Reblogs

m.list | taglist | tags: @scoupsworld @mires765 @amaliaaliena @nanasrkives @bakugouswaif @frozen-waffle @filiac @palanggaaa @highqew @danmanz @fweakygyatt

m.list

taglist: @scoupsworld @mires765 @amaliaaliena @nanasrkives @bakugouswaif @frozen-waffle @filiac @palanggaaa @highqew @danmanz @fweakygyatt @applemango78 @weillennwa @titiyaki

You had a huge secret. It wasn’t earth-shattering, it wouldn’t bring about world peace or ruination if discovered. It wasn’t criminal, though it felt like that sometimes, a thief stealing glances at his Sandy brown hair and perfect, inviting eyes. It wasn’t dirty or pure or light or dark, it just was.

You were in love with your best friend.

You’d never believed in love at first sight, but Remus Lupin inspired something alike. You just knew, that day in fourth year, when a quiet, brave boy held out his hand for a crying, lonely girl that something was about to happen.

At the time, you’d thought of love. So maybe you’d known all along. But that day turned into years of the same thing, Remus always reaching out to save you, to pull you away from the stuff that was hurting you - he’d always been that way. His saviour complex was something unhealthy and yet you couldn’t get it out of him if you tried.

The secret was starting to become less secret. It began with one wrong look, a gaze too steady, too longing. Remus went up to the bar for another drink and James said, “Oh my god.”

You could tell from his tone you’d been found out. James Potter had always been extremely perceptive. It was a wonder he’d never noticed before.

You put a handful of pear drops in your mouth to avoid responding.

James reached out to squeeze your cheeks, and they fell from your mouth in a sticky wet mess.

“James!” you sputtered, grabbing some napkins from the centre of the table to clean up your face and the ejected sweets. “What is wrong with you?”

“What’s wrong with you?” he shot back. “I can’t believe what I’ve just witnessed. I have to tell Sirius-“

“No!” you said, much too loudly. You quickly searched the bar to see if Remus had heard. He hadn’t, so you leaned in very close to James’ face and whispered, “You can’t tell anyone.”

James wrinkled his nose, “I tell Sirius everything.”

“And Sirius tells Remus everything!”

James tilted his head in thought and then conceded. “Fair.”

Your hackles lowered. “Thank you.”

“But I want to talk about this!” he whispered urgently. Remus sat back down, a drink for each of the three of you in his hands. A butterbear for you and something with a little more kick in it for himself and James.

“Cheers,” James said.

“Thanks,” you said.

He smiled, a small smile, brilliant all the same. “You’re welcome.”

“When will Lily be joining us?”

James’ face clouded with adoration. Lily was in her second trimester of pregnancy, so she definitely wouldn’t be drinking anything. She kept a good lid on the boys, a skill you’d never managed to acquire.

“Not long now.”

“Oh, wipe that infatuated look from your face,” a new voice said. You turned your head to see Sirius Black looking exceedingly smart, although dampened by the rain outside. “I’m here, no need for tears.”

“Prat,” James said, throwing an arm around his shoulders. “Where have you been?”

“With Marlene.”

“How is she?” Remus asked. Marlene had broken her leg trying to dust Sirius’ wardrobe. He felt terrible.

“She’s great! Cast comes off next week.”

They drifted into conversation. You tried your best to pay attention, clenching and unclenching the napkin full of pear drops in your hand.

Remus pushed his shoulder into yours. “Something wrong?”

“Mm?” you looked into his face, startled at how close he was. “No, just thinking.”

“About?”

You looked down at his mouth, caught yourself, averted your gaze to his neck. How do you describe the feeling of being found out?

“Nothing,” you said. “Nothing in particular.”

You insisted on keeping a healthy distance between yourself and Remus, hoping to dissuade James from imparting his newfound knowledge on anyone else in your circle of friends. This was an imperfect method, as years of friendship and doting meant that Remus was more than used to a friendly arm hooked through yours, his shoulders against yours, your knees and thighs pressed together. If you moved, he moved to follow, without thinking. You were almost flush to the booth wall when Lily arrived.

She had the pregnant glow about her, looking incredibly healthy and happy. She squished in next to Sirius without complaint, James  gazing at her as though she were an angel stricken from heaven.

