet, so frightened – shaking in your high heels, drowning in his coat, pouring the choked, sour fragrance of your distress into the night air. Your eyes are wide and glassy, shining with tears that refuse to fall, and you’ve got your elegant hands balled up in little fists so tight your knuckles have gone pale. He can still smell hints of that bastard pup on your skin, and even the faint reminder is enough to have his hackles standing on end.

He comforts himself with the knowledge that if he does what he knows he must, if he manages to work up the courage to take that step, at least that scent will finally disappear.

And of course, it had to be him. After all of his efforts to maintain professional distance, after all of the scoldings he’s given himself about keeping you at arm’s length, of course it would be him in this impossible scenario. He knows what you need – would know it even if he weren’t an Emergency Medicine physician, but in his line of work, he can’t count the number of times he’s treated this exact condition. But you are not a patient in his ED, and this alleyway behind a dive bar is not PTMC. There are no synthetic hormones he can inject you with here. There is only…him.

Well. Not only him. There are at least three other Alphas inside that bar, two of which are unmated and could do the job just as well. But the idea of letting anyone else anywhere near you right now makes something ruinous and feral clamor inside his chest. For the first time since his adolescence, Michael Robinavitch truly feels the depths of the raging beast that lingers at the edges of his subconscious.

In this moment, if anyone but him were to touch you, he thinks he might rip their throat out with his teeth.

“Fuck. Okay.” Robby squeezes your shoulders and tucks his thumbs into the collar of his jacket. Your eyelids flag instinctually at the touch. “Hey, right here, look right here.”

You obey, but that sense of presence and awareness he had detected just moments ago has already begun to fade. Your skin is burning up under his touch, and shit, you still haven’t stopped shaking. Your nervous system is fully strung out, on high alert, and your body is struggling to keep up.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he assures you. “I’m right here with you. Just keep your eyes on me.”

“Robby.” His name leaves your lips on the back of a whine. Gritting his teeth, Robby swallows against an answering purr that threatens to rumble from his throat.

“I know, Omega.”

God, he’s going to have to do it, isn’t he? He’s going to have to –

Drawing a deep breath to steady himself, he asks, “Do you trust me?”

Your responding nod is immediate, the delicate skin of your neck brushing against his thumbs. “Yes. I trust you.”

Combined with your big, wet eyes and your pouting, open mouth, your words hit deep and sound like praise. They make him want to preen, to roll over at your feet and show you his soft belly.

You trust him. He is a good Alpha. His Omega trusts him.

No.

He slams the door on that fantasy before it can take hold.

Not his Omega. An Omega. Never his.

Shoving that painful conclusion to the back of his mind, Robby nods and ducks his chin, making deep, direct eye contact with you once more. “Okay then. You’ll feel my touch on your hands and on the insides of your wrists.”

He keeps his words calm and clinical, like he’s talking a skittish patient through a painful and unfamiliar procedure. But there’s nothing clinical about what he’s about to do to you. In fact, if he were to do this with a real patient, he would be lucky to get off with a written warning from the Ethics Committee. But here, he has no choice. Here, it’s the kindest thing an Alpha like him can do given the current circumstances.

So he does it. He scents you.

Moving slowly so as not to spook you, Robby wraps his fingers around one of your graceful wrists and brings the thin, vulnerable skin covering your secondary scent glands to press against the weathered base of his neck.

It’s admittedly a bit unconventional – scenting someone on the wrist instead of the neck – but the rational, practical part of him hopes it might soften the staggering intimacy of the gesture. You might be an Omega in distress, but you are still his colleague, still someone he has to see every day in the Pitt. You’re still a member of his pack that he is responsible for protecting – and that includes from himself. If he were to put any part of himself on your neck right now, would that make him just as bad as that impudent pup on the dance floor, smelling your arousal and thinking it an invitation?

Robby allows a handful of seconds for his scent to permeate yours, for the hormones to mingle and for your body to recognize his, and then your eyelids are drooping, and your knees are turning watery, and for the second time tonight, he finds himself propping you up as you sway on your feet.

“I gotcha,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you, cradling you to his chest.

You fold into him easily, every rigid muscle going pliant beneath his hands as you nuzzle into his flannel. Your answering sound – somewhere between a contented hum and moan – vibrates through his collarbones to his sternum.

Goosebumps break out across his skin as the sensation of it zips along his nerve endings to burrow at the base of his spine. Fuck. The most primal parts of him love that sound. That sound means happy Omega, comfortable Omega, safe Omega.

He did that. No one else.

“Thank you,” you sigh, dazed but grateful. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his flannel shirt as you pull yourself upright. Your pupils are blown wide, and if he thought you had smelled appealing before, you are downright edible now.

Clearing his throat, grasping the remaining strings of his restraint, he replies, “Anytime.”

The warmth and softness of your skin. The rich, earthy sweetness of your arousal. All of it buoyed by his own scent.

You smell held. Protected.

