✨The Book Collector✨

They claw desperately at him, not holding back as they squeeze and tear at him. He isn’t treated as something delicate - something that will crack and break under the slightest pressure. He arches into them as he is marked with thin lines of scratches - begs with what voice he can muster for more.

More.

He’s teased to the point of almost too much before the hands reset.

Whatever they plan for him, he submits so easily to it. 

He yearns for it when one leaves his neck to force open his jaw. He is in bliss as his lips are pushed back so his teeth are exposed like he’s an animal in need of inspection. A thumb tests the sharpness of his canines before more digits are added to completely fill his mouth. His head is tilted and guided so he can be thoroughly examined and he prays the fingers will gag him - be shoved down his throat so all he can taste is their saltiness.

But they don’t. They retract until only the tips remain, keeping him from being able to close his mouth. A low whine escapes his throat in protest, something weak and pathetic and needy, and the response he gets is more pressure to his windpipe until he’s struggling to breathe. 

As his lungs become desperate for oxygen, something viscous begins to drip into his waiting maw and he wastes no time drinking down whatever the gift is. It is tangy and musky, but sweet and he wants it to coat the inside of his mouth. 

He wants to drown in it. 

As he begins to overflow and get his wish, the hands holding him down begin to fade into nothingness and he is left floating in the abyss. 

But he is not alone. 

He is wrapped within the drumming of twin beats - one is stronger than the other, but they are both steady. They are both warm. They call to him and the beast inside his chest trills out in response - he wants to be with them. To be a part of them. 

Soon, the smaller beat begins to morph - it’s firm ‘thuds’ stretching and bending until they are words. 

“Daddy, wake up.” 

Matt’s eyes blink open. 

Despite their uselessness in terms of sight, the act still helps him wake up and fight off his grogginess as he begins to process all the inputs he is receiving. The most obvious and important of the signals he is getting is that of his precious daughter, standing next to the bed, just by his chest. 

She does not seem distressed in any way, so he does not panic. He lets himself yawn and for his brain to catch up to being awake before he responds.

“Yes, princess?” he asks, voice still thick with sleep. He doesn’t move, hoping that whatever has his daughter out of bed is trivial and he won’t have to get up just yet. He has no idea what time it is, but he gets so little rest that even an extra few minutes will do him wonders.

“Daddy!” Minnie’s voice is filled with absolute delight at his acknowledgement, but is also a fraction above a whisper - like she is just barely breathing out the words. Matt’s lips turn up into a soft smile as he realizes she’s trying to be quiet so she will not wake the other person sleeping in his bed. You are deep in Dreamland, but you have a Mother's Ear. If you hear Minnie up and talking, you'll jump to attention, and neither he or his princess want that. 

He rolls so he is on his side facing his little one, and reaches out to run the back of his index finger over one of her full cheeks, “Why are you awake, baby?”

Mouse preens at the affection, a wide smile taking over her face as she leans into his touch, “I needs help, please thank you,” she starts, her soft voice coming out a little rushed as she tries to tell him everything at once. “I gots up all by myselfs and went pee in the toilets. All by myselfs. Buts, Daddy, I can’t…I can’t reach the sinks. I trieded but it's too high and I can’t reach it. I tried really really hard! Mommy says, Daddy, she says, Mommy says if I can’ts do it myself I gotta ask for help. So I need help, please thank you.”

Matt takes in the information slowly, letting it roll in his brain and combine with everything else he senses. 

He can hear the toilet gurgling and refilling after being flushed. He can smell the traces of urine on Minnie’s fingers from her efforts to clean herself. The world begins to bloom around him as he processes what is being asked of him.

A small amount of Pride fills him at her attempts to take care of herself. She wears pull ups to sleep because she is still learning to control her bladder at night, but since Matt has known her, there have been no accidents he is aware of - even in this new environment. It isn’t her fault he has a tall pedestal sink with no step stool for her to use so she can wash her hands. 

Rest is important, but his little girl needs him, so Matt rolls himself out of bed. 

As soon as he is up on his feet, Minnie is holding up her arms to be picked up, so she is scooped up onto his hips, and her tiny arms go right around his neck. His shirt covers the bruises and cuts that make up his entire torso, but it does nothing to cushion the pain of thirty pounds being bumped into him. He's far too disciplined to wince or grunt, but he reminds himself this is why he needs to work on his defense. 

He can't play with his daughter with broken ribs.

As he carries her to the bathroom, he becomes more and more awake and Minnie’s attempts to turn on the sink become more and more obvious. 

The faucet is dripping the smallest amount of water, one drop at a time - the handle has just barely been nudged to turn on - and something semi solid has been dragged over to be in front of the sink. Only when Matt is right in front of it and can feel the item with his foot does he realize it’s his empty laundry hamper, but tilted over to be on its side. 

He huffs a soft laugh as he imagines his daughter trying to figure out a solution to her hand-washing problem. He loves her cleverness and outside the box toddler thinking. 

“Did you try to climb up on the hamper to wash your hands?” he asks, curious as to what the response will be. He's curious about her logic and curious if she'll admit to moving the hamper.

“It’s not strongs enough to hold me,” she grumbles into his shoulder and Matt does nothing to suppress his grin. He likes the answer. He likes how honest and direct she is. 

He likes that she follows the rules her mother gave about washing her hands. He likes that she realized she had a problem and attempted to find a solution, and when that didn't work, she came and asked for help. 

Matt loves her so so much and he loves all the values you have instilled into her. They are the values that you hold, that you cherish, and think are the most important. Every time he thinks about what a wonderful mother you are, his heart swells and he can't believe God is being so gracious with him.

He thanks the Lord everyday for you and the precious angel you have brought into his life.

Matt gets his foot under the hamper and lifts it back up right with ease, explaining as he does, “It’s made of wicker - that’s a type of tree. It’s hollow inside and that means it can’t support any weight. It’s only meant to hold clothes, not people.” He wants her to understand why her problem solving didn't work. He selfishly wants to encourage this type of behavior. If she can get up at night and wash her own hands, he gets more sleep.

“But I’m a peoples.”

“You are a peoples. But Daddy overlooked not having a step stool for you,” he says, owning up to his oversight. He admittedly has not been around too much during waking hours, unfortunately. The firm has been busy, so Matt has been getting to work at seven thirty in the morning and Minnie gets tired around eight at night. That doesn't give him a lot of time when he gets home at six in the evening. “I’ll get one for you today, okay?”

“Can it be pink?” 

Matt agrees to the request as the hamper is returned to its usual home, and once that is done, he assists Minnie by holding her up to the sink so she can thoroughly wash her hands. He is no longer surprised at how seriously she takes the task - his angel always wants to follow any rules her Mommy gives her and he knows first hand how overwhelming dirty hands can be on the senses - and the combination results in Minnie scrubbing enough to make a surgeon jealous.

As his daughter focuses on her task, he lets his hearing open up to the world outside the apartment. He gets the feeling it is still a few hours until sunrise - there is a distinct stillness the city gets between four and six am, and that is just beginning to waiver. In his quick scan, no one gives him an exact time, but he knows well enough that however early it is, his day has started. By the way his little girl is humming while she works, he knows there is no chance of getting her back to sleep. She is up and about and there is no way Matt is going to rouse you from your slumber when he’s perfectly capable and taking care of his angel. 

He’s used to working on no sleep and he’ll happily sacrifice a few hours of rest to be able to be with his daughter. Plus, he’ll be in court all day, supporting Foggy as second chair - with all the breaks and waiting around that normally occurs, he can sneak in a few power naps. 

He’ll be fine.

As for his morning with his sweet girl, Matt has been wanting to cook with Minnie for a while. Despite his diet of take out and leftovers, he does know his way around a kitchen and he knows for a fact Mouse is the best sous chef New York has to offer. She will be thrilled to help him do something special for her favorite person in the world. 

And she will be even more thrilled when Matt tells her the plan is to make her Mommy breakfast in bed. He very much wants to spoil you after you took such good care of him the night before and letting you sleep in will just be the tip of the iceberg. 

You deserve the Sun, the Stars, and the Moon, and while he can’t manage that at this exact moment, he can wrangle up a few physical reminders of his adoration.

Minnie gets the last of the soap off her hands and Matt pivots so she can reach the towel to dry herself off. As he does, his mind refocuses to the morning routine and the steps he needs to take before he can enact the first steps of his plan - he needs to get his daughter ready for her day. That means getting her dressed and doing her hair. 

He sees no reason to beat around the bush, so he bluntly asks, “how do you want to do your hair today, Princess?”

Mouse gives a tiny gasp and looks up at him with what he can only guess is wonder, “you’re gonna do my hair, Daddy?” Her little hands shoot up and she begins patting around her bed-head curls and he can practically hear the gears turning in her mind as she determines what she wants. You’ve told him a few times that you have been letting her make this big decision in the mornings, so he waits patiently, understanding the need for independence. 

“A ponytail!” is the final verdict and Matt is slightly relieved it is nothing complicated.

“We can do a ponytail. Can you pick out some clothes that will go nice with a ponytail?” he asks, knowing the answer will be an enthusiastic ‘yes’. Hair is something he can deal with, but picking out a toddler approved outfit is beyond his skill level for obvious reasons. Minnie is a little fashionista with all her tulle and party dresses and he would hate to make her look like a jester instead of the royalty she is. 

He adjusts his hold on her before leaving the bathroom and as he makes his way back to the bedroom, he drops his voice low, “we need to be quiet so we don’t wake Mommy, okay?”

“Quiet,” Mouse breathes in agreement, her face scrunching up with determination as she does. “So we don't wake Mommy.” He knows then that she will try her best to obey him and it makes his heart swell. 

He has the sweetest little girl in the world. 

He sets her back down just outside the doorway, and to his great surprise, she instantly pushes up to be on her tip toes. She is a bit wobbly, but she has far more control than he expected for a four year old. She turns to him, and in the most authoritative voice he’s heard in a while  advises, “we gotta be quiets” before sneaking into the room.

Her steps are exaggerated - she lifts her foot up way too high to be practical before setting it down again and between each movement is a pause to check for noise. He is reminded of an old timey bank robber and he guesses that must be the reference she is mimicking - some Bugs Bunny or Scooby Doo cartoon where silence was crucial. Her antics make him smile and he takes a moment to observe them - noting how she is true to her nickname. She makes no excessive noise and he’s sure if he didn’t have his superior senses, he wouldn’t be able to detect her. 

It is amazing to him that something that took years of training for him to master comes so naturally to Minnie. She truly is his miracle, and if he thinks about it for too long, he gets overly emotional and philosophical, so he tucks all his awe away for another time and follows her into the bedroom. 

While Mouse follows her mission of picking out some clothes, Matt grabs the bucket of hair supplies from his dresser. He doesn’t know what all the different bottles and products are for, but he takes them all anyway. He is hoping a few more sessions will have him graduating out of the novice category of hair styling and he will be able to do more than the basics.

Apparently, asking Minnie to pick out clothes while being quiet also made her focus, as she  selects something from her suitcase in record speed. She exits back into the living room the same time he does, a big smile on her face as she holds up her prizes to present to him. He's pretty sure she's showing him a pair of leggings and a t-shirt dress, but such small clothes are a little harder for him to figure out.

“I wanna wear these.”

“With your ponytail?”

“Yes, please! Thank you!”

With the hard decisions made, he guides Mouse over to the couch and that begins the process of changing her into her day clothes. He’s so very lucky that she finds novelty in him being the one to assist her, because she wants to show him all the right way to do things and that she can get dressed all by herself. He’s only needed to help straighten everything out and to tell her she looks perfect in her apparently pink dress.

Her hair is almost just as easy - Matt finds joy in running his fingers through her bouncy little curls and Minnie can't soak up the affection quick enough. He’s gentle as he manually detangles any knots and he forgoes the brush completely in favor of pulling her hair up with his hands. It is far from the smoothest of ponytails, but as soon as his hands are away from her head, Mouse is running to the nearest reflective surface to examine herself.

She twirls and poses, pretending she is in front of a camera while declaring, “Daddy made me extra pretty!”

He does not need anymore ego boosting, but the compliment goes right into his front pocket and he will be telling Foggy about his accomplishments.

He lets her spin around and have her fun, in no rush to move the morning along. He knows better than anyone that these types of small moments are what his Soul and Heart need and he will cling to them as long as he can. He does wish he knew how to get his phone to take video and pictures, because he knows how much you would cherish them. It is something he plans to work on - not only for you but for him as well. He has daydreams about attending dance recitals and spelling bees and he wants to be the proud dad in the crowd filming everything. He wants to be able to go back to those moments and listen to them anytime he wants to. 

But until he actually has the energy and patience to learn more about his phone, he will treasure this time only in his memory. 

Minnie gives a final peace sign to her reflection, then she turns and hurries over to Matt with her arms held out to be picked up. 

“I’m a kitty!” she eagerly tells him as he once again swings her up onto his hip. She not-so-gently headbutts him in the shoulder, then starts rubbing her cheek against his shirt. “Meow meow meow!”

Her gleefullness is infectious and Matt is quickly grinning while he begins to exaggeratedly pet at her back, “Well, Miss Kitty, I was thinking about making some scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast and I was hoping to have an assistant. Since my daughter seems to have disappeared, do you think you can help me?”  

Minnie pulls back so she can look at him, then she reaches up, fingers curled up to make a paw, and starts playfully, but so gently, batting at his cheek. “Meow meow, scrambled eggs and toast? Meow meow. I knows how to make those, I can helps, meow meow!” 

“You can help?” He confirms and she nods so hard her curls bounce around behind her. “And you won’t get any fur in the eggs? This is an extra special breakfast.”

“Meow meow, extra special breakfast, meow meow?” 

He hums in affirmation and begins to carry his little girl towards the kitchen. “Extra special breakfast. You see, someone I love very very much is still asleep and I think it would be nice to wake her up with breakfast in bed. What do you think, Miss Kitty?”

Matt gets another light bop to the face just as Minnie asks, “Meow meow, is it for Mommy, meow meow?”

“It is for Mommy.” 

He sets her on the back counter, away from the stove, and starts to pull out everything he will need to complete his task. As he does, Mouse begins to swing her feet.

“Meow meow, Mommy likes red stuff on her eggies. Meow meow meow,” she tells you, but he has no idea what she is talking about. He’s never noticed if you add something to your eggs, but he’s not entirely sure if you have eaten eggs together. Most of your meals together have been lunch or dinner, and he doesn’t recall any breakfast for dinner scenarios. 

“I don’t think I have any red stuff,” he advises as he takes out the milk, eggs, cheese, and butter from the fridge. She is completely nonplussed by the update and keeps up her kitty-time play. 

“Meow meow, she likes cheese, toos. Meow meow.” 

That makes him chuckle and instead of putting the bag onto the counter, he offers it to his daughter, who eagerly hugs it to her chest. “Do kitties like cheese, too?” 

“Meow meow, kitties love cheese! Meow meow meow!”

“What about whisking eggs, do kitties love to do that?” 

He doesn’t get a verbal response and he gets about a quarter of a second of warning before Minnie is leaping down from the counter. He darts forward, catching her by the waist as her feet miss brushing the floor by a centimeter, but his hold is no match against a wiggly toddler and she’s running out of the kitchen before his mind can process what just happened. 

He stands slowly, his heart slamming in his chest with adrenaline over his sweet girl jumping off something twice her height. She had no fear or second thoughts about it, but all he can imagine is her little body crumbling to the ground in pain. 

Is this what he puts Foggy through everytime he puts on his helmet?

He pales at the thought. 

“Sweetheart, it wasn’t safe to do that. You could have gotten hurt,” he tells her, feeling like the biggest hypocrite in the world. He’s only very recently started caring about his own well being and he’s thrown himself in danger without thought so many times that he’s pretty sure even God has lost count. 

“Kitties land on their feets!” Minnie tells him from across the room, rummaging in her bag of toys. He has no idea what she could possibly be looking for and at the moment, as long as she is safe, he doesn’t care. 

He drags a hand over his face, very suddenly understanding why being a parent is a full time job. He is definitely going to add on to his plans to spoil you - Minnie is a sweet angel but you need more than praise for raising her. 

She finds whatever she was looking for and runs back towards him with it held high over her head - it is plastic and by the smell of it, he’s pretty sure it came from her kitchen playset. 

“I knows how to whisk, meow meow!” 

Matt takes a deep breath to reset himself, then lets his affection and love for his daughter take over, “you do, do you?”

“Meow meow, yeah, I can whisk lots of things!” She waves the toy at him, clearly proud of herself, and he chuckles at her sweetness and eagerness. He wanted her help in the kitchen and he is certainly going to get it.

“Okay, then, Chef Miss Kitty, let's make some eggs.” 

First thing first, he gets the coffee going. He switched to the brand you prefer the morning after your first time in his apartment and he’s made sure to memorize exactly how you take it so he can give you the perfect cup every time. 

Next, he cracks eggs into a bowl while Minnie watches like a hawk, her toy whisk clenched tightly in her hand and waiting to do her job. He adds a dash of milk and as soon as he sets down the carton, his shirt is being tugged on so he can lift up his little angel - so he does. 

Determined doesn’t even begin to describe what Matt witnesses. Minnie takes the task as seriously as a professional chef, hunched forward and silent as she works. There is a little pout on her lips and he has to latch onto his own professionalism so he won’t laugh. 

There is no need for him to direct her - she was not telling tall tales about her abilities. She blends the eggs beautifully and when Matt senses there is no point in continuing to whisk, he kisses her cheek. 

“I think you got them, sweetheart. They are perfect, thank you.” 

“I love whisking,” she whispers to him like it is a secret and he takes note of it. He’s sure that when Minnie finally gets to meet Foggy’s parents, there will be lots of desserts in his future. Anna loves baking and loves grandkids and letting her have an afternoon with a toddler who loves to cook will probably be like an early Christmas.  

She stays on his hip as toast is started and butter is dropped in the pan to melt. She keeps surprisingly quiet, only piping up to ask to switch her whisk for a spatula. She gets a real one as the time comes to start cooking the eggs. 

“You have to let them bubble a little and start to become firm,” Matt directs, hoping his directions make sense. “When the parts touching the pan get solid, you have to push them out of the way so the liquidy part can cook, too. Got it?”

“Meow meow, got it, meow meow.”

He doesn’t know if she really understands what he is saying, but it is clear that you have let her stir the eggs before. She is gentle as she nudges things around, like she is aware too much will make a mess and again, she stays sharply focused, seemingly wanting to make your breakfast in bed as perfect as possible. He is quickly learning that tomfoolery is not tolerated in Chef Miss Kitty’s kitchen and he is more than fine with that. He thinks it is absolutely charming that she is so dedicated. 

She sits up straighter when the eggs begin to firm and form into a runny scramble and Matt hums out soft praise, “You’re doing so well, sweetheart.” 

“I knows how to make eggies, meow meow.”

“You sure do. Do you want to add the cheese now?”

“Meow meow, yes, please. Meow meow.”

He gives her another kiss and a minute later, Minnie is telling him the newly cheesy eggs are done and he sets her down so he can transfer everything to plates. She stays in his shadow but out from under his feet as the toast is buttered and cut, and coffee is poured. It is only after everything is ready to go that he realizes that he does not have a tray to properly present breakfast in bed. 

He considers his options, then decides on just bringing the plate as is, with a dish towel under it to keep you from burning your hands. He’ll make sure he has the correct set up for the next time he does this - because he knows very well there will be a next time, and a time after that, and many more after that.

The moment Minnie steps out of his small kitchen area, her demeanor changes completely. She is back to being an excited toddler and Matt lets himself throw his head back and laugh as she takes off towards the bedroom. He follows after her, his heart swollen and glowing with love for both her and the woman who changed his life for the better. He prays this is one of the moments he will remember for the rest of his time on Earth and can replay in his mind over and over again.

“Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! We made you breakfast!” 