Despite trying to escape his side, Remus gave you such a sense of security that you couldn’t begrudge his right forearm pressed to your left. Your arms fit together like two jigsaw pieces.

“I’ll get some more drinks, shall I?” you asked, hoping to escape Remus and your racing heart for a moment.

“I’ll come with you,” Remus said, sliding out of the booth so you could stand.

“No, that’s okay,” you said abruptly, almost tripping over him. You made a beeline for the bar toilets, shutting the door behind you with a final click.

You let out a loud, panicked exhale.

Being in love with Remus was one thing. It had kept you up so many nights, staring at your ceiling, wondering what you were going to do. Because if you didn’t have Remus, you wouldn’t be you anymore. He was this all encompassing part of you, the glue that held you together most days. If you fucked it all up you would never forgive yourself.

Corrupting the friendship between you both was a taboo you didn’t dare think about. Construing his affection as anything but platonic was your own affliction. You wouldn’t be the one to pull the stitches he’d sewn in you to keep you both together.

It was so heavy. James knowing should’ve made it as though the weight of your secret was lifted - it didn’t. It was crushing.

You pushed the tips of your fingers into your closed eyelids until you saw stars.

Somebody knocked on the door. You threw yourself back from it in a violent flinch, having forgotten where you were.

“Two seconds!” you called, voice rough.

“It’s me,” Lily said through the door.

You frowned. They’d noticed your detour and your absence.

You cracked the door open. Lily pushed in, her small distended stomach brushing the doorway.

“Everything okay?” she asked.

“Yes. Yep. Uh…” you had to think quickly of a way to hide how you were feeling. If Lily spent too long here you might spill it. “Do you have a tampon?”

“Oh!” she looked relieved. “No, babe. I’m pregnant, no cycle for me.”

“Right.” You pressed your hand to your forehead and laughed nervously, though it was half false. The panic from before was persevering.

Lily could see it on your face clear as day. “Is it heavy?”

You were confused for a split second. “Wh- no. No, I just didn’t expect to start right now.”

“Right. Uh, I’ll go find something.”

“You can’t be doing errands for me, you’re not supposed to be on your feet.”

She rolled her eyes, “I’m not that pregnant.”

You stared pointedly at her tummy. “Who told you that?”

“I’ll sort it out,” she said, slipping from the bathroom.

You took the next few minutes to sort out your breathing. You didn’t need to panic. James probably wouldn’t tell Sirius. Sirius was smart and nice enough to know not to tell Remus. And if Remus found out - god forbid he found out - he wouldn’t do anything like you imagined. He wouldn’t toss you aside, cut you out of his life. He couldn’t.

You had to believe he couldn’t.

“Knock knock,” James said. You cracked the door an inch. He could see your blotchy face.

“Is it bad?” he asked in concern.

“It’s fine. Where’s Lily?”

“Sitting, like she should be.”

“I told her that too.”

“Here,” he said. He held out a box of tampons.

“Thank you,” you said, voice oddly tender. Maybe James was a better friend to you then you gave him credit for.

“You need anything else?”

“No.”

“Alright. Remus thinks you’re mad at him.”

“Tell him it’s hormones.”

“Is it?” he asked. You shut the door in his face.

You gave it five minutes as though you’d actually needed a tampon, leaving the full box in the stall for some other desperate soul. You shuffled over to the bar, feeling as though every patron had its eyes on you, ordering a round for your table and some snacks for Lily.

It took you two trips. Remus peered at you in concern, budging up so you could sit at the end of the bench.

“Thanks, Y/N,” Lily said, grinning at her crisps.

“Don’t mention it,” you said weakly.

“Everything okay?” Remus asked you.

“Yep.”

He didn’t believe you. You leaned heavily on the table, tuning into James' story about their evil garden gnomes and the mess they’d made of the baby’s nursery.

Remus took your posture as pain. He placed his large, warm hand to the small of your back and began to rub soothing circles in your skin. You melted under his touch, shoulders slowly lowering into a less defensive position.

James said something, you weren’t sure what, eyes half lidded from Remus touch. Remus laughed, loud, unexpected. It made you smile so hard your cheeks hurt, turning to grace the lines of his exuberant face in a way that was so familiar it made your eyes burn.

“I want a cig. Remus?” Sirius prompted, carefully weaving over Lily’s stomach and legs.

“I don’t smoke,” he said, though he was already standing. You mourned the loss of his hand on your back. He climbed over you with the same care as Sirius had.

“As good a time as any for a pee,” Lily said. Standing seemed slightly more difficult for her than the average person.

James was on you before she’d even made it to the bathroom door. “You fancy Remus,” he crooned.

“Will you shut it?” you hissed.

“This is literally great news. Now you can get married and have kids and him and baby Potter can be best friends forever.”

“You have it all worked out, don’t you?” you sighed in defeat.

“Wouldn’t you? Oh, will you tell him? Please tell him. We can go on triple dates.”

“You say all this like - like it would work out. It’s not that simple.”

James' happy demeanour toned down, a more serious look crossing his face. “I know it’s not simple. But - but when can love not be a good thing?”

Your face flamed. “Who said anything about love?”

James shrugged. “I’d know a thing or two about it.” Lily emerged from the bathroom and his eyes lit up.

“Yes. I guess you would.”

-

“Mate, the amount of whipped you are is ridiculous,” Sirius said.

Remus threw his shoulders back and groaned at the knots there.

“You literally asked me to come stand with you while you smoke in the rain when I don’t even smoke, and now you’re making fun of me for it?” Remus said, leaning against the cold wall behind him.

“Not for me, you pollock,” Sirius said through the cigarette in between his lips, shielding his lighter from the wind

Remus laughed defensively. “Says the man waiting on McKinnon hand and foot.”

“She broke her leg, idiot,” he took a long drag.

“I’m not whipped.”

“And I’m not ruggedly handsome.”

Remus sighed. “If you had your period, I’d do the same for you.”

“It’s not the same.”

“How?”

“You don’t look at me like that. I hope.”

Remus titled his head backwards so that the rain fell on his face. “It’s a want I can’t entertain.”

“You are so determined to be unhappy,” he said theatrically.

“Is that why we’re friends?” Remus asked, lips quirked in a lopsided smile.

“Get a grip.” Sirius said, dropping his finished cigarette on the floor and squishing it under his heel. “Just tell her.”

“I can’t.”

“Look, she didn’t care about your monthly cycle, I hardly think a confession of love will deter her.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is,” Sirius said, holding open the pub’s side door. Remus walked through. “Some things just are.”

“Not this.”

“She’s nice, you’re nice. Perfect match.”

“She’s more than nice.”

“Yeah, get a load of you.”

“I despise you sometimes,” Remus said, although he was laughing all the same. Lily was toddling back to the table. You looked as though you were upset, James saying something quietly to you, his eyes on his wife.

You leaned back against your chair in a slump.

“Move up, sweetness,” Sirius told Lily. “Lest I have to climb over you again and risk damaging my godson.”

You made room for Remus without complaint. He would’ve commented it was too much room - you hadn’t been as touchy today.

Hormones. Huh.

“You want to go home?” He asked you.

“Boo! Don’t go, Y/N.” James said. “Stay here and drink martinis with me.”

“I’ll stay, but I’m not drinking anything with vermouth in it.”

“Margaritas?”

“Be a man, Potter!” Sirius said with bravado. “Cosmopolitans or nowt.”

“Please no cosmopolitans,” Lily pleaded. “They make James too slutty.”

-

You were hiccuping through your third cosmopolitan when Lily cut you off. The pub was busier now that the night was starting, you had to strain to hear her.

“No! No more, Y/N. I can’t manage you and James and Sirius.”

“Remus will manage me!” you giggled.

Remus laughed. “Don’t I always.”

“I resent that.”

You braced your hand in between his knees, reaching forward to swipe Sirius' drink now that yours was empty. Lily threw her hands open when Remus did nothing to stop you.

“I’m not the boss of her.”

“Right!” you agree, practically gulping down the red drink.

“Maybe a little,” he said, disentangling your fingers gently from the stem of the glass.

“Spoilsport,” you mumbled. The cold from the glass was seeping down your hands.

“Feel,” you said, holding your hand out. “I’m cold.”

“You are,” Remus agreed, taking your hand between both of his.

You nodded, satisfied. You were a little dizzy now. The drinks were finally getting to you, seemingly. It was nice to be drunk - you could only think about your cold hands and Remus’ legs and none of the scary stuff.

Sirius was similarly drunk, leaning