The elevator dinged, a totem toll of dread Robby had personified. He wasn’t typically caught in the upper levels of the hospital, not unless he had some sort of meeting with Gloria or another admin. With his position, all he knew was the chaos of the basement floor. He resigned himself to that environment since.

Outside the Pitt, Robby was out-of-place internally. It was somehow colder and bleaker as he was walking down the hallway to the Behavioral Health unit. The thumping of his feet echoed louder on the ground, even as staff passed him.

The chaos didn’t end as patients transitioned further up the hospital.

If anything, worse came up to the behavioral unit at times. He had to admit he was glad he didn’t settle on psychiatry after the nightmare of his first ER rotation during clinicals. He does applaud their efforts, considering the type of work Jefferson has done in the time he’s known him. However, on some occasions, he wondered if they weren’t as unhinged as their patients.

He knew you had him questioning that judgment.

Since the incident with the detainee and at the bar before Christmas, you both had made well on each other's vow. He didn’t act like you two were anything but coworkers. You didn’t psychoanalyze him. So far, you two have managed to make it work.

You swoop into the Pitt like a hawk staking prey and when you finished speaking with a patient, you’d flap away with wide wings. He rarely spoke to you now because of it. You handled the cases with whatever doctor was assigned and if it warranted his attention, you’d find him. All talk was about patients, and anything else was just for the act.

Occasionally, you’d be roped into conversations that Robby happened to be a part of. Since everyone witnessed you sucker punched by a man completely out of his mind, everyone had greater considerations for you. They didn’t exactly pity you or act overtly nice to alert your sirens, but they made more efforts than before. A simple question of your day or cracking more jokes in your presence.

Things were definitely different from what Robby noticed.

Although you only still felt comfortable around Shen, you were more relaxed than you had been before. He thought the holiday spirit made you soft. After more consideration and observation of your nature, he was sure you were just an anomaly.

You smiled wider, sat around to listen to Javadi’s nervous rambling or Santos’ defenses over certain patients. There was a new calm overcoming you after the New Year began, and Robby thought he was paranoid.

When the double doors to the behavioral unit clicked open from his badge, he made his way around the nursing station like he was familiar with the area. It wasn’t the Pitt, but it was set up like most of the units in the hospital. Wide counters, curved edges, and bright lights.

He glanced through the rooms of patients, similar to that of the behavioral room in the Pitt. Wide glass windows and sparse space. The patients inside were mostly sedated, sitting or sleeping on the gurneys, but he couldn’t imagine what they were going through psychologically. It was strange how humans could hide their true intentions and instincts.

Robby opened the wooden door, revealing an open working station for the staff. Some of the night residents were sitting, dictating notes. He saw the tired expressions, practically drooling over the keyboards. Chuckling to himself, he welcomed himself to the direction of Dr. Jefferson’s office.

He halted his steps when he heard the conversation happening inside.

“I know you’re not happy about this, but there was bound to be a trial.” Caleb’s voice rang, loud enough for everyone else to hear from the crack of the door.

A displeased scoff followed, “Doesn’t mean I have to make it easy for their punitive hunger.”

With Robby’s hands stuffed in his pockets, he listened intently. From around the corner, the voices came louder. He heard one of the residents tsked, motioning disapproval of the conversation. “I don’t get why he pushes it so much. Maybe putting her in contempt would teach her something.”

Robby furrowed his brows at the comment. This was the current ongoing issue. No one was pleased when the hospital legal team had sent out professional correspondents summoned for the trial of Mr. Richman v the People. It was bound to come, but no one puts ‘testifying at a trial’ on his or her New Year’s resolution.

However, it was the exact reason Robby had come to work earlier than his staff. The hospital's legal team needed you two to be on the same page of the assault—to agree it had occurred.

“Do you speak that way with Dr. Jefferson present?” Robby’s voice boomed a bit from the suddenness. The resident who spoke, some young, blonde muscular man–who could pass as an ortho jock–turned with raised brows. Robby stared down at him, a sarcastic smile on his face, “If I were your attending, I would have HR remind you of appropriate conversation in the workplace about colleagues.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t then.”

When Robby turned his head, he saw you standing with an annoyed look on his face. Except, for once it wasn’t meant for him, instead for the blonde resident now leaning back in his chair with a smug look. You shook your head, “He’d never survive a day working for you.”

“I’m made with thick enough skin for the ER.” The resident pointed out, a smirk on his face. Robby stood back with his arms folded, staring skeptically between the two of you. From what he could see on his badge, Dr. Malek was sickly photogenic. Full, bright set of teeth visible on the badge.

“So, you’re helping mentally ill people out of the kindness of your heart? Cute.” You simply stated a tight lip smile on your face. Dr. Malek scoffed, shaking his head as he leaned back with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Don’t worry, Dr. Robby,” Dr. Malek stood from his chair, grabbing his energy drink in one hand. Robby shook his bowed head, scratching the back of his neck. “I know better than to disrespect women. I was raised right.”

Dr. Malek spared you a look, which you ignored, shooing him. Robby finally looked at your attire. You were wearing a long black dress, pleated at the skirt. It covered most of your legs, but left enough space to show off the shine on your heels. Despite the brown blazer covering your arms, the V-neck of your dress showed modest skin, enough so to bring some attention to the dainty necklace you wore around your neck.

“Michael,” Dr. Jefferson announced with amusement, calling for his attention with the sharp pronunciation of his name. He must have caught Robby examining your different business wear by the raised eyebrows and quirk of his lips. “How may we help you so early in the morning?”

Robby instinctively stared down at his watch; it was barely 6:30 am. He stretched his neck, offering a close-mouthed smile. “I am here to talk about the prosecution’s case against Mr. Richman.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.” You quickly remarked, crossing your arms, which did nothing to stop the fact he couldn’t stop acknowledging the fact you were dressed differently than usual. “Actually, I think the prosecution might get the wrong idea if they caught us talking about the case.”

Robby cocked his head to the side, keeping his expressions minimal. Civil. “Well, the hospital’s legal team seems to think otherwise.”

You frowned, shoulders shrugging. “I already spoke with them.” 

Robby silently reminded himself to not lose his patience. With an audience of your peers in the dictation room, they’d be able to sense the tension if he spoke too curtly or sharp. Especially so with Dr. Jefferson.

You must have kept your word that night at the bar because Caleb no longer herded him in your direction. When you weren’t around, it was easier for Robby to fake pleasantries. He’d ask how you were holding up after the assault, listen to whatever Caleb had to respond, and the two could continue with business.

It was a bit trickier when you were around while in Caleb’s presence. The two of you knew he watched with a keen eye, not that he had any reason to suspect anything, but it wouldn’t be misplaced skeptics. You give him enough of your attention to appear interested, but when Robby looked back in your eyes displaying a taut smile, there was nothing on the surface.

Robby was uneasy by how detached you were to him. Enough so when you spoke, it felt more like monologues than conversations. He agreed to those terms, but it only provoked him more.

“They felt you didn’t actually listen to what they said.” Robby folded his arms, leaning forward from the hip. He hadn’t even started his shift and the balls of his feet were already sore. “They just want to make sure we are both on the same page over his medical care here.”

“That he isn’t suffering through severe psychosis, including audible and visual hallucinations, which removed his ability to rationalize his actions?” You rhetorically asked, lifting a finger for each comorbidity Mr. Richman had. He saw the small tick in your jaw, inching to laugh over an argument you felt was pathetic and ridiculous.

Robby sighed, pulling his shoulders back. “I agree that Mr. Richman was not okay to the extent beyond his external injuries.”

He paced his words carefully. Robby wasn’t known to be a mediator. Years training under Adamson and becoming an ER attending taught him what he knew, but occasionally it blew up in his face. Adamson always warned him he was so short-tempered, bordering passionate with certain causes.

‘Being human isn’t bad, it’s how your reaction affects everyone else that needs to worry you’ Adamson once told him after Robby let his frustration fluster a second year resident during a code. 

“But Morgan is afraid they’ll paint you out as a cynic on the stand.” Robby explained, staring at you pointedly.

Regardless of how he worded it, he would bet it would still earn him an eye roll and a scoff with disturbed annoyance. Robby's eyes landed on Caleb, who was gripping onto the wheels of his chair. He chuckled, tutting his chin upward, “Why don’t we let you speak privately? I have rounds to do with the residents anyways.”

You glanced at Caleb who gave you a firm assurance. The other two residents sitting off in the corner pretending not to listen stood up promptly. One of them, gingered curls on his head, aimed straight for the door, opening it to let Caleb through. The smaller, blonde residents with doll-like features offered a small departure wave before stuffing her hands into her jacket pocket. Both of them trailed closely behind their attending, ear red and hot.

When the door closed, you stalked off, heels clicking against the freshly polished floors. Robby stood silently in the room, unsure how to proceed. He couldn't exactly ask you if you were nervous about confronting Mr. Richman, because that would be too personal.

He heard the clinking of the coffeepot, watching your arms move. The splash of the liquid hitting a paper cup confirmed his suspicion. He opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when you glanced over your shoulder. “They’re afraid I’ll be too politically expository for the hospital liking?”

Robby raised his eyebrows in amusement. In so few words, that suspicion was correct. He wouldn’t tell you exactly how they interpreted your defensive emails, even quoting one of the jabs you sent in response. He had to refrain from laughing in Morgan’s displeased face.

“From my understanding, their concern is protecting your reputation and ability to continue your fellowship.” Robby responded stoically, shoulders squared and lips pursed. 

Your furrowed brows caught him off guard. The cup you were bringing up to your lips stopped midair. “Did the prosecution insinuate they’d be gunning for my license?”

Robby didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to note the small gulp or strain in your voice. He adjusted his stance, staring pensively. Sure, he had made it obvious that you were a standoffish person. Sarcastically witty and defensive in nature, but he’d never testify you were a bad physician—enough so to prevent you from practicing. 

“It’s a criminal trial that resulted in irreversible facial tissue, nerve, and vision damage on a 26 year old woman.” Robby recalled. He obsessively read over the case reports of the woman who transferred to Presby. He was silently grateful worse hadn’t occurred while you were evaluating Mr. Richman. “The assumption is they will exhaust every option to make their case.”

While drinking your coffee, you visibly relaxed. That didn't stop you from raising your eyebrow as a challenge. “Even if that means incarcerating a man who is the textbook definition of an insanity case?”

He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he did agree persecuting him for the sake of making a career felt ethically wrong. The media publicized Pittsburgh’s district attorney as a gunner, looking for any chance to make a name for himself. Robby raised his hands, wiping himself clean of the arguments. “Look, I’m not here to argue over the law. They sent me as their messenger. I’ve accomplished all they asked me to do.”

You nodded slowly, the corner of your lip twitching. Respect or maybe amusement for his reluctance to argue with you. Not because he’d lose, but because that required caring of your opinion. Staring down at your cup, you swirled the liquid around. “When do you testify?”

“Next week.”

Robby watched as you grabbed a bag from a nearby office chair. Tossing it over your shoulder, you approached his direction. You spared him an up and down look. When brushing past his shoulder, a small snicker came from your throat. He couldn't help but look back as you headed straight for the door, not bothering to look back. 

“Good luck.”

Anyone reasonable would take any excuse not to come in for one more grueling shift at the Pitt. God knows none of them get enough consistent days off. But, when you spend it at the courthouse, stuck in a stuffy suit and tie, trying not to lose patience over the redundant questions of lawyers and judges–Robby would pick the Pitt every time.

He had testified in plenty of medical lawsuits, responding to his own depositions, grilled over procedures and processes in the hospital. Robby tasted the hunger of vultures wearing four-figure suits as they hungrily clawed for gaps in the tapestry to shred. It was no different in the courtroom. The prosecution was stubbornly pushing for incarceration, and the pro-bono defense attorney was not letting them manipulate him into relenting.

Robby sat on the witness stand like a child witnessing a messy divorce. The legal jargon they threw out every time he testified became a game on who objected the most during his examinations. He wondered if the stenographer ever had the urge to stand tall and tell them to slow down or shut up for a change.

He wouldn’t have minded the whole shakedown if they stuck with questions based on his medical expertise or professional relationship with the defendant. The last thing he expected was for it to become an interrogation of your character.

Your testimony was a mystery to Robby. He didn’t know whether you headed the warning of the hospital’s legal department after all, but based on the questions he was asked from the prosecution, something made them doubt your credibility.

How would you describe her work ethic? Has she ever made questionable judgments on patient care? Do you trust her course of action while treating Mr. Richman?

If the case were tried with a jury panel, Robby was sure the line of questioning would have them questioning who was really on the stand. He knew his reluctance was clear to the prosecution from his stoic expression. They both wished they were not in this position together in very few words.

He was acutely aware the stenographer documented every single word for evidence. Not that he’d have anything improper to say in regards to the case, but he did think a lot harder before answering some of the questions.

Robby breathed in the antiseptic air of the Pitt, allowing himself to assimilate in his natural habitat. Jack asked him questions on how the trial was going, but everyone else acted according to their role. The heaviness of his formal responsibility slowly drifted as he could put the thought of expert testimonies away. He walked around the ER with newfound determination to get back to work.

He belonged in the disruptive nature of the ED, not playing political chess at the courthouse.

Except, he didn’t truly escape the split banter. In his world, he was finding ways to live in peace with you. He hadn’t spoken to you since your appearance at court. All Robby knew was you had survived the questioning (even summoned the next day). He overheard Caleb tell Mohan that you were working nights for the week, but when shift change came along, he barely saw you. He didn’t actively search for you per se, but he was slightly intrigued on how you fared with the lawyers.

Right as he walked by Central 7, he heard Dana call him over for an incoming patient. The snapping of gloves and the announcement of chief complaint and vitals followed as EMS brought in a middle-age Asian woman. A biking accident later, and she was suffering different fractures or breaks along both arms, a grade 1 concussion, and obvious fracture of the thighbone.

When brought into the trauma room, Whitaker and Mohan worked on examinations, checking her neurological abilities, mobility in the obvious fractures and breaks, as well as pain tolerance. Robby stood back, staring at her vital signs, watching nurses administer medication for the pain. Radiology moved quickly enough to capture images and despite Ms. Chen being in obvious discomfort with her arms, distraught from her unfortunate accident, she was still alive.

Calls were made, and in no time, the atmosphere in the department was chilled with anticipation that came with the most intimidating predators. Therefore, when the doors flew open, and Dr. Brendon Park glided his way inside the trauma room with a reputation that could not be replaced, everyone remained silent. While he never paid any mind to the students or residents, he did flick his chin upward to Robby, who earned his respect as a colleague just up to that measure.

“Present.” Park commanded as he stalked the patient, staring intensely at the obvious comorbidities.

Robby allowed Whitaker to take center stage. If he wanted a position in the next year’s residency program, he needed to command equal control. He tried to hide the tremor and wide-eye stare he gave the orthopedic surgeon, which did nothing to appease his stoic expression.

“Where are the images?” Was the follow up question, cutting off Whitaker’s anxious ramblings. Robby motioned to the X-ray captured. Dr. Park leaned over the machine, examining the femur followed by the displacements of the wrist and fracture involving the elbow.

“I should’ve known better.” Ms. Chen breathed out, her head thrown back as she held in the welling of tears. “I’m a physical therapist. I work with athletes. I’m so stupid.”

Mohan offered a sympathetic smile, “I understand your frustration, Ms. Chen.”

“Dr. Park here is our best orthopedic surgeon.” Robby followed up, posting himself beside Mohan. He stared down at Ms. Chen, too embarrassed to make any contact. “You’re in good hands with him.”

“Don’t get all sappy around me, Dr. Robinavitch.” Park spoke from the opposite side of the bed. He continued staring at her arms, gloved hands masking over her leg to map out a better understanding for a surgical approach. He leaned down; making what he could from the debris Whitaker was working on flushing out.

“Moving ahead with reduction and fixation.” Park announced, standing up tall with his back straight and shoulders squared. “I’ll book the OR.”

Park didn’t wait for anything, immediately heading for the same door he walked out of. Robby took one last look around the trauma room, noticing the relief that came from Dr. ‘Sharks’ departure. He nodded to Mohan who silently understood her assignment.

He walked out the trauma room, hands in his pockets as he glanced around the other end of the Pitt. As he turned his head to the right, he almost missed the peculiar sight of plum scrubs still lingering. Robby stopped in his steps, eyebrows furrowed as he stood and watched. When Park took a step to the side, burly arms crossed over his chest, he finally saw whom he was conversing.