---

:3

---

@two-unbeatable-beaters @kiwwia-wiwwia @1988-fiend @xblueriddlex @loves0phelia @ninacotte @lovelyygirl8 @littlenosoul @ednaaa-04  @astridstark13 @hashcakes

 @lovingkryptonitehideout @moongirlgodness @soocore @bluestuesday @midnightwonderlan

@starry-night-20 @rebeccapineapple @writtenbyred @cherrypie5 @capswife @silvercharacterchaos @resting-confused-face

@Specialagentjackbauer  @yarrystyleeza @ofmusesandsecrets @buckyssugarchick

@the-devils-angel @savvyreyes4587 @diasnohibng @blobygree18 @givemylovetoall 

@xoxabs88xox @bluerobin35  @lovely-foxes-exe

@midnightreids @cloudroomblog @yeonalie @thychuvaluswife 

@petrovafire39 @ghostindeath @roxytheimmortal 

 @allllium @waywardcrow @thatkindofgurl @waywardxrhea 

@anehkael @akilatwt @lostinthefantasies @reluctanthalfwayoptimism @ethereal-blaze

 @nennia-2000 @seasonofthenerd @abucketofweird  @mattmurdockstateofmind @imagineswritersblog @hazelhavoc @smile-child-13 @allst4rsfall @hashcakes @kezibear @mapleaye @sammanna @gamingfeline @moon-glades @nightwitherspring @phoenix666stuff @dare-devil

@ladyoflynx @hobiebrowns-wife @sarcasm-n-insomnia @lillycore 

@dorothleah @mattmurdocksstarlight @mars-on-vinyl @mywellspringoflife @sleepdeprived-barelyalive @simmilarly @soupyspence @darkened-writer @akila-twt

@murc0ckmurc0ck @groovycass @sumo-b98 @just3rowsing @tongueofcat @zoom1374

@theclassicvinyldragon @aoi-targaryen @lunaticgurly @nikitawolfxo @shireentapestry @snakevyro @yondiii @echos-muses @honeybug-victoria @the-bisaster @ristare 

@mrs-bellingham @eugene-emt-roe @cometenthusiast @stevenknightmarc @yes-im-your-mom @hunnybelha @actorinfluence @capbrie @prowlingforfood @jupitervenusearthmars

“N-no. All good. Well, except…” You gesture vaguely at your torso.

“Hold on.” Since his cup is now basically empty, he drops it on the sidewalk and runs inside, while you stand dumbly among the passersby. 

There are tears coming into your eyes against your will. Why is being the victim in a bad situation always so humiliating? Surely there’s some sort of psychological explanation—

“Here we go.” He thrusts about a hundred coffee shop napkins into your sprawled hands. “I’m so sorry.” He shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket, too gentlemanlike to help clean up the giant stain that has started to cool over your breasts. Through the tears stinging the back of your eyes, you can read in yellow letters over his heart: Beers of the Burgh.

“Um,” is all you can say as you helplessly dab at your button down and blazer with the coarse, mostly useless squares he’s given you. He’s running his hands through his hair and looking up the street like someone might swoop in to make everything better.

“Please let me pay to get those dry cleaned,” he says finally, taking the sodden napkins from you and stuffing them in his empty coffee container.

“I’m sorry about your coffee,” you say weakly, deciding you’re going to be late for arraignments, capitulating to the hand you’ve been dealt this morning. It’s overcast and chilly and the magistrate judge is going to be livid.

He did spill his drink all over you like a drunk freshman at a dive bar, but he has a puppydog look about him that makes you reluctant to stop talking to him. You almost don’t want to walk away and put this shitty morning with the little coffee shop disaster behind you. Because he’d still be standing there, hands in his pockets with his jacket sleeves pushed up, those dark brows slanted with concern and embarrassment. He looks to be middle-aged, but his voice is smooth and kind.

“I’m much more sorry about your clothes,” he nearly laughs. He pulls his cell phone out of his pants pocket—you notice they’re slouchy Carhartts. He taps a few times on his screen and flips it around to show you a QR code. “Add me and request the total of the dry cleaning cost—and add whatever your next cup of coffee costs ya. Again, I’m so sorry. Please let me make it right.”

You scan it and add him, @robbyrobin1, feeling like a robot that was never programmed to speak. 

“You’re forgiven, I promise,” you say at last, knowing you also need to take a rideshare home to change before you go to court, though you don’t enlighten him of that. You don’t know why. You don’t even know his name, and he ruined a perfectly normal morning. But you just can’t make him feel worse.

“Thanks. I hope you have a better day than what I’ve started you off with,” he smirks self-deprecatingly, tugging on the strap of his satchel. He nods and heads off down the slope of the sidewalk. For some reason, you watch him until he rounds the corner of a building and is gone.

You text your coworker Adam that you’ll be late for court while you let one frustrated tear fall. It’s swiped away before anyone else can see it. Your ride comes and you head home, thinking of those incredible brown eyes. Which you would never see again. 

Gone, melted into the hundreds of thousands of people in Pittsburgh. Just like you.

“Good morning, counsel. I see you’ve decided to grace us with your presence,” Judge Moran snips.

You sigh. This gray suit from Kohl’s, which has to be at least six years old now, will have to do for this morning’s Magisterial District Court docket. For which you are thirty-five minutes late.

“Thank you for your patience, your honor,” you say with more confidence than you feel. Sorry, Judge, I was busy racing home to change out of my newest suit because an older man who, I am realizing in retrospect, I found quite attractive, covered me with an entire day’s worth of caffeine. Who gets black coffee from a coffee shop anyway? Really, shouldn’t you just—

“I tried to drag my arraignments out for you, but she’s in a mood this morning,” Adam, another public defender who also covers felonies, whispers in your ear. His steady voice breaks through your incoming internal meltdown. “Hang in there.” He stuffs his files in his bag and gestures for a bailiff to take one of his clients back to the holding cells so they can talk.

You dump your files on the podium and take a deep breath. You scan the jury box, which is currently filled with red-jumpsuit-clad and shackled incarcerated people. You’re trying to match names to the faces you looked up last night on the jail website. 

Two thefts by unlawful taking. Seven drug possessions involving fentanyl, two of them with assault charges as well, and you realize from reading the short citations that they might be co-defendants. Your office paralegal should have caught that. This day is shaping up to be a real shitshow after all.

The incarcerated defendants begin muttering amongst themselves as your silence stretches. “I can’t believe I’ve got a fuckin’ public pretender,” one of Adam’s clients says loud enough to get escorted back to the holding cells by the bailiff. 

Some of his neighbors snicker, but most of them are looking at their feet, defeated.

You get to the bottom of your stack and realize there’s a file with a name you don’t recognize: Quade Jameson. You flip through it, wondering if Adam accidentally left it, but sure enough, your name is on the upper left-hand corner of the file’s inside. It must have been a late assignment within your office and shoved into your stack before you went home for the day yesterday. Not surprising but still maddening.

There are only three sheets of paper on the inside: the short police citation, a criminal history printout from pretrial services, and the application for a public defender. Mr. Jameson makes less than forty grand per year, so you go ahead and write on the lined sheet stapled inside both the date and “preliminary arraignment.”

You quickly flip to the citation, sensing Judge Moran burning holes into the side of your head with her gaze as she waits for you to begin calling cases, and squint at the text. 

COUNT 1: MURDER (1ST DEG.) (F)

COUNT 2: TAMPERING WITH PHYSICAL EVIDENCE (M)

“Damn, are you kidding?” you whisper, tilting your chin away from the hot microphone. A late assignment on a murder? You take a cursory look at the prosecutor, Nathaniel, who is obviously looking at fantasy football stats on his phone. You then scan the jury box, and through the process of elimination, set your eyes on who you think might be the one. “Mr. Quade Jameson?” you call.

He’s maybe a year or two younger than you and has mid-length dreads not yet bedraggled by a stay at the jail. His eyes are round and frightened, with just a touch of anger, which you have come to recognize very well. He lifts one hand as well as he can in the cuffs, and you step over to squat beside him, telling him your name. “I’m a public defender. Today you’re being informed of your rights and bail will be set, as well as a preliminary hearing, probably later this week.”

“Ma’am, I didn’t do nothing, I swear. Please get me out of here. Please!” he whispers a little too loudly. You place your hand on his upper arm and nod as the bailiff glares at you both.

“I understand you’re frustrated. I’ll meet with you after court today, okay?” You hand him a business card. “How long have you lived in Pittsburgh?”

“My whole life. Live with my momma and my baby girl. She’s four. Momma was gonna come to court but she can’t find anyone to watch Isabelle.”

“Can your mom post any sort of bail? Pay for an ankle monitor?”

He shakes his head and chews the inside of his cheek.

“I’m going to do my best, Mr. Jameson, but your charge is very serious. Step up to the podium with me, please.”

He nods as he stuffs your card in the one pocket on his jumpsuit.

“Your honor, may we begin by calling the case of Commonwealth versus Quade Jameson?”

“You may,” Judge Moran says through gritted teeth, as you walk forward, and your client shuffles in his leg shackles. “Mr. Jameson, did you hear the rights I read to everyone earlier?”

“Yes ma’am—” You elbow him softly, hidden behind the podium. “Yes, your honor.”

“After reviewing the economic information from pretrial services, I am appointing the Allegheny County Public Defender’s Office. Counsel, will you be representing Mr. Jameson?”

“I will.” You flip back to the criminal history report. Low pretrial risk scores for failing to appear and criminal activity: a small beam of hope. Not that it matters much to Judge Moran. “Your honor, if I may be heard on the matter of bail?”

“You may,” she responds, not looking up from playing sudoku on her phone. 

You swallow your frustration and try not to roll your eyes. “Mr. Jameson is a lifelong resident of Pittsburgh. He lives with his mom and his young daughter.” You lean over to Quade and whisper, Are you employed? He nods vigorously. “He has a job as well, but like many people in our community, he cannot possibly post any significant cash bail. He understands that this case is serious and that he must reappear in court. I would ask that he be considered for the electronic monitoring grant from the county.”

Nathaniel scratches the inside of ear and replies around a yawn, “A very high cash bond would be appropriate considering he is alleged to have killed someone. Unprovoked. With a firearm.”

Quade takes in a sharp breath and you shush him gently. “Don’t let him rile you up.”

“I’m inclined to agree with the Commonwealth. One hundred thousand dollars, full cash. The Court sets this matter for a preliminary hearing this Friday. I order that the Pittsburgh Police Department be notified.”

You take in a breath, hold it for three seconds, and then turn to face Quade, who is grinding his teeth. “I will come see you as soon as I can to talk about all this. Promise.”

He shrugs and shuffles back to his seat, his head dropped low between his shoulder blades.

At the end of the long docket, you text your boss. Late assignment on a murder case? Really?

He responds brutally: Super late add to the docket. All yours from here on out.

You stagger down the steps of the courthouse to head to the office. The bailiffs taking a smoke break look at you with barely concealed pity. The wind hits you and you can somehow still smell the coffee on your skin. 

When you went home earlier to change, you should have just crawled under the covers and never come out.

Michael cannot stop thinking about it, even thirteen hours later.

The blood all over the gurney, the blank look in the patient’s eyes, the coldness of the young man’s forearms. The way the gold chain around his neck turned a sickly orange with bloodstains. 

It had happened toward the end of an otherwise bearable shift. Damion Yates, twenty-six-year-old male, gunshot wound to left chest, brought in by the EMTs who said he was in and out of consciousness. Robby stepped up to the gurney, McKay close to his side, since they both happened to be standing by the ambulance bay when the patient was wheeled in.

“Trauma Two,” Michael said authoritatively, pulling on a pair of gloves. “Mohan! Over here, please.”

As the nurses were opening the doors to Two, Damion’s eyes suddenly shot open, and Michael leaned in close. Damion coughed up some blood and growled, “Th-that bastard. Thinks he’s bad. But I seen him in that red shirt from a mile away. Following…” And his eyes closed.

“Stay with us, Damion,” Michael yelled, pointlessly.

An hour and a half of coding. Compressions, transfusions, frantic brainstorming from the doctors, all at a loss against the destruction of a single bullet. The fluorescent lights glared so fiercely on the face of Michael’s watch that he had to tilt his wrist to see the hands. “Time of death: 6:58 PM.”

They each stared at one another: Mohan, McKay, Mateo, Princess, each one eventually looking toward their leader, Dr. Robby, who stood like a beacon at the foot of the bed.

“A moment of silence for Damion,” he murmured, folding his hands, which were shaking slightly. “A human being gone too soon.”

They all looked down at the bed, where the still form of a young man did not breathe, did not move, did not feel. A life that was snuffed out like a candle.

You would be forgiven for thinking that in an urban center, Michael would get used to gunshot deaths. But he never did. How a single piece of metal could easily take away someone’s sibling, someone’s parent, someone’s child, someone’s spouse. It was completely absurd, and yet they faced it every single week. Usually every day.

And then they all left the room. But Damion, even if only in spirit, went with them.

After debriefing Jack, who would have to deal with the morgue staff and the family when they arrived, Michael went home and slept fitfully on his couch—his bed seemed too good for him—all the while seeing that young man burned behind his eyelids. He tried to cry and couldn’t.

The next morning, he decided that it was a new day, and that he would support the coffee shop down the street from the hospital and get a muffin and the largest black coffee they would give him.

And then he poured it all over a woman, who looked up at him with so much shock and confusion that the first words out of his mouth were Oh, fuck. Of course. Smooth, Dr. Robby.

She looked really nice, with her faux leather tote and red lipstick. And he had ruined it all—probably her entire day, if not her entire week.

She had been embarrassed, but not particularly angry, and he could not have been more grateful. He couldn’t handle a fistfight with a stranger before a twelve-hour day shift, even if he deserved it. Not after yesterday. Damion Yates, twenty-six. He remembered being that age; he had a nostalgia Damion would never have.

He heads back to the Pitt with no coffee and a head swimming with the image of that dead young man, now joined by the timbre of your voice. I’m sorry about your coffee. You sounded so soft and sincere. Who the hell sounded like that after they got a chest full of someone else’s order?

Before he knows it, he’s stepping into the Pitt, which is buzzing with activity at shift change. “Good morning, hon,” Dana calls to him, staring at him quizzically over her metal-rimmed glasses. “No coffee today?”

“Long story,” Michael groans, already looking at the board. Dana is silent for a long while, so he looks down at her again. “What is it?”

“Tilt your chin back up,” she says seriously, one side of her mouth pulling into a half-smile. Michael complies with some confusion before his charge nurse steps toward him and wipes at the bottom of his throat. “Michael Robinavitch!”

“What?” he snaps, jerking his head away.

Dana’s voice drops a dangerous octave, but with a trace of delighted mischief, she whispers, “Why did you come into the hospital with lipstick all over you?”

Heat creeps up Michael’s neck and over his ears against his will. “Excuse me?” Dana holds up her thumb, smeared with a cool red shade, and Michael stares, completely dumbfounded. “The hell is that?”

“Lipstick! Don’t act stupid!” Dana starts laughing maniacally. “The good doctor is getting some before work, hm?”

“I am not,” Michael snaps, rubbing his own jaw vigorously. “I don’t know—oh.” His expression falters with realization. “It’s not what you think.”

“I’m sure it’s not.” Dana looks ready to continue, but she’s cut off by Jack, who is heading toward them from the locker room with a brooding look on his face.

“Morning, Robby,” he says around a yawn. “Bad night. Damion Yates’ mom came in. I gave her your note. They took him over to the morgue not long after. I think the cops would like to get a statement from you, too. Detective What’s-His-Face said he’d be back around noon. He’s picking up where patrol left off.”

“Great,” Michael sighs, not wanting to relive a single moment of that experience. “How’s the mom?”

“Devastated.” Jack frowns. “She told me to pass on her thanks, though. I told her I was sure Damion had been in the best hands.”

I hope so. Michael worries his bottom lip with his teeth to keep his emotions under control. “Thanks, Jack. See you later.”

“You did your best, Robby,” Dana says, quietly, seriously. Michael only passes his hand over his short beard and sighs. 

“And yet a young man is still in a drawer in the morgue,” he replies so softly that Dana almost doesn’t hear. But she does, and it breaks her heart.

The Allegheny County Jail is by design a dehumanizing place, and by neglect a disgusting one. But you spend so much time there that even its heavy booking room door with the peeling paint feels comfortingly familiar. You sign in under the not-so-watchful eyes of three bored jailers, two of whom are arguing about politics, and one who is clearly on the verge of a nap.

You bang on the door to the central surveillance room and the deputy lets you in. “Got any law boxes open for me, Ritchie?”

The man, who is pushing seventy and slowly finishing a bag of gummy bears, hums. “I’ll get ya one, hon. Go to number four.”

Thirty minutes later, you’re finally in the same room with Quade Jameson. His face brightens somewhat as one of the jailers opens the door and he recognizes you.

“You want me to uncuff him?” The jailer asks.

“Please. Mr. Jameson and I are cool. Aren’t we?”

Quade nods enthusiastically, while the bored deputy languidly unlocks the cuffs and disappears down the hall. All that remains is you, your client, and a fully metal picnic table.

“Good to see you again,” you continue. “Would you prefer that I call you Quade or Mr. Jameson?”

“Mr. Jameson was my old man.”

“Quade it is,” you smile slightly. “Quade, can you tell me how you’re feeling?”

His expression sours. “How I’m feeling? Dead tired. You can’t sleep in here with the lights and the screaming. Everything echoes. And I shouldn’t be in here.”

You nod slowly. “I know it’s a terrible situation. Could you please tell me what happened on Monday night that got you in this mess?”

Quade grips his head between his hands and laughs bitterly. “I had a gun at the wrong place at the wrong time. And now I’m in here.”

“Can you tell me more, please? And if it looks like I’m not listening, I’m just taking notes.”

“I’m a janitor at the tire factory way down at the other end of East North Street. I clocked out, said hi to the night janitor, took my stuff from my locker, and was walking home. Because of the time of year, you know, the sun was trying to go down already, and the sunset was pretty. I remember that so well for some reason.” He stares at the wall for a few moments. “I’m walking up that hill—you know the one, it’s a damn killer—sorry for cussing—and I hear this loud bang behind me, and this super loud whizz, going right past my head. You can’t grow up in the Burgh without learning to recognize that sound. I was right next to that huge parking garage they’re gonna demolish, the side with nothing but solid wall. I figure someone’s trying to kill me, so I reach into my pocket and grab my Ruger. I don’t walk anywhere without a gun around here.”

You scribble notes furiously. “What did you do after you grabbed your gun?”

“I crouched down. I figured they would fire again, and there was nowhere for me to hide. When they didn’t fire again and I finally raised my head up, I looked behind me, and some guy was running back down the hill.”

“What’d he look like?”

Quade huffs. “Didn’t get a good look. He was running fast. White guy. Red shirt, white shoes: might’ve been Jordans. Dunno.”

“Did you go after him?”

“I was going to, but it’s like my legs wouldn’t work.” He hangs his head, reminiscent of his arraignment. “I should have hauled ass and caught him. Too late now.”

“What did you do next?”

“I looked up the hill and there was this guy laid out in the middle of the sidewalk. His shirt was white so I could see that there was blood, even from that far away. It was rough,” he trails off, running a hand over his face.

“Was there anyone else on the street?”

“Way up at the top of the hill, some older white man called 911. I dunno how much he actually saw of the shooting—I just saw him dial on his phone. When he saw me looking at him, he went and jumped in his car, parked on the street.”

You swallow, fearing what you believe to be the next piece of the puzzle. “What happened then?”

“I went over to the guy on the ground to see if I could maybe help him, but his eyes were closed. And my legs still weren’t really working right. Or my head.” Quade’s chin trembles. “Then I hear those police cars shrieking, and the ambulance. My hand’s still on the gun in my pocket. I don’t know why, but I yanked it outta my pocket and threw it in this line of bushes next to the garage. I was just scared for them to find one on me, I guess.”

“But you’re not a convicted felon, are you?” You try to recall his criminal history report.

“Nope,” he says flatly. “Just Black.”

That cuts you to the quick. “I hear you, Quade.” You clear your throat. “You’re standing over the man and you hear sirens. What then?”

“Police cars pull up. Cops start screaming at me to get on the ground. Guy up the street gets out of his car and points at me, starts yelling, ‘That’s him. That’s the shooter. And I just saw him throw his gun over there.’”

Detective What’s-His-Face, as Abbot so ably described him, is in fact Detective Asher from the Pittsburgh Police Department, and Michael instantly dislikes him. Working in the emergency department gave him a lot of exposure to law enforcement and other emergency responders, and Asher was a prime example of the dregs. Despite being a detective and therefore not on-duty in the traditional sense, Asher wore a bulletproof vest and apparently always stood with his thumbs hooked into it at his pecs. 