Fuck. You smell good together…

You must think so, too, because in less than a heartbeat, you lean back into his space, tuck your face into his open shirt collar, and begin nosing around in search of his scent glands. Robby can feel the heat of your breath on his skin, the delicate, ticklish sensation of your fluttering eyelashes against his throat, the dampness of your lips –

“Jesus, Robby, you smell amazing.” The breathlessness of your exclamation goes straight to his cock.

Twitching in his jeans, eyes falling shut, he shakes his head in weak protest. He knew this would happen, knew the consequences before he ever touched you. Scenting might be the most effective treatment for Omega distress ever studied, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have physiological and socioemotional side effects. Scenting is deeply personal – the sort of thing a partner does, the sort of thing a lover does.

He definitely feels like your lover right now.  

“Michael,” he groans thoughtlessly, and for the span of a breath, you pause.

“What?”

If there was ever a time to pull back, it would be now. As he holds you to his chest, Robby feels a bit like he does when he goes up to the roof of the hospital and stares down at the city below – the thrill and the terror of the knowledge that the smallest move now would send him plummeting, and there would be no coming back from it. There would only be the cold, unforgiving embrace of the pavement below. It tempts him now just as it does on the roof.

You’re so…good. And so vulnerable. And something inside him is fundamentally broken. What if he breaks you, too?

“Robby?”

Wordlessly, his hands grip the well-loved canvas of his coat, the one he is certain will carry the scent of you for weeks now that it’s been wrapped around your shoulders. Fuck, Robby is so weak. All it takes is the pretty little travel nurse showing a little skin and carrying his scent, and all of the very legitimate reasons why this is a terrible idea go out the window.

Gritting his teeth, resting his cheek against the crown of your head, he murmurs, “Michael. My name is Michael.” 

You’re floating.

The irrational, involuntary panic is gone. The dread has retreated. The instinctual clench of every muscle and tendon has softened. Instead, it has all been replaced with ease. Peace. An unshakeable sense of safety. It’s chemical, what this man has given you, and you can’t deny the way you’ve hungered for such a feeling.

Of course, the sweet, molten warmth that has taken residence low in your abdomen doesn’t hurt the situation, either. You’re just like any other red-blooded Omega; there have been a variety of Alphas (and a few Betas) throughout your life whose scents and touch have triggered a…primitive response. But Dr. Robby had had you dampening your panties even before scenting you. And now –

No. Not Dr. Robby, you correct yourself. Michael.

Michael, with the competent, seasoned authority in baked into his every move. Michael, with the soft, expressive eyes and the painfully charming smile. Michael, with the scent that makes you lightheaded and flustered every time you detect it.

Michael, with the hardening cock pressed against your belly as he allows you to wrap yourself eagerly around him. Something deep inside you trembles at the feel of it, and you are suddenly reminded of how long it’s been since you’ve been properly fucked.

Michael would fuck you properly. You know it in your gut, can feel it in every gentle-but-firm touch of his big, calloused hands. An Alpha his age? He has to have been around the block a few times. With his intelligence, his sense of humor, and his looks, there is no way he hasn’t learned a thing or two about how to please a woman. Just the thought of it is enough to have you biting back a whimper.

Your ex – who you try so hard not to think of if you can help it – was a Beta with an inferiority complex. David had been so insecure in his own designation and so envious of every Alpha he met that he had molded his entire personality around trying to emulate them. Early on in your relationship, you had found it intriguing. It was subversive in a way that you had admired; to flout the expectations and predispositions of one’s designation like that was no small thing. You had always loved a man with convictions, and David certainly had that going for him.  

Plus, the sex with him had been pretty good; what he lacked in certain anatomy, he made up for in his willingness to experiment. But it had been over a year since you saw him last. And you couldn’t deny that no matter how hard he tried, he had never quite managed to replicate the specific, inimitable satisfaction of taking a knot.

You bet Michael’s knot is big.

With a trembling breath, you pull away from the older man’s chest just far enough to be able to meet his eyes. He looks wrecked as he stares down at you – freckled cheeks flushed pink, graying hair disheveled, brown eyes nearly black with arousal. In the dim light of the alley, his sharp, white teeth glisten. He looks like he wants to eat you. Fuck, you wish he would.

“Kid?”

Inhaling a sharp breath, Michael abruptly yanks himself away, putting inches and then feet between you as Dr. Abbot and Dana emerge from the bar. The sharp, sudden distance steals the air from your lungs, and you bite back a whimper of protest as you steady yourself against the wall and pray your godmother did not just see you about to offer yourself up on a silver platter to the Chief of Emergency Medicine at her hospital.

You blink rapidly and try to clear the warm, intimate blur from your vision as you take her in – blonde hair loose on her shoulders, face pale and free of makeup, winter jacket zipped up to her chin. She’s wearing a pair of heather gray sweatpants you know she would never normally be seen out of the house in, and you recognize the boots on her feet as the ones she keeps in the garage that she only wears when gardening.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Dana hisses, a frown of distaste wiping away the concern etched into her tired face. “It stinks out here. I got here as soon as I could. You okay, honey?” 

Behind her, Dr. Abbot keeps his distance, hands clasped behind his back in a loose parade rest. Of course, he would call her. She’s the emergency contact you listed on your employment contract, your host while you’re in town. And what had happened tonight on the dance floor with that other Alpha was certainly an emergency.