You stood across from him, head cocked to the side as you looked as stoic as him. Could you be old friends? If you were previously involved in the surgical world, maybe your paths crossed, the way Shen’s had before. Robby hung beside a wall, attempting to mask his presence that stood out without much effort.

While watching your body language, the most he could make out was you were peeved. Park kept talking (which was the most he had seen him talk to anyone), but you kept staring around as if you would rather be anywhere else. The heavy deflate of your chest as well as the fiddling of your necklace told him as much.

Robby knew he was in a visible spot considering the area wasn’t as congested as it could get. And as if the world was screwing with him, you happen to glance to the elevator, visibly frenzied, spotting a nosy Robby already staring at you.

Silently cursing under his breath, he pretended the moment was a coincidence, frantically looking for some other place to look. If the universe decided to swallow him completely, he’d be beyond grateful; but instead, he was welcomed with the oncoming panic of you striding in his direction. His instinct just so happens to fail him this time, giving him no reasonable escape off the top of his head. He glanced through his eyelashes, Park tailed behind you, his voice quieter as you gained closer.

You paused in front of Robby, offering a polite smile. Robby provided it back (albeit it was stiff and confused), before looking back at Park brushing behind you. He nodded once at Robby before his eyes instinctively landed on you. “OR should be ready within the next hour.”

“Thanks, Shark.” Robby responded, following his figure to the elevator, held open by one of the RTs. Park pressed a button and the door slid closed.

You released a breath you were holding, hands crossing tightly around your chest. There was uneasiness that settled between you and Robby, not the typical pressure of your subtle distaste with each other’s presence. Robby stared down at you, avoiding his obvious looks, and he couldn’t ignore the discomfort in your stance.

“Did Park mention anything about the patient?” Robby asked his voice low as he tried to decipher what was going on with you.

“What patient?” You questioned, face scrunched, finally staring him in the eyes.

Robby motioned in the direction of the trauma room. Through the glass of the windows, you barely made out the patient who was sitting up on an incline. You shook your head, “I know nothing about her.”

Robby made an ah sound, attempting to hide his increase in confusion. If it wasn’t regarding a patient, what could you and him have talked about? Robby crossed his arms, craning his head lower, “I assumed you two were talking about Ms. Chen. She suffered multiple fractures, breaks on her tibia, and arms. As a physical therapist, she seems to be taking it pretty hard.”

“She’s in distress. I’m sure she is aware she will require some PT or OT coming out of here. Nothing that won’t resolve with time.” You simply said, shrugging your shoulders as if the situation were menial. He knew it was anything but from the way Mohan and Whitaker were both gazing at Ms. Chen with sympathy and compassion.

Robby stared at you, puzzled by the sudden distance in your voice. You continued looking at the scene inside the trauma room, but from your side profile, your vision was unfocused and distracted. He must have been staring more intensely than before because you noticed and shook yourself from the daze.

With a careful step back, you stiffly excused yourself at him. The distance reminded him of your opposition and he suddenly felt the tug to be pulled elsewhere. “If there isn’t anything you need from me, I’ll be heading upstairs. Page if you need me.”

Rubbing his hands together, he silently agreed, letting you leave with grace. Your back turned to him, and instead of walking with profound confidence and comfort in the Pitt, you walked with your head down. His eyes twitch watching your hands clam together, grasping onto each other. He was confused from the entire interaction.

Between watching Park speak purposefully with you to you running off to him for an escape was all strikingly odd. You and Park. Was there something beyond professional? Certainly, Park wouldn't advertise a relationship with another hospital employee so shamelessly. He never entertained the gossip train, but he knew better than to be caught speaking with anyone comfortably beyond one-word sentences and sharp, bitter analyzes.

Maybe Robby's dissection was based on his paranoia; obsessing over the strained relationship every time you crossed the forefront of his mind. Even if he opposed every curious instinct to make sense of all your nuances, he couldn’t let it go. With time, maybe the itch would go away.

Yet, that all failed almost three hours later. 

Trauma after trauma wheeled in through the ambulance bay, and Robby wouldn’t have thought of you through any of it, until one particularly agitated man came in. He didn’t know what to expect with the patient, but he knew it was out of his league when he tried biting Princess.

Robby approached Dana at the nursing station who was speaking in hushed whispers with Perlah. Dana sensed the looming presence of Robby, especially when Perlah looked behind her, promptly stopping. Spinning around, she flashed him a tense smile. “How are you holding up, cap?”

Lightly groaning, he shook his head. His hands instinctively rubbed the back of his head and neck, hoping to alleviate the mass of stress settling in his muscles and pushing against nerves. “We have a problem down in South 16.”

“So, I’ve heard.” Dana mused, turning her back perfectly in front of Perlah to allow her to slip away. Nodding her head slowly, she took in Robby’s disheveled look. “What’s your plan? I don’t want any of my nurses losing a finger because of that man.”

“They won’t.” Robby chuckled dryly, reeling in his growing agitation of the issue. 

“Why haven’t you moved him to the behavioral rooms?” Dana motioned to the currently empty rooms. 

Robby’s hands fell to his hips, turning away from the sight of the rooms. “Because I don’t want to call unnecessary attention.”

Dana gawked at him, watching Robby walk away to the other side of the nursing station. She followed without missing a beat. “Hate to break it to you, but he already did it himself.”

Whilst craning her head to look at his face, she could see the jarring tenseness in his posture. Rigid and disciplined, but overwhelmed. Robby's chest was heaving as if something weighed on him as he attempted to inhale a sharp breath. “We need someone from psych to evaluate. I’m afraid he might be suffering from paranoia.”

“Perfect.” Dana announced, hands clapping together. She immediately searched around her view, speaking your name aloud. “She was around here. I’m sure she’d be happy to assist.”

“I’ll call Dr. Jefferson down.” Robby intervened before Dana could finish her thought. She stared at him with raised eyebrows, offended and confused. He barely spared her a look as he began dialing a number on the phone. “Make sure nurses are accompanied when in the room.”

Dana took the instruction silently, standing still as she listened to Robby speak through the line. She could make out the muffling sounds of someone responding on the other end. Pretending to depart, she slowly strolled behind him, rubbing her earring. 

“She’s busy with another consult, and I’d really like to expedite Mr. Murphy's care to prevent an incident.” Robby tentatively spoke through the phone, watching the staff pass by in front of him.

Dana didn’t understand some of the decisions Robby made, and even if she didn’t question them vocally, he was aware of her hesitations. She didn’t try to fish out an explanation when she watched him wait for Dr. Jefferson, who met him at the nursing station no more than ten minutes later.

“Michael, you have a patient for me?” Jefferson mused, wheeling in tandem with Robby, who held a tablet in his hand. 

“Thirty year old male who suffered a mild-concussion after running into oncoming traffic. Presents moderate neuro functions, but has persistent agitation and paranoia.” Robby listened, his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose as he skimmed the notes put in by McKay.

Jefferson hummed, following smoothly beside Robby. Before approaching the room, Jefferson pulled to the side, hand stretched out. Robby passed the device permitting Jefferson to read the information for his own accord. “How did testifying go the other day?”

Robby hummed, arms resting on his hips. He awkwardly shook his head, actively looking elsewhere. “As per usual. Too many suave jabs made between Harvard law jocks with ego-complexes.” 

Jefferson peered at Robby through his eyelashes, the corner of his lips curling upward. He lets out a scoff, “Not something you’re entirely unfamiliar with, it seems.”

“Oh, come on, Caleb.” Robby snorted, arms crossing over his chest. The corner of his eyes crinkled as he softly grinned. “We both know this is some lousy attempt for the district attorney to build a campaign off of cleaning the streets overseeing the root of the issue.”

“You’re starting to sound like someone I know.”

Robby tensed his smile, upholding the facade he had built brick-by-brick. There was a method to the madness you compromised on. It wasn’t a hostile-free environment, but the two of you remained civil and respectful. He knew from the look of your eye when he was pushing it, and you never spoke more about what you saw in him.

He was acutely aware you were observing him methodically, as if he was a patient in the wild, but you kept it to lingering stares. The way you silently analyzed his every movement made goosebumps rise on his skin. Even if you both hardly spoke during a shift, he could sense when you were across the floor, watching him from a distance, especially when he was especially exhausted and irritated.

You saw past the mask of his low moments. Many would miss the small laps of his wrath and self-worthlessness blend in his professional life, but you somehow caught it all.

Robby shrugged, his head moving up and down along with Jefferson despite his mind wandering elsewhere. “Let me know what you make out of Mr. Murphy.”

When he walked away, he couldn’t ignore the deafening chill of doom he sensed. He was no fortuneteller, but he knew his actions had consequences. Especially those he made on behalf of others. 

His job as an attending was to let his resident and med students learn through their own methods. Examine each case and turn over diagnosis until they landed on the correct piece. That didn’t go without his discretion at times, but they needed to learn what he already knew as well. Robby was used to inserting himself, guiding the process with his two bare hands to get the job done.

That didn’t work all the time; especially when he was navigating the decisions of someone who was a colleague, not a student. 

Therefore, when Robby stood across from the nursing station watching Caleb speaking with Mr. Murphy nearly an hour later, spotting you staring confused from the sight, he panicked. It was a decision of his own making, but he thought that maybe the universe would grant him this one favor.

You were passing by the room, a device in your hand. You happen to look up to see Caleb through the glass of the door, speaking with the patient. The surprise caught you, stopping you in your tracks with a slight alarm.

As the current emergency-psychiatrist on-call, you were always notified when patients needed evaluations, regardless if you were predisposed. You certainly would’ve heard if Caleb was assisting to cover the workload. You worked hard and tirelessly to make sure that wasn’t the case. There was enough happening upstairs as it was, and you didn’t want to pull Caleb down because you couldn’t handle your one job.

You dragged your feet away, still dumbstruck. When you lifted your gaze, Robby was standing across the room, inadvertently watching you instead of Jefferson. With a calm demeanor, you bee-lined for him at the workstation. He leaned forward, bracing himself for the impact of the storm. You had a greater composure to your mask, and he almost resented you for it.

When you stopped beside him, you pretended to be reading off the chart, scrolling slowly. “What is Dr. Jefferson doing down here?”

Robby hummed, putting on a strained smile for McKay who was passing by. She glanced at you before disappearing elsewhere. “We needed a psych consult for an agitated patient.”

You raised your eyebrows, continuing to scroll through the device, clicking drop down tabs. “Strange. I didn’t see you or anyone put in a request.”

“I heard you were busy.” Robby smoothly explained. When he looked down at the movement of your hands, he noticed you stopping briefly in-between actions, stretching your fingers uncomfortable. “I called down Caleb to assist.”

You stared at him from the corner of your eye, skeptical of his explanation. Your fingers continued scrolling through the device, “Mr. Murphy came in with a concussion. Excelled neuro exam, but persistent agitation and hesitation with treatment continued.”

When Robby leaned over to read what you were looking at, you had already skimmed through all the recent notes and updates on the patient. Caleb had yet to submit his notes, but he knew you were aware of that. You finally looked up at him, adjusting the oval glasses on your face. “I fail to see what I couldn’t have assisted on.”

Robby scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief. Somehow, his honorable efforts of avoiding a conflict landed him in a landmine of troubles. You stared straight at him, expecting an answer no doubt.

He fixed his posture, “It wasn’t a question of your capabilities. I was trying to prevent delay of treatment, which in turn could allow opportunity for him to lash out on my staff.”

You furrowed your brows at him, eyes shifting to look at both of his dark irises. Your head barely shook as you tried to deny what your ears were hearing. “Seriously? This is about Mr. Richman?”

The sharpness of your tone sounded like hissing as you lowered your voice. You leaned forward, head cocking to one side as your eyes narrowed into slits. “Is this all some ploy between you and Morgan to keep me out of ‘trouble’?”

“No, this is about actively fighting against a nationwide issue that will continue costing us staff if we let it continue to happen.” Robby punctuated his words with a matching condescending smile on his face. His hands were now curled around his hips, gripping onto the skin and muscle as a release of the current storm brewing in his head.

You scoffed, sounding amused from the irony only you found humor in. “So, you think I can’t handle an agitated patient?”

Robby pressed his lips, grumbling within himself. It was like arguing with a teenager over why they couldn’t do certain things all their friends were doing. Stubborn and relentless—it was going to cost him more than his sanity.

“I can’t have another incident in my ER that will result in more strain and insecurity in my staff and their job.” Robby hurriedly spilled, leaning forward on his feet, imposing his height over you. With your menial glare, the scene looked almost normal for anyone passing by. “I was trying to protect you along with everyone else who is my responsibility.”

“I don’t need you looking out for me, Dr. Robinavitch.” You spat back, positioning your body to face him entirely. If you took a couple of steps closer, your chests would be touching. “Or making calls about what patients I am capable of treating alone. Maybe I haven’t made myself abundantly clear.”

Robby’s chuckle was merciless and detached from any professional respect he held for you. His current shades that hide the detest he had for your attitude were being ripped off as his pupils dilated right in front of you. “Oh, I wouldn’t want you wasting your breath. I know you don’t like wasting your time.”

“Among other things.”

You spun around, looking down at Caleb with wide eyes. Taking a careful step back, you stood beside Robby who was sucking in breath. It was a comedic sight to see the two of you brushing shoulders and holding in the fright of being caught. Robby had less to fear from you, but even Caleb’s amused glances brought him unease. 

Caleb swiped off his glasses, letting them rest against his chest held up by the strap. His hands folded gracefully on his lap along with the device. His careful examination of the two of you took place quietly, the bustling of the Pitt filling in the silence. “Am I interrupting something?”

Robby fleetingly attempted to quip up, refiguring his domineering command, one you carelessly stripped every time you pushed his buttons. Yet, you beat him to the punch. Repositioning the tablet, you smiled down at Caleb. “Robby was just informing me of Mr. Murphy. If you’re done with the evaluations I can proceed with follow up.”

Caleb raised a hand, waving it lazily. “All good. I am glad Robby called me. I found out some interesting information from him that I’d like to personally follow up on.”

“Well, I know you’re busy—“ 

Caleb announced your name, a soft smile on his face that interrupted and politely stopped your rambling. Robby stuffed his hands in his pocket, tucking his chin in as a foolish attempt to hide from you. He didn’t need to be ashamed of his decision if Caleb agreed on its benefit, but your subtle disappointment didn’t go unnoticed. 

“Mr. Murphy exhibits signs of OCD that I’ve experienced with other patients.” He explained, returning to the posture of your attending. He was your friend a lot of the time, but he didn’t demean his responsibilities as your mentor for the sake of getting to know you better. “I know some resources that could be of use to him. Plus, we both have fondness for ‘80s rock.”

Disheartened, your shoulders sagged along with the escape of air. Robby glanced at you from the corner of his eye, and the tension in your jaw and temple were prominent. He had never seen you shrink up so much in front of Caleb. You, who had always stood firm and proud in your position in his department, were turning meek like one of his junior med students.

You stiffly agreed, readjusting your grip on the device. Robby would have missed it if he hadn’t turned to look at Caleb at that moment, but something clicked in his eyes. Robby saw the shiftiness in his gaze and the turning of gears in his mind. Caleb offered Robby a polite smile. “We have to head up for a meeting, but I will catch up with you later on Mr. Murphy.”

Robby stepped back, allowing a space between you and him. It allowed Caleb to proceed straight without much maneuvering. You stood still, staring at the ground. When Caleb wheeled past the both of you, Robby caught the small glimpse you took of him from your eyelashes.

You had hardened your expression, barely letting any once of your reaction to being dismissed through. Robby caught the flicker from before, but whatever he saw before, you had tucked away under lock and key. Watching your back as you began putting distance, he saw Caleb look up at your direction, muttering something with a concerned tone.

Cursing under his breath, Robby rubbed a hand down his face. Right when he thought he could ride things through without conflict, debates, or heated remarks, you’d topple over his plans of surviving whatever was left of your fellowship.

A lot was still a mystery on whether you’d seek a permanent position at PTMC in emergency psychiatry. Caleb could use the help, and he didn't seem to hate the idea whatsoever. But, Robby still counted the days. Truth was, he was already planning an escape, coinciding with the time in which you may or may not return as a permanent physician. 

At least, if things become official, he may buy himself a little time of bliss before the incoming storm of your indefinite practice with him. Robby could pull his hair out at the idea. Just make it to the sabbatical, he reminded himself—it’s only a few months away anyways.

A couple of days had passed and your slight energy had gone amiss. Maybe Robby had jumped the gun, completely hay wiring your momentum and stability in the department. He had scrutinized your decisions and pushed for explanations, but he had never jumped over your authority.

He thought he made his bed over your constant presence in his department. One could even argue you worked under his discretion more than Caleb’s from how often you consulted with him. Yet, that didn’t erase the impression you made on him.

He was officially hitting the noon mark and all he had was half a protein bar in his stomach. Sneaking off to the break room to eat the leftover sandwich he had in the refrigerator for the past couple of days sounded appealing at the moment. Right as he was about to, Dana had stopped him, as he was bristling past the nursing station.

“Robby, have you seen anyone from psychiatry?” Dana questioned, pulling off her glasses as Mel stood beside her. 

Robby rubbed his hands together, thinking with great effort. He did recall Dr. Jefferson planned to take the day off and he had seen you and psych residents wandering from patient to patient. He hummed, mumbling your name. “She was supposed to do an evaluation for a patient in North 5. Concussion and road-rash patient from an e-scooter accident.”

Dana let her hands fall to her sides. “Dr. King has a patient waiting for an eval.”

“30-year-old mom suffering from second-degree burn wounds.” Mel recited, awkwardly fiddling with her hands. 

Robby nodded, inhaling sharply with a tired smile, he reached over and grabbed a device from the dividers. “I will go find her.”

“Thank you, Cap.” Dana exclaimed, patting Mel on the shoulder as she pushed her to continue working.

Robby shook his head to himself, trying to muster professionalism for the interaction to be simple and passive. All he needed to do was check in, alert you of a patient, and move on. Maybe it’d be easier said than done, but some things were always simpler in concept. He almost considered the plan perfect until he heard something approaching the pulled curtain of North 5. 

“Have you ever felt like you have no control? Over your body or your mind?” A female voice asked, different from yours. She seemed exhausted, her voice breathy and sad.

He took a careful step back, preparing to turn away, he in no way was supposed to listen in on the conversation. He was a physician, but the atmosphere felt too intimate for him to intrude. He stared down at the girl’s chart, finding a reason to prompt the consultation.

The accident was caused from a lapse of focus. The 20-year-old patient had been distracted from nearby music playing while riding the scooter. A song triggering a state of catatonic shock–which reminded her of the events at PittFest.

As if his feet controlled his mind, he found himself stopping before taking a complete step away. Just the sight of the words had his body halting in place. He heard the faint sound of humming. “As someone who suffers from a chronic disease, I know exactly what that feels like.”

Chronic disease? If Robby were in your situation, he would expect you to turn away without much though. He almost expected from how little you seemed to be interested in his personal affairs, but he couldn’t find it in himself to do so. Morally, he had mixed feelings about his decision.

“How do you live with that?” The girl, Savannah from the chart, asked. From what Robby could hear, she was hesitant to ask, afraid to impede a doctor’s life. You had opened the door, casually, which sounded unfamiliar to Robby. “Sometimes, I can’t help but hate living like this.”

There was a pause, and the sound of the Pitt filled it from the outside, but he couldn’t envision the heavy moment of vulnerability between you and Savannah. “You know, psychiatry wasn’t my first choice as a specialty.” 

Yes, Robby thought. Which was about all he could say confidently. That information was no-thanks to you, and neither would anything else he learns from eavesdropping on your conversation. You chuckled, and he almost would describe the sound as melodic. “I wanted to become a neurosurgeon.”

“I joined a competitive program in California.” You shared, and Robby imagined sitting across from you as you spoke. With your voice ringing loudly from the other side of the closing, it was easier to see. “During my third year in residency, I was diagnosed with an autoimmune disease that was attacking my good tissue, which affected the joints in my hands.”

Robby held his breath. He sensed the devastation from the weight of that news. Being young and aspiring to join a field recognized for its meticulous work, the two could never be compatible. You had made it through half a residency program with the hope of accomplishing a dream–suddenly ripped from you.

“It changed the entire trajectory of the plan I had for myself.” You mumbled, but Robby made out what you said. Despite his bowed head and the screen illuminating his face, he was paying little attention to the words. “I almost quit medicine entirely, until I remembered I still wanted to help people, even if it wasn’t my first choice.”

This was wrong. The sudden rush of guilt that rushed over Robby was instantaneous. Regardless of his intentions with the information about you, he should have reasoned how inappropriate listening to a conversation from a psychiatrist and a patient was. Savannah was obviously distraught over her situation, the wounds still raw and tender, and he should have at least considered her dignity of the situation. 

Slimy and disgusted with his choice, he started tuning you out, shaking his head and excusing himself. Before escaping the vicinity, he heard the scraping of the curtain rings. With it pulled back, he met you staring back at him. Your eyes were wide and your face scrunched from the confusion and surprise of his presence.

“Dr. Robinavitch,” Your voice was sharp, and he noticed the tightness in your lips. “Did you need something from Miss. Lorence?”

Robby, caught off guard, quickly shook his head. He glanced back at Savannah sitting on the gurney with her knees bent close to her chest. She wiped away the few tears that had escaped her eye, avoiding Robby’s gaze. He cleared his throat, “No. I was actually looking for you, if you have some time.”

His voice was hoarse. Nervously aware you caught him, burning holes through him with your steely eyes. You glanced back at Savannah with a soft smile, “I’ll be back.”

Robby opened his mouth, before screwing it shut. Fuck. He had messed up big time, and he didn’t need to see the clinch in your facial muscles to confirm it. In your hand was a gray cup and without any more delay, you pulled the curtain close, brushing past him with a newfound anger.

Fuck his life.

He didn’t waste the time, following your tail. Your shoes clicked against the ground and the sound was like a hammer hitting the head of the nail. He followed you to the corner of the Pitt where the industrial ice and water dispenser were for the patient. With your face obscured, he couldn’t make clearly what you were feeling, but the displeasure was clear from your silence.

When your name escaped his lips, curt and professional, you scoffed, gripping the cup away from the sensors so as to not activate them. “One of my residents needed a psych consult, and I was looking for you. I should’ve walked away once I heard your voice.”

The sound of the water splashing in the cup fulfilled your response. You stared at the cup slowly reaching the brim. “You have a lot of nerve trying to excuse yourself.”

“It’s not an excuse,” Robby whispered, leaning forward to hide the rising color on his face. He was beyond flustered. He didn’t expect the sudden turn of events. He didn’t know why he stood in place to hear you share details of yourself you were using to connect with a patient. It wasn’t within his right. “I just want you to know I don’t listen to your conversations for the sake of scrutinizing you.”

“We’re beyond that at this point.” You exclaimed, a bit louder as you spun to face him. Robby retracted from the escalation. He gripped the device in his hand, grinding away at his teeth. “This is about your blatant disregard of respect for my patient.”

You let the cup sit on the dispenser tray while crossing your arms over your chest. As he stared down at you, he could see your pupils dilate. It was strange to see you lose the control of your expressions. The faint grins and displeased looks you sent him was something he welcomed at this point. He knew this side well without delving his over pour into your cup. Without the mess of knowing you, and vice versa.

“You’ve made it clear that you don’t like having me around your department, but you couldn’t even respect the integrity of the job for the sake of patient care?” You rhetorically asked with your eyes narrowed at him. 

Robby made the mistake of glancing around and the peculiar stare sent your directions fueled something in him. Nurses were sluggish in their movements as the raised voices interrupted their task and conversation. He even noted a couple of his residents staring. Public humiliation in what he knew was a disgraceful move.

Shaking his head, he scoffed. “Actually, you don’t know anything. So don’t presume to know what I am doing in my department.”

Agitated and pushed to a line Robby didn’t know existed, your hands fell to your sides with aggravation. “You scrutinize my judgment, dismiss my capabilities, and then invasively listen to my consultations.”

“I recognize what I did was inappropriate, but we don’t need to be having this fucking conversation right now.” Robby emphasized, dark eyebrows shadowing over his eyes; this added darkness might’ve frightened his underlings. 

He motioned his head to the staff standing feet away, evidently listening to the argument. You followed his direction from the corner of your eye, which immediately alarmed the rest, forcing them back to their current tasks. When you looked back at Robby, he couldn’t ignore the way you gnawed at the inside of your cheek. 

Maybe he overthought the action, but he saw the same anxious glancing from when Dr. Jefferson dismissed you. He didn’t do it in a punitive fashion, or even rudely, but something about your work seeming unimportant hit a nerve. Your fingers waved nervously by your sides. “I fooled myself into thinking we could work together. Treat patients mutually, but I see I was wrong.”

“We only have to endure this for five more months. Think you can manage that at least?” You spat out, grabbing the cup as you brushed past him, making a point to avoid any contact.

Robby knew the few who dared to continue staring were gawking–possibly marveled–by how you whipped him with your words. Not many had ever stepped toe-to-toe with him, especially not in the comfort of his department. The staff who worked in the environment of trauma with surgeons like Garcia stabbing at his side with a fencing sword wouldn’t compare it to this scene.

You had brought a gun to a knife fight.

Some would argue that as a psychiatrist, you knew to hit where it hurt. Robby considered it something worth penalizing; which is why he had fought over your arrogance with Jefferson before. It had all proven him right all along. He couldn’t change your flaws for you, and he was done repenting over his thoughts.

That's what he planned to get Jefferson to understand a couple of days later when the psychiatrist requested to speak with him before their shifts. When Robby found his way back to the behavioral health floor, it was a bad case of déjà vu.

Only a few weeks ago, Robby was warning you about the legal case against Mr. Richman, and now, he couldn't be more scorned in your eyes.

Hesitantly, Robby walked into the dictation room, where he was told Jefferson was last seen. He knew you had worked the night shift and was hoping you’d be gone by now; but when he opened the door and found you tossing back a couple of pills, he froze. 

You paid him a look from the corner of your eyes as you took a sip from your metal water bottle. You didn't bother to hide the small eye roll, and Robby turned away, hands in his jacket pockets. He let out a sigh, peering around the dictation room like he’d find something more interesting. 

He knew eventually the two of you would need to talk, but things were too fresh. You were visibly indignant to the sight of Robby, and he was so close to turning away and never coming back up to the floor. He grumbled to himself when he saw Caleb coming from around a small hallway in the room. 

Caleb first smiled at Robby and then his eyes immediately gravitated to you, zipping up your backpack. When he looked back at Robby, he noticed how he positioned his body to face his back in your direction, keeping you out of his view. 

With his eyes back on you, he wheeled closer to your direction. “Have a goodnight. Make sure you sleep.”

You hummed, slinging your backpack over your shoulder as you exited out the door. Without much else, the door slammed behind you, leaving the two attendings in tense silence. Caleb turned his chair, pointed towards where Robby stood still, afraid of Caleb noticing his demeanor. 

“That couldn't have been more uncomfortable.” Caleb verbally noted a small smirk on his face. Robby turned around lazily, his head swiveling with his body. When he looked at Caleb, tucked his chin, staring at him through his eyelashes. “Worse than when I scold my daughter when she comes home later than she should.”

Robby chuckled, tossing his head back. “Who’s the daughter in this scenario?”

Caleb chuckled, shrugging his shoulders. “You tell me.”

The deafening silence that followed told Caleb that Robby was completely aware of what's to come. It couldn’t have been a surprise that Caleb would want to talk after the blow out the two of you had. Cocking his head to the side, Caleb hummed. “I’m sure you're aware of what this may be about.”

Robby scratched the side of his beard, confirming with tight lips. Caleb followed his movement, watching every piece of ticking of his demeanor. “I was under the impression the two of you had worked it out. Now, I’m hearing the two of you had a screaming match in front of the staff?”

The humorless chuckle Robby gave in response warned Caleb of what to come. From the distance he saw between him and you, Caleb sensed whatever had occurred disrupted the routine Robby had for himself. The Pitt was tainted by the memory he shared with you, disturbed by you. If he didn't feel a dread of the idea of working with you every time he came to work, it was now settled in the atmosphere surrounding him since that shift. 

“You can’t call it a match if she was the only one fighting.” Robby muttered with his hands on his hips. The slight tilt of his head was a familiar look Caleb had seen before. The rare sight of his pupil and the squaring of his shoulders. Tense and bothered. “And honestly Caleb, you should talk to her about it.”

“I’m talking to you.” Caleb motioned, wide eyed as he tried to assemble to puzzle blindly. “Surely you can enlighten me as to what led to the argument.”

Robby grievously shook his head, “She was upset, that’s all I know.”

With that vague response, Caleb was burning deeper holes with his stare. Robby wasn’t panicked, but he found himself in a hard place to crawl out of. Obviously, Caleb didn’t find much from you, which left him to resort to questioning Robby. He stared down at the ground, more interested in his shoes than in Caleb.

Caleb hummed, pensively tossing around the excuse, like there was true validity. “Doesn’t sound like her.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know her as well as you think.” Robby chuckled dryly, rubbing at his forehead with his pointer finger and his thumb. They ran against the wrinkles of his age, trying to alleviate the throbbing sensation of an oncoming headache.

Caleb paused, examining Robby up and down. Curing himself internally, he squeezed his eyes, shaking himself into reason. “I mean, everyone has bad days. Sometimes we fuck up because of it.”

“I get that.” Caleb rationalized, completely understanding. Too understanding, even, with his tone reflecting the cadence he used with some patients. Robby skin prickled with the sound. “Do you know anything about what upset her?”

Coming clean would let Jefferson know that you had shut down all possibilities of there being anything amicable between you two. You, who had created this ‘system’ that prevented anyone from coming near, but also aimed arrows straight to the soul to keep them away.

Every time you two ran into each other, up to the last interaction, it was as if you had prepared secret attacks against him. Your snarky words or your harsh resolutions ticked Robby, who was like a bomb around you, creeping closer and closer to explosion. 

It was as if someone pulled a string with the incident between you two, and his whole resolve was collapsing with it. The professional mask he put on for show not just for Jefferson, but for the rest of his department as well, was beyond cracked and broken. Robby tried to collect the pieces as he actively defended himself, but he was missing the glue to keep it together.

Robby resorted to shaking his head. Maybe if he didn’t say anything at all, Caleb would let it go. He squeezed his arms tighter, constricting his chest cavity against his beating heart. He was reminding himself there was still reason in your agreement.

Caleb accepted the response, nodding while also carefully watching Robby. He could sense the thickness in the air around him, a dark storm cloud that followed him wherever he went. 

Everyone else must have seen it so clearly.

Days had passed. Santos walked alongside him, approaching a patient in Central 14. When she first came up to him, he was already grumbling, a hardened expression after cleaning up from a trauma. Something had been ticking her boss off, and the rest of them were walking on eggshells because of it.

His muscles were flexing with discomfort, constantly shifting his head to glance around every space he entered. She would describe him as paranoid. Not to his face—she would let Dana do that for her.

They were currently on their way to check in with the 40-year-old patient they requested a psych consultation. She was on SSRI medication, and there were concerns she mentioned vaguely. When the two of them approached the room, you were typing away on the WOW in the room.

Your back was facing the door, glancing occasionally at the patient. Robby approached the door, knocking before entering and presenting Mrs. Myers a polite smile. “Hello Mrs. Myers. I’m Dr. Robby, I am the attending physician here. How are you doing?”

She softly smiled, trying to bear the slight discomfort in her fractured ankle. She readjusted herself on the hospital bed. “I’m okay.”

“Good.” Robby whispered, standing at the foot of the bed. You were closer in proximity, still confined to the WOW, typing away gently as the two spoke. “We spoke with orthopedics and they will be recommending a boot to help stabilize the bones in your ankle and feet.”

Mrs. Myers groaned lightly, throwing her head back. Santos stepped forward, hands folded in front of her. “The good news is, you will have more mobility than if you were in crutches after two weeks.”

“I won’t be able to go running.” Mrs. Myers sighed out, exasperated, as if she was told the worst news ever. 

Santos scrunched her face, while Robby provided a sympathetic smile. Santos stuffed her hands into her pocket, leaning back on her heels. “Best case scenario, the boot will be on for a minimum of 8 weeks.”

“Fucking great.” Mrs. Myers muttered, running a hand down her face. She gritted her teeth, moving her one good foot to plant flat on the bed. 

“Someone from orthopedics will come down to apply the boot and go over precautions.” Robby added, leading Santos out the door. He glanced carefully at you, as you continued typing in silence. He saw the subtle twitch in your hands, peaking at the figure by the door. 