He writes halfhearted notes on a mini notepad while he asks Michael, who is trying to get back to his patients, surface-level questions. And making stupid small talk.

“Doctor…”

“Robby,” Michael reminds him for the third time.

“Dr. Robby, is it your medical opinion that the victim died from a gunshot wound?”

“The forensic pathologist will give you a full conclusion, but from my observations during treatment, that was the chief trauma.”

“Could it have been self-inflicted?”

“I’m not qualified to answer that.”

Detective Asher sniffs. “Did he say anything to you?”

“He was mostly nonresponsive throughout his treatment. He did say at one point that someone had been following him.”

Detective Asher smirks. “Those are all my questions, Doc.”

Thank Christ, Michael thinks. “I’m sure anything else can be answered by the forensic pathologist, later on. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” Michael does a round of his patients, and is finally able to discharge two of them. He keeps checking his phone, which he almost never does during a shift, and Dana notices.

“Waiting on a text?”

“Hm? No,” he mutters, sliding it back into his pocket.

Michael realizes later what it was that kept him checking his lockscreen like a fifteen-year-old waiting on a text back. He was anticipating a notification from his coffee shop victim. He felt so guilty that you could have requested any amount of money and he probably would have given it. But it was five hours later and you hadn’t asked for anything.

He hides in the breakroom and clicks on the profile picture from where you added him. It’s a picture of you in sunglasses, skin glowing, a big smile on your face. She’s pretty, he thinks, though he knows that already from this morning. And you’re wearing red lipstick in the picture, too. He smiles to himself.

He thinks about sending you fifty bucks unprompted, but knows that would be weird, so he goes back to central and tries to forget it. Unsuccessfully. 

“All rise,” the bailiff bellows. “Court is now in session.”

Per usual on preliminary hearing days, you feel frantic, trying to read police narratives given to you by the prosecutor just this morning (of course) and trying to talk to the clients who aren’t in custody and don’t have phones for you to call beforehand (classic).

Detective Asher sits smugly in a chair against the wall, just behind the prosecutors’ table, watching you run around and whisper to clients. Most of it, at this stage, is honestly futile. A defense attorney is lucky to get a case dismissed at the preliminary hearing stage a couple times in an entire year. But it’s always worth the effort. Or at least you tell yourself so.

You’ve cross-examined Detective Asher before. He mainly investigates homicides, hence why he’s here today, digging dirt out from under his fingernails with a pocketknife. He’s maybe fifty with graying hair and a sleazy smile. And he despises you.

Asher was the lead detective on your first murder trial, which ended with a verdict of voluntary manslaughter and a minimum sentence. Your client still went to prison, and yet Asher hated you from that day on, taking it personally that you put on a zealous defense—an occupational hazard.

The preliminary hearing is about what you expect. Asher is the sole witness and takes the stand to testify about the scene, the caller, the firearm, and makes a big deal about Mr. Jameson asserting his right to remain silent after his arrest. He also testifies to the bullet and its casing matching a nine millimeter, which is the caliber of Quade’s Ruger. Asher cuts his eyes at you every few seconds just to make sure you remember he hates you.

“Detective,” you begin your questioning in that confident voice that you know will drive him up the wall. “Were there any eyewitnesses to this shooting?”

“The gentleman I was describing earlier.”

“He called the police, yes, and claims he saw my client throw a firearm. I asked if there were any eyewitnesses to the shooting itself.”

Asher cracks his knuckles and stares at the space over your head. “I’m not aware of any at this time.”

“Have you requested any security footage from any nearby buildings or city traffic cameras?”

“Not at this time.”

You could throw the podium at him if you really tried, you think, even though it is solid wood. “Don’t you think that might be important?”

“Your honor, this is a preliminary hearing, not a trial,” Nathaniel interrupts, knowing just what to say to make your blood boil.

“I agree with the Commonwealth. Wrap it up, counsel.”

You look around the room for a moment and are struck by how little everyone cares. Nathaniel resumes playing Candy Crush after interrupting you, and Detective Asher is staring down at his hands. Judge Moran is checking her email on the huge monitor up on the bench. Quade looks at you like you’re a life raft in the middle of a vast sea. You finish your questions and argue that there isn’t probable cause to refer this case to the Court of Common Pleas for the filing of a criminal information, but you know at this point, there definitely is enough evidence for that low bar. You press Quade’s hand, promising you’ll call his mom, and leave the courthouse. On the sidewalk, you dial the number of your office’s lead investigator.

“Would you mind meeting with me on Monday afternoon to get the ball rolling on the Jameson case? There’s more to this than meets the eye.” You pause. “I trust my guy.”

It’s Sunday and you’re headed toward Allegheny Coffee & Tea Exchange, which just so happens to be the site of The Incident That You Can’t Stop Thinking About. As a regular, you know that it’ll be unbelievably busy, so you ordered your caramel macchiato ahead. You also have a third of a novel left, which you have big plans to finish reading on a blanket in the park, enjoying the late autumn sunshine.

“Here she comes! Our very favorite customer!” It’s the cheerful tone of your favorite barista, who always works on Sundays.

“Certainly your most loyal one,” you laugh. “Thanks so much.”

You’re taking your drink from her hand when you see him.

You don’t know how you recognize him so quickly; it’s been six days, after all, and the shop is full. But the line of people parts a bit and you spot him, sitting at a round table by himself, a laptop open in front of him.

When you finally find his eyes, he’s already looking at you. Before you realize what you’re doing, you’re walking toward him, and he’s standing up from his chair. His zip-up jacket and Carhartts have been replaced by a pair of dark-wash jeans and a moss green sweater, but you notice his sleeves are still pushed up his forearms, revealing dark dustings of hair and a simple watch. He’s wearing glasses—though he wasn’t when you ran into him on Monday, or you would definitely remember—but he takes them off as he stands. A pity.

“Hello there,” you grin easily. Your heart gives a distinct thump that you decide not to examine too closely. You introduce yourself, because if you’re going to keep running into each other at the Exchange—hopefully not literally, from now on—you really ought to know each other’s names. 

His smile mirrors yours. “I’m Michael. The guy who never got the pleasure of picking up your dry cleaning tab.” He tilts his chin down so he can look up at you through his lashes. His arms are crossed, and you have to intentionally not look at his forearms. “Why is that?”

“Still haven’t been by the cleaners,” you say with a sigh. “I’ve been a little busy.”

He cocks his head at that before gesturing casually at the other chair at his table. You sink into it, and he sits, closing his laptop and leaning forward to listen among the din of the shop.

“I’m a public defender. My time is not my own, unfortunately. Hopefully I’ll drop it off tomorrow, but the stain might be a lost cause. I kind of forgot about it after the week I’ve had.” You run a finger around the lid of your cup.

“You have to get the jump on stains or you’re screwed,” he says confidently. When you raise your brows, he adds, “I work in a hospital.”

“Ah.” You look down and see that his in-house mug has black coffee in it. 

He chuckles self-deprecatingly, knowing what you’re thinking just from the look on your face. “It’s just easier. I got used to drinking it during school and never looked back. How about you?”

“Caramel macchiato. I’m a softie. Like it hot and sweet,” you wink wickedly.

He leans back in his chair and laughs, which you’re grateful for, because his attentive gaze is putting you on the verge of stuttering. “So, public defender, huh? When are you going to go to law school to become a real lawyer?”

Your smile drops and you prepare to enter a tirade, but just as the words are about to whip off your tongue, you watch his expression change. His eyes are crinkling at the corners, and he’s trying to suppress a smile.

“You jerk!” You huff, hitting him gently on the arm. “I was about to give you a whole lecture.”

“I could tell.” He chuckles warmly. “Your look just then is in the dictionary under ‘thunderous.’ I bet you hear crap like that every day.”

Your barista friend cuts through your banter. “Dr. Robby, here’s an orange bar, on the house. I know you like them and this batch will be a bust after today.” She hands him a wrapped square and then gives you one, too. “And one for Lady Justice.”

He thanks her with that devastating small smile, and you notice he won’t look you in the eye. “Doctor?”

“Michael Robinavitch, physician, at your service,” he says quietly, watching his own hands unwrap the tiny cake. He bites off half and chews it before he continues. “I work in an emergency department.”

An emergency department? It isn’t often that you meet people with crazier jobs than you. You sit back and try to imagine him in a lab coat. It occurs to you that the black shirt he was wearing underneath his jacket when you first met him might have been scrubs. Wow. “That’s amazing. And you even have a hip name. Dr. Robby,” you giggle, and he cracks a smile.

“It’s easier for people to say,” he muses. You love his name—Michael Robinavitch, Michael Robinavitch, Michael Robinavitch, you repeat in your own head—but since you work with the public, you get it. The path of least resistance.

“Well, Dr. Robby, please accept my orange bar,” you say reverently, sliding it across the table. “I’m trying to cut back on sugar. Partial success thus far. We’re not counting the macchiato.”

“Don’t start calling me that,” he groans, half-serious, but accepts your offering. “Are you trying to keep the doctor away?” His eyes twinkle.

“Nope,” you respond. “Trying to keep him around.”

Michael goes quiet, and your stomach drops with the thought that that was too forward. He’s swiping his laptop into his satchel and is downing the last of his coffee. Dammit. Why did I have to make it weird? I was just making a new friend who’s not a lawyer and I had to go and—

“Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks, delicately placing your orange bar in his bag. 

You’re nodding before you even stop to think about it.

The two of you stroll by the river, since it’s nearby and it’s a gorgeous afternoon, with the sunlight shimmering on the water. Your book sits forgotten in your bag, while Michael has put on sunglasses that suit him very well.

“So, you work in the emergency department?” you say dumbly, trying not to stare at him.

“Yeah, I’m an attending physician.”

“Can you break that down for a mere lawyer?”

Michael’s laugh is rich and short. You can’t get enough of it. He bends over to pick up two pebbles, one for each of you to skip across the water, and he scores six skips before he answers. “It means the buck stops with me. I assume you can supervise law students when you have a bar license?” You nod, hoping your mere three skips isn’t too embarrassing. “I’m not the only attending in the department, but I’m on day shift. Day shift tends to get the worst of it. Anyway, attendings are fully board certified, and we’re ultimately responsible for the actions of the residents and interns.”

You whistle. “No pressure.”

He tilts his head with a modest smile. “No kidding.”

“Do people look down on you for specializing in emergency medicine?” you ask before you realize that might be too personal. 

Michael raises his eyebrows, but with more appreciation than surprise. “Yes, actually. A lot of the other specialties think we’re lazy, stupid, or both.”

You try to imagine how anyone could describe the man before you as either of those things, but then you give up. “Been there.”

“I’m sure. Because we’re the jack-of-all-trades of medicine, other doctors assume we’re shallow and live to pawn work off to the other departments. Most hospitals have an unspoken pecking order with surgeons on the top. Emergency medicine is always overlooked and underfunded.”

“Why did you choose the ER—sorry, the ED—then?”

“Why did you choose public defense?”

“I asked you first, Dr. Robby.” You stick your tongue out.

He lets you win. “I didn’t, sweetheart. It chose me.”

The way he so easily calls you that makes you blush, but he either doesn’t notice or pretends not to. And you feel the sentiment so profoundly—the sense of a calling, a destiny you can’t get away from, no matter how hard it is. 

“You seem very well suited to it,” you say, not able to look directly at him while you do so.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should. I mean it.”

He smiles, and the way it lights up his eyes makes your stomach flip. “Thank you. I mean it.”

Before you can think of what to say, his phone rings. He apologizes and answers. “Dana.” You throw another rock and get five skips in, hoping that Dana is his maiden aunt or something. He’s quiet for about a minute. “Yeah, I guess I’ll head over. Don’t wake up Jack. It’s all good.” 

He shoves his phone back in his pocket and lets out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I’m on call this weekend. One of the other attendings is either genuinely sick or wants to go home to watch football.” He smirks wryly. “I’ve gotta go.” 

You try to look cheerful, even though the thought of retreating to the park by yourself with your book now sounds boring, and say, “Don’t worry. I totally understand.”

He nods once and fidgets with the strap of his bag. “Thanks. This has been really nice.”

It’s been wonderful. “Yeah, it has. It was lovely meeting you. Without disaster this time.”

Michael looks down, the tips of his ears pink, and rubs the back of his neck. “Don’t forget about the dry cleaning. Or whatever else it takes. Please.”

“I won’t.” Although he doesn’t move, he also doesn’t say anything else, and you turn in the direction of the park. “I guess I’ll be seeing you.”

You take two slow steps before you hear his voice. “Could—I mean, would you be okay with giving me your number?”

When you look back, he looks sheepish and so sweet that you nearly laugh at him, but you catch yourself. “I would really like that.”

Your office investigator is struggling to keep up with the list you rattle off: measurements of the street and the sidewalk, nearby businesses and the status of their CCTVs, whether their employees saw anyone suspicious walking around that evening, the parking garage and its CCTV, Flock traffic cameras, going door-to-door at nearby apartments. Even though he’s not saying so, you know just from his look that he thinks it’s excessive for this early on in a case.

“He won’t even be arraigned in Common Pleas for a month or two,” he grumbles at last, though he knows better than to cross you, so he keeps writing notes. “You sure you wanna put this much effort in? He might change his mind and plea out as soon as he gets upstairs. You’ve got a lot going on.”

You stretch your arms behind your head and let out a breath. “True. But I’m trying to get Nathaniel not to file an information, so we need to work fast. If we let this get to Common Pleas, it’ll take forever, and there’s no way that judge is going to lower his bond once we get there.” You rub your forehead. “I saw a line about it in the paper this morning. PPD is requesting information from the public. Crappy area if I’m recalling correctly, though. More an alleyway than a road.”

“Yeah,” he groans. “Alright. I’ll look into the CCTV stuff. You should start getting discovery from the DA this week, right? I’ll find out who the vic interacted with at Pittsburgh Trauma and see if you can depose ‘em. I’ll bring you the subpoenas to sign as soon as I do.”

“Thanks. Knew I could count on you.” He stands to leave, glancing around your desk, covered in piles and piles of paper. “Don’t worry about me. We’ve got this.” 

He nods at you with understanding and heads out. As he does, your phone buzzes.

You drop off that suit this morning?

It’s Michael. Your heart jumps. You type: Yes. You gave me the motivation to go over there before work. Well done.

Good deal. What do I owe you?

You drum your fingers on one of the few cleared-off spots on your desk and chew on the inside of your cheek. You slowly write, How about you take me out to dinner instead? You hit send before you can chicken out.

His typing bubble appears and disappears over and over again. Your breath catches as you pretend not to care whether or not he’ll say yes. You pull up the court docket on your computer and pretend to be able to read the names until you hear your phone buzz again.

Let’s do it. Friday? I can pick you up at work if you like. I get off at 7, but trust me, you want me to go home beforehand.

You jump out of your chair and dance badly around the room to the song playing on shuffle on your computer. “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

“Something exciting, I take it?”

Adam has stuck his head through your office door. You let out a short scream and nearly drop your phone. “Adam, you scared the shit out of me!”

He laughs and arches one brow. “You’re never this happy on a Monday morning. What’s up?” He conspiratorially closes your office door.

You collapse into your rolling chair and slide your phone over to him. He sits in the spot your investigator vacated and puts on his reading glasses, humming with interest after scanning the short texts. “Who’s Michael?”

“Guy who dumped coffee all over me last week before Moran’s arraignments. Saw him again at the Exchange yesterday and we went for a walk by the river.”

“A date?” Adam, who lives for romance and intrigue despite being at forty and happily married himself, clicks his tongue. 

“Not sure. That’s when he asked for my number.”

Adam pumps his fist and slides your phone back toward you. “And he’s offering to pick you up at work so you can stay late if you need and you don’t have to give him your apartment address. I like this guy already. We can forgive the clumsiness if he’s attractive.”

You blush and throw a stack of sticky notes at him. He catches them easily. “He is. Older than me but he’s got that earnest look about him that you know is my ultimate weakness.”

“Woof. You’re a goner.” You both laugh and then Adam looks down at your desk and says, “Working on the Jameson stuff?”

“You can call me naive if you like, but I went to talk to our guy last week, and something’s up. I think he really was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Adam, ever the good mentor, nods slowly. “Alright. Trust your gut. But don’t forget you’re covering that suppression hearing for me on Friday morning.” Adam and his husband are going on vacation, and he of course tricked you into taking some of his hearings.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Can’t wait to get the email with the order denying your motion.”

“That’s the spirit, counsel.”

With Adam’s approval, you write to Michael, Sounds perfect. 8?

He responds almost immediately: Black BMW. I’ll be there.

The week practically dissolves in a flurry of pretrial conferences, changes of plea, arguing with felony prosecutors (at different voice levels, depending on how ridiculous they’re being), and emails. Your investigator spends three days just talking to business owners near the alleyway, interviewing cashiers and cleaners, all of whom say they don’t remember seeing anything relevant before they heard the gunshot.

He also talks to the city’s interior department on Thursday. One of their clerks informs you that the parking garage hasn’t been equipped with CCTV for months, since it’s now vacant and slated for destruction. You’re not surprised, but you still sigh when your investigator forwards you the email. 

You finally get something of a breakthrough on Friday morning. One of the gas stations has low-quality security footage, but it’s around the corner from the parking garage, and they keep their footage for up to sixty days per company policy. They’re even nice enough not to insist on a subpoena and promise to send you the footage once they contact their headquarters, which holds all of the files. You text Adam with the good news, and his text congratulating you is filled with typos; you’re sure he’s drunk on the beach.

It’s seven-thirty on Friday evening and you’re still frantically typing away at your computer, trying to finish a motion to compel so you can file it first thing Monday morning. You steal glances at your phone every few minutes, convinced Michael is going to beg off at the last minute, but as the time ticks by, he doesn’t.

Your office hallway is empty: usually only Adam works late with you, and he’s elsewhere, no doubt drinking out of a coconut, while you nervously pace to the bathroom. You look at yourself in the mirror and smooth your hair with the tiny brush you keep in your purse before swiping on red lipstick. You don’t always wear it, but you’ve had it on both times you’ve seen him, so it’s becoming a good luck charm. Your knee-length black dress is professional but form-fitting, and you hope it’s good enough for wherever Michael is taking you.

I’m out front.

You close your office door, trying not to think about all the files still sitting there, and square your shoulders like you’re walking into court. While you try not to race out the front door, you see Michael’s bimmer parked on the street, and he’s leaning against the hood on the passenger side, hands in pockets. He’s wearing a white button down and black slacks, with his sleeves rolled up, of course.

“Hey,” he says smoothly, opening your door for you. “Good to see you.”

“You too,” you beam, and he takes your hand so he can help you lower yourself into the passenger seat. “Where are we going?”

“It’s a surprise.” He shuts your door and walks around to the driver’s side, getting in, and it gives you a whiff of his woodsy cologne. 

“Hospital cafeteria?” 

He pulls onto the street and barks a laugh. “I said a surprise, not a punishment.” Robert Bradley’s Blackwater Surprise is playing low through his speakers. “How was your week?”

“Not as wild as yours, I’m sure.”

He looks over at you while you wait at a stoplight. “Try me.”

“Let’s see. I had—twenty-six?—changes of plea lined up this week, and only two fell through, thank God. One of the ones who changed his mind tried to choke me out with his handcuffs, and when the bailiffs tackled him, they broke his wrist. So now he hates me even more than previously. Wants my boss to give him a different public pretender.” You watch Michael’s jaw clench. “I’ve been working with my investigator to hopefully get a murder case dismissed before it actually gets to felony court. This morning, I covered a suppression hearing in front of a judge who I don’t think has granted a motion like that in the fifteen years he’s been on the bench.”

Michael taps his thumbs on the wheel and whistles. “You might have me beat.”

You shake your head. “Let’s hear it, Dr. Robby.”

He shrugs, and that little piece of humility endears you to him. “Three twelves this week: Monday, Wednesday, and today. I’ve had four gunshot wounds—all survivors, amazingly—and a handful of heart attacks. A bad overdose on Monday afternoon—forty years old and dead. Two kids came in this morning with beans stuck way up in their noses. Two lineman electrocutions on Wednesday.” He tilts his head. “I’m forgetting some stuff. Sorry, that was dark.”