However, from the way he is staring down Michael, expression unreadable, you wonder whether that was his only motivation.

Swallowing against an unexpected lump in your throat, you nod and offer Dana a close-lipped smile. “I’m okay, promise. M-Dr. Robby had my back.”

With his scent still in your nostrils, his jacket around your shoulders, and the gusset of your underwear uncomfortably soaked, calling this man Dr. Robby feels nothing short of bizarre.

Dana, thankfully, does not seem to catch your near slip, but Dr. Abbot does. You watch as a faint smirk twists his lips, and although you can’t hear it from where you stand, the little puff of warm air that escapes him tells you that you’ve made him laugh.

“I’m sure,” he mutters under his breath.

Closing the distance between you, you are helpless to protest as Dana peels the oversized canvas jacket from your body and hands it back to Michael. Her hands are cold but so gentle as she coaxes you away from the support of the brick wall at your back. “C’mon, missy. Let’s get you home.”

Before you can think better of it, you shake your head in refusal. “No, I’m okay, really. I can go back in, I just need another minute.”

Your godmother arches her brows at you, and the expression is so familiar, you feel certain that if she had her reading glasses on her person, she would have met your gaze over the rim of them.

“Listen,” she says softly, and that tone, too, is familiar. It’s the one she uses with patients, the one that tells them that she sees them, that she cares, but she also isn’t afraid to do whatever is in their best interests whether they like it or not. “It might not have hit you yet, but we both know that you’re gonna be falling asleep on your feet in a few minutes. The comedown from a distress episode is nothing to joke about, you understand? Now c’mon – I’m parked by the curb out front. Let me take you home.”

She’s not wrong; you know it from experience, both personal and professional. But the idea of leaving, the idea of being any further than a few feet away from Michael – Dr. Robby – right now feels unbearable. It’s as though he’s invaded your body on a cellular level, his scent on your skin a chemical signal that you belong at his side. The peace he had so graciously granted you starts to waver and wane as you try and fail to catch his eye. Surely, he feels it, too. Surely, he will advocate for you to stay. With him.

Instead, Robby’s wide shoulders stiffen, and he very pointedly does not meet your probing gaze as he crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Dana’s right. You should let yourself rest.”

If you were in your right mind, if you had been capable of paying attention to the microexpressions in his voice in that moment, you would have noticed that the words sound as though they have been ripped from his throat. There’s a tension in his jaw that would tell you that it hurts him to deny you. But instead, all you feel is a cold wave of rejection that is enough to snuff out the heat in your belly and make your chest ache.

“But – ”

“It’ll be all right.” Finally, he glances at you out of the corner of his eye. “Trust me.”

Do you trust me? he had asked. Of course, you do. You have trusted him since the day you met him, have only grown to trust him more as you’ve worked alongside him, as you’ve gotten to know him. Especially after tonight, after everything he has just done to protect you, you can’t imagine not trusting him.

“Okay.”

The word is all Dana needs to pull you away from the wall and start ushering you toward the door. “Okay. Let’s go grab your coat, it’s freezing out here.”

This time, you allow her to guide you along without protest. Just as she is about to beckon you through the threshold, however, you pause and turn to Dr. Abbot. “Tell Samira happy birthday for me again, and that I’m sorry I caused a scene at her party.”

The expression on the older man’s face is one of fond affection as he replies, “Wasn’t your fault, honey. But I’ll tell her.”

And then you’re stepping back into the neon light of the bar, and no matter how loudly your body screams at you to turn around, you keep your eyes locked on the back of Dana’s head and let the door fall shut behind you.

Every step you take is a leaden weight in Robby’s stomach. It goes against every one of his instincts to let you out of his sight knowing how vulnerable you still are. He supposes the knowledge that you carry his scent should help; if any other Alpha were to even consider approaching you for the next 24 hours, you might as well be wearing a shirt that reads “Property of Michael Robinavitch.” But it’s not enough.

You should be where he can see you. Where he can touch you. For your safety.

For his sanity.

Releasing a long, trembling breath, he rubs his hands over his face. Fuck. What a mess.

The sound of someone clearing their throat breaks through Robby’s mental pity party, and he opens his eyes to find Jack Abbot standing with his arms crossed over his chest and a pointed expression on his face.

He feels a bit like a child, like he’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

Hackles bristling, Robby snaps, “If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time.”

He’s expecting a scolding. A lecture about the impropriety of his actions, about the potential complications at the hospital if the events of tonight were to get back to the administration. At the very least, he’s expecting a ribbing – something about how Robby had gotten on Jack’s case about the exact same things when he had first learned of his friend’s burgeoning relationship with Samira Mohan, and wasn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?

Instead, as Jack sweeps his knowing gaze from the top of Robby’s head to the tips of his boots, he offers the older Alpha a wry smile.

“Don’t worry, brother,” he says, slapping Robby on the shoulder fraternally. “You’ll see her on Monday.”

Credits: Dividers -@saradika-graphics, Chapter Beta Reader -@kedsandtubesocks

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