Promptly, you logged out of the WOW, readjusting a pen you clipped onto your pant pocket. Offering Mrs. Myers a smile, she grimaced, watching you with less bitterness than Santos. “I will come back to check in with you.”

You followed behind Santos, pointedly avoiding Robby’s gaze as you passed in front of him. When the three of you emptied the room, Robby closed the door behind him. He saw Santos let out a sigh, shaking her head. “These health nuts are so self-absorbed, you’d think she cares more about her blaring fractured foot instead of her reaching her daily step count.”

“Dr. Santos, you would never say that in front of the patient, right?” You questioned, hand motioned back to the room. Santos warily looked past you, glancing awkwardly at Robby then back at you.

She opened her mouth to respond, but you beat her to the punch. “I shouldn’t have to remind you of proper etiquette, regardless of whether the patient is present or not.”

Robby positioned himself in your view, folded arms as he leaned in. “I think Dr. Santos presents a concern for psychiatry to follow up on.”

The hardened glare you sent in his direction didn’t dismay him. He remained stone cold in his position. Santos was left in a worse position, not wanting to fall in the middle of whatever beef you and Robby had.

“Which I was, until you bustled in.” You replied, raising your eyebrows. When you turned back to Santos, she straightened her back, feeling suddenly chill, hands absentmindedly rubbing her biceps. “Word of advice, when a patient seems distressed by news, you don’t console them by spitting out incessant information.”

Robby warningly called out your name, quiet enough for you to hear the caution in his voice, He was withholding the distaste of your reproach, but you didn’t bother to heed it. “And for your information, she is severely depressed and utilized running as a form of medication.”

“With her current dosage not satiating her needs, she resorted to running for the endorphins,” You informed, crossing your arms over your chest. “Wouldn’t you be upset if that was no longer an option in this situation?”

Santos swallowed thickly, nodding her head hurriedly. She avoided your gaze, staring down at her shoes. “I misinterpreted her intentions.”

“Big time.” You replied, smiling with slight displeasure. Santos didn’t seem as rattled as the one he recalled last year. Her skin was thicker and she didn’t let herself be pushed over. Robby liked to think the Pitt was helping her become a doctor confident in herself. 

He didn’t want to think of how this place may ruin her.

Robby announced your name one more time, finally capturing your attention. “I believe Dr. Santos has another patient to check on. I’ll check in with ortho.”

Without saying a single word, Santos excused herself, walking away while aimlessly looking at the ground. Robby watched carefully for her to disappear before turning slowly to glare down at you, eyes wide in disbelief of your confrontation. You always spearheaded the care of any patient you took on, which he believed, had you tossing all esteem and cordiality out the window.

“If you’re upset with me, that's fine, but I would appreciate it if you didn’t take it out on my residents.” Robby warned with one hand stretched out, slicing away the thought. He needed the point to drill into your head. He didn’t want to be dismissed as Santos was.

“I’m not upset.” You corrected, nose scrunching in offense, as if you smelled something foul from his words.  “And I was simply telling Trinity the importance of selecting her choice of words and making judgments before she knew the patient’s circumstances.”

Robby took a step back, furrowing his eyebrows. Trinity? He didn’t even recognize the name from how little he heard it. Everyone was called by his or her title and surname. ‘Trinity’ was a foreign subject. “Didn’t realize you two were on a first name basis.”

“Is it so hard to believe I can make friends?” You rhetorically asked. If you had seriously considered his answer, it would be an indefinite yes. Even if you still spoke with Shen like old pals, he still found it hard to believe it was authentic. “We’ve managed to get along without you meddling.”

“You were the one who said you didn’t befriend coworkers.” Robby recalled dumbfounded.

“There are exceptions.” You plainly said, turning back to look at Mrs. Meyers.

“And I’m not one of them.” Robby bemused. Since he officially began working with it, you have always made yourself abundantly clear.

With your attention back on him, you raised a single eyebrow. Your lips tensed, before you scoffed. “Dr. Robinavitch, after the charade you pulled last week, can you blame me?”

“I apologized.” Robby huffed out annoyed.

“Only because you were caught.”

Robby clapped his hands, rubbing them together. Your sights caught his every movement, entranced on what he might do next. His stiff smile and wide glare had you readjusting your body to face him entirely. Hands flattened together he motioned to you, “You’re entitled to your opinion, as I am entitled to mine.”

“And I think Mrs. Myers needs a follow up with psych regarding her prescription and the fallout of her fracture.” His hands choppily moved to himself then to South 14, where Mrs. Myers sat with her hands over her face.

“Marvelous thinking, Dr. Robinavitch.” You dramatically mused, putting on a charming smile. You began to take a careful step back, cocking your head. “I would invite you to sit in, but you have a tendency of welcoming yourself where you aren’t invited.”

Before Robby could put in the last word, he was welcomed with the sight of your back walking into the room again, closing it behind you. He saw from the glass how you closed the shutters, closing him and everyone else from the solace. Robby let out a frustrated sigh, hands immediately landing to the back of his neck.

This was his nightmare reincarnated. He was supposed to be focused on his job, his residents, and the fact he was about to go on a three-month vacation in July. He shouldn’t be worried about what you might do the next time your paths cross. Every dread that filled him coming into his shift stemmed from all the ill in his life and you were a part of that. 

When you finally left Mrs. Meyer’s room, you headed straight for the elevator, keeping to yourself. Enough trouble had occurred in the shift, let alone the seven months you’ve worked on your fellowship. When you stopped at the elevator, you felt your phone vibrate in your pocket. Without second thought, you answered, stating your name lazily.

Caleb chuckled from the other end. “Long day?”

“Something like that.” You responded, stepping into the empty elevator. Pressing the button of the behavioral health floor, the doors slid closed. Leaning back, one hand holding the small metal bar, you threw your head back. “Everything’s under control here though.”

“I don’t doubt it.” He said coolly. You could vividly see the ghost of his smile. 

“So, why did you call?” You asked, elongated your words as a way to hide the current nerves bustling. Your hand gripped onto the railing tighter.

“I wanted to invite you to dinner tonight.” 

You internally cowed, trying to omit your current reluctance to play niceties after a busy shift. You just didn’t have it in you to entertain someone, even Caleb, at some dinner. Caleb must have expected a polite decline from your part as he chuckled lightly. “I know it’s last minute, and after a shift, but I just got the reservation to a new place in town. I'd hate to be the only disabled man, and eating alone.”

“I think only you could rock that look.” You joked, watching the door slide open. Stepping out, you stopped to the side of the hallway, before entering the patient care areas. 

Caleb hummed light and amused. “I know it's last minute, but my daughter has soccer practice.”

“And your wife?” You teased him. 

“She’s got a book club meeting with her girls. I know better than to intervene with that.” 

You stifled the laugh. All you could recall was the one phone call you had walked into in Caleb’s office. You can attest she was not a happy woman when her plans were ruined.

Tapping your foot incessantly and gnawing on your bottom lip, you internally flipped the invitation. When was the last time you had gone out?

“Fine.” You huffed out, and you were silently pleased no one passing by could see the girlish smile on your face.

“Good.” Caleb responded, too elated, not that you had noticed. “I’ll see you tonight.”

You were sitting at the restaurant, twiddling with your phone. Briefly, you glanced at the time, swiped up on the screen and you had no new messages. Grumbling to yourself, you continued spinning the phone in your hand, lightly tapping the table. You were starting to regret agreeing to dinner with Caleb. 

He had never bothered to treat you to something as fancy as a sit down restaurant that required a reservation week in advance—until now. When you first joined the fellowship at PTMC, you two had take-out in his office and ‘bonded’ over your careers. You didn’t think the two of you had grown close enough to go to dimly lit restaurants together, but maybe you underestimated how responsible Caleb felt for you.

At least, you thought that until now, whilst Caleb ghosted the second text you sent. If you weren’t sitting alone at a reserved table for two with heels, a dress, and makeup on, you would’ve felt differently.

You 7:53pm

I’m having flashbacks to the many dates I’ve been stood up at.

Don’t make me look like a fool in stockings, Caleb.

You were counting down the minutes until you walked out. After waiting almost half an hour, your patience was withering. The idea of stripping yourself clean and substituting a luxury dinner with a tub of ice cream seemed more and more appealing. The way time was inching closer to 8pm, you might get exactly what you want. 

Carefully, you looked around for a waiter, expectantly preparing to pay for the one drink you did have while you waited to make the perfectly executed escape. Right as you spotted your waiter, you heard your phone vibrate on the table.

Caleb Jefferson 7:59pm

Don’t panic and don’t leave.

Just follow my lead on this one.

What? Your one hand you had raised to capture the waiter’s attention slowly came down. Without second thought, your hands began typing out a message, and before you could hit send, you sensed a figure looming over the table. Quickly lifting your head, you were met with the equally confused gaze from Robby,

You glanced down at your phone, quickly scanning the new message to pop up like it carried the answer to both your confusion.

Caleb Jefferson 8:01pm

Be open minded

I tend to be right about these things : )

When you brushed your loose hair out of your face, you noticed Robby looking around, like he was waiting for Caleb to wheel out the corner and exclaim that it was all a prank. You took in his clean, casual look, which made you feel overdressed. He wore a black, wool coat, button over a gray shirt. He had straight, dark blue washed jeans, paired with black leather boots. 

He sported the round, black glasses, and his hair casually combed to the side. Some strands fell on his forehead, as if intentional. It left you speechless, the same way he probably would say the last person he expected to have dinner with was you. 

You groaned lightly, placing your phone firmly on the table. “Caleb played us.”

Robby raised his bushy eyebrows, awkwardly staring between you and the empty chair across from you. “So, this was his plan on getting us alone in a room together.”

You let out a dry laugh, leaning back in your chair and looking up at him “Seems like.”

The silence that befell you two stretched the air and folded it to form layers of brewing resistance. Since you caught him eavesdropping on you and a patient, you didn’t bother to play nice anymore. There was nothing more to hide from Caleb. Your long-lasting distaste for one another was out in the open, and the two of you were out of energy to continue posturing. 

You tapped your foot under the table, thinking to yourself. Twirling around the idea, which you may regret, opened a pit in your stomach, tearing away your appetite. You rolled your head to the side, sighing. “You’re already here. We don’t have to talk, but we may as well not let this reservation go to waste.”

Robby paused for a moment, glancing at the chair. He realized how weird he must look to the other clients as he stood shadowing over you. He shuffled his way into his seat, rubbing his hands on his denim-clad thighs. 

You took a careful sip of your fruity cocktail, something fresh, sweet, and tart. Something exciting to pass the time, awaiting your inevitable fate. When the waiter came back, Robby only asked for water. You scoffed, putting your drink down. “Worried you might let your inhibitions go if you’re inebriated?”

Robby stared at you, considering his next words. He curled his lips, crossing his arms. “I’m no lightweight, if that’s what you mean. Haven’t been since my med school days.”

“When they used to chart by candlelight?” You joked monotony, tracing your fingers across the edge of your phone. 

You didn’t have to lift your head for Robby to see the small smirk on your face. He didn’t expect this dynamic. Shamelessly jabbing at him like you were friends. Similar fashion that Dana would, that came with years of a fostered relationship. He would never replace Dana, and he got the sense that you weren’t doing it out of friendliness.

The water was placed in front of him, and before letting the waiter leave, he requested a whiskey neat. You nodded with approval, grabbing one of the menus sitting at the center of the table. Eyes scanned the egg white sheet, pretending to be engrossed in the meals and their complimentary ingredients. 

Robby was tapping his finger rhythmically against his thigh. He didn’t hide the fact he was staring at you, trying to read into what to expect during a dinner with you. If the first few minutes told him anything, he was in for an interesting night.

“Did you hear about Mr. Richman?” Robby questioned, cradling the glass of water in one hand. He quickly gauged your reaction, before staring back at the glass.

Your eyes stopped on the menu. Slowly, you lowered the menu you held up, glancing warily at Robby. He heard you suck in sharp breath, laying the menu down. You nodded, “I did. I’m more than pleased the judge was willing to hear his lawyer out.”

“I’m sure the expert witness testimony helped him reach an appropriate conclusion.” Robby mumbled back, shaking his head as he furrowed his brows. It was bittersweet to think if it hadn't been for Mr. Richman, maybe the two of you could work better together. 

You cleared your throat, leaning forward. “Is that a compliment?”

Robby sheepishly smiled, scratching the side of his beer. “Only if you’ll accept it, I suppose. It’s no secret that you were his biggest advocate, despite everything.”

He motioned to you, more specifically, your face. The bruising was gone by now, no longer needed to be caked over with color corrector and makeup. When the trial had first begun, there was still slight discoloration. Now, everything was returning to a sense of normal for the better. Mr. Richman would receive help, and you no longer had the scars to carry off the brawl.

“That’s my job. To make sure my patients have some decent quality of life.” You sighed out, smoothing out the wrinkles in your dress, mostly to keep from staring across the table. “He needed the absolute maximum care, regardless of how I felt about what he did.”

Robby hummed, noting the obvious distraction you created for yourself. You in no way coward from him, but he sensed he was treading in deep waters. Too close for comfort. “That’s honorable.” 

You shook your head, “No. It’s my job.”

Briefly interrupted by the waiter dropping off Robby’s liquor, checking in with the both of you. He dismissed himself with a polite smile as you asked for more time. With you two secluded to each other, you took one more sip from your drink, taking steady breaths. “I should apologize for the way I reacted the other day. It was unprofessional and uncalled for.”

“Do you mean it?” Robby asked curiously. 

Your choice of word told him you didn’t know how to broach the subject, but your intention was clear. He didn’t seek to humiliate you, but he needed to push for this social experiment of Caleb’s to work. 

Sharply nodding, you swallowed thickly, staring at his eyes that seemed darker under the restaurant lighting. “It’s not my place to scold anyone, let alone the chief of the emergency department.”

Robby shook his head, “I deserved it.”

“Still—“

“I crossed a boundary—“

“I shouldn’t have taken out my frustrations on you.” You announced over his overlapping voice. It was also loud enough to capture the attention from a few of the nearby tables, staring concerned from the corner of their eyes. 

You gritted your teeth, attempting to ignore the fact you always seemed to earn uncalled attention. Robby leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Frustrations about what?”

If Robby were sitting closer to you, he could possibly hear the hammering of your heart. You drowned in the sound as the pulsing filled your ears like a thumping drum in your head. This moment was a break in the messy equilibrium you had fed. The ‘agreement’ the two of you had sealed that night at the bar was pointless. With Caleb directing the pawns to his liking, he left you two with no choice.

“I was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis.” You spoke clearly, leaving no doubt or confusion needing clarification. Your hands on the table trembled slightly as you eased your body into uncontrolled waters. “That’s the reason I had to quit my surgical residency.”

“I’ve come to terms with that. I recovered by joining an equally satiating program that taught me more about myself than surgery ever did.” You laughed, glistening eyes sparkling as you tossed your head back lightly.

It was a rarity to Robby. He had seen the human tenderness when Mr. Richman first came in. He heard it in the way you spoke with Savannah, utilizing your experiences as more than just an anecdote. You formulated your life into a way to help others. Robby didn’t see the intention behind your action; and if he wasn’t so bothered and engrossed in his own troubles, he’d notice it more.

“What stuck with me though was my attending's reaction.”

Robby felt his breath be stuck in his throat. Adamson’s words echoed in his mind and what followed was the dark memory of Robby shoving Langdon’s backpack into his chest, cursing him out of the Pitt. When he saw the dread in your face, the small frown and the repulsion of the recollection, he almost sank in his chair.

“He was the one who noticed the inflammation in my hands and the fatigue.” Subconsciously, you motioned to your hands, turning them over before intertwining your fingers. “I always thought I was overworking myself in the simulation lab, but he pushed for me to get a second opinion.”

The wet scoff that followed had you turning away to hide the shame. “I didn’t even tell him when I found out. He personally reached out to the head of ortho to get the results.”

When you leaned back in your chair, Robby saw your squared shoulders. Despite the conversation being private, the closest table over five away, you looked paranoid. You had the same guardedness when he had walked into Mrs. Myers room earlier. The hesitancy to do your own job in his presence. 

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “I stupidly attempted to scrub into a surgery a couple of weeks after. He took me to the gallery instead and gave me an ultimatum.”

“He told me I either resign from the program or he would have me forcibly removed, emphasizing my defiance.” You had finally looked up to meet him in the eye. He almost hated to see the repulsion of yourself in your eyes. It felt too real of his current situation, and he was certain someone is currently noticing his downfall. “He’d personally ruin me in the medical world if it meant I never risked anyone’s life for my ego.”

Robby felt the words punch him in the gut. As a mentor, he tried everything in his power to aspire his students to do better. Be smarter, kinder, and quicker than he is. As a department head, he emphasized that need even more to his senior staff. 

But, how do you do that when you’re drowning in a sea of everything you’re meant to do? You tide over your shame onto everyone else’s shore, he supposed.

“He abused his power,” Robby affirmed, shaking his head in disappointment. “I’m sorry you went through that.”

He was off put by the small grin on your face, like there was some inside joke he was missing. You shrugged, straightening the skirt of your dark dress. “Not your mess to try and clean up.”

“He was part of the reason I left California, even when they offered me an attending position.” You confessed, smiling sadly. Robby wondered what his life would look like without you here. After briefly sipping your drink you sighed, “I sometimes wonder if that was the best decision.”

Robby remained silent. Maybe his life wouldn’t look so complicated or he wouldn’t feel like he was constantly under a microscope by your stare. He could probably get away with his current deranged way of acting. Although he wasn’t at rock bottom yet, he may agree that he was on a steady decline to a point of no return.

“There wasn’t any way of preserving your joints?” Robby asked curiously, changing the subject with ease. If you noticed, you didn’t make it obvious.

“My doctors told me surgery would be too aggressive. They wanted to attempt the medication before jumping the gun.”

“And how are you doing now?” Robby followed up, a brief sincerity escaping his lips. He didn’t attempt to take it back or excuse it as a mistake.

“It’s been five years, give, or take.” Your eyebrows flinched, the realization a shock to yourself.  “I understand where my attending was coming from. But when you’re young and after fighting for a spot in that program, it all feels like a personal attack.”

Yeah, it does, he silently thought. He shouldn’t have resonated with those words. His mentors pushed him to be the doctor he was, and even if he felt he wasn’t living towards the standard they set, it didn’t change how they formed him. Adamson remained a core pillar in his practice, and every day since his passing, he felt he was losing the part of him that shaped and molded a worthy attending ER physician. 

After a beat, Robby’s eyebrows dipped, turning his head slightly as he thought. “Is that why you were talking with Park?”

“I had narrowly been trying to avoid him and his offers of surgery for a while now.” You snickered, shaking your head. Robby bowed his head, masking the fleeting break in his stoniness. “He finally found me, but I’m beyond broaching those choices.”

You seemed comfortable. Removing himself from the objective light he saw you, he had noticed you submerge yourself in the staff. He should’ve known you would’ve found a safe place to land in the Pitt. It had a type of energy that kept him coming back, even when he dreaded it most.

“If you don’t mind me asking, why psychiatry?”

You hummed; almost amused he dared to ask the question. It might have been as thrilling as surgery, but with the sort of drive he saw buzzing within you, it still felt it missed the specialty of surgery. “Honestly? It was Shen’s idea.”

“When he was doing a surgical rotation, we debriefed a patient; he offhandedly said I’d make a good psychiatrist.” You smiled brighter, your expression brightening with your mood. Robby would be a fool to say the woman sitting across from him was different from who he worked with.

He was starting to come to terms that he didn’t know the type of person Caleb and Shen knew. Laid back and genuine. You shrugged, “I guess that stuck with me.”

“You are good at what you do.” Robby affirmed instinctively. He didn't think when he said that, but after a beat, he confirmed the thought with a nod. He watched you sit silently; staring at him like you couldn’t believe he could think that highly of you.

He groaned lightly as he leaned back, one hand rubbing against his jean-clad thigh. His closed mouth smile pushed up his glasses, letting you see the darks of his eyes better. “We’re lucky to have you. And it’d be a shame if you left us so soon.”

You paused, tilting your head as you let your mind run wild with thoughts. The fellowship was temporary, safely branching out your options to a more permanent place to stand. You never expected more than just another line on your resume, yet the idea of leaving haunted you. “PTMC has some charm, I suppose.”

The words came out as a thought, quiet and long. You leaned onto the table, elbows resting on the edge, and he couldn’t deny the glint in your bubbled something exciting in him. He didn’t expect a few minutes of dinner to leave him wanting more conversation with you. The corner of your mouth twitched upward, eyes squinting at him. “The real question is would you want to continue working together.”

Would he? That was something he had debated, skipping like a broken record. He could learn to be more courteous and understanding—compassionate even—beyond the sake of patient care. If the last few minutes conversing told him anything, it was that he had yet to learn all facets of his job. 

Robby shrugged, agreeing nonchalantly. “I’m sure we can make it work.”

You pursed your lips, watching him skeptically. Had he been so unconvincing? He wouldn’t swear anything, he was taught better than to breed false hope, but he did mean it. Before he could affirm his stance, you interrupted, “Can I be frank about something?”

You waited until he gave you subtle confirmation, readjusting your posture with careful precision.

“If you’re serious, we need to discuss keeping each other accountable.”

Accountability. Dana would’ve laughed at that. She’d argue that doctors never voluntarily took the blame of their wrongdoings. She tried it herself with Robby, and she saw how nasty of a game that was to play.

Once he furrowed his brows, you sat up taller. “What I said at the bar, I meant it.”

“I am personally concerned you’ve neglected yourself for too long.” You earnestly shared, clear as day. The professional mask slips on easily. It was almost intimidating to be seen under your gaze.

Every effort he made to not alarm anyone had let him down. That last person he expected to notice or care enough to address it with him was speaking as if he were a patient. He didn’t like being objectified in that light. “I’m fine.”

“Are you?” You questioned, striking a nerve in Robby. 

There was no mistaking the shift in Robby, gently grinding his jaw as he stared blankly at you. His crooked smile was an impersonation of pleasantry. He wasn’t pleased with your hyper awareness of him. “Look, it must not be easy to handle an entire department. Even Caleb struggles from time to time.”

“Are you doing anything for your stress? Or giving yourself a break?”

Robby could scoff. It was hard to squeeze in a break of any kind while running the emergency department of a trauma-1 hospital. It was like asking a marine to let go of the hyper vigilance when deploying back home. It seemed futile and perhaps his more intimate circle, like Jack, would describe it as cynical. But there was no point in beating a dead horse.

“I’m rebuilding a motorcycle. Plan to take a sabbatical in the summer. Just me and the open road.” Robby coolly shared. Was it a dream resort? Not for many, but it meant stepping away from the chaos.

He had yet to tell everyone he was planning on disappearing. A small part of him found an appeal of waiting a month from his departure. Leaving without a big rollout of his three-month absence would be an ideal exit. He didn’t need to hear the ‘best travel’ and warning of staying safe. He knew some would even have a thing or two to say about road tripping on a motorcycle from the cases they’ve worked on.

You raised your eyebrows at him, “And that’s a break for you?” 

“The longest I’ve been away from the Pitt was five days, and that was cut from the original 2 weeks I had planned.” Robby’s hoarse chuckle was rhythmic, hitting all the right decimals to sounds engaged. You couldn't help but think it felt staged. Practiced. “They granted me three months.”

“Think you’ll be able to handle it?” You followed up, and the question was vague, enough so that Robby’s eyes twitched. Only someone who replayed all the possible conversations that could emerge from his spontaneous rendezvous could interpret in-between the lines you had set. “Three months of solitude and self-reflection is a lot for people in our line of work.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

You tried to contain the discomfort you felt from his statement. It fell flat from his tongue. It felt reminiscent of some of the patients you spoke to, those coming in with cuts and burns and other superficial wounds that scarred too deeply. Too intentional. You were acutely aware of when someone was crawling towards an edge of no return. 

There was an undeniable vastness in his eyes. Sometimes, when shadowing over you with a flame, you still didn’t see the desire there, waking every day wanting to be in a place filled with havoc. If you had to describe what you saw while staring him in the eyes, you’d say he was a lost soul inhabiting a tired, ran down body. 

A part of him was giving up. You knew what resignation looked like, and you had a responsibility to stop it, right?

You lifted your glass, holding out to him, eyes sparking under the light and a smile curling upward. “Well, I suppose you and I have a lot of bonding to do till then.”

So, you switched to the night shift. A tight-knit staff, a bit looser in the shoulders than the day shift. Shen portrayed himself as having no care in the world, Ellis was his comrade in arms. Even Walsh tended to be the more light-hearted version of Garcia despite her tough attitude.

Jack Abbot? Well, he was the calm-headed counterpart of Robby. Prepared for any situation with a quiet baritone and praise where needed, approving risky attempts at healing patients, leaving all of his personal baggage at home. Another perk was that he was nice to look at, even if he was more than a couple decades your senior and your boss. 

Plus, he seemed to favor all of the doctors beneath him just the same.

You had immediately planned on changing that.

First, you had worked on seducing him with your brain. Nonchalantly answering questions, thoroughly and clearly, as to not step on any toes or make your plans apparent. There was nothing that killed a reputation more than being labeled as any nickname, whether it be a pick me, know-it-all or, worse, gunner.

Gunner. A term passed around medical school and all of your rotations. The worst kind of student, who held some of your qualities and yet showcased them in the worst way possible. Someone who blurted out answers rudely, who asked too many questions, who would smile when they undermined their peers to their face.

It’d never be you. Your ambition had decorum and your lapses of empathy still had heart. You weren’t afraid to step up and teach the students beneath you, or to share your knowledge from hours of sticking your nose into articles and medical investigations.

Teamwork was crucial for being ranked first, afterall.

Abbot had once told you that he liked your gut, your brawn, after you had deliberately disagreed with Shen and hadn’t backed down, even when Ellis had hopped into the conversation on his side. It was a jump in his respect for you, another large leap towards becoming his favorite, something to solidify your spot at the PTMC. He’d even adjusted from calling you solely by your last name, rotating between nicknames instead.

It’s the second week of March now. The week before the daunting Match Week. On Monday, you’d find out if you matched anywhere. On Friday, you’d find out where. Five full days of psychological torture, if anybody asked you. Five days of wondering whether or not all of the time and work you’ve put into your reputation at the PTMC would pay off or not.

Needless to say, you’ve been on edge for the past month. There were too many variables that could lead to your demise. Another student doctor who shone on the days you were off taking your spot. Those day-shift interns sucking up to Robby so much that none of the night shift even stood a chance. Jack Abbot not liking you as much as you thought he did.

You’re interrupted from staring at the intake board from a slap of a palm on the nurse’s desk. Raising your eyebrows in surprise and turning your head, you’re met with the sight of Santos, who looks way too refreshed compared to you. You hadn’t even noticed it was already six-thirty. Thirty minutes until your shift ended.

“What’d you leave me, hustler? Anything good?” Trinity asks, squinting ever-so-slightly in an attempt to read the patient notes on the TV. She completely ignores the eye roll you give her at the nickname - just like she always does.

There’s a soft snort from you as you grab your energy drink, taking a sip and shaking your head. “I think the only thing considered good to you is when people are actively bleeding out. If I left that out for you, I’d have a one-way ticket out of the Pitt.” Your lips part in a large yawn, clutching your can tighter. “Which I’m trying to prevent, thank you.”

Now, her gaze finally sidles over to you, glancing over your shoulder before back at your face. A grin slowly spreads on her lips as she leans her elbow on the counter. “You’re not gonna get tossed out of here,” she assures. “Because Abbot has a crush on you.”

Visibly, you stiffen, head whipping around so fast that you’re sure you hear a tendon snap. “What? No, he doesn’t.” That would be bad. He was too sensible, meaning that’d ruin your plans. A crush on you would snowball into him believing he couldn’t have you around, which meant no residency at the PTMC. 

No matter how good looking or charming he was, you wouldn’t allow a man to ruin your chance. 

“Please.” Santos looks too pleased with herself, like spreading this rumor had been a secret task given to her. “I know a thing or two about higher ranking doctors wanting to hook up with interns and residents. He,” her eyes move, likely seeking out Abbot in the crowd, “wants to bang you.”

You glare at her for a moment before shaking your head. The only thing that fueled her ideas was when her target reacted to them. “You’re too focused on Abbot and not focused enough on the multiple patients night shift is leaving you.” A weak response, you’re aware, but there’s not much else to say that wouldn’t just egg her right on.

She gives you a final knowing grin before twirling away from the nurse station to go bother someone else. Javadi, probably, to get the most attention for it. If she was an only child, you wouldn’t even spare a surprised raise of your brow.

Coming to the realizaiton that your shift was just pass-offs and then finally over, your exhaustion finally washes over you in a wave, a heavy sigh leaving your lips. Your shoulders lower for what felt like the first time since your shift started, feet starting to drag against the linoleum as you head towards where the residents and interns of the day shift have gathered.

Robby leads the way through each patient room, each night shift doctor speaking up at some point to go over ailments and current treatment plans. Abbot is beside him the entire time, only speaking up when there’s something super attending-like to pass between them. His gaze lingers on you a few times, causing Santos to look between the two of you pointedly, but you simply adjust your gaze back into some sort of focus each time. 

“Excited for match week?” You hear Santos ask behind you. By the hushed tone of her voice, you assume the question is not meant for you, so you stick with eavesdropping instead.

Javadi huffs. “Is anyone ever excited for match week? My mom’ll kill me if I don’t match here.”

You glance out of the corner of your eye just in time to see Santos knock her shoulder against Javadi’s, completely ignoring the patient that Shen was currently introducing. “Oh, don’t be so hard on yourself, Crash! You’re basically a shoo-in. I swear I heard the attendings passing your name around yesterday during rounds, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

Victoria responds with something, but the sound is muted to your ears. The only thing you can focus on is the fact that Javadi might take your spot, might steal everything that you had worked so hard for. Sure, she was a hard worker and an amazing doctor, but you had hoped that her mother constantly pestering her within the hospital would make her work a bit less hard, leading to her matching somewhere else.

The clocks around the emergency department finally hit seven in the morning and, ten minutes afterward, you’re finally in the locker room. You move sluggishly to grab your stuff, slinging your backpack over your shoulder and grunting at the weight of it. Your chest feels tight with the realization that you might only have a week left in the Pitt before you’re sent off to some other hospital to meet multiple other doctors to prove yourself to.

“Are you okay?” A voice speaks, and the bass in it makes your spine stiffen. Abbot. “To drive home, I mean. You look kinda beat.”

You turn to face him, met by the same view you’ve seen for the past couple years. A white shirt beneath black scrubs, curled salt and pepper hair just a bit mussed from the long shift, camouflage backpack held over one shoulder. Abbot doesn’t even look touched by fatigue, looking the exact same as he had when he’d stepped into this locker room early last night.

Clearing your throat, you shake your head as you pull your stethoscope off your neck, hanging it up where your backpack used to be. “I’ll be fine. I’ve driven home tireder.” Your actions pause and your brows furrow. “More tired. YouknowwhatImean.” The last bit comes out as a jumble, one hand sticking out to wave your misspeaking off.

Of course he’d show up when you were so distraught over Javadi getting the spot you wanted so bad. You knew it was pitiful to believe that you deserved it over Victoria, especially knowing how hard she had also worked, how she overcame all of the obstacles of being so young, but you also knew that feeling your emotions through was healthy. At least, that’s what your therapist had said. 

Abbot’s quiet for a moment, staring at you like he was waiting for you to crumble into dust in front of him. When your gaze finally catches his brown eyes, the conversation with Santos earlier crawls forward. He wants to bang you. Now, it’s a totally unsubstantiated hypothesis in your opinion, but what if she could really see something that you couldn’t?

If Javadi got matched to the PTMC, you’d never see any of these people again. You were a dead girl walking. Only a few 12-hour shifts until you knew your fate and were forced to succumb to it. What would be the harm in testing Santos’ theory?

Your teeth find the inside of your cheek as you stare at him, almost unnerved by the way he doesn’t seem to move. With a heavy, only slightly exaggerated sigh, you shake your head. “Really, it’s fine, Dr. Abbot. If it’s bad once I sit in my car, I’ll just take a quick nap in my car before driving home.”

Bait set.

Finally, he moves. His head shakes, a small movement at first before it turns into a more adamant one. “I’m not letting you sleep in your car.” There’s a finality to his tone, the same one he uses when he gets stern with one of the residents about a treatment plan.

Bait taken.

“There’s no public transportation near my apartment, and it’s too cold to walk.” Giving in too easily would be too noticeable, not to mention completely unlike you. There had to be a bit of back and forth, lest you wanted him to think that you suddenly had a growth in your frontal lobe that affected your personality. You weren’t known for backing down.

A line forms on his forehead as he resumes his staring. Then, he steps forward, left leg hitting the ground a smidge heavier. Fingers slip beneath the strap of your backpack, sliding it off of your arm and onto his shoulder. He looks a bit silly, standing with a bag on each arm, but you manage to quell the amusement looking to find its way onto your face. “I’ll drive you.”

Bait consumed, again. He was really making this easy for you.

Now, it’s your turn to stare. Blank-eyed, lips slightly parted, the picture of shock and surprise. Part of it is real - you didn’t expect for him to inconvenience himself that much for his intern, much less physically take your baggage. In fact, you’re not sure what you expect from this experiment you’ve set in place. To see how far he’d inconvenience himself to do things for you? To see if he attempted to do more than just the bare minimum?

It wasn’t a well laid-out plan, but you’d come up with things on the spot. Impulsivity was at the core of all of your best memories.

“Sir,” you start, only to be cut off when he raises his hand.

“Let’s go,” is his only answer before he’s strolling away with your belongings.

He stays only a couple steps ahead of you all the way out to staff parking, leading you to a slightly beat-up sedan before shoving his hand into the pockets of his scrub pants to unlock it. There’s no gentlemanly show of chivalry as he slides into the driver’s seat, tossing both of your things into the backseat. You stand in front of the car, staring at him through the windshield, until he finds your eyes and waves you in. 

It’s quiet as you settle into your seat and as you drive. Abbot looks almost uncomfortable, sitting straight up in the driver’s seat. His thumb drums against the steering wheel despite the absence of music coming from the radio.

The both of you drive for a couple minutes before you gasp, your fingers pressing into the bridge of your nose. “Fuck. I totally forgot I was going to stop at the grocery store on the way home for dinner.” Slowly, your focus slides over to his face, fighting back a twitch of your lip at his startled state from your gasp. “Can you just drop me off at the grocery store? I can just walk home afterwards, it’s fine.”

With each piece of bait laid, you slip some truth in to keep from being found out. You had been exhausted back at the PTMC and taking a nap in your car wasn’t something you had never done before. You didn’t have anything in your fridge at home, but you’d never go grocery shopping so early in the day. The morning crowd at the store seemed to be the judgmental type and you were rarely awake enough to eat breakfast when you got home anyway.

Abbot seems to contemplate your words for a brief second before he declines with a shake of his head. “You said yourself that it’s too cold to walk outside. You can order takeout when you get home.” He doesn’t look at you as he speaks. Just looks at the road. Perhaps too scared of car crashes from his time in ER, maybe just avoiding the sight of your confused expression. “I’d tell you to go straight to bed if I didn’t know you haven’t eaten since last night.”

Your visage crumbles just a bit more at that, studying the side of his face like it’s a crucial step in your investigation. The idea of anyone tracking what times your meals were, when you didn’t even do that for yourself, was foreign. But there was a crucial factor at play in this instance. He was your attending. If he felt you weren’t taking care of yourself, he had to bench you from bigger traumas.

Right?

In response to his dismissal, you choose to not argue. As fun and interesting this game was proving to be, your tiredness was overpowering your need for constant experimentation. This was enough evidence for one day, and you still had a few shifts to gather more before you’d be too upset for play.

The silence that stretches between you and Abbot is nothing but awkward, his jaw clenching every couple minutes as a sign of life. As much as you weren’t the extroverted type, silence had never been where you stayed. It made you feel itchy, or like there were thoughts going on in the other person’s head that you didn’t want to know just as much as you did.

With your eyes still on the road, you finally speak. “Do you not listen to music?”

His head turns to look at you for a brisk moment before flickering back out the windshield. “Not really,” he responds. “I usually listen to the police scanner, but I assumed you didn’t want to hear that.”

Now, it’s your turn to look at him. That silence returns for a little bit, stretching between you, before you break it again. “You can turn it on, if you want. I don’t mind. Maybe something interesting will happen.” Probably not, but you needed something to fill the cumbersome air between student and mentor.

He looks at you for a moment, testing to see if you’re serious, before giving a firm nod. A breath later, abrupt chatter fills the cab of the car like white noise. You lean your forehead against the passenger window, watching each yellow streetlight until they turn into blurs. Then, your eyes close. For just a couple minutes, you say.

The next time your eyes open, you register the sound of the gearshift clicking into the place. The car jolts slightly as the tires settle onto the brakes. Your head turns to look at Abbot, who’s features had turned into something gentle, although not affectionate.

“C’mon. Let’s get you inside.” He urges you with a gentle brush of his knuckles to your bicep. You sleepily linger on the care he takes to not touch you with his fingertips or his palm, almost as if a touch like that would be too much to bear.

Your lips part in a heavy sigh as you sit up straight, your shoulders aching from stiffness. There’s not a chance for you to attempt to grab your bag, watching as Abbot slings it over his shoulder and steps out of the car without looking back.

He hovers near the hood of the car until you’ve caught up. Letting you take the lead, he keeps silent as he follows you up to your apartment.

“You don’t have to walk me up, you know.” Your hand fumbles in your jacket for your keys, prying them out and fumbling for your house key. “It’s a good neighborhood.” The key slides into the lock only after you stab it against the metal a couple times, nose scrunching in annoyance at your own fumbling.

Abbot takes one step forward as you step into the threshold of your doorway, pausing when you turn and look back at him. You expect him to hand over your bag, but he just shoves his hands into his pockets and tilts his head. “If you go in there by yourself, will you eat?” A simple question, but the slight twitch of his eyebrow gives away the challenge.

The two of you sit in a stand-off until you finally sigh, stepping back and opening the door just a bit wider. Your back turns to him as you struggle to yank everything out of your pockets and toss them aimlessly onto the table in the doorway. 

There’s a heavy exhale from Abbot as he watches you, gaze stuck on the haphazardly tossed items before he looks at you. You’ve noticed before that he’s a bit of a clean freak, probably from his military days. He’d have a hell of a time staring at your messy apartment, then.

“Go lay down. Get some shut-eye.” He instructs, not asks, tilting his head towards your couch. “I’ll order the food and wake you when it’s here.”

That makes your spine tense, hand reaching out to stop him from moving further into your abode. “Abbot, really, you don’t have to. I can take care of myself.”

One singular brow quirks, that no-bullshit gaze returning. “37.23% of medical students end up with burnout, the number higher in students approaching residency. Match week is next week and you refuse to sit down.” His knuckles press into your bicep again, his other hand sweeping out in front of you. “If I can ensure you take care of yourself at least one night, I will do so. And, Jesus, we’re not in the hospital, please call me Jack.”

Jack.You’re not fishing for evidence anymore, but he’s handing it over, and there’s a part of you that likes it. Admittedly, that part is a majority. Even though he’s at least two decades older than you, even though he’s your boss. He’d be older than you forever, sure, but he wouldn’t be your boss for much longer if Javadi was the shoo-in Santos said she was.

You take in the expression on his face before you let your shoulders fall in defeat. You wouldn’t call it that, of course. The idea of sleeping and waking up to some hot food was tantalizing.

Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.

So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"

Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.

But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.

"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."

"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."

The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.

"… what seems to be the problem—?"

Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.

Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.

He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.

Face down, ass up.

He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.

"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"

"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.

Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"

You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.

"Words, please."

Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.

Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.

Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.

"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"

Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."

The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."

He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.

You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.

Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"

"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"

Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"

The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.

Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."

A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.

"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"

He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."

Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.

"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."

You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"

Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"

"Maybe."

"It's not very good."

"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."

You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"

"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"

Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."

He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.

"Thanks again, doctor."

The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.

"What?" Jack frowns.

The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."

"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell—!"

The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."

Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"

In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.

The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.

He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.

Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.

It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.

Dollface. Doll. Dolly.

He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.

While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.

It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.

[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]

His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.

The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.

BESTIES — free! access includes: - get ready with me - weekly vlogs - shopping hauls SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($) - everything besties has to offer! - short-form lewd content - locked photos from the vault - audios LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$) - everything sweethearts and besties has to offer! - midnight live-streams - personalized short-form videos - personalized audios

Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.

All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.

He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.

The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.

As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.

Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.

(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)

Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.

You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.

When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:

@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.

Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.

Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.

You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.

In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.

Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.

@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡

@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!

@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡

@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY

In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.

Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.

He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.

@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.

The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.

The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.

He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.

@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot

@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls

@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call

The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.

He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.

You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.

Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).

Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.

Bunny.

You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.

The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.

As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.

[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]

[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]

A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:

doll : doctor abbot???

Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.

He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.

swatdoc : How did you know it was me?

doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡

Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.

swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?

doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.

swatdoc : Sounds fair.

doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?

swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.

doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?

He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—

swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.

doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡

swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny. doll liked your message!

The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.

Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.

None of the actresses look like you.

The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.

"You seeing anyone?"

Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"

"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"

"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.

"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."

The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.

He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.

But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.

You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.

doll: dr abbot?? swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart. doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.

Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.

swatdoc: You mean it, bunny? doll: spending time with you? of course ♡

Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.

swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual. doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny. doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!! swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus. doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot. doll: so when's our date? swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you? doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up? swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7? doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.

He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.

Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.

[ Doll updated her status! ] — 2 secs ago. — Butterflies. ♡

A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.

A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.

Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.

The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.

"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.

Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.

"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.

"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."

Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.

He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.

"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.

Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.

"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.

"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"

Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.

"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.

"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."

The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.

But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.

"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.

You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.

"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"

Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."

The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"

Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."

After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.

"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.

"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"

"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"

Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.

The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.

"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."

You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."

He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."

And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.

When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.

[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.

His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?

Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.

[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.

He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.

"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"

Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.

@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG

@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!

Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.

Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—

"Jack?"

"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"

You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"

"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."

"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"

"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."

"The aquarium…"

He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"

"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"

"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"

"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."

"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."

Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.

You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.

By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.

It's made you undeniably horny for him.

You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.

And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.

At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.

"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.

"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"

Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"

"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."

"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.

"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"

You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.

His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"

You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"

His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"

You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."

"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."

You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.

In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"

The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.

And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.

You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.

That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.

Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—

"'m cumming, daddy—!"

The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.

"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.

Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."

"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."

"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.

You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.

"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."

He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.

The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"

He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."

A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"

Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."

"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."

Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."

You kiss him again.

For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.

A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.

So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.

Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.

But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.

Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.

They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.

The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.

"So. Shen's said you've been weird."

Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."

Robby startles. "Oh. That's— brother, that's great."

"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.

"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"

"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."

The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.

Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.

His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.

"Feelin' restless, bunny?"

"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."

"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.

You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"

"I'm fine—"

"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"

"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."

"I don't think so."

"Jack."

"Bunny."

It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."

Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.

When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.

"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—

"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"

He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"

"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"

"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."

Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."

"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.

"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.

His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"

"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.

"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."

You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.

You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.

But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."

He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.

"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"

"Mhm, yes—"

"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."

It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.

"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."

And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.

He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.

"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"

His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."

Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.

"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."

You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.

He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.

It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.

"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"

His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.

His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.

The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"

"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.

When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.

"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.

Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…

Had it not been for your growling stomach.

His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.

"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"

"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."

He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."

Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.

"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."

It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"

You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.

"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"

A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."

Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.

Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.

While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.

"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.

He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."

The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"

"You're right, I'll behave."

The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.

For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.

"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.

Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."

Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"

"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"

"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.

"She's not my type, she's just hot—"

"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.

Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"

Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"

"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."

The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.

Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).

There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.

The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.

You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.

You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.

"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.

Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."

"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."

When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.

Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.

@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???

@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE

You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.

"You're stealing my fans, Jack."

"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."

"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.

"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."

Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."

"Use your words, bunny."

"I'd like that a lot, sir."

That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.

Sir.

It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.

"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."

When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"

Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.

Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.

"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.

The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."

Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.

"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.

The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.

"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.

He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.

"Add another finger for me, bunny."

You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"

"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.

"Yes, but—"

"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."

The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.

The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.

"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.

Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.

"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"

Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.

"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.

But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.

His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.

"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."

The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.

—

"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"

The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.

"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."

Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"

"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."

"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."

Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."

—

Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.

Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.

She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."

"What do you need a bag for?"

"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.

"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."

The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.

Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.

—

In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.

She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.

Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.

"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.

"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.

You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.

"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"

The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.

When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—

"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.

He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"

"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."

—

With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.

It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.

Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.

Something isn't right.

You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.

With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.

When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"

—

"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.

Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"

"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"

Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.

"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."

Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.

—

After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"

Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"

Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."

"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"

He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"

"No, actually—"

"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."

You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.

At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."

Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"

Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."

Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."

You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"

"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.

"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"

A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.

"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."

—

As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.

"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.

When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."

"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"

"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."

His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.

When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Sure is."

An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."

"What's it mean?"

"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."

You didn’t think this little plan of yours all the way through. 

Which, in your defense, implies there was a point at which there had been a thought-through version, and that feels charitable now that you’re standing in the middle of your living room with a paper plate in one hand and a steadily souring sense of dread in the other.

Because really, what sort of person invites her chief attending over to the apartment she shares with her resident boyfriend while the two of them are still in the world’s iciest little bro-divorce? 

Your sort, apparently. Certified dim-bulb. Girl who sees a gas leak and thinks, hm, maybe a sparkler would improve this situation.

But in your defense the frost between them had been spreading and you were tired of pretending it wasn’t. Tired of pretending it wasn’t affecting the job itself. Everyone was.

So yes, maybe engineering one contained, inescapable little social crucible had felt wise at the time. Healing, even. Put two men in a room and let nature take its course. 

Frost can’t survive fire, you told yourself. What you failed to remember was that fire tends to not be warm in any benevolent way. Fire bites. Fire blackens. Fire leaves marks.

The proof of your terrible idea now sits on opposite ends of the sofa. Robby on one, Frank on the other, a clean swatch of empty cushion between them while they chew their food in perfect, hostile union — bite, grind, swallow, repeat — ostensibly watching the TV. 

The screen washes them in intermittent blue light, giving them both somewhere neutral to stare, somewhere that is not each other’s face. 

You give it three more seconds. A generous three, really. More than either of them deserves. Then your patient collapses inward on itself. With a sigh, you deposit your plate on the coffee table and cross the room.

If they want to commit to this pageant of masculine emotional constipation, fine. You can be disruptive. You turn and reverse yourself right into Frank’s lap, crossing your legs at the ankles.

His breath catches against your neck, a fracture in an otherwise composed exterior, surprise or shock of you climbing on him in front of your boss, but he stays statue-still except for the palm that migrates to your thigh and clamps there. 

“Robby, you still think their rookie QB’s gonna choke in the red zone?” you ask, making a doomed little bid for peace with the ragged scraps of football knowledge you’ve managed to absorb by osmosis, your chin tipping toward the drive unfolding onscreen. 

Without so much as a glance your way, Robby grunts, “Kid’s overdue for a disaster,” a verdict delivered to the television but seemingly tagged for his recovering subordinate to his left.

The half-smirk that follows is pure instigation, and Frank answers it the only way he can in mixed company: “Disaster? He just took them eighty yards in two and a half minutes. Think that earns him at least a little faith.”

And spiteful tone notwithstanding, the words pass between them minus bloodshed, which you decide counts as a victory.

Maybe not a large victory, not something they’d name a holiday after, but you’ll take whatever pocket-sized miracles the universe is handing out before it changes its mind.

Robby finally cuts Frank a sidelong look, head ticking just enough to register annoyance. “Faith won’t change the fact he’s already gift-wrapped the defense a few choice turnovers. Odds say he does it again once the end zone feels too close for comfort.”

Frank’s knee bobs once with a scoff, bouncing you with just enough force that your t-shirt shifts, neckline dipping. Robby’s gaze snaps there like iron to a magnet; he tips his beer to hide a grin, but the swelter in his stare is anything but subtle. 

Interesting.

It’s not the first time you’ve caught Robby looking at you like that.

There have been other moments, in passing, usually at work. You’ve caught him with that glazed, faraway stare before he could reel it back in when you bend over a counter to grab a pen or crowd too close beside him in those paper-thin scrubs.

It’s always just been filed away under things that are none of your business, because you are Frank’s and happily so, and desire from other men has always struck you as one of those minor background inconveniences of having a body in public.

But now this feels less easy to write off. Like all that tension that had been hard and almost boring in its predictability has warped into something else entirely. It feels humid and unstable and just this side of visible. 

You can’t name it yet, but it waits there all the same, right at the edge of articulation, poised like it knows you’ll eventually have to. 

“Real rich, coming from you,” Frank says to himself and you, but the tail end mutters itself into “— jackass.” 

They both return to the TV after that, or pretend to, shoulders squared forward, expressions set into the particular blankness of men who are absolutely not done arguing but have decided, temporarily, to ferment.

You take advantage of the attention shift, letting gravity slump you into Frank’s chest, hips shifting in an absent figure-eight as you settle. It would’ve been innocent if the movement didn’t drag you directly over the hard proof of his excitement beneath you.

Your brows lift.

Another interesting development.

Useful, too, knowing whatever strange atmospheric disturbance has rolled through the room has not passed over him untouched. Not just Robby, then.

“Easy.” His inhale saws across your nape, voice pitched for you alone, the consonants clipped and almost panicked. “You tryna start something?”

You really weren’t, but you know he’s not in a position to believe you right now after you made a show of climbing on top of him not two minutes earlier.

Across the cushions, Robby’s tongue drags across his lower lip like he’s cleaning a knife, bottle slack in his hand.

“Hmm? Third-and-four, babe. Pay attention.”

“You don’t even know what third-and-four means,” he growls under his breath. “You’re already on thin ice after springing Robby on me — so do us both a favor and quit squirming.”

“Should probably listen to him, kid,” Robby says suddenly. You and Frank turn at the same time, guilty in stereo. He reclines deeper into the couch, lids at half-mast, utterly unmoved by Frank’s incoming glare. “If Langdon wants you to quit squirming it’s only ‘cause he’s struggling to keep up,” he drawls, eyes flicking to the tell-tale bulge under your ass. “Guy’s never been great at thinking and feeling at the same time.”

You don’t even have time to be embarassed before Frank’s growling, “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Robby.”

“Is that right?” he challenges with raised brows. “Well, you’re welcome to show me.”

Heat prickles along your neck, a phantom fingerprint.

Surely that’s not the invitation you take it as. You just have your mind in the gutter. A mind that happily projects the image anyway. Robby reclined in that same spot, beer perched on his knee, gaze foggy with lust while Frank’s mouth maps yours and your hips test how steady the good doctor’s hands really are.

It is, on reflection, not nearly as appalling a thought as it should be, which feels like a separate problem and also, perhaps, the main one. 

“Relax, Frank. If you can’t handle it, just say the word — I’m happy to keep her occupied.”

Oh. You stand corrected.

Frank’s lips peel back in something just shy of a grin. His hand slips from your thigh only long enough to cup your jaw, turning your head until the room blurs to the halo of his face.

“She’s already occupied,” he tells Robby, but his eyes stay on you, a dare stretching between eyelashes. 

You don’t blink. Don’t breathe. Don’t so much as twitch, and that tiny surrender is apparently all the permission Frank needs.

His lips crash into yours, teeth scraping, soda-sweet fizz sparking on this tongue while his arm bands tight around your waist. The couch groans under the sudden torque of bodies. Denim grinds denim until sparks pop behind your eyes and every rational neuron shrugs, clocks out, leaves libido in full command.

The instant your mouths part for air, Robby’s bottle clinks onto the table.

You turn just as he leans in, forearms braced on his knees, broad shoulders now blocking half the TV’s glow. Up close, his stare tracks the smear of Frank’s spit on your bottom lip, the way your chest still heaves in uneven intakes. 

A shadowy smile carves on cheek as Robby tilts his head, dark eyes roaming from your swollen mouth to Frank’s white-knuckled grip on your thigh.

“Could use a closer angle,” he mutters. 

“By all means,” Frank sneers, one fist gathering your waistband, tugging you a slow quarter-turn until you’re astride him, chest to chest, knees snug to his hips.

On the short but damning list of Professional Conduct Hell-Nos, “make out with your boyfriend while your boss spectates” probably ranks very high. Somewhere between falsifying patient charts and starting a fistfight in the ambulance bay. Possibly above stealing narcotics, which feels in poor taste to think with both men in the room, but then again, the evening has already wandered several zip codes past good taste.

It wanders even further when Frank kisses you again.

The list of reasons this is wrong atomizes into glitter until even Robby’s razor-keen gaze becomes another blur at the edge of the frame, taking in tremors you no longer have the bandwidth to hide.

But the awareness of the extra set of eyes of you only seems to dump pure accelerant into your bloodstream until you’re arching into Frank and rolling your hips down against the thick seam of his fly, bumping perfect pressure against your clit.

A wet rush answers between your thighs, lace sticking to your folds, and your breasts mash against Frank’s chest until you can feel your own heart ricochet through peaked nipples.

You break the kiss again only to clamp down on his lower lip in your teeth and tug, over-dramatic, leaving a sticky sheen that practically screams look what you’re missing, Dr. Robinavitch.

“Sure he’s convinced, Frankie?” you ask, breathless, thumb dragging over his lower lip to soothe the place your teeth had just nipped at. “Convinced I’m tied up and off-limits?” 

Frank laughs, a thin, rattled sound. His hand coasts up the slope of your back, ironing himself into every dip and imperfection.

“Dunno, baby.” He ghosts a kiss at the corner of your grin, another softer one under your jaw. His gaze darts over your shoulder to Robby, then sinks back to you, trouble puddling in the dimples you love. “You wanna show him? Show him how much you like taking care of me?”

You’re nodding before the sentence is half-born, a frantic little yes-yes-yes of motion.

In your haste you misjudge your own limbs, nearly knotting them with Frank’s before scrambling free. You drop between his thighs, the carpet scraping your knee raw as one hand shoots out to catch the dense muscle of his quad for balance.

To your left, Robby shakes loose a low, entertained hum. “Poor thing was just waiting to be useful.”

“She’s useful all the time,” Frank murmurs, and there’s no bite in it. His fingers sink into your hair and comb it gently back from your face. With his other hand, he pops the button of his jeans, zipping sliding down slow enough to hear every metal tooth give way. “Just happens to be especially pretty when she’s desperate to prove it.”

A guttural breath escapes Frank as he eases himself out, fist wrapped around a length that stands fierce in his hand, the flushed head of his cock blushing deeper with every absent pass of his thumb.

Your lips part, tongue wetting the seam, gaze fixed with the naked intent of an animal staring down dinner. Satisfaction flickers in his eyes. He offers a slow, decisive nod.

You don’t wait for a second invitation. You are many things but wasteful is not one of them.

Fingers wrap him in one cautious loop, then tighten once his inhale hiccups above you. You lean in and drag your tongue in one flat stripe from base to tip, tasting salt and the darker thing that’s only his.

He hisses through his teeth, every muscle in his thighs wiring tight under your palms, his hands balling like he’s fighting the reflex to bury them in your hair and steer.

Before he’s recovered, you’re already sliding him past your lips, and all that soft worship knifes into raw, unfiltered hunger.

His fingers finally tangle at your nape, gathering the curtain of your hair back in a practiced sweep, granting him an unobstructed view as your mouth sets a slow pulse around him. Like he needs to see every inch of what you’re doing to him or he’ll die from not knowing.

Your hand picks up the slack, stroking the length your mouth vacates.

“Jesus.”

“Told you,” Frank says. “She likes takin’ care of me.”

“I’m getting that,” Robby drawls, dryness turning brittle-sharp . “Little overeager, though.”

And you are. Eager. Greedy. Shamelessly so, student-raises-her-hand-before-the-question-is-finished so. You take Robby’s little barb as praise anyway, letting it roll down your spine, because if he wanted you less eager then maybe he should stop sounding so interested in it. 

You work him deeper, spit glazing the shaft, smearing over your knuckles. Saliva puddles in the cradle of his pants, printing a wet halo.

Frank’s head thunks back against the couch. “If you had her mouth on you, Robby,” he grits, “you’d be begging for the same… enthusiasm.”

“You offering?” Robby asks Frank. “Because I’ll admit — she’s a lot more tempting on her knees than being a smartass during rounds. I could get used to that view. Might even teach her some new tricks.”

You answer with a muffled growl that vibrates along Frank’s cock. He twitches under it.

That is such bullshit. You are not a smartass indiscriminately. You are a smartass with standards. A smartass in self-defense. A smartass only when Robby shows up in his holier-than-thou vestments and wonders aloud if you’re “having trouble following directions” for daring to question a single judgment call, or when he lofts that patronizing brow at a truth everyone else is simply too cowardly to say, or when he coaxes your attitude out of you with all the patience of a snake charmer and then acts scandalized when it finally bares fangs. 

And yes, fine, maybe you’ve needled him once or twice simply because the little pinch of his mouth brings you joy.

Sue you. People have hobbies. Frank has terrible coping mechanisms. You have this. 

Your nose nudges the downy trail at Frank’s belly, saliva threading between your lips as your throat opens, then you draw up in one long, slow drag.

Warning flashes through every tense line of him a second before his breath punches out in a fractured little curse.

“Fuck, sweetheart —”

Frank’s fist eases you off him, and when your mouth slips away with a wet pop, he’s panting, cock flushed bruise-dark, a string of precum still kissing the corner of your lip before it snaps.

“Sorry — shit. You keep doing that and I’m gonna come down your throat in front of your boss.” 

You shrug. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Robby whistles. “Pretty sure we crossed that line a while ago, Langdon.”

Something hair-thin cracks across Frank’s face, a little fault line opening where the smirk had been, sour and old and too personal for the room you’re currently kneeling in. You can’t place it. Can’t tell how Robby managed to find the bruise when he’d only seemed to brush the skin. 

“Kind of rich, you saying that.”

Robby’s smile doesn’t move, but his eyes freeze over. “You implying somethin’?”

“Implying nothing. You love quoting policy til it suits you to break it.”

“You wanna pick a fight with me right now?” Robby scoffs. “Because I gotta say, your sense of timing’s still shit.”

“At least I’m consistent” 

“Listen, Langdon, the day I take a lecture on —” The rest of Robby’s retort dies when you stand, stepping straight into the line of fire and blotting out the last scrap of civility left between them.

This is what you wanted, right? The attention snapping toward you. Both of them suddenly silent because you have become, for one second, more interesting than their pride.

You catch both set of eyes as your fingers hook beneath the hem of your shirt, skimming it up your ribs, knuckles brushing the goose-pimpled slope of your stomach.

The cotton’s off before either man can inhale a protest, pooling at your feet like a dropped flag, and for a heartbeat you let them see you in nothing by the pale, breath-strained lace of your bra: straps sliding, cups stretched indecently tight, nipples pebbling hard enough to ache.

You reach behind, flick the clasp, and let the bra fall too, shoulders rolling back so your breasts lift, unapologetic, into the hush. 

Frank reacts the way he always does, as if this is a miracle he’s somehow been deemed worthy of witnessing — never mind that he’s had your tits in his mouth four times already this week. 

But it’s Robby’s look that reroutes every living cell in your body. No wide-eyed marvel here, just pure clinician, jotting mental footnotes on nipple angle, respiratory excursion, overall breast biomechanics.

He’s studying you so hard you swear the room compresses, a slow squeeze that coaxes your back to arch and your knees to drift tighter, slick pulse drumming a reminder of why you stood up in the first place. 

You channel their attention straight into your backbone, thumbs hooking the waistband of your shorts and tugging until they puddle beside your discarded shirt, leaving you to stand in nothing but a damp lace thong.

“If you two would rather keep the pissing contest going, that’s fine,” you say. “I’m perfectly capable of finishing solo.”

A bluff — half bluff — because you could, but gods you’d rather make them beg to help.

You turn, gifting them a sway of your ass, all bravado, as you saunter toward your shared bedroom.

You make it exactly three steps. An insulting distance, really, before Frank’s hand brands the small of your back and Robby’s palm spreads wide over your belly, both of them converging so fast your brain barely has time to document the win under effective tactics.

Together, they swing you back into the wall hard enough for the plaster to kiss your shoulder blades.

The air leaves your lungs in a little hmph, quickly swallowed by Frank’s mouth claiming your collarbone, while Robby’s thigh muscles between yours and pins you there, your pussy dragging firm against his pant leg. 

“Sensitive little thing,” Frank murmurs, thumb stroking the underside of your breast while his lips charts a slow latitude up your throat.

Robby catches your chin between his fingers and tilts your face, giving Frank better access and forcing your gaze up to his at the same time. Efficient. Very attending of him.

“All that attitude for a fifteen-second wait? Spoiled, aren’t we?” He glances at Frank, amused as he jerks his thigh higher to your clit. “Think she even remembers why she started the tantrum?”

“Doubt it,” Frank answers, sliding a palm between your panties and robby’s leg to cup at the wet heat there. A tremor shoots down to your toes. “Memory’s about to get a lot worse, too.”

“Good,” Robby says, smiling crookedly as his hands make their way up your thigh. “Maybe then she’ll let the adults talk.”

Adults, you want to scoff, but Frank’s thumb circles over your clit and you forget what else you wanted to say about that. 

“Bedroom,” he decides.

“Copy that,” Robby answers, and then before you can blink, you’re scooped over his shoulder, world flipping until you’re staring at his (very nice) backside.

His hand smacks your ass once, proprietary punctuation as Frank follows, tossing directions like you’re precious cargo being delivered: “Second door on the left.”

You hit the mattress with a squeak. Plush bedding cups your spine, breasts pitching up and down before settling into a slow rhythm that seems to hypnotize them both.

You blink up into the twin eclipse of their silhouettes. Four eyes drinking you in. Every rise of your chest pulls a twitch from Frank’s jaw, drags Robby’s lower lip between white teeth. Shared silence of men who have finally found a reason to put their differences aside. 

Robby looks to Frank for permission. “Can I?”

Frank gives one curt nod. “Hands and mouth only.”

“I can work with that,” Robby says. 

He crawls forward, knees depressing the mattress, settling between your thighs. 

He leans in, and suddenly his eyes are galaxies: black centers swallowing brown until just a thin halo glows like caramel on a burner. 

It’s a weird feeling. How Robby, the same man who can watch arterial spray and merely sigh for suction, is gazing down at you like he’s the one white-knuckling the edge. 

But then the galaxy eyes disappear and in their place returns Dr. Robinavitch. Cool and insufferably sure. His expression settles into something almost cruel, like he’s caught you noticing the crack and intends to punish you for it.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, thumb stroking a glistening stripe through your underwear. “Soaked through already. That’s pathetic, sweetheart.”

He punctuates the verdict with an almost tender kiss to the inside of your knee, then another, higher. Instinct yanks your thighs together, but Frank is suddenly there on your right, palm bracketing one knee and pressing it outward again.

“Don’t hide now,” he chides.

A raw, useless sound breaks from your throat.

“There she is,” Robby praises, mouthing higher. “Nothin’ smart to say?”

You do. You must. Somewhere. But you find only ache. Voice trembling, you plead, “Please… Robby.”

He answers with action, sealing his lips over your clip through the fabric, drawing a slow, punishing suction that makes you cry out. 

Frank’s hand pushes your abdomen down, steadying the tremor, while his voice near your ear sounds: “That’s it — let him see how polite you can be.” 

You look to your right to see his cock sitting against his stomach, free hand doing lazy strokes up and down the base.

Robby hums low, mouth dragging down the damp seam of your underwear in languid swipes. His tongue flattens, gathering your taste, then flicks upward. His nose nudges your swollen bud with every rise. 

“Press a little harder right there,” Frank tells Robby. “She’ll act like it’s too much, but she likes it. Don’t let her squirm away.”

Robby listens. You hate that, you decide. How he’s on Frank’s side now.

You had been counting on his natural contrarianism to save you from Frank’s encyclopedic knowledge of all your most intimate buttons. No suck luck.

He bears down on the pulse point Frank named, then tongue-blades upward. White heat flashes through you and you flinch, trying to shear sideways, but his grip tightens, thumbs denting soft skin. 

“Uh-uh, baby — stay right there and take it,” Frank croons, the up and down rhythm he approaches with his cock kicking up speed. “You know it feels good, let him give you every drop.”

Robby works you relentlessly, sloppy and dirty, tongue alternating broad licks and focused circles that make you arch off the bed. You bury both hands in his hair, nails scratching his scalp, unable to keep your moans at bay.

“Good girl,” Frank drawls. “Let him make it up to you. All those times he’s been a dick at work. Seems only fair he uses his mouth for something useful.”

Robby shoots him a murderous side-eye but doesn’t slow. Instead he hums, vibration punching straight through the fabric. Your moan breaks into pieces — so close you can taste it. 

“Michael, I’m gonna —”

He hears his first name like a starting gun. His tongue locks onto your clit in punishing patterns, each lap faster than the last, crooked nose grinding everything just right. 

In two heartbeats the world pinpoints to a blistering of sensation. Your vision whites out, fingers clawing uselessly at this hair and the sheets as your climax slams through you. A ragged cry spills against Frank’s thigh while every muscle locks, then ripples.

Still, Robby doesn’t relent. His mouth stays on you, tongue lapping through the quake, coaxing aftershocks that make your thighs quiver against his braced shoulders.

Only when tremors give way to trembling afterglow does he ease back, breath hot against the sodden fabric, leaving you boneless and blinking, pleasure echoing through every nerve like a fading siren. 

Robby lifts his mouth, chin and beard glistening. 

“Thought about this every damn shift,” he says, tongue darting out to chase another bead of you from his lip. “Tastes even better than the fantasy, doll.”

Your eyes drag into focus by inches.

“That’s wildly unprofessional,” you mumble, the words softened by the fact that your thighs are still trembling around his head. You try to look stern. You suspect you look freshly exorcised. “You should probably report yourself.”

Frank’s hand tightens where it rests on you, his voice dropping to something rougher. 

“Don’t worry, baby. We’ll give him plenty to confess to.” He looks over your body, then to Robby. “Think she’s ready to find out what happens when we stop taking turns?”

“She’s ready,” Robby responds. “And if she isn’t, she’ll tell us. Won’t you, angel?”

A twin grin blooms across two previously warring faces.

This is not how you pictured getting Frank Langdon and Michael Robinavitch back on the same page. 

But if this is what conflict resolution looks like nowadays, who are you to stand in the way of progress?

You were never the type to make friends easily. And you’d never been quite sure why, exactly. 

You were friendly. You smiled at strangers in grocery store lines and remembered people’s coffee orders and laughed when you were supposed to, even when you didn’t always understand the joke.

But somehow girls your age always seemed to know something you didn’t, some secret rhythm to being casual and clever and wanted in groups, while you lingered at the edge of things with your lip gloss in your pocket and your hands folded too neatly in your lap.

Most of the time, people liked you in passing. They liked your clothes, your laugh, the way you listened with your whole face. They liked you best in small, shiny pieces. 

So when a couple of girls you’d met in the boutique dressing room downtown, squealed over your sandals, asked for your Instagram, and invited you to their beach party, you said yes before you could talk yourself out of it.

You didn’t have any work to do for Smurf tonight and even though you aren’t really the party type, the thought of sitting alone in your apartment on the Fourth of July just seemed pathetic.

Now you’re standing on the beach with your bare feet half-buried in the cooling sand, drawing idle, uneven patterns while the tide breathes in and out somewhere ahead of you.

The party had spread out around you in noisy, glittering bits: someone laughing too hard near the waterline, music crackling from a speaker, fireworks popping somewhere down the coast.

You’re perched on the low wooden stoop of the lifeguard tower, knees tucked close, a melting liquor-infused red-white-and-blue bomb pop dripping steadily down your left hand and into the crease of your wrist.

With your right, you try to type Pope’s contact name into your phone. This is a much larger undertaking than you expected. Herculean, even. Pope was only four letters and, frankly, you have managed harder things. Probably.

But your vision blurs every time you look down, the letters doubling, then swimming apart.

Alcohol, you decide solemnly, is not the friend to women that those girls made it out to be. 

When you finally manage to find his name, it only takes two rings for him to answer.

The line crackles, wind and distance swallowing the first half of his greeting.

“Yeah?”

You picture him blinking at the ceiling, sheets still tangled around his hips, and at once feel terribly small for plucking him out of whatever peace he’d managed to find. 

“Oh. Hi, Pope.” Your voice comes out rounded at the edges by the cold and the awful, floaty feeling behind your eyes. “Were you sleeping? I hope you weren’t sleeping. Well, no, actually, I hope you were sleeping because you don’t sleep enough and that’s bad for your brain. I read that somewhere. Or maybe Smurf said it. Wait, no, Smurf said a woman sleeps better when somebody wears her out first, which I thought meant, like, exercise, but she laughed at me, so maybe not —”  

“Where are you?” Pope cuts in.

Something shifts on his end of the line: sheets, you think, then a rough little bed-creak, then breathing harder through his nose. 

“At a party,” you say, then hiccup, then wince like he can see it through the phone. “At the beach. I was with some girls, but I don’t… I don’t really see them anymore. So I thought maybe you could come get me? I was gonna walk, I promise, but I wore those wedges with the little bows, and they’re cute, but they hurt to walk in.”

There’s silence for a long second. You chew at your bottom lip to compensate.

“You telling me nobody’s with you right now?” His tone is ice-cold, all the softness ripped out. A door slams on his end. “Listen carefully to me, please. Stay put. Don’t talk to anyone. I’ll be there in ten.”

It takes him five. 

It might’ve taken three if he hadn’t spent the first two tearing through his apartment in a blind fury, shoving his feet into boots without socks, grabbing the wrong keys, then the right keys, then patting himself down for a phone already pressed hot against his ear.

If worst-case scenarios hadn’t kept unspooling in his head faster than he could outrun them. You on the beach at one a.m. You at a party with people you barely know. You drunk, which he could hear plain as day in every hiccupy little detour your voice took. 

You don’t drink. Which means your tolerance is low, your judgement’s lower, and you’re out there with fucking strangers. Strangers who might look at a sweet tipsy girl alone on the beach and see opportunity. 

He would kill someone for less. Anyone who touched you. Anyone who followed you. Anyone who smiled too long and stood too close and mistook all that sugary softness for permission.

He thought it while pulling up your location, that you don’t know he has, on his phone.

And he thinks it now while cutting across the beach, while fireworks split open over the water, while people move past him in flashes of red cups and flip flops and cheap cologne. 

Continues to think it until he sees you sitting where you said you’d be.

You’re wearing a tacky little red gingham sundress. One that makes you look a little like a holiday decoration someone forgot to bring inside. 

His boots sink and crunch in the sand as he gets closer, close enough to see the blue bikini straps peeking out beneath the dress where the neckline gapes. 

Your name comes out rougher than he intends it to when he calls out for you, scraped low from the back of his throat. 

You look up with a delayed little flinch, eyes unfocused before they find him. Drunk, his mind supplies. Too drunk. But then you light up, and the whole beach seems to tilt around it.

You hop down from the stoop, nearly catching your foot wrong in the sand, and he’s already moving, already reaching, already annoyed with you and everyone else and the impossible fact of distance. 

You crash into him with arms wide open, pulling him into a hug before he can decide whether to grab your shoulders or your face or shake sense back into you.

His body locks around the impact. 

Candied pears and vanilla rise from your hair, pretty and familiar, ruined slightly by the bite of vodka on your breath. 

He closes his eyes, lets one hand unclench, then the other. When he finally touches you, it’s with a restraint that feels violent, palms spread over your back, nose buried at your crown. 

Fine, he tells himself, breathing you in until his lungs hurt. You’re fine. 

When you pull back, there’s a lopsided smile on your face.

“Hi,” you say, like the two of you have bumped into each other at the grocery store and not after he drove through three red lights to get to you. Your fingers curl in the front of his shirt. “I’m so happy to see you. Like… sooo happy. I’m always happy to see you. D’you know that?”

Your lipstick has slipped into a red half-moon near the corner of your mouth, and his thumb twitches with the sudden need to wipe it clean before anybody else notices. Before anybody else gets to think about your mouth at all.

There’s also glitter freckling your temple like spilled sugar, catching the firework light in sharp little flashes, disappearing and returning every time the sky blooms over the water. 

He sees you in pieces: mouth, cheek, lashes, throat, the blue string at your shoulder. Each piece intact. Each piece his mind checks and checks again. 

His expression doesn’t change, his hands do. One tightens at your back. The other catches your wrist, careful around the sticky mess of what he assumes to be leftover popsicle drying between your fingers.

“Don’t say shit like that.” His eyes flick over your face again. “Makes it hard to stay mad.”

“You’re mad at me?”

“No.”

And he means it. Mostly. He’s mad you came here with girls whose names he doesn’t know, girls you must not know well either if you’ve never mentioned them before.

He’s mad the world keeps proving him right for wanting to keep you close. For wanting to shrink your life down to manageable dimensions: his truck, his apartment, Smurf’s house, the short walk between places where he can see you. It would be so simple, really, to make everything the size of his reach. To make himself the first call, the last stop, the wall at your back and the lock on the door both. 

“Good,” you sigh, shoulders dipping in visible relief. “Your mad face is scary, and I like your normal face. Let’s stick with your normal face.”

“Let’s get you —”

You barrel over him.

“And you have such a nice face, Pope.” 

Your sticky fingers rise before he can dodge, thumbs skating across the hard shelf of his cheekbones. He ought to flinch at the tacky feeling, should mutter about germs, but all he feels is the lightning of your touch detonating under his skin. Twenty-thousand wings beating stupid fast in his gut while the world shrinks to the warm smudge of your palms.

His eyes drop to your mouth again.

Bad idea. Bad, bad fucking idea. 

Christ he really wants to fucking kiss you. Wants to bend, gather the sweetness off your lips, swallow every sloppy little giggle you’re trying to hold back. He wills himself against it.

Because right now, you’re loose-limbed and glass-eyed, floating in the aftermath of other people’s bad decisions, and he refuses to make the next one.

So he breathes, counts to four, lets the want settle into a promise instead of an action: another night, another version of the two of you where you’ll remember exactly how it felt when he finally let himself kiss the innocence away. 

“Truck,” he mutters finally, voice stripped to the bone.

One arm bands around your waist to keep you steady while he stoops, plucks your abandoned wedges from the sand, and shoves them under his elbow.

You sway against him, and he has to half-lift you the last few steps to the passenger door.

The hinge groans and he sets you on the seat, then decides to buckle you in himself — click, pull, tug — because he’s not sure your coordination is cut out for it.

“Keep this on,” he instructs. 

“Okay, okay,” you whisper, smoothing the webbing flat against your dress. “I’ll be the best seat-belt wearer you ever saw.”

You offer him a solemn thumbs-up, eyes bright with earnest pride. 

Pope’s mouth twitches. Barely. So small it could pass for annoyance if anyone else saw it. 

Then he knocks the door shut with his hip and rounds the hood before the sight of you smiling at him through the window can soften him any further. 

He ends up taking you to his place.

The thought of you drunk and alone three blocks away is worse than the thought of you under his roof, he decides. For your own good, he thinks.

But the second you cross the threshold with bare feet squeaking on the laminate and humming some pop song under your breath he regrets it.

His apartment has always been plain enough to disappear into. Blank walls, old couch, a singular chair, curtains that don’t let in much light even in the middle of the day. It’s a place for sleeping. For nothing else, really. He doesn’t need much else. And even that, he doesn’t get much of here.

Bad for his brain, you had said. You were bad for his brain. All this worry you cause. The wrinkles that now overtake his face since he’s met you.

You belong where color has somewhere to go. In gardens gone slightly wild. On porches with chipped paint and too many potted plants. In bright, warm places where things climb and bloom and turn their faces to the sun. 

You don’t belong in the stale dark of his apartment, where everything feels like it learned long ago to survive without light. 

His regret multiplies tenfold when you reach for the straps of your dress.

At first, he thinks you’re just fussing with them, your fingers clumsy at your shoulders.

Then one slips down.

Then the other.

The gingham loosens around you in degrees, revealing flashes of skin he has no right to look at and every reason to turn away from. His jaw snaps.

The dress slips lower, a slow collapse of red cotton and white trim, and he catches pieces of you in the corner of his eye before he can make himself look away. A shoulder. The curve of your hip. 

What’s left is cobalt swim fabric and miles of soft body, the damp seat of your bikini practically winking at him as you wander deeper into the apartment. 

“Jesus,” he mutters, turning his back. “Put that back on.” 

You twist, one hand braced on the doorframe, and peer back at him over your shoulder.

“It was sandy, Pope. It’s driving me crazy — here, feel.” You scrape your nails along the back of your thigh like proof, then lift the leg toward him, all generous sweep of skin and reckless trust.

Pope’s head tips skyward as if the ceiling might hand down mercy. Wishful thinking.

“M’not touching you,” he grits out. “You can use the shower to wash off.”

Though he knows you’d probably hate the experience of using his shower.

There’s nothing in there except a military-grade bar of soap and some shampoo he stole from J’s bathroom months ago because his own had run out and he couldn’t be bothered to buy more.

There’s no soft towels. No good smells. None of the little things women seem to collect in bathrooms, the bottles and jars and razors and foamy stuff with names he never reads but still notices when they’re yours. 

You probably have all of that at home. A whole routine. Something sweet-smelling. Something you rub into your legs after, standing on that little bath mat in your apartment with one hip cocked and your hair dripping down your back. 

His cock twitches in his pants.

“Don’t wanna shower,” you mumble, already disappearing into his room. “Just wanna sleep.”

A moment later the triangle of your bikini top tumbles back into view, tossed to the ground with a wet thump. It’s followed by the matching bottom scrap that had covered so much less than it should. The mattress groans.

He can’t see anything else but the fabric on the floor, but that’s more than enough. Enough to picture the rest, and the implication that comes with it.

You.

Naked.

In his bed.

The floor tilts beneath him as adrenaline and hunger vie for dominance in his gut.

He exhales through his nose, forces every muscle into a calm he does not feel, and walks to the kitchen. One glass, ice-cold tap, aspirin bottle from the medicine cabinet. Keep your hands busy, keep your eyes forward, keep your thoughts off her skin. He repeats it to himself like a mantra.

He turns to walk down the hallway and when he gets to the doorway he pauses, counts three, then four, then five, as if numbers can blunt the sight of you warm and bare beneath his blanket. 

Before he can step inside, your voice floats out from the dark, soft and slurred around the edges. 

“Your bed’s really nice,” you murmur. “I thought it was gonna be hard because you’re all…” A pause. The blanket shifts. “You know. Like that. But it’s cozy.”

He clears his throat. “That’s great. You — uh — you decent in there?”

“I think so,” you say after a second. “Most of me is covered. Probably the important parts.”

The room is mostly dark enough that most of you are mercifully hidden, the blanket dragged high, the shape of your body blurred into soft suggestion.

But not all of you. Your bare collarbones catch the dim spill of light from the hall. One arm lies loose over the sheet, hair fanned wild across his pillow like the bed had been waiting all along for something prettier to happen to it. 

“Got you water,” he says. He sets the glass and aspiring on the nightstand without looking too hard, then straightens, spine rigid, refusing to let his gaze drift lower than your throat.

You look too pretty for a night like this, too soft for a bed that’s never held anything but nightmares and empty hours, and part of him hates that the first person to see you here, sunk into his pillow and sighing like you belong, is him. 

He forces his hands to his pockets. “Aspirin’s by the glass. Drink all the water. You’ll thank me in the morning.” 

He starts to turn towards the doorway, but your hand snakes out of the dark and closes around his wrist.

The blanket sags with the movement, sliding off your shoulders, and he lunges to catch it with his free hand, fingers splaying across the warm slope just above your breast. 

“Could you… maybe sit with me til I fall asleep? Please?”

He makes the mistake of looking at your face. One soft plea blooming in those eyes and every argument he’d rehearsed goes slack. A smarter man would draw a line right here. He’s not a smarter man.

“Five minutes,” he warns, easing himself into the chair beside the bed.

“Five minutes, promise,” you echo, voice sing-song as you shift.

You avert your gaze just long enough to settle onto your side, blanket clutched in one fist, then peek back through your lashes. Both hands disappear beneath your cheek, the coverlet resting scant inches above the peaks of your nipples.

Your eyes drift half-shut, lashes heavy against your cheeks. “Wish I could sleep in your bed every night.”

Pope doesn’t move.

A second later your mouth softens, your breathing evens, and he’s left alone with the sentence like a knife he has to pretend isn’t in him. 

A lone firework bursts beyond the window. Silent through the glass but bright enough to paint pyrotechnic petals across the ceiling, for an instant crowning your form in color.

Pope exhales, lets the echo of that light fade, and settles in to keep watch until morning.

MARIA NOTE this was my attempt a 4th of july fic and somehow there are no pool parties, no wholesome firework kisses, just bunny getting tipsy off hardly any alc and pope having to fight for his life in a sad man apartment. whoops. thank u 4 reading ily!!! 🌀🍓💌