You touch his hand lightly where it rests on the gear shift and you’re surprised by how warm his skin is. “I asked. You’ve definitely won out.”

He chuckles. “Okay, maybe we’re tied. But I like hearing about what you do. It’s not so different.”

You give him a small smile, which you hope he can see under the passing streetlights, and duck your head. “I agree.”

“Ah, here we are,” Michael sings. You recognize the facade: Sienna Mercato, a three-story Italian restaurant, its peaked glass dome twinkling with the downtown city lights. He flawlessly parallel parks on the street, and you hate how attractive you find it to be. “Hope you like Italian.” He reaches over and unbuckles your seatbelt for you. His hands are still so warm.

“Who doesn’t?” You grin and let him jog around to help you out of the car. 

You sit on the second floor, with its firestone pizza and charcuterie options, despite the fact that you offered the rooftop beer garden, remembering his Beers of the Burgh jacket. He shakes his head at the hostess and looks at your dress. “You’d get cold.” His attention makes you shiver all on its own.

At the table, he lets you have the side with the booth, and he takes the wood chair. He insists you try the thin crust, and agrees to share when the waiter comes back over. He orders a beer but promises just one.

“But I do know a good attorney, just in case,” he quips. When they bring him his glass, he lets you take the foam. The way he stares at your imprint of lipstick on the glass makes you tingle. “Good, right?”

“Mhm.” For a moment you think he might put his mouth where yours just was, but he spins the glass ninety degrees and takes a sip. You watch his long fingers smear the condensation on the glass. You ask, “Are you a connoisseur?”

“Jack and I fancy ourselves as such.”

“Jack?”

“Another attending, usually does night shift. He’s a grouch but you get used to him. Smart as a whip, too. I think we’ve drunk our way down every street in the Hill District.”

You laugh, and the way Michael mirrors your smile makes you lean toward him. “Good camaraderie at the hospital, I take it?” 

“I’d like to think so. You?”

“I’m good friends with my coworker Adam, but the turnover around us is hard. We both came in during the height of the pandemic, with telephonic court and all its delays and frustration.” Something in Michael’s gaze shutters, but only for a second. “We pretty much only do felonies now, so it’s a special kind of bond. Adam is on vacation in the Bahamas right now. Bastard.”

Michael laughs and runs his tongue over his bottom lip, sliding his glass back to you. “You like the beach?”

“Not especially. It’s the principle of the matter,” you huff and take another pull before passing it back. Your hand brushes his. It feels electric. “How long have you been a doctor?”

“Too damn long,” he drawls, leaning his chin on his upturned hand. Your eyes trace the small paths of gray in his beard. There’s a gold chain resting under his collar that you haven’t noticed before. “Don’t get me wrong. I love it. Saving lives, training new doctors and med students, helping people during their worst days. But it’s hard.” He’s looking down at the wood grain of the table.

“Were you working during COVID?” 

It takes him a few beats to look back up at you. “Yeah. Yeah, I was.”

Wanting to comfort him and not knowing how, you gently close your fingers around his left hand, just above his watch. “I can’t imagine how hard that must have been.”

He looks down at your hand, his eyes glazing over a bit. “Thanks. I lost someone important to me. But so many people did.” He puts on a small smile and looks up at you, his brown eyes shiny. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” You slide your arm back to yourself and swear you see his fingers splay, like he doesn’t want you to let go. “I interned in a defense clinic during law school. It bothered me that I was so affected by the cases; as a woman, I wanted to look tough, even though it didn’t feel natural. My supervising professor took me to the side after court once and demanded that I cry.” You smile sadly at the memory. “I sobbed into her shoulder in the hall. I was so tired. She told me that tears are always worth the time, and I decided to believe her.”

Michael smiles, his crow’s feet curving, and nods. “Good advice.”

The two of you are interrupted by your pizza, and you laugh at the groan Michael emits as he looks at it. He lets you take the first slice and watches with interest as you bite. “What’s the verdict?”

“Amazing.” 

He winks. “Just what I wanted to hear.”

Michael keeps his promise to stick to one beer—and, in fairness, he had probably let you drink a good third of it, on top of the glass of wine you had—and offers to drive you home after the two of you demolish the pizza. You think of Adam, who would say, He’s giving you an out in case you want to Uber home. Another mark in the gentleman column.

He notices you’re cold and gives you a cardigan from the back seat of his car. You drape it over yourself and pretend you’re not taking in the traces of his smell from the fabric as he drives you to your walk-up. Luckily, there’s a spot open on the street right in front of your stoop; a neighbor must be gone to enjoy the Friday night in the Burgh.

Of course, Michael opens your door again, but when he helps you out, he doesn’t let go of your palm. You can see the intensity of his gaze under the yellow streetlamp as he closes the car door with his other hand. Both of you climb the stairs, pausing in front of the large wooden doors, where the intercom waits for you to buzz in.

“Thanks so much for dinner and the ride,” you say. You squeeze his hand before you let it drop. “I really enjoyed it.”

“You’re more than welcome. Glad you liked it.” He seems so large in the alcove, with your back to the door, and your heart thrums. 

“Goodnight,” you murmur, even though you haven’t even pressed the intercom button.

“Goodnight.” Neither of you move. You look at the intercom box out of the corner of your eye, worried about the stretch of silence, but also not wanting this night to be over.

“Michael?” you say, catching his dark eyes, and your voice sounds so loud in the still night. He hums, one of his brows arching. “Can I kiss you?”

He puts one hand on your left cheek, and you can feel calluses on his fingers, rough over your own soft skin. His gentle laugh fans over your cheeks. “Not if I kiss you first.”

Never one to be beaten so easily, you lean up with a hand to his chest, and press your mouth to his. It’s tentative at first—you can’t remember the last time you kissed someone—but Michael takes a half-step toward you and, oh, he is good. When you feel his tongue run over the seam of your mouth, you moan just slightly, and he presses his advantage by backing you against the door. He’s even holding the back of your head so you don’t bang it against the wood.

He tastes like the cranberry beer he ordered, and you think vaguely that right now, you would do anything he asked. His hair is surprisingly soft as you run your fingers through it, pulling slightly, and Michael moans. You would drop to the ground if he wasn’t holding you so tightly.

In your fervor, your shoulder hits the intercom box, and you hear the speaker crackle to life. Your doorman’s voice pipes up. “That you, number six? Working late again?”

Michael releases you and tries not to laugh, so he hides his face in your neck. You have to take a second to catch your breath. “Yep, it’s me!” The click of the door’s latch brings you back to reality, and Michael holds it open for you.

“Meet me at the Exchange on Sunday?” he asks, his voice full of something like possibility. “Eleven?”

“It’s a date,” you answer, still panting a bit. 

“Yeah,” Michael is certain. “It is.”

Standing alone in the stairwell, you text Adam: Amazing kisser. He responds while you’re climbing the flights: Hell yeah.

It’s hard for you to focus when you return to work. Adam’s still not back, and you can’t get a certain Michael Robinavitch out of your head. You spent nearly the entirety of Sunday with him, not to mention most of Saturday just thinking about him: he was so alluring, and smart, and funny, without being too full of himself. 

The two of you had walked the opposite way up the river on Sunday, and coffee had turned into lunch, and lunch had turned into beer and pretzels. You talked about everything and nothing: where you grew up, stories from your college and professional school years, your opinions on cats versus dogs. (You forgave Michael for not taking a stiff position on the latter.) He ended up walking you home from the bar a little after sunset, a little unsteady on his feet, and before you put him into an Uber, he stole another kiss. 

When you debriefed Adam over the phone Sunday night, he confidently said, “You’re so screwed.”

But work stops for no man—or any slightly lovesick attorney, even as Michael texts you Monday morning, Have a good week, Lady Justice. That afternoon, you plea out on a terrible trial that was supposed to start next week and have a meeting with your investigator, who now has an external drive of security footage from the gas station. He leaves it on your desk for you to watch, but you have court nearly constantly from Monday to Thursday, and you feel like you’re drowning—even more so than usual. On Thursday afternoon, he brings you a subpoena to sign. You’re emailing a prosecutor about something unrelated and keep typing as he talks to you.

“The attending at PTMC,” he explains, handing you a pen. “I talked to him yesterday: he worked on the victim for the Jameson case. I cleared it with general counsel at the hospital. She didn’t give me too much grief since it’s just a deposition, but she’s insisting on accompanying the doc. First round of depos is set next week.”

“Excellent!” you chime, clicking the pen. Your eyes skim the paper, and you’re about to skip down to your empty signature line, but you freeze.

Personal Appearance Subpoena

To: Michael Robinavtich, M.D.

“This is the doctor who treated Damion Yates?” you exclaim, and your investigator peers at you strangely.

“Yes. Seems like a nice enough guy. Do you know him?”

You stare back down at the paper, as though looking at it for long enough will cause the words to change. Collecting yourself, you print and sign your name at the bottom quickly, and hand it back. “A little. You’re right. Nice guy.”

The investigator shrugs. “I’ll hand-serve it on him and the general counsel tomorrow. Charge nurse said he’s working then. Don’t forget about the surveillance video.” He closes the door behind him.

Michael Robinavitch, M.D. All of a sudden, you feel nauseous. Of course it had to be him. Of course Damion Yates had to be taken to that hospital at the end of the day shift that Michael was working. You hold your head in your hands and whisper to the surface of your desk, “Just my luck.”

Michael had never said anything to indicate that he looked down on you for being a defense attorney. In fact, he praised you for it, and laughed at your jokes at the Commonwealth’s expense. But this is different. You represent someone that the state believes killed his patient. And you’re going to have to ask him about it, in detail, with him under oath. In front of Nathaniel, a court reporter, and PTMC’s lawyer. Just my fucking luck.

You’re at a loss for what to do. Tomorrow, Michael will probably see your name at the bottom of the subpoena, and even if he doesn’t, general counsel will prepare him before he comes to be deposed at your office. You think you would rather die than say to him, Hey, next week, I’m going to direct examine you at my office about a really traumatic event that you tried to help with, but ultimately failed, because the young man whose blood probably got all over you had a disastrous gun shot through his heart. Pretty much everybody but me thinks my client fired that bullet. Is that going to make things weird between us?

But that’s exactly what you have to do. He’s been fairly quiet this week—you probably would be too if you worked multiple twelves in an emergency room—but there’s a smattering of texts, mostly each of you saying good morning and good night. You press the text box and sigh.

Hey. Can I see you today?

He responds much faster than you’re expecting. Sure. I’m off today. When?

Meet me at the Exchange at 6:30.

It’s a date, sweetheart.

You drop your head onto your folded arms, feeling defeated. He may just change his mind about that, you think.

The hours drag, but the work day finally passes, and the Exchange is packed with college students and night shifters when you finally make it over there, not really feeling your limbs. Michael is at his usual table, which you’re impressed he was able to snag, wearing a Steelers pullover and a wide smile. He has two to-go cups, and you raise your brow at him.

“Caramel macchiato and a black coffee,” he explains, and you would kiss his cheek if you weren’t in public. Because he is assuredly not your boyfriend and you met a little over two weeks ago, you remind yourself. Even though he knows your favorite songs and how to kiss you to make you weak at the knees. He hands your cup up to you from the table, ostensibly just so he can touch your fingers.

You had planned to ask him to walk outside with you, but the wind is biting, and you feel so safe at this table, his table. His hospital badge is peeking out of his bag, forgotten on the floor, and it reminds you why you’re here. His face in a small square, then: MICHAEL ROBINAVITCH, MD. EMERGENCY MEDICINE. DOCTOR.

“Enjoying your day off?” you ask, and you have to fight to put a smile on your face.

“Much more so now,” he flirts, and watches you take your first sip. “I slept in then went to the gym. Edited a journal article for a while.” He does look especially well-rested, and you resist the urge to picture him on any gym equipment. Because he is not your boyfriend.

“The one you’re co-authoring?” you ask, and he smiles warmly, clearly impressed that you remember.

“That’s the one. You’re a steel trap. How was work?”

“Not too bad,” you try to say nonchalantly, but it doesn’t work. “About that...”

Michael is looking over your shoulder, which is strange considering his usual attentiveness, and he stares for so long that you pivot your own head. A man with black scrubs, short graying curls, and coarse stubble on his jaw is holding his hand up at Michael.

“Well, if it isn’t Dr. Robby,” the man says, clapping Michael on the shoulder when he finally pushes through the crowd to get to you both. 

Michael smiles lopsidedly and looks between you both. He says your name and then, “This is the one and only Dr. Jack Abbot.”

Your mouth drops open in a smile of disbelief, and you hold out your hand. He takes it to shake, and his hands are even rougher than Michael’s, you notice. “Dr. Abbot. It’s my pleasure.”

“No, no, I’m sure it’s mine. And you had better call me Jack before you make me feel old,” he says smoothly, and you wonder at Michael describing him as grouchy. “Robby, do you normally take pretty young ladies here on Thursday nights? If so then I’ve been missing out.”

You blush fiercely and Michael crosses his arms, but you can tell he’s used to this kind of ribbing. “Just this one, and you are adamantly not invited.”

“Rude.” He shakes off the comment and turns to you. “How’d he trick you into this?”

“By dumping one of those—” you point to Michael’s cup, “all over me. He’s a real charmer.”

Michael runs a hand through his hair while Jack laughs loudly. One of the baristas calls out an order and Jack tilts his head toward the counter. “That’s mine. I’m heading into Pitt. See ya, brother.” He and Robby shake hands. “And I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around,” he says to you, and even with all his charm and bluster, you think he really means it.

Both you and Michael watch him pick up his coffee and leave, like a comet you can’t look away from. “Nice to put a face to a name,” you laugh, feeling strangely light.

“You’ll never forget him, I assure you,” Michael grunts, which makes you laugh again. “He’s only in a good mood because you’re here.”

“Well, I’m glad,” you hum. 

“Anyway. What were you saying, sweetheart?”

You nearly short-circuit. He needs to stop calling you that if he wants you to remember how to speak English. “Um. I wanted to see you but I also need to tell you something.”

His expression darkens a bit. “Go on?”

You look around. “I think it’s better if we talk about it outside.” When he frowns, you add, “It’s not horrible, I promise. I just want to be able to hear you clearly.”

“Be my guest,” he says, picking up his bag.

He walks you over to the small park abutting the river, making sure he’s on the side with traffic as you go down the sidewalk. You sit on a cold metal bench, and he pulls a jacket from his bag. It’s his Beers of the Burgh one. “Did you bring this just for me?” you ask, your heart aching.

“Every man must have his secrets,” he says, and you swear you can see the moon reflecting in his eyes while you put your arms through the sleeves. “Alright, shoot.”

You take a deep breath, pulling in as much of the cold night air as you can stand. “I represent a young man named Quade Jameson.” Michael nods but clearly doesn’t recognize the name. “He’s accused of shooting another young man named Damion Yates.”

Michael squints, as though he’s trying hard to recall something, and pivots his body toward yours so that he’s staring directly at you. You can tell he wants to say something, but stops himself.

“I already know you treated Damion when he came into the emergency department. You talked to my investigator yesterday.” Michael flinches. “I didn’t know that you were involved when I asked you out for dinner, I promise.”

He sighs and puts his arm behind your shoulders. “Okay. Why are you telling me this?”

“Because tomorrow, you’re going to be served a subpoena for a deposition taking place next week.”

“And you’re going to be the one asking me questions.”

You bite your lower lip so hard that you’re surprised you don’t taste blood. “Right.”

Michael hangs his head and you can see him rubbing his forehead with one hand. When he doesn’t say anything, you turn toward him and mumble, “Michael, I’m sorry. I never wanted our professional lives to mix.”

“Luck of the draw,” he groans, finally lifting his head to look you in the eye. He’s surprised, but he’s not angry. “It’s okay. We’re okay.”

Tears come into your eyes at his soft tone, and you look out at the water, hoping he can’t see. It’s surprising how affected you feel—the relief washing over you. And he said we. You try to steady your voice as you say, “We can’t talk about what you’re going to testify to. But thank you so much. I’m so happy you’re not upset.”

He shrugs good-naturedly. “You’re just doing your job.”

You turn back toward him and put your hand on his jaw, feeling the softness of his beard, and he leans into your palm. “And you were just doing yours. As well as you possibly could, I’m sure.”

“One of the many I couldn’t save.”

“But you tried,” you whisper, just inches from his lips now. “I know you did.”

Despite everything, he kisses you, tucking you to him against the coldness of the evening. A line of bicyclists whizzes by right behind you, yet neither of you look up.

“When’s the deposition?” he asks, after you finally come up for air and put your head on his shoulder.

“Week from today.”

“My day off,” he scoffs, but his hand is resting on the top of your head. “It’s a date. Let me walk you home. You’re exhausted.”

“Will I see you this weekend?” you ask as he pulls you up from the bench.

“If I’m lucky,” he answers, and tucks your arm through his. When you get home, he doesn’t take back the jacket.

Michael can’t stop thinking about you, and Dana is noticing, which is making it worse. Jack told Dana; Dana told Princess and Mohan; they told Mateo, who told seemingly everyone on planet earth. Thank God no one actually knows who you are, because now, every time Michael smiles or says a kind word, someone whispers it’s because he’s getting some. Which he isn’t, even. Yet.

Monday is pure insanity. He puts his bag in his locker, where the folded subpoena sits, before Jack comes up behind him to grill him on what Michael and the pretty young thing are, how long they’ve been not-dating, and why he was not properly notified. Michael is cagey, and the stonewalling only makes Jack more motivated.

“And she’s an attorney?” Jack whistles, yanking his stuff out of his own locker. “Your kids’ll be smart.”

“Lay off, Abbot,” Michael growls, feeling sort of naked without his jacket, which you still have. 

Jack holds his hands up in surrender and turns to leave. “You are so screwed, Robby.”

Three drowning victims from a car that went over the side of the bridge. Two of them make it, one of them doesn’t. A broken nose and a stab wound, with the combatants separated by nothing but a curtain and the iron wills of the interns. A third-degree burn victim. They all start to blur together. It’s really Michael’s fault, because he stayed up late last night staring at the ceiling and thinking of his little public defender. The fact that he’s even thinking his in the context of you is a major problem.

You don’t really text him over the next three days, and he chooses to not think about that too much. Each day, he texts you good morning when he gets up at the cursed hour of five to go to the gym. You answer an hour later with a gif that makes him smile. He imagines you’re probably too busy to think up clever things to text him while he’s getting bled and puked on, but God, he wishes you would.

Thursday arrives despite him tossing and turning all night. He can’t decide what to wear, and it’s bothering him more than it should. Scrubs would be stupid: he’s not working, and the deposition’s at your office, not the hospital. Button-up and slacks it is. Tie or no tie? Tie says I’m taking this seriously; tie it is. Blazer or no blazer? Blazer says I’m taking this too seriously, like I have something to prove; no blazer it is.

He met with PTMC general counsel yesterday at Gloria’s behest and she reminded him to protect the hospital, but to tell the truth. He wondered vaguely what she would say if he asked, And if those things come into conflict? But he didn’t.

“I know the lawyer who issued your subpoena,” Ms. Wilder says toward the end of their conversation. “She might try to slip you up. Don’t let her.”

Michael swallows. I think I already have.

The front desk receptionist at the Allegheny Public Defender leads them through the labyrinthine County Office Building until they reach a midsize conference room, where a woman sits at a long table with a laptop and what looks to be a desktop microphone. The receptionist hands Michael and Ms. Wilder a mini water bottle each and assures them that things will start soon. Ms. Wilder greets the woman, who turns out to be a court clerk, by name.

After some vapid small talk, he hears three sets of footsteps, one clearly a pair of heels. His ears perk up, and he tries to not look too interested when you enter the room. You’re wearing a dark brown suit with a turtleneck underneath—no lipstick today. He forces himself to look at the older guy coming in behind you, who’s shorter than you and already looks disinterested. After him, a man dressed in more casual clothes comes in, and takes a seat in the corner.

“Dr. Robinavitch. Ms. Wilder. And madam clerk! Good to see you,” you greet everyone at the table, and your singsong tone eases his nerves. You set down a legal pad and a pen in the place across from him.

“He goes by Dr. Robby,” Ms. Wilder says for him, as though he’s a child, as you lean over to shake their hands. His hand is noticeably warmer than yours, per usual, and he can’t meet your eye while he thinks about it or he might blush.

“Dr. Robby, this is Nathaniel Groff, the District Attorney.” Michael and the DA shake hands, but the DA doesn’t say anything, and Michael tries not to bristle. “Looks like we’ve got everyone present.” He wonders who the man in the corner is, and where your client is, but doesn’t mention it. Instead, he watches you take a seat and tugs slightly at his collar.

“Ready?” the clerk asks, and both you and the DA nod. “We are on the record in the case of Commonwealth versus Quade Jameson. Mr. Jameson is represented solely by counsel as he is in state custody. Also present is District Attorney Nathaniel Groff, as well as Karen Wilder, general counsel for Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center.” The clerk glances at you, and Michael feels his palms start to sweat. “Counsel, you may begin when you’re ready.”

“Thank you.” You look at him, the color of your eyes so pronounced in the light from the window, and his mouth goes dry. “Could you please state your name for the record?”

“Dr. Michael Robinavitch, but everyone calls me Dr. Robby.” It’s strange to talk to you in this sterile way.

“Dr. Robby, where are you employed?”

“Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. I’m an attending physician in the emergency department.”

“How long have you been a doctor?”

“Over twenty years. I did my residency at Big Charity in New Orleans, specializing in emergency medicine, and I’ve never practiced any other specialty.” He tries not to be smug about the genuine interest in your expression.

“In your professional capacity, have you had reason to come into contact with a man named Damion Yates?”

“Yes.” He looks at Ms. Wilder and then away. She had explained to him that the judge had issued a supplemental order for him to testify despite the doctor-patient privilege, because of the patient’s death and the high relevance to the pending criminal case. “I treated him in the ED at PTMC.”

“Did he, unfortunately, die while under your care at the hospital?”

“Yes, Mr. Yates was pronounced dead after a significant period of coding by myself and my team.”

You smile very slightly at him. “Can you explain for the record what ‘coding’ is?”

He relaxes a bit. “Basically, it means we’re pushing all our resources for a patient according to their needs, and it notifies all relevant staff of the emergency. The code means we give them all possible medical intervention to try to save them.”

“What was your involvement in Mr. Yates’ treatment?”

“As the attending, I supervise major trauma intakes, and I happened to be standing near the door to the ambulance bay when his gurney came in. My staff and I took him to Trauma Two.” When you raise your brows, he explains, “It’s a special room for major wounds or conditions that we think will require a lot of equipment.”

“Why did you direct him there?”

“He presented with a single gunshot wound to the left chest and was mostly unresponsive.”

You stop taking notes and look up, your head tilted to one side. “What do you mean when you say ‘mostly unresponsive’?”

“Some patients go in and out of consciousness, especially when there’s significant blood loss, because the brain is not getting enough blood volume to maintain consciousness.” Michael shifts, remembering Damion’s face, the pain and desperation in his voice. “I remember Mr. Yates occasionally waking up and speaking to us.”

“What did he say?”

“This is gonna be hearsay,” the DA mumbles, and you glare over at him before continuing.

“Dr. Robby, let’s back up. When Mr. Yates was wheeled into your department, how would you describe his wound?”

“It was… catastrophic. The bullet went through his heart, and he had experienced significant blood loss before he arrived.”

“When Mr. Yates spoke to you, did he seem like he thought he was going to get better?”

Michael grits his teeth. “No. I think—he knew.” The DA crosses his arms and leans back as you nod gently at Michael.

“Okay. Do you remember anything he said to you?”

“His most lucid moment was not long after he came in. I was leaning over his gurney and he said that someone had been following him.”

“Did he say anything about what that person looked like?”

Michael had spent the night before digging through his own memory, so he answers somewhat easily. The way you framed the question makes him remember something he hadn’t told Detective Asher. “He said that he was wearing a red shirt. I remember that clearly.” You write something down in big, bold letters and circle it.

“Did he say anything else relevant to his cause of death?”

“No. He sometimes muttered a name, and I found out later it was his mom’s. Yolanda.” Michael clears his throat and blinks hard.

Your expression softens. “Is there anything else you would want to say about your treatment of Mr. Yates?”

“Only that I’m very sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

Silence settles. He watches you gesture to the DA, who says he doesn’t have any questions of his own, and Michael exhales. It’s over.

You somehow know Michael’s going to come into your office before he does. You hear him thanking your receptionist down the hall and making his excuses to Ms. Wilder, who you first met at a networking reception six months ago. (Adam’s bright idea, not yours.) But then you hear his oxfords padding down the hall. You put your legal pad back in your portfolio, kick your heels off, and pull your legs up into your chair.

He appears in your doorway, looking unsure whether you’ll invite him in. He looks so handsome. And the best part is, he has no idea. He’s not quite a silver fox yet, but he’s starting to have the bearing of one. His dark red tie makes his eyes look the exact shade of milk chocolate. 

“Knock, knock,” he says quietly, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Come on in, Dr. Robby,” you say, winking. He appears to relax. “Have a seat. Welcome to my lair.”

He closes the door—hm—and pulls his tie off with two concerted pulls while he sits down. You swallow. He notices and smirks—jerk.

“Did I say anything particularly interesting?”

You shake your head. “You know I can’t tell you.” You lean forward across your desk, and he matches you automatically. “You did a good job. Was that your first time?”

“Nope. My first criminal one, though.” He puts his elbows on your desk so that he’s even closer to you; all the oxygen seems to have fled from the room. “It’s fun watching you do your job. You’re so…” Sexy? Definitely capable enough to be a candidate for the enviable position of a doctor’s younger girlfriend? “Confident.”

You smile and lean back a bit so you can think. “I do my best.”

“Why wasn’t your client there?”

You look at your knees, which are tucked up near your chin. “He doesn’t have a constitutional right to be at a deposition, and if I insisted on him being there, we would have had to do it at the jail. A place I wouldn’t wish upon my worst enemy.” You shrug. “And I wondered if it might be painful for you to see him.” Michael’s eyes soften, and you have to busy yourself with organizing your desk. “He’s not a bad guy.”

“I’m sure,” he hums, so magnanimously that your hands still. “I have to work a twelve tomorrow. I wanted to ask if you’d like to come over to my place and watch a movie after. I make a mean chicken alfredo.”

“I dunno. Might need a subpoena,” you joke. “I would love that, Michael. It’s a date.”

He stands up, loosely holding his tie at his side, and leans down to kiss your cheek. “Good deal. I’ll text you the address. Have a good day, sweetheart.”

You’re burning up in your turtleneck, and you decide that after he leaves you’re going to prop open your tiny, grimy window. “You too.”

Michael opens the door, looks both ways as though he’s sneaking out—which you suppose he is—and then he’s gone. And you feel profoundly lonely all of a sudden.

With some effort, you turn your attention back to the notes you took during the deposition, opening your portfolio to look at your handwriting. RED SHIRT is circled three times. Above it, slightly smaller, is FOLLOWING. You turn to your computer and click on the huge file on the external hard drive. After a few seconds, the surveillance video pops up, and you drag the seek button around until you find two minutes prior to the approximate time of the shooting. Your eyes burn from having watched two hours of this video yesterday. 

You see him again. This clip haunted your thoughts last night. Strutting on the sidewalk past the gas pumps, one hand in one pocket of his baggy shorts. You pause the video. White guy. White Jordans. Red shirt.

You text your investigator a picture of the still. He’s probably already left the building, as you also should. But you’re burning with energy. We absolutely have to find this guy.

Michael doesn’t know why, but the next morning at shift change, he gets there early and tells Jack everything. About The Incident, seeing you at the Exchange again, all the dates, all the texts. The deposition. Having you over for dinner tonight. Everything.

“Shit, dude,” Jack says with as much seriousness as he’s ever said anything, Michael thinks. “That’s a lot.”

“Yeah.” Michael opens his locker. He puts his bag in and covers his eyes with his hands, pressing so hard that he sees blues and purples. “Am I completely fucked?” Jack’s silence is answer enough. “Fuck.”

“What’s the problem?” Jack snickers. Michael wants to punch him. “She’s smart, she’s cute, she’s funny, she’s nice, she’s employed. She apparently likes you, God help her.”

Michael drops onto the hard wood bench and tries to put his hands into his pockets before he remembers that he still doesn’t have his jacket. “She’s too young for me.”

Jack shrugs. “She’s young, but I don’t think she’s too young. Not her fault you’re old.”

“Shut up.” Michael puts his face in his hands. “I just—am I ready for this?”

“You’re fifty, dumbass. I certainly hope you would be.” Jack sits down next to him. “I know what’s wrong with you.”

“Of course you do.”

“You don’t think you deserve to be happy. But you do.” Jack nudges his friend’s shoulder with his own. “Embrace it. Don’t sabotage a good thing. And trust me, she looks like a good thing.”

Michael shoves him at his last sentence. “Shut up, Abbot.” Before Jack leaves, Michael calls, “Thanks, buddy.”

“You’re welcome, Robby.”

The day is fine—surprisingly calm for a Friday, in fact. Two falls from a nursing home, one of them caused by the other. A blown-off finger from a firecracker. Critically dehydrated hiker. Michael tries to pay attention to his residents and patients and not think too much about how he’s going to make his famous alfredo: will he stick with the recipe this time or freestyle? What will you wear to his apartment? What are you doing at work right now?

Do you think about him as much as he thinks about you?

He knows he’s in too deep when he shuts himself in the break room late in the afternoon and texts you. Can’t wait to see you later. He sits at the table with his leg bouncing until you respond, ten minutes later.

It’s a picture of your smiling face, with what looks to be the side of the courthouse in the background. Docket’s over. Just a couple more hours.

He’s trying to think of something funny and alluring to say when McKay throws the door open. “Robby? We got a critical COVID case coming in.” He nearly drops his phone in his hurry to lock the screen.

“Alright, you, me, and Princess. N95, goggles, and gowns. Is Trauma One open now?”

“Yeah. James Eddings, seventy-one. Son hadn’t heard from him in a couple days and went over to find him on the floor. Breathing’s really bad. Ambulance is pulling up. We’ll have to intubate.”

“He vaccinated?”

“The EMTs radioed en route so I went ahead and looked. His history doesn’t say anything about it.”

Michael’s stomach drops as he follows McKay out to get their PPE. “Princess, with us,” he says to her, and she instantly obeys. “I want everyone to clear out of central while we wheel in Mr. Eddings,” Michael yells, being intentionally vague so no one panics. “Take the few hallway patients into bays for just a couple minutes.”

Everyone who was standing around is now moving, pushing beds and wheelchairs, while Michael, McKay, and Princess suit up in the general supply room. Michael ignores the shaking in his hands while he tries to tie his gown. “We got this, ladies,” he says as confidently as he can.

Everything afterward moves in a blur. Trauma One is sealed off, and they move fast to assess the damage. Heart rate too high, blood oxygen too low, skin pale and so clammy that it almost sticks to their gloves. They intubate, and the beeping is so loud in Michael’s ears, as is his own breathing behind his respirator.

“Robby,” McKay says twice before he looks up at her. “This is multi-organ failure.”

“Now that he’s intubated, let’s hand him off to the ICU.” He blinks, feeling like he’s moving in slow motion. “They can assess for primary respiratory failure and then do the sequential organ failure assessment if needed. We’ve done all we’re equipped to do down here. The two of you take him upstairs, and I’ll supervise the scrubbing of this room.”

“Got it,” McKay says, with a little too much concern behind her goggles as she and Princess wrangle all the equipment and begin moving the bed. Michael opens the door for them, out to central, which is thankfully still empty except for Dana, who is wearing a mask. 

“Dana, need a full clean on this room,” Michael says through the door, hating the shaking in his voice. “Let our guys finish in here and then central can go back to normal.” He clears his throat and yanks off the gown and gloves so he can throw them away. When he takes a step toward the bin, his legs feel weak. Not here. Please, not here.

He steps out and pulls off his respirator, throwing it in the trash can, as two of the janitors approach Trauma One. He nods to them while he washes his hands, schooling his face, then stalks off to the single-occupant bathroom.

The door bursts open when Michael hits it with his shoulder. He intends to step over to the sink and splash some water on his face, but his heart is slamming against his ribs, and his vision starts to gray. He locks the door and drops to the floor harder than he means to. 

Why this? Why today? The ringing in his ears blocks out all other sound. Dr. Adamson. The tubes, the way his own breath fogged up the plastic of his PPE. He’s breathing hard now, and grinding his jaw so hard he fears he might break his teeth. The animals on the walls of pedes, the way residents, nurses, everybody kept coming up to ask him what to do, what to do. He can’t get enough air in his lungs. I miss you. I miss you. I’m sorry. Forgive me.

You knock on the door for the third time, harder now, wondering if you have the wrong place. But the small mailbox next to the door definitely says M.R., and you’re starting to get worried.

Maybe he changed his mind. Or forgot. Even though he just texted you about this three hours ago. “Michael?” You say tentatively. Louder, “Michael?”

You don’t hear a response, or even any movement. You look down at your phone and press his number. Five rings, no answer, no ringtone from behind the door. Maybe he’s stuck at work? But surely he would have texted you.

A sickening feeling tells you that this has all been an elaborate prank, and that the guys from Punk’d are about to throw open the door and shove cameras in your face. Your hand is pressed flat against the door. You don’t want his one neighbor across the hall to think you’re stalking him, but you don’t really know what else to do. At least you shared your location with Adam before coming over, in case this is actually the place you get murdered.

Being a public defender could make you really twisted. 

You try the doorknob, and surprisingly, it turns. “Michael, it’s me,” you say as you squeeze the metal. “I’m coming in, okay?”

The space you step into is obviously large, but dim. A skylight lets in a weak moonbeam and nothing more. You can make out the shape of a wide couch and you nearly trip over a pair of sneakers. You turn your phone flashlight on. “Michael, are you here?” Nothing.

You navigate past the kitchen and down a hall, and all the doors are shut. One is a bathroom and another is a tidy home office filled with books and academic journals. You reach the last door and your chest constricts. You switch your flashlight to its dimmest setting before opening the door, keeping the light at your feet.

There’s a large bed, covered in navy blue bedding, with a shape balled up in the middle. You tiptoe over to his bedside lamp and flick it on, thankful to see that his back is rising and falling on his breaths: you can tell because he’s shirtless. His scrub top is gone and his shoes are by the front door, but other than that, it looks like he came home and collapsed, still wearing his pants and socks. His phone is on the nightstand; you tap the screen to see a picture of Michael and a teenage boy you don’t recognize, along with ☾ Do Not Disturb at the bottom. How do you go about this without startling him?

“Michael, wake up for me,” you shake his shoulder as gently as you can considering how nervous you are. His skin is soft and warm. He groans softly. “Please wake up.” His bleary eyes blink open slowly, slowly, underscored by dark circles that look almost purple. “Are you okay?”

He shoots upright and looks like he might bolt out of the room. “I— Why—” He realizes he doesn’t have a shirt on and folds his arms around his middle. All of a sudden, his face crumples. “Oh, shit.”

“Michael, honey, are you sick? What can I do for you?”

“Sick in the head, maybe,” he says, and the lamp enhances the shadows on his face. He sighs. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

You lower yourself on the mattress next to him, careful not to touch him, just in case he doesn’t want it. “Talk to me.” He takes in a shaky breath. A minute passes with no answer. “Please, Michael, talk to me. I won’t judge you.”

He lifts his head without looking at you. “I had a mentor. An attending named Montgomery Adamson.” Michael sniffs. “Best man I ever knew. He got COVID during the pandemic. We put him on extracorporeal membrane oxygenation for seventeen days, but we had to let him go. I watched him die.” His lip starts to tremble and he can’t go on.

“And why are you overcome by that memory today?” you ask as softly as you can.

“Man came in today with COVID and likely multi-organ failure. It took me back to that day like I’ve never experienced before. I—I had a panic attack.” You can see tears on his face now. “My charge nurse sent me home. I got here and apparently crashed.”

“Is it okay if I hold your hands?” He nods. You kneel in front of him, taking both of his hands, and look up into his face. “You’re okay. I’m here with you.”

“I’m so sorry. I can’t believe I forgot about you,” he starts to sob. 

“Shh, Michael, you have nothing to apologize for.” You stand so you can hold his head to your middle while he cries. His hair is soft when you run your hand over it, over and over. “You’re okay, sweetheart. Let it out. Tears are always worth the time.”

He weakly grips the back of your jeans as he presses his face into your stomach and weeps. Drops fall down your own face just from watching him. Has he been carrying all this, alone, for years? You have no idea how long you stand there: at least ten minutes, alternatively comforting him and crying with him. His breath finally goes even and you hand him the tissue box from his own nightstand. He wipes his face while you sit, cuddled close to his side like that night on the park bench, except now you can feel the warmth of his skin without a barrier.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” you say into his shoulder before pressing a kiss there. “Will you let me stay? Do you feel up to that?”

He looks conflicted and embarrassed. “You really want to stay after that?”

You purse your lips. “Yes. If you’ll allow me.”

He shakes his head and gives you the tiniest smile. “Be my guest, then.”

You hold his face in your hands. “Take a shower. Then, you have an appointment with Chinese takeout and You’ve Got Mail.” When you kiss his cheek, you swear you can taste the tears there, and your heart cracks.

His closet is a treasure trove of options, which he offers up when he sees how damp he’s made the front of your shirt. “I’m always messing up your shirts.” He’s got hoodies from medical school, quarter zips from St. Jude, and the Steelers pullover that you’ve seen before. You opt for the latter and pad out to the living room to sit and order the food.

What strikes you most is that it smells like him everywhere, and that books are on basically every available service. The entertainment center, the kitchen table, the narrow bar, and even the small table in his entryway have books and medical journals sprawled over them. Stray pairs of glasses sit on some of them. 

The food arrives and you cue up the best romcom ever made. Michael pads out into the living room, his hair damp, wearing a white tee and red flannel pajama pants. Seeing him look so domestic puts your heart in your throat.

“Settle in,” you say, lifting the plush blanket over your lap, hoping he understands your request. He sidles up to you and accepts a small container of fried rice, which he picks at lethargically—but he does his best, knowing you’re watching him. 

By the time Meg Ryan is sick in her apartment, your head is on Michael’s lap, and you have a second blanket. He pretends that you’re not lying when you tell him you’re not falling asleep.

“I love this movie,” you mumble. His arm is so comforting where it rests across your middle.

“I saw it in the theater. Were you even born then?” he whispers.

“Shut up.” You yawn. Tom Hanks is pausing in the middle of the park’s path: your eyes aren’t even open, you can just tell from the swell of the music. Somewhere over the rainbow. You think you hear Michael say, “Thank you for being here with me.”

Is this what being with Michael forever would be like? Warmth, comfort, honesty? You’re desperate for it. Thankfully you’re pulled into sleep before you can say something stupid.

You wake up with a square pillow under your head and a text from Adam. You sly fox. You stayed over. Your legs are sore from you sleeping in your blue jeans. 

It takes a second to remember where you are, but staring up at the skylight, you put the pieces together. Michael lifting your head up to put the pillow under it and his lips ghosting over your temple. You remember very well.

You stagger to the bathroom and run your hand over your hair, though it doesn’t do much good, and swish some mouthwash. That’ll have to do. 

Michael is in the kitchen when you come back out, and he hands you a glass of water. He’s already fully dressed in his jeans and a plaid flannel. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You chug half the glass and set it down so you can hug him. “Morning. Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he chuckles, and kisses the top of your head. “Let me drive you home.” 

You don’t hear from Michael for the rest of the weekend, though you don’t expect to. When he dropped you off at your apartment on Saturday, you made him promise to set up a therapy appointment, and he sheepishly agreed to look into it. He hugged you and drove away.

You meet up with Adam at the Exchange on Sunday, and he grills you about everything he missed while on vacation. You spend hours talking, and you’re equally excited and nervous at the thought that Michael might walk in. But he doesn’t.

Work becomes more bearable with Adam back on deck. You spend all of Monday doing arraignments and preliminary hearings and trying not to think about Michael—about how he’s doing, whether he misses you, whether he regrets any of it. Whether he regrets showing you everything. Adam keeps looking at you with concern during the docket, but you avoid meeting his eyes, no matter how hard he tries.

The next afternoon, your investigator runs into your office, scaring the hell out of you. Before you can hide under your desk, he shoves the external hard drive at you, which he had taken back from you. “It’s footage from a Flock camera, and then one corner of a city parking lot.” It’s not normal for him to insist you watch something immediately, but this time he does.

He clicks on the parking lot video first. “I got this after interviewing a doorman at a nearby walkup who swore he saw the guy. A different doorman than I talked to the first time. It’s hard to see, but here, this guy gets out of this black truck—” he points, “and approaches the sidewalk that runs along East North Street.” You see flashes of red and white as the man gets closer to the camera, though he keeps his head down. “This lot is about a mile and a half from where our shooting happened.”

The man gets closer and closer before turning to walk parallel to the camera. Even with the grainy footage, it’s your alternative perpetrator. “And the Flock camera?”

“It captured his plate before he turned into the lot. I bet he thought he was in the clear because this lot isn’t well-lit, and it’s next to a car junking place, not any buildings.” He clicks the other file. “I had to fight with the City to get this, but here we go.” It’s a surprisingly well-lit clip of cars traveling down a one-way, and you see the black truck go by. He slows the video until it’s nearly still. 

PENNSYLVANIA BBR9233 LET FREEDOM RING

“And there he goes,” you gasp. “Can you—”

“Called PPD an hour ago. Told them they could either run this plate for me or deal with the consequences after making me jump through the hoops of a subpoena for Driver and Vehicle Services.” He breaks into a satisfied smile. “Car’s registered to one Trevor Mayes.”

“I would say we need to talk to Mr. Mayes,” you say, nearly so excited you can’t breathe.

“Luckily for you, you have all the access in the world to Mr. Mayes.”

“Oh? How so?”

“He got booked at the jail on drug trafficking charges thirty minutes ago.” Your mouth hangs open. “PPD couldn’t figure out why I happened to be calling about someone who was actively getting arrested. Imagine my surprise.”

“I bet they found a nine millimeter handgun in his truck,” you scoff. “Amazing work. I’m so proud. I need to go tell the boss that we all need to be conflicted out of Mr. Mayes’ upcoming arraignment. And I’ll brag about you exceedingly.”

On your way down the hall, you shoot a text to Nathaniel, which you almost never do. Need to talk to you urgently. Be in your office in fifteen minutes.

Your boss congratulates you and promises to give your investigator a shoutout at the next staff meeting. You thank him and run out. Luckily, the prosecutor’s office is in the same building, and you rush over with your laptop, the file, your portfolio with your legal pad inside, and the hard drive. The DA receptionist eyes your agitation with suspicion while he leads you down the hall. 

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite public defender,” Nathaniel says sarcastically, but without too much bite. Thank God he’s not in a bad mood, you think. “What’s so important?”

You plop into the armchair across with him and try not to get annoyed at how clean his desk is. “Nate, I know you and I don’t always see eye to eye—” understatement of the century, “but I really need you to hear me out on this. It could save us both a lot of grief.” You flip open Quade’s file and find your first sheet of jail notes. “When I first talked to Quade Jameson, I knew something was amiss. Believe it or not, I was right.”

You spend half an hour just laying out everything you’ve found: the videos, your investigator’s notes, even the timeline you made last night, which had holes that the new videos filled. “Through no fault of your own, you’ve got the wrong guy.” It takes a lot of self-control to say that, but you’d do anything for Quade. And his mom. And his daughter. “And you have the chance to do the right thing by letting him go. You’ve already got the real perpetrator in your custody.” 

Nathaniel sits back in his big, comfortable leather office chair and puts his hands behind his head. “Your guy was found on the street with a firearm of the same caliber as the bullet found in my shooting victim. Your guy threw said gun into the bushes. Said gun did not have a full clip. Your guy refused to talk to my detective.”

You feel your control slipping. The leather of the chair squeaks as you dig your fingers into it. My client, Mr. Groff, is a young Black man who got scared. But you can’t imagine that, can you? You think unaccountably of Michael. Clever, levelheaded Michael.

“I hear you, Nate,” you say, with as much feigned sincerity as if you were saying I could punch you in the face right now. “Just do me one favor. Who arrested Trevor Mayes?”

“Officer Dailey.” He knows because he took the call for the application for a search warrant, you’re sure of it. “Why?”

“I imagine they’re done searching his truck and have towed it. Can you call Officer Dailey and ask her if she found a nine millimeter?”

Nate sniffs. “To what end?”

“Please.”

He huffs and picks up his work cell to dial. It rings twice. “Dailey? Question for you,” he drawls, as if this minor conversation is taking all his effort. “Did you all find a nine millimeter in Trevor Mayes’ truck?” You hear her muffled voice. His face drops. “How many cartridges?” It drops further. He listens for much longer than it would take to answer that simple question. “Thanks.”

Both of you sit in silence, the unstoppable force and the immovable object. You squint at him.

“Officer Dailey says Mr. Mayes started talking about the shooting when they pulled him over,” he says at last. Your heart pounds. “It was pre-Miranda rights, but it was unprompted.”

You try not to let your exhilaration show and decide to use a different tack. “Your kids play little league soccer. You want to be watching them on the weekends, freezing your ass off on the sidelines, not fighting with me on this as it goes on.” You lean forward. “And an innocent man is sitting in that jail while his family calls my office to ask how to get on food stamps.”

Nathaniel’s jaw juts out. You prepare for the worst. “What do I get?”

“The satisfaction of a job well done,” you say, and he rolls his eyes. “Just don’t file the information, and do an agreed order with me to release Mr. Jameson. You can always re-arrest him and file the information if I’m wrong. But I’m not, not on this one.”

He stares down at his hands, flat against the desk, for a long time. You can hear his breaths. Without looking up, he says, “You write and file the order. I’ll email Judge with my reasons and copy you, just so she doesn’t storm over here.”

You stand, holding out your hand. “Thank you.” For the first time in a long time, Nathaniel Groff shakes it.

Thursday arrives in all its splendor. The bond modification was signed yesterday, and the District Attorney’s Office made their announcement this morning. Adam sends you a link to the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette website: DA Groff Decides Not to Pursue Murder Charge, Says Alternative Suspect Being Investigated. Adam’s text underneath says, Good job, counsel. Drinks on me this weekend.

You stare at the drawing on your desk. It was done by Quade’s daughter Isabelle, who came to sit in your office while her grandmother went to pick up her dad at the jail. She drew crude hearts and a rainbow that didn’t really have a curve. She also scrawled four stick people, their only differences being your heights, and pointed to each. “Daddy, me, Grammy, you.”

Quade looks much better when he’s not wearing a bright red jumpsuit. He’s wearing jeans and a hoodie his mom brought to the jail for him, and you can smell laundry detergent when he hugs you. He and his mom thank you over and over while Isabelle continues to color.

“You’re welcome, and I’m so sorry for everything you’ve been through,” you say, trying to force the wobble out of your voice.

“You believed me,” Quade responds. “That’s all I needed.”

The relief on his face, the tears on his mother’s, the butterfly clips in his daughter’s hair. You bottle it all up to store in your heart for all the days when it feels like all you do is lose. You also think of Damion Yates, and the doctor who was unable to save him. Death, loss, confusion, anger. Mistakes.

You had called the tire factory that morning and assured them that Quade would return the next day, and told them in no uncertain terms that they ought to rehire him. You talked to Quade’s direct supervisor and then his boss with as much conviction as when you talked to Nathaniel. They listened.

Finally, after several achingly long weeks, Quade and his little family go home. You close your door, lay your head on your folded arms, and cry tears of profound relief, as loudly as you want to.

Your receptionist knocks on your door a little before the office closes. You’re writing a suppression motion and don’t look up when you call out that she can come in, assuming she’s going to tell you about an upcoming appointment and then leave. Something that sounds like thick glass thunks down onto your desk, and she stands there until you turn.

It’s a vase of orange and yellow peonies with a small card sticking out on a pronged stick.

Congratulations, sweetheart. Am I allowed to say that, as a witness? Guy at the flower shop says these symbolize good luck and prosperity. I can’t tell if he’s making it up. Exchange at 6:15, if you’ll have me. -M.

You text him as your receptionist retreats with a knowing look. Thank you. It’s a date.

The Exchange is a moderate walk from your apartment, and you notice it’s not terribly busy as you head down the road. You can see that the standing chalkboard, which usually has cute menu drawings, instead says Closed for private event.

You stop in your tracks and look down at your phone. You’re running a few minutes late. Surely Michael would have told you if he walked here and it was closed. As you near the door, your favorite barista pops her head out. She beams and waves you over. 

You glance behind you, like she must be gesturing to someone else, but there’s no one there. She exaggeratedly rolls her eyes and pulls you in by the arm.

“Surprise!” A chorus of voices sings, and you nearly jump as party poppers go off from two baristas standing on the bar. They’re surrounded on the counter by pastries and bowls of punch.

Your eyes adjust to the dimness of the shop slowly. You see Adam, your investigator, your boss, your receptionist, and a smattering of your fellow public defenders. Then there are several people you don’t recognize, some of them with scrubs on. Finally, you see Michael in the center of it all, with Jack at his side.

Michael’s wearing a blazer and that dark red tie. You press your hands over your heart.

“Everybody cheer for Lady Justice!” The barista shouts from over your shoulder, and the applause and cheering is raucous, even though there are probably only thirty people here.

Michael sees that you’re overwhelmed and steps up to take your hands while everyone else falls into their own conversations, mostly laughing at the shock on your face. “I got your receptionist’s number last week. Congratulations again.”

You swallow hard to tamp down the tears. “Thank you. This means so much to me.” You laugh. “Public defenders never get feted like this. Adam will get jealous.” 

“Already am, my girl,” Adam chimes in, coming up from behind Michael to give you a quick hug. “Proud, but not surprised.”

One of the baristas climbs down from the bar and plugs their phone in behind the counter. “Let’s get this party started!”

All the tables are pushed up against the walls so people can dance. You quickly learn that the punch is spiked, and you pretend not to know that the Exchange doesn’t have a liquor permit. Michael takes you around to meet his coworkers, all of whom look at you so intensely that they must be planning to paint you from memory. You try to catch all of the names: Princess, Cassie, Mateo, Samira, and others whose names and positions go in one ear and out the other.

Jack laughs at their interest in you when you get around to him. “Don’t worry. They’re all wondering who they owe their gratitude to.”

“Oh?”

“This one’s been in too good of a mood for too long. It’s all starting to make sense to them.” He points at Michael, who is distracted, and Jack uses the opportunity to offer you his hand. “A dance?”

The song is slow, but he keeps a respectful distance, and positions himself so that you can keep an eye on Michael. He continues, “Robby is a good guy.”

“I know,” you smile, trying to look at Jack as often as you look back at his friend.

“Our job is insane,” Jack murmurs. “I hope you understand. He’s worth the risk.”

You squeeze Jack’s hand and look seriously at him before you repeat, “I know.”

The song ends and he bows to you dramatically. “I must take my leave of Lady Justice to go to the Pitt.” He squeezes your shoulder before picking up his bag from the corner. “See you.”

“Thanks for coming. Have a good shift.”

“No such thing,” he winks, and he’s gone, weaving through the dancers to go save some lives.

You can tell it’s Michael touching your elbow just from the feel of his palm. “Hey,” he says into your ear, and a thrill runs down your spine.

“Hey.” You turn and put your arms around his neck while his own hands slide down to your waist. “Thank you again for all this. I feel so happy.” You press your face into his shoulder and let him lift your hand as another achingly slow song comes on over the speakers.

“Me too,” you hear him mumble into your hair. “I hope Mr. Jameson is doing okay.”

“His life is forever changed, but he’ll rally. People usually do, with time.” You choke up. “His faith in me meant a lot.”

Michael runs his hand across your back in quiet comfort. His voice is low, just for you. “I met with my department’s social worker. She gave me a list of therapists.”

You smile into his shirt, and you hope he can feel it. “Very good. We’ll set up an appointment soon.” You love saying we.

He says your name, and you look up to meet his gaze, which is soft. Those damn puppydog eyes. “You mean a lot to me. Thank you for putting me back together the other night.”

You kiss the tip of his nose, not caring who sees. “I want to help. Because you mean a lot to me, too.”

The chaos of your living room—books, papers, empty mugs, blankets, and pens everywhere—affects you much less when Michael is kissing you with abandon. He backs you through your door and doesn’t even stop for you to take your shoes off, so you have to toe out of them blindly. He presses his leg up between your thighs, pinning you to the door, and you gasp with pleasure.

“You sure about this, sweetheart?” he groans into your neck, his hand gripping your ass so that he can grind you down onto his knee.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life,” you laugh, and he captures the sound with his mouth. He tastes like punch, which the two of you polished off, as you were the last people to leave the Exchange other than the baristas. It reminds you of the first time you kissed him, and that craft cranberry beer you shared. Both of you are tipsy and kept running into each other on the walk to your place.

Michael drops his blazer on your couch and you seize the chance to run to your bedroom before he can ravish you in your disastrous living room. You hear him following down the hall, and his gaze darkens when he rounds the corner to see you already in your bra. He steps to you and plays with the waistband to your slacks while you tug at his tie.

“You look amazing in a tie,” you admit, leaning up to nip at where your hands are revealing the skin beneath his shirt as fast as you can. “I need you to wear one every day.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He hooks his thumbs into your waistband and pulls, taking your underwear along. You gasp at the rush of cold air. To get your revenge, you undo his belt buckle and pull so hard that one of the ends hits you in the thigh. Done with teasing, Michael strips, and watches with relish as you look down. You nearly gasp.

He is thick. But he’s back on you almost instantly, unhooking your bra so he can kiss at the swells of skin, soft at first, and then biting. “Will you let me fuck you good, sweetheart?” he asks into your chest, and you tremble with anticipation. His beard is scratching you deliciously.

“Please, Michael, I know you’ll take care of me.” He growls at that and lifts you up onto your bed alongside him. He slides so that his legs are hooked over the end.

“Sit on my face, baby.”

At first, you’re sure you don’t hear him correctly. There’s no way. Is he that wasted? But then he’s gripping your thigh hard, trying to pull you over. Seeing your expression, he smirks. “Come on. Let me taste you.”

You’re certain you’ve never been so wet in your entire life. You crawl over and nestle your knees around his head, and you nearly jump when he instantly leans up to press a kiss to your clit. His fingers draw circles on the back of your thighs. “Pretty girl,” he says, and his breath fanning over your skin makes you cry out.

He alternates between assaulting your clit and sticking his tongue into your entrance as far as it will go, and uses his fingers wherever his tongue is not. You’re practically melting, and you have to grip his hair to keep yourself lifted up.

“Michael, I’m s-so close,” you whimper.

He pauses only to say, “Cum on my face.”

Your orgasm explodes, and Michael doesn’t let up; your whining and pleas only motivate him. When you start begging and squirming, he tortures you with his mouth a little while longer, but then he runs his tongue over his lips and lets you roll off of him. Your head hits your pillow and you pant, your legs turned to jelly.

When you can finally open your eyes, he’s rolling a condom over himself, and despite the shaking in your thighs, you rally. “I need you to fuck me, baby,” you simper. He leans down so you can hook your arms around his shoulders.

He runs his tip through your folds, and you could cry with the sensation. “Tell me if I hurt you,” he says into your ear before sinking into the gates of heaven. 

Your mouth falls open at the sheer width of him. Your nails claw at his back, and you’re sure it’ll leave marks, but he only moans in that deliciously whiny voice of his and whispers praises into your collarbone. The stretch makes tears form at the corners of your eyes all over again. Michael kisses them away.

He drags himself in and out of your intoxicating heat, and it’s embarrassingly soon that you start seeing stars again. He lifts your knees so that he can thrust at an angle, all the while telling you how perfect you feel, how perfect you are. Your heart is hammering where his lips and tongue trace over your chest. “Michael, I’m gonna cum again. Baby.”

You feel him nodding into your neck and give yourself up to it. You’re shocked at your own voice, echoing with pleasure, but Michael says, “That’s right. Let me hear you.” He slams his hips into yours until you’re sure you’ve lost the ability to think. “I’m so close.”

“Cum for me, Michael. I want to feel you,” you practically sob, and soon, he’s losing his steady rhythm. He says your name with bare adoration as he stills. He collapses on top of you, and you run your hand through the back of his hair. 

Both of you clean up, and he holds you close under your covers, keeping out the October chill. You trace figure eights through the hair on his chest. After a while, you can sense he wants to say something.

“Hit me with it, Dr. Robby.”

“Please put me out of my misery.” He grabs your hand and kisses your fingers. 

“I’m not sure what you mean,” you shrug. But you definitely do.

“Would you be exclusive with me? Please?” He presses your hand, caged between his, to his chest.

i. THIRD VISIT

Neil bursts through the door, wide-eyed, red-faced, and with all the subtlety of a cannonball launched at high noon during a livestream.

“Guys, guys,” he declares to the roomful of kitchen staff in the middle of prep, “Richie’s lady-friend is here!”

A few things happen to Richie Jerimovich upon hearing this: the first is a peculiar sensation in the middle of his chest he can only hypothetically describe as being shot, except, instead of traditional bullets, this weapon discharges a bunch of tiny hypothermic nanites that spread through his circulatory system and make him feel like he’s about to keel over and die—but not before first sending him down a Chekhovian panic spiral once he realizes that for the first time in his middle-aged life, a phrase like “Richie’s lady-friend” evokes a mental picture of someone other than Tiff.

Grabbing Fak by the scruff of his neck, Richie drags him away from the door.

“Don’t call her that,” he manages to gruff out, breathing fast, his palms sweaty like a teenager before prom.

Everyone’s eyes glue onto him, dissecting his smallest micro-expression before they scatter like rats for a place at the viewing window.

Marcus squeezes against Syd who squeezes against Tina who squeezes against Jess who squeezes against Neil. Even Carmy—that mopey tattooed Eeyore—stops what he’s doing to crane his neck toward the dining room, where a woman can be seen talking to—or, being talked at by a blustering Sammy and Teddy Fak.

“Dude, you still haven't asked her out?” Sydney asks, her voice laced with baffled disappointment.

The others turn around and blink at him. Richie’s ears go hot. 

“We’re not… it’s not like that, okay… you… you bunch of cave-dwelling lunatics. And get away from there before she sees you!”

“I thought you already went on a date,” says Jessica, going back to her scissors and red- and green- colored squares. “The movies?”

An image of himself glancing down at the armrest and wondering whether or not it’d be appropriate to touch her flashes through his mind, filling him with the same nauseating feelings he’d had on that Sunday afternoon while sitting in paralyzed silence, wondering whether or not it was the right time, too soon, or not at all what she’d had in mind when she suggested meeting up, casually—so casually that he didn’t know whether it was a date, or like, a “friends’” thing he was too fucking old and not quite modern enough to understand.

After all, what would a woman like that want with a schmuck like him?

They’re waiting.

Richie mumbles, rubbing the back of his head, “Nah, I went to a movie, and she went to a movie, and it just so happened to be the same movie at the same time, and in adjoining seats.”

Carmy snorts—softly, but not softly enough.

Richie bends his knees down to his level. “Got something you wanna say to the class, Jeff?”

“Me? I didn't say anything.”

“Uh-huh… Maybe when your love life isn’t a fucking shambles, I might take it under advisement to take your advice under fucking advisement. Cuz.”

Carmy gestures at the knife in his hand. “Richie, what the hell are you going on about? Do you not see me cutting these shallots?”

“I’ll tell you what to do with those fucking shallots!”

Sydney wrinkles her nose as Tina pipes up from the window. “Papi, whatever you’re gonna do, you better do it fast—you can’t leave her to fend for herself out there with the Faks. Sheesh,” she adds with a grimace, “they're waving around power tools.”

“What?” Richie races to her side, finding that, indeed, Teddy is trying to demonstrate his prowess with an electric drill in a way that violates about a half-dozen safety regulations. He breaks out in a sweat. “Oh Jesus…”

“What’s going on?” Natalie emerges from the back office, suspicious and braced for catastrophe.

“Richie’s in L-O-V-E,” Neil responds while popping a piece of diced carrot.

“That’s—” Air catches in Richie’s throat, making him cough. He pulls at his collar and wishes he could melt into the walls, disappear… Stick his head into the nearest pot of pasta water.

Natalie's face lights up. “Oh, is she here again? I wanna see!”

“Get down!” He pulls her sleeve, not wanting to manhandle a woman who, even on a good day, has the potential to be scary as shit. Except right now having his “lady-friend”in the dining room turn around and see this farce playing out is the scarier prospect.

Sugar elbows him in the side.

Richie yelps. “What is it with these stupid fucking decorative glass wall motherfuckers, anyway?” he complains, trying to peel her away from the place where she's crouched.

“You like this decorative glass wall motherfucker!”

“Not anymore, I fuckin’ don’t! First thing tomorrow I’m taking it down with a fucking sledgehammer.”

She looks out the narrow window and gasps. “Is that Teddy giving her his card? Is he curtseying?”

“Fuck this,” Richie swears. He might be a chooch but a man has to screw his pride to the sticking-place at some point.

“That’s the spirit!” Tina exclaims, coming to pat him on the back.

He pushes the door open, his heart kicking him in the ribs as, from behind, he hears Neil egging him on with “Go get ’em, pal—we believe in you, Rich!” That makes one of us, he thinks to himself.

The woman turns, sees him standing there, and smiles.

ii. RESERVATION

It all began during a run-of-the-mill pre-dinner shift—after a dose of shenanigans and Carmy being a pain in the ass—when Richie was manning the phone and working on his daily speech.

“…so as Marcus Aurelius said, ‘If you do the job in a principled way, with diligence, energy and patience…’” He held the pocket-size notebook at arm’s length, as if physical distance from his—or, well, the dead emperor’s—words might put them in better perspective.

“‘…diligence, energy…’” He trailed off, muttering to himself, then exhaled and crossed it out.

Hard.

“Never mind… pretentious douchebag.” He was speaking of himself, not Marcus Aurelius.

His mood had been souring exponentially as the day of Tiff and Frank’s wedding drew near, and though he started every day with the grudging resolution to be a better person, by the time he got to The Bear he was picking fights with Carmy, losing his shit over napkins, compulsively adding to the flower order, getting chewed out by Sugar for adding to the flower order, feeling like an idiot as he brainstormed his daily pep talk, pestering Syd about the pep talks, delivering the pep talks, and somehow managing to miss the ball of what he’d meant to say, because of course—because he was trying too hard, and simultaneously not trying hard enough.

Which, when he thought about it, had been the death knell for his marriage in the first place.

“Son of a bitch…” He rubbed his eyes, propped his head in his hands. “Get a fucking grip, Richard… Get a fucking grip… ‘To endure it and prevail is great good fortune.’ Okay, well, how the hell’re you supposed to do that, you imperialist fuck?”

Next to his elbow, the phone began to ring.

“Porca miseria…”

He did a quick inhale-exhale, risked waiting until the third ring, then picked up the call and gave his regular customer service spiel, because what fault was it of theirs that he was having a mid-afternoon crisis over his former wife and a freaking Stoic philosopher?

“Hi,” replied the woman, speaking clear-voiced into his ear, “I’d like to make a dinner reservation for a party of six. Next Thursday, if possible.”

“Ma’am, here at The Bear we’re in the business of making things possible. May I ask if your party has any special requests, dietary restrictions…?”

“No, nothing like that.”

“And are we celebrating anything in particular on this occasion?” he asked, doing the necessary taps on the tablet he pulled toward him.

Silence.

It was enough to make Richie sit up straight in his chair.

“Erm… yes, actually.” She paused. “It’s kind of a funny story… well, not ‘haha’ funny, but I guess in an Alanis Morissette kind of way…? It might be? If you look at it askance? My friend Bridget—she’s a paralegal—used to be a paralegal, though I guess she still is until they make it official—well, a few years ago, she decided that she wanted to go to law school… and she did. She passed the bar this month.”

“Mazel tov.”

“…yeah… except now it turns out her husband has been sleeping with the barista at their regular coffee place for the last two years.”

“Holy shit.” It was only after the profanity had flown out of his mouth that he thought, maybe, just maybe—and boy was this a foreign concept—but maybe he shouldn’t have said the words ‘holy shit’ over the phone to a prospective guest.

Not that she seemed to mind; she kept going, as if he hadn't interjected at all.

“…so now she's got to ask one of her coworkers to be her divorce attorney, and we can’t ever set foot in that café again. Which is a real bummer,” she said, sounding glum. “Bridget found it first… They make amazing pasticciotti."

Richie smiled, the kind of smile that made him bite the inside of his cheek—and just like that, crisis averted. No longer railing against fortune, he found that he was inexplicably invested in this drama that had nothing to do with him: with the unseen Bridget, the businesswear and the law books and lattes and the dog of a soon-to-be-ex-husband and the barista and the pasticciotti that were so divine they merited a mention in this saga.

And obviously, so did The Bear.

If you do the job in a principled way, with diligence, energy and patience…

“So, it's a divorce ’do,” he said, unable to fully hide his amusement.

She rushed to clarify, probably assuming (and she was partially right) that the thought of a “divorce ’do,” as he put it, might conjure images of weeping women and uncomfortable guests.

“I know what you’re thinking… but hear me out! If we go to some dive and get shit-faced, chances are one of us is bound to end up in jail. I’m in charge of this thing—there will be no one-phone-calls for bail on my watch, no siree! Besides, I’ve been dying to go. I promise we’ll be on our best behavior—I mean, it’s a school night and we're not twenty-three anymore. I don’t think I could handle a hangover at such short notice… Jesus, you pass thirty and you can’t even drink your feelings down without paying for it,” she grumbled.

It made Richie laugh. “Ma’am, you’re preaching to the choir. Though, for the record, I didn’t actually think you’d go full Coyote Ugly.”

“Oof… I’m knocking on wood—please knock on wood. Do it—don’t tempt fate!”

“All right, I’m knocking,” he replied, rapping his knuckles against the desk. He was aware that, aside from the opening lines, this conversation had veered well off course from everything he’d learned at Ever. But it felt good to laugh, to talk to someone else about themselves.

To, even if just for a couple of minutes, focus his mind on something fully outside himself. Mikey had done that for him. Mikey did that with everyone. He had a way of making them laugh, of making them feel like they were important. A friend. It didn’t matter if they were a stranger who had never set foot in The Beef before. The moment they crossed that threshold, they were family.

That was what Richie wanted to be.

He opened his notebook to a fresh page and shifted the phone, pressing it against his ear and his shoulder.

“Hey-uh… your friend Bridget… you wouldn’t happen to know her wedding flowers, by any chance?”

“Yeah—pink peonies,” the woman said after the briefest pause.

“Alright, then. No… peonies,” he wrote down in all caps, drawing two emphatic slashes underneath.

She laughed, and for the first time it made him wonder what she looked like—the kind of laugher she was, whether her eyes crinkled at the corners. She sounded like someone who loved to laugh; she sounded open, which only made him aware of just how not-open he’d become in the years since Mikey died. How much he hated it—how hard it was to change.

Without Eva and The Bear, he didn’t think he’d see the point in trying… except for moments like these—moments of clarity, perhaps, when he could see what it was like for the other half.

“The other half.”

Whatever the fuck that meant. He was projecting. Who was to say that the nice-sounding lady on the other end wasn’t as abjectly miserable as he was? It was one phone conversation. He was the maître d’ and she was a guest; it was his job to make the guests happy and then potentially never see them again.

He cleared his throat. On task, brother.

“Wedding cake?”

“Lemon mascarpone.”

“Nice.” His pen hovered, having expected a more usual response. He might have to run that one past Marcus… just not as a dessert option for Bridget. Obviously.

“It was, actually. Delice on North… rest in peace.”

He stopped in his tracks. That was where Tiff had found their wedding cake.

The bakery closed halfway through COVID, and along with the pang in his chest came a feeling of kinship with this unknown, unseen, heartbroken Bridget. So what if he wasn’t the poster-child for emotional resilience post-marital-dissolution; at least he didn’t have to face the rest of his life feeling like the final years of his marriage had been sham, and without the creature comfort of his favorite cup of coffee.

The indignity.

Fuck you, Mr. Lemon Mascarpone.

He had a thought… Marcus had a new dessert concept he was trying out and was this close to perfecting—all he needed was a sense of urgency, a little push. And all (well, not all, but it was a start) his guest needed was to open up this new chapter with a bang.

He leaned forward, propping his elbows on the desk. “How does your friend Bridget feel about chocolate?”

iii. FIRST VISIT

Normally, when a friend asked “you good?” they meant exactly what it said on the tin, but on the day of the woman on the phone’s reservation, Richie got it in all its subtextual forms.

“You good?” asked Marcus when he seemed more nervous about the dessert dish than The Bear’s actual pastry chef.

“You good?” from Jessica, when he kept fussing with the flower arrangements, then another one from Suge, followed by an ear-splitting “Then did you not hear me when I told you to calm down with the fucking flower budget, Richard?!?!”

He got one from Carmen, who was still on the outs with him and therefore entitled to nothing more than a “Yeah, and what do you care?” in response. And when Sydney asked, it was with the palms-up, befuddled air of “what the hell is wrong with you today?”

Richie couldn’t answer, not even when Tina pulled him aside and gave him the genuinely concerned variation, followed by “Is it about Eva? Is it Tiff?” and a delicate, “Is it Michael?”

No, no, no, and no. He was stressed, sure, but he couldn’t understand why he was stressed. Why this reservation made him feel like his brain was crawling with ants, why he couldn’t sleep, why the thought of tonight going badly was utterly una-fucking-cceptable to him, and why he kept popping into the restroom an hour before service just to fuss with his tie.

It helped when the first round of guests began to arrive. It gave him something to do other than micromanage and catastrophize, the role of Richie Jerimovich, competent maître d’hôtel, settling over him like a well-fitting suit. Then 7:30 rolled around, and he began compulsively checking the door again, touching his tie, driving Carmy insane by “hovering over his shoulder”—as he phrased it, the overexaggerating little shit—when he was just trying to avert any potential disasters.

Some people… ungrateful to the last.

Having been kicked out by the Culinary Dictator-In-Charge, he found himself across the door when they walked in—a line of smartly dressed women in their 40s waiting to be led to their seats. With nothing else to go on but a gut instinct that could prove to be embarrassingly false (and which he hoped, in an inwardly perverse sort of way, was false, that he could write it off as him being a dumbass for letting his fancy run away with him, but nevermore, you understand? This would teach him that hope was for suckers—not in general, but for people like him—and then life could resume as it always had), his gaze snagged upon the woman in the back, laughing as she held the door for one of her friends.

And, he knew it was insane, but she looked exactly the way he’d pictured her, down to the openness of her smile and the earnestness in her gaze.

By comparison, he could only disappoint.

So putting on his big boy professional pants, he put one foot in front of the other and did his job, trying not to look at her, addressing the group, promising—and here was one he could actually keep—that they were all very welcome at The Bear and that no effort would be spared to make sure they had a pleasant and memorable evening.

He was on top of things; Chef Terry would’ve been proud.

And then she lingered.

“I spoke with you on the phone!” she said, as if making a happy discovery, letting her friends file toward their seats.

“Guilty… I’m Richie, at your service.” He held out his hand, she beamed as she took it, and though he couldn’t admit it, not even to himself, he felt a tangle of nerves unspooling in his stomach, a shy, undignified reaction he hadn’t had to put up with in years. He was surprised he could still feel it; that he hadn’t outgrown it, and that the final loss of Tiff moving on hadn’t cauterized the nerve endings for good.

“No peonies,” she pointed out, surveying the arrangements of dahlia and stock.

“Not a one.” He let go of her hand, unwilling, like a teenage boy, and wishing she didn’t have to join the rest of her party and that he wasn’t on the clock.

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome,” he replied.

Throughout the night he made regular check-ins at their table, and gleaned from the snatches of conversation and the nonverbal language he observed while doing his rounds that they were a tight-knit group of friends. They had a shorthand, an ease apparent in the way they snatched bites from each other's plates, foregoing the straitlaced conventions of fine dining, reaching across the table, sharing jokes that didn’t need a spoken punchline because they knew, without words, what they intended to say.

It reminded him of Mikey and the Bears—minus the shouting, swearing, the verbal stabs in the eye while you were down… but he imagined that was a hallmark of having family, along with all the good stuff. Knowing they were there… that you didn’t have to explain, because you were known.

He noticed a shift in the atmosphere around dessert. After ooh-ing and ah-ing over Marcus’s spectacular cremeux with the chocolate caramel tuille—which Richie took an inordinate amount of pleasure in presenting, knowing his own (unnecessary, as Carmen would say, but screw ’im) contribution to its final production—there was a lull during which the women exchanged a few words, weightier, and more serious than they had previously done before. Bridget went teary-eyed, dabbing her eyes to stop her mascara from running, and then the whole table was at it, overcome by something only they could understand.

There was an awkward pause, a shifting of the eyes toward the other guests to ascertain whether or not they were paying attention to the group’s public display of emotion in the middle of a restaurant on a Thursday night. Then the woman from the phone spoke and another round of laughter spread across the table. Mirth mingling with sorrow.

Bridget rested her head on her shoulder, and the woman patted it affectionately, planting a kiss on her hair.

Richie looked away, feeling he oughtn’t intrude on the moment, yet he felt a surge of pride because it’d happened here—within these four walls that he considered his home.

After that, there wasn’t much left to do except see them off. Again, she hung back, and again, Richie felt that disarming fluttering in his stomach, as pleasurable as it was mortifying, uncomfortable, a complete ego-loss during which he could do nothing but admit how powerless he was in the face of his own roiling emotions.

“I hope you enjoyed your visit,” he managed to say with a smile that was curiously pained.

Oblivious, or else exceedingly kind, she looked at him with a sincerity that lodged itself in his chest.

“More than I can say.”

He inclined his head toward Bridget, who, to put it nicely, still looked a little weepy but was being masterfully consoled by her team of loyal companions.

“Is she okay?”

“Clearly not.” That pulled a surprised huff out of him—her candor, her humor in the face of life’s little indignities. “She will be.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

She seemed about to say something, a brief hesitation that had him holding his breath before she reconsidered—probably for the best—and settled for a “Thank you, Richie.”

Simple, plain. But deeply felt.

“Hey, uh, maybe we’ll see you again sometime.” It was a sentiment he shared with everyone—or, well, almost everyone, and there was nothing strange about it, inappropriate or out of line. Still, his heart thumped in his chest and he found that he hated this, wondered why people chased it, why they tried and they failed and tried it again and again and again.

Didn't they say that insanity was doing the same thing and expecting a different result?

Just let it go, man, he said to himself.

And then she paused and she smiled and said, “I hope so,” and he could do nothing about it. He hoped so, too.

But he told himself otherwise.

iv. SECOND VISIT

Ah, well, the weeks went by with the passing days, just long enough for Richie to accept that he’d been silly and that, like a fever of dumbness, his hopes had receded behind the minutiae of Tiff’s wedding and trying to keep The Bear alive. It’s not that he didn’t think of her, but he did stop checking the door and expecting her voice on the line every time it rang.

If anything, her brief appearance in his life had sent him for a tailspin of wondering whether this was it… whether it was time that he “moved on,” or whatever. He knew it was the right thing to do—Frank and Tiff deserved to be happy and, by that logic, as uncomfortable as it made him to reflect upon, so did he. But, Jesus, what would that even look like? When he thought about it, all he could come up with was Eva having the best possible childhood and everyone at the restaurant keeping their jobs.

For himself? He had no clue.

Once, if he’d had a magic wand, he would've wished to have Tiffany back but that ship had sailed now, and he was on the dock with nothing but an endless horizon that felt as empty as it did vast, and that was when it hit him—maybe it wasn't about vows and Valentine’s Day flowers and waking up next to someone instead of alone. Maybe it was her, pulling at whatever like thing there was in him that longed for the simplicities of joy and goodness and camaraderie and all that other shit you never wanted to speak out loud. Because if you did, then you had no other choice but to walk around inside-out; your heart on your sleeve, there for the breaking.

 On her, it had looked like bravery—but what did he know? He might be mistaken.

And then, just like that, this theory about her which he had spent weeks perfecting came crashing down around him like an Arctic wave, because she was there—at a table, alone. One moment he’d been in the kitchen with nothing out of the ordinary in mind; the next he was yanking Fak’s arm and asking him when she’d arrived.

“I dunno, man, ten minutes ago.”

“She come alone?”

“Yeah, said she was waiting for someone. Wait… something’s going on,” said Fak with a keen look in his eye which Richie counteracted by looking anywhere, everywhere, but at his face. A moot strategy, since Neil snapped his fingers and giddily declared, “That’s the girl you were making eyes at after you changed the flower order!”

“Would you keep your flipping voice down?” Richie ground out.

“Oh man! Oh man… this is huge… You haven’t liked anyone since Tiff!”

“That is not what’s going on,” Richie insisted, “okay, that is not what’s going on—and if you go around telling people that as if it were a solid fact—Fak, listen to me… I love you, man, but I will fuck you up.”

“Okay, okay, jeez! I’m really happy for you, buddy. There’s only one little hitch, which, don’t shoot the messenger, okay, I just thought it might be relevant… but I think she’s on a date.”

“Oh.”

For a single syllable, it felt like a punch to his solar plexus. All this time he’d been making out like her presence in his life had been nothing more than a metaphorical wake-up call to get his shit together, a message from the universe that there was more to life than a one-man pity party, unless he wanted to end up like his freaking cousin, but now the universe was calling his bluff because the thought of her being spoken-for, while previously entertained in a dark recess of his mind, had never been more immediate.

It was Tiff all over again.

He’d been on an upswing and he wanted to keep it that way. So he swallowed the stone in his throat and put on an unbothered face. Or at least, he tried to.

“Yeah, name on the reservation was some guy’s,” Fak went on, “but, look on the bright side—I didn’t see a ring on her finger, so you might still have a shot!”

“Like I said, nothing is going on.”

“Ohhhh, okay, we’re playing it cool,” said Fak, “got it, got it… I see the game, we’re being strategic—respect.”

“Just… look after her, okay?”

“What do you mean?” He frowned. “I thought you’d wanna—”

“Fak, just handle it. Please. I’ve got shit to do.” With that, Richie spun on his heel and went back to the kitchen, past a furrowed-brow staff that exchanged curious glances when he kept on walking until he reached the walk-in fridge.

That damned walk-in fridge.

He entered it and leaned against the cold metal shelves and sighed.

What the hell’re you doing here, man? The voice wasn’t his own, but Michael’s—laced with humor and a gentle ribbing. You hiding in the fridge now, is that what you’re doing? Over a woman? Just go over there and talk to her! What’s the worst that could happen?

“You don’t get it, Mike…”

There was a knock on the door.

“Richie, you good?”

There it was again—Syd on the other side. He could practically see the expression on her face, the subdued worry and the reluctant care. They were in the middle of service and here he was, abandoning his post and pulling a Carmen.

At least the fridge handle worked.

“Yeah,” he called back, scrubbing his hands over his head. “Yeah, I’m, uh, just looking for something.”

“Okay…?” said Syd as in, What’s this mysterious ingredient you need when you’re supposed to be front-of-house? Then he heard another voice, one that made him roll his eyes and turn in a half-circle, butting his head against a metal bar:

“Hey, cuz, can we come in there for a sec?”

Son of a bitch—did Carmy have a monopoly on industrial refrigerator breakdowns, or what? He let out a breath, straightened his jacket, and yanked the door open, gritting his teeth.

“Like I said, I was just looking for something. Get off my back.”

He swiped Carmen on the shoulder as he passed, ignoring Sydney’s wordlessly conveyed what gives? He’d apologize to her later. But Carmy?

He could keep his judgments to himself for all Richie cared.

“For the love of God!” he uttered when Neil dramatically bustled through the kitchen’s swing door.

“Richie! There's a code red at Table 9, dude.” The way he said it was devoid of all subtlety, complete with a telling head nudge. He might as well have waved his arms and yelled it out for everyone to hear.

Carmy went on high alert. “What’s wrong?”

Richie sent the cut it out signal with his hand, but instead of helping, it caused a short-circuit in Neil’s brain. He looked from Richie to Carmy to Richie, wondering who he should answer and what he should say. “There’s, uh… well, you see, there’s this…”

“Table 9?” Jessica piped up. “That’s O’Malley, table for two?”

“Well, that’s the thing,” Neil explained. “It’s looking like this O’Malley fellow is a no-show.”

Richie frowned. “He stood her up?”

“Looks like it.”

“Sorry, who stood who up?” Carmy asked. “Who are we talking about here?”

“The girl Richie li—liiiikely… should go out there and make sure her night isn’t a total disaster—you know, in a purely professional capacity,” Neil replied, clearing his throat at the end.

Richie could've heard a pin drop in that kitchen.

To put it into context, this well-oiled machine of professional fucking chefs ground to a sudden halt just to gawk at him. All of them.

That’s what you get for making a big deal out of nothing, he heard Michael saying in his head.

“I’ll handle it,” he told Fak, scrounging dignity from the depths. Then he went back out into the dining room, hitting every other table first to regain his footing, trying not to think about what everyone might be speculating behind his back.

The more he spoke to the night’s guests, the more he started to feel like himself again. In the meantime, he snuck glances in her direction, watching her prop her chin in her hand, check her phone a few times, trying not to look upset. But it was clear that she was—and who wouldn't be?

By then, it had stopped being about him and more about the downturned expression she was trying to hide, and her glances at the door, so familiar to him now—hope mixed with disappointment. She wasn’t some conceptual ghost come to shake up his worldview. She was a woman left waiting on a Friday night; simple as that. And sure, she made him feel like he was sixteen again and tied up in knots, but that was strictly his psychological hangup and had nothing to do with her.

He might not be brave enough to say what he wanted to say, but the least he could do was make her feel better about the testa di cazzo who’d stood her up and had probably been raised in a barn.

“You’re back,” he said when he had nowhere else to go, no choice but to square up and be a fucking professional. Even then, he winced inwardly at not having made a chiller approach than you’re back.

“Guilty…” She hunched into her shoulders, nursing her glass of wine.

There went that feeling in his chest again, triggered by his own words thrown back at him, whispering traitorously that maybe, just maybe, even as unlikely as it was, she had spared him a thought since the night they first met—that maybe it wasn't all in his head, this wishful thinking that he wasn’t in it alone.

Then her brows knitted together. “I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know… Being the sad, uncomfortable stood-up person everyone has to tiptoe around?”

That wouldn't do.

Gripping the back of the other chair, Richie dared to face her directly. He had to ignore the ensuing flutter in his belly to do it, but some things were important, and he wasn’t about to let her leave here thinking she was at fault.

“Ma’am, I can assure you, nobody here is uncomfortable.” He paused. “Actually—alright, that isn’t strictly true. Everyone here is beridden with secondhand embarrassment, because whoever this guy is, he’s gotta be some kind of an idiot, right?”

She laughed, not happy but appreciative, and took another sip of wine. “He might have been hit by a messenger bike,” she offered.

“Then he should’ve paid more attention to where he was going.”

“But how would he have known he was going to get hit by a bike?”

“I don’t know, regular common sense?”

Her laugh came out a lot stronger this time, lifting the corners of his mouth. For some reason it made him feel like he’d won the World Series, and all the more when he could tell that she was happy to see him. Glad that he had come around.

“Listen, as long as you’re here, you might as well have a good time, right?” he pointed out.

“D’you think?”

“Absolutely.”

“Okay,” she said after a brief moment’s thought. “Okay… yeah, why not!”

So he spent the next hour pulling out all the stops, and because Fak had blown it earlier,  no one in the kitchen launched a protest because they knew that whatever was going on, it mattered to him. They didn’t ask any questions, either, which was the best part, because even if they had, he wouldn't have known what to say. The closest he might come to explaining it was the eager, nervous adrenaline rush that sustained him on birthdays with Eva, or on holidays, or on the night when The Bear first opened, or when they knew they had a food critic in the house.

It was on him to make like there was nothing going on, but inside it felt like an Olympic obstacle course and he was waiting with bated breath for the final score.

He hovered, coming around more often than he usually did, but she seemed not to mind and her unconcealed delight was contagious to him, a reminder of why he loved his job in the first place.

She admired every course, savored every bite like it was the first, and by the time she cleared dessert off her plate she was positively glowing, leaning forward in her seat like she couldn't wait to talk to him again.

“Anything else we can do for you tonight?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” she said with a laugh. “You might have to haul me out of here with a crane.”

“Ah, that’s the one thing we unfortunately cannot do.”

“Really?”

He lifted a finger to the air. “The downside to having ceilings. How about a moderately-sized forklift instead?”

She propped her chin in her hands, feigning a thoughtful look. “I don’t think it would fit through the door.”

“Huh… guess not.” Richie smiled, then gestured to her phone lying facedown on the table. “You ever hear from…”

“Nope. It was supposed to be a first date. Honestly, I’m kind of relieved that he flaked. I wasn’t sure I wanted to do this anyway. Priya—she was here for Bridget’s thing—she keeps telling me to do the apps, but it’s just…”

“Complete and utter…?” He glanced around at the neighboring tables, settled for mouthing the word bullshit.

“Yeah.” She grinned. “I’m sure it works for a lot of people. That’s how Priya met her husband, and they're disgustingly happy together. But between building a profile, swiping, exchanging awkward messages with complete strangers hoping they don’t turn out to be ideological sewer people or, you know, trigger-happy”—she made a screen between the side of her lips and the rest of the room to mouth dick pic—“photographers, it’s a whole other full-time job. Still, I really do hope he’s in a coma somewhere or at least nursing a third-degree paper cut… Is that mean?”

“No less than ghosting someone before a date. I think your karma’s fine.”

“Anyway, I didn’t mean to take up so much of your time. For what it’s worth, if I had to be stood up anywhere, I’m glad it was here.”

“A high honor.”

“You should put it on your website,” she quipped. “It would draw the masses in.”

Could it be… between the tilt of her head and the shine in her eyes, was it possible that she was flirting with him? His meter for this sort of thing felt like it had gone defunct over the last few years, and even after she settled the check and went on her way, he couldn't stop turning it around in his head. By being slow on the uptake, had he just monumentally blown his chance? or was he misreading the signs?

He was mulling it over when he noticed the green scarf hanging from the back of her chair. After a moment’s hesitation, he picked it up and went after her, the coolness of the night hitting him straight in the lungs. She was standing on the sidewalk, tapping away at her phone, presumably waiting for a car.

“Ma’am, you forgot your…”

“Oh! Thank you,” she said, turning to take it from his hand. “It’d be a shame if I lost it this soon. It was a birthday present from my mom.”

“Many happy returns. I guess I’ll—” Lamely, he pointed back toward The Bear, losing his nerve.

He was halfway through a mental diatribe aimed at himself when he heard her speak loud enough to be heard over the whirr of traffic.

“You seem like a Music Box kind of a guy, Richie.”

“Do I?” Oh, thank God, he thought, not too proud to accept any excuse to stick around. She was smiling at him in a way that made his heart give a funny one-two kick—and dammit, but there was that wretched spark of hope again.

“Yeah,” she said, “I can’t pin it down, but…”

“I’m trying to work out whether I oughta be flattered or alarmed.”

“Don’t worry,” she laughed, “I wasn’t calling you a Letterboxd film bro.” A rather loud truck passed behind them. She waited for it to pass. “You catch any of their Noir series yet?”

“A few,” he replied with a one-armed shrug. Truth be told, on the weekends he didn't have Eva, there was nothing else to do but hang around his apartment with the television on. Sometimes, he forced himself out of the house just for his own mental health, and sure, there were days when that included sitting at the Music Box Theatre and watching whatever was playing there at the time.

“I’m going this Sunday afternoon,” she informed him as a silver sedan pulled slowly up to the curb. The driver lowered the passenger-side window and phrased her name as a query.

The gears in Richie’s mind spun as she opened the back door. “Restaurant’s closed on Sundays,” he managed to say, his grasp on the English language feeling precarious at best.

“Oh. Maybe I’ll see you there.” The smile on her face was full of meaning—teasing, enticing even.

For the first time in an age, he thought about what it would be like to go full-nineties Hugh Grant and kiss her—grandly, dramatically, without thinking about the consequences or the risk to his heart. But that was the thing: he was trying to be a better person, a reliable person, and he needed to think.

Somehow, she knew. She regarded him patiently, leaving the quasi-invitation to hang in the air. When he could think of nothing else to say, she left him with a headful of thoughts and a sweetly voiced “Good night, Richie,” along with the realization that, whatever this was, he was presently way out of his depth.

He went back into The Bear in a daze.

v. SUNDAY

Suffice to say, he told no one about his coming weekend plans. In fact, for one cowardly sequence of minutes as he was getting dressed he thought about not showing up at all—technically, he’d never concretely agreed to meet her, and technically, she’d never concretely asked him to go.

“Stop being a pussy, Richard,” he told himself in the mirror, running a hand over his beard.

It wasn’t lost on him that the person he would’ve normally spoken to in an attempt to decipher this romantic(?) quandary was Mikey. And, if not his best friend, the only other person who sprung to mind was, well… Tiff.

He couldn’t do that.

He had barely survived the wedding, and while Frank seemed more than comfortable spilling his guts in front of Richie, Richie wasn’t capable of picking up the phone and calling his ex-wife and her impressively-shouldered new husband to say, “I think a beautiful woman just asked me out… But I could be wrong and I don’t want to come out of this looking like a total schmuck because I really like her, and the sound of her voice makes me feel kinda giddy.”

Fucking as if.

So what was left for him to do? Why, the Richie Jerimovich Specialty, of course: pushing it down underneath a flim-flam show of bravado.

He made his way down to the theatre, lingering on the sidewalk because he wasn’t sure whether to go in and hope for the best or stand around like a scarecrow until she arrived.

If she arrived.

…assuming he hadn’t misunderstood in the first place.

A familiar anxiety began to creep through his chest, making him open and close his fists, believing there was a spotlight on him and that everyone could see, everyone could know, the predicament he found himself in, when, in the distance, he saw her approach. He looked this way and that, considered rushing inside and pretending not to have been waiting for her out in the street like Hachi—but she might be too close. Would she see his attempted ruse and find him even more ridiculous than he currently felt?

There was nothing for it but to stand his ground. Once he did, he was able to see the cheerful smile-and-a-wave she sent him, unconcerned with the strangers that had made him feel self-conscious not a moment before.

“Have you been waiting?” she asked keenly, peering up at his face.

“Me? Uh, n-no, I just got here,” he replied.

Her responding hmm was enough to call his bluff. Richie felt his ears going hot. Was it obvious—did he have a giant sign on top of his head declaring to the world that here was a Lovestruck Fool?

She pointed to the entrance, a cheeky smile on her lips. “Ready to be thoroughly depressed?”

“What, you mean Out of the Past isn’t a comedy?” He pretended a look of shock, glad to fall back on humor and that she seemed willing to play along, even touching his arm for a brief second that seared itself into his brain as they stepped inside the old movie theatre.

Almost immediately she took on a serious expression, walking backward so she could look at him as she said, “I’m warning you, you might want nothing to do with me after this experience—a real trial by fire.”

“What are we talking here? Phone user, gabber?”

She gasped. “Absolutely not! Cryer. Doesn’t even have to be sad—I’ll do happy tears, too. But! I come prepared.” She angled her comically large tote bag and pulled out an open, full-size cube of tissues, a 3-ply sheet sticking out of the top and waving like a flag in the air.

Richie’s eyebrows flew up. “You do realize they sell those in a pocket-size, right?”

“But where’s the fun in that?” She grinned.

Once again, he thought about kissing her.

Once again, he refrained.

vi. THIRD VISIT, CONTINUED

If he had kissed her, or at least tried, he might be in a better position now instead of playing the continual guessing game. He supposes that, broadly speaking, when a man and a woman meet at the movies together, it’s safe to assume that they’ve been on a date. But he doesn’t want to call it that yet, doesn't want to presume or get ahead of himself or—fine—jinx it. Because even if it was a date, at the end of the day, that doesn't mean they’ll be a good fit—that three months from now she won't hate his guts, be disappointed by his difficulties in talking about all his complicated shit or understand how he feels about The Beef and The Bear and Mikey, Tiff and Eva and, alright, even Frank, and the ever-winding net of Berzattos, who are family but by no means sane.

Neither is he.

Oh boy… he’s a basket of feral cats anyone would happily return to the pound. And yet, she willingly sat next to him for ninety-seven minutes; she cracked jokes and laughed at his; shook his hand mostly in jest outside Music Box, and said, “Well, at least we didn’t burn the theatre down,” and he almost came out and said it—all the things that had tumbled through his mind and made whatever was happening between Robert Mitchum and Jane Greer completely irrelevant.

I’m scared to death of this.

I don’t want to be alone forever.

I don’t know if I can lose something else.

This might be nothing, but if it’s something I’m afraid to once again be the one to fuck it up.

I think this might be something.

God, please let it be something.

He steps forward. Behind her, Teddy is doing mimes, presumably at Neil, who’s in the kitchen trying to transmit the message “Get lost!” Teddy shrugs in the universal symbol of “Huh?”, and whatever Neil does next has him giving an audible “Ohhhh” before tapping Sammy on the shoulder and stumbling through the description of a completely fabricated problem in the back. Richie almost facepalms.

On the bright side, he sees her biting her lip and trying not to laugh, all while clutching that damned Matter of Fak business card Teddy gave her while talking her ear off and waving a drill.

Their footsteps recede behind the kitchen door, followed by a chorus of dissonant shhhs that could probably be heard all the way in Michigan.

Richie sends her an apologetic look.

“I’m warning you, the peasants I call coworkers are probably spying on us through the glass.”

“Design flaw,” she solemnly points out.

“That’s what I said!” He clears his throat. “How, uh, how've you been?”

“I'm okay.”

“Yeah, same here.”

“I’m sorry for just turning up like this,” she says with a hint of embarrassment that he latches onto and mulls. “I didn’t even know if you’d be here, but I was… passing, and realized I never even got your number.”

“Oh. Right.”

For what feels like a solid minute, they stand there in uncomfortable silence, not knowing what else to say, what to do, who should be making the first move. Richie realizes as he holds his breath that she looks as frazzled as he feels on the inside, and it makes him feel better somehow, to see some of his own uncertainty reflected in her eyes.

To see anything reflected back at him, reassuring him that he isn't alone.

“Actually, I lied,” she admits after a shaky inhale. “I wasn’t just passing… Ugh, why is this so hard! You’d think we would’ve, I don’t know, grown out of it by now!”

“I don’t think you ever do. Or, what do I know… But I’m, yeah, I’m glad to see you.” Even that feels too revealing, the words heavy on his tongue—but he might as well try now that she’s started.

She throws another one back at him, honest and self-deprecating and marvelously brave.

“I’d meant to show up and be a lot cooler, by the way. Unbothered and sophisticated. Then I realized it’s hard to seem casual when you show up at a restaurant at three in the afternoon and claim to be simply passing through.”

“You could’ve just made a reservation,” he jokes.

“Yeah, but then who’d manage front-of-house?”

Her words hit him like a sudden run-in with a train, the closest they've come to admitting a desire to spend time together—that she would want him sitting across from her and not just checking-in, wearing the armor of his work suit. He’s surprised by how the prospect makes him a little panicky, makes him want to throw in the towel and call the whole thing off, but it's just fear—an emotion he’s had to become intimately acquainted with in the last few years, and if he let it rule his life, why, he wouldn't bother even getting out of bed in the morning.

“And there’s the window…” She nudges her chin, returning to the hypothetical of their in-Bear date.

“Bane of my existence,” he mutters, resisting the compulsion to turn his head and see the peanut gallery spying on them. But he makes a personal vow to get even with the snooping chucklefucks at his soonest convenience. “Besides, dinner’s kinda overrated when you’re—getting to know someone.”

“Much better to sit side-by-side, in silence…”

“Don’t forget the dark.”

“The armrests.”

“The potentially depressing premise. What would you like to do instead?”

“Are you asking?”

“Yeah…” he affirms. His heart gives a kick before lodging in his throat. He clears it, repeats in a stronger voice: “Yeah. I’m asking.”

“Oh.”

“Did you not…”

“No! I mean yes—yes! I’ll… give you a call.”

A beat. “Smoke signals work for you?”

She laughs, the sound easily making its way into his Top 10. She schools her features, says, “Obviously,” then pulls her phone out of her purse and hands it over. It’s a mere swapping of details, but it feels bigger, like stepping to the very edge of a high dive and looking down.

Besides fear, he’s starting to feel something else—excitement, exhilaration, the buzz of adrenaline when you’ve gone all-in on a hand, when against all odds you’ve decided to bet on yourself.

She takes her phone back, a tenuous smile on her lips. “Alright, then. I guess I’ll… leave you to it.”

“Are you sure about this?” The words are out of his mouth before he can think them through. They tumble out as she’s turning to go, and as much as he regrets them immediately—fucking hell, Richie—now that he’s started, he can't stop. They roll out like upturned marbles scattering underfoot, one pushing on the other until it’s all laid bare—there, at her feet, to do with what she will. “To be honest with you, I mean… I’m divorced, have a kid, I practically live here. Not too long ago I was losing my shit outside my ex-wife’s wedding. I can be… well, to be honest, I can be a bit of a prickly motherfucker, and them?” He throws out an arm, pointing toward the kitchen. “They’re all crazy… All of them. Not a clean-bill-o’-mental-health in the entire ever-loving establishment. Me, included. Don’t get me wrong, I’m probably a complete and total moron for even saying all this to you before we’ve officially gone out, but you seem… I don’t know, like a beautiful, smart, funny, normal kind of person—”

“Richie.”

“—and I had a really nice time last week, probably the nicest I’ve had in a long time, but I’m not…”

“Are you not ready?” she asks patiently. She's giving him an out, a way to cut and run and pretend none of this ever happened.

But he can’t. He doesn’t think he could get her out of his head, even if he wanted to.

“I don’t fucking know, is the problem,” he admits. “The only thing I do know is… I heard your voice on the phone and it did something to me. Then you walked in with your friends and mentioned the freaking flowers and that did something to me, too. Out here… at the theatre…”

“What do you want to do, Richie?”

“Honestly?”

“Yeah, honestly.”

Being asked is something of a novel experience. There was a time when The Beef was Mikey’s, now The Bear is Carmy’s, and he finds that there is purpose in being a cog in a machine, in being a father and a friend and a leader and the last one to ever go down with the ship—even when one of those ships had been his erstwhile marriage. He’s stubborn as they come. But he's usually relied upon others to set the pace, and there’s nothing wrong with that. It’s just that here, now, something is tugging at his sleeve and telling him to not analyze this thing to death—not to calculate the length of the drop or the temperature of the water or the impact or the incontrovertible possibility of hitting your head, breaking a bone, drowning. Life is risk, and if he’s going down anyway, he might as well do it with some goddamn fucking whimsy and pizzazz.

Which is probably why, for the first time since he heard her voice on the phone, he does what feels right, and what feels right is putting one foot in front of the other, closing the remaining distance until he can make out the flecks in her eyes, and kissing her the way he always wanted.

A little fearful, cautious, timid, but true.

And no matter what happens next, he knows he won't regret it because he laid it all out on the line and the fact that he can feels like a win in itself. That doesn't stop him from holding her face in his hands and wondering whether he misread the signs, especially when she blinks up at him with a quiet “Oh…” He sees the corners of her mouth turn up and breathes a sigh of relief. “I thought you were gonna say ‘think about it.’”

“Trust me, I've already done nothing but think about it.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“Oh, I’m a wreck,” he jokes.

Well, only half.

“I guess I should put you out of your misery.”

She takes his hand and holds it loosely, their fingers intertwined in a way that slackens the knot in his chest. This, this feels right, and with every second she doesn't slip her hand away from his, he starts believing that he may… that perhaps, he’s allowed to hope, to wish, to dream.

“Much obliged,” he says, meeting her eyes. But what he really means is You could break me, so be careful; I’m trying my best.

And he thinks that she knows.

Before leaving, she stops with her hand on the door and turns around. “By the way… everyone’s messy. It’s not about the cleanest slate, Rich, it’s about character.”

“What if yours is currently a bit… sub-optimal?” he asks, his voice heavy as he waits for her response.

What she does is this: she smiles, points over his shoulder at the cursed viewing window, and says, “I don’t think they would agree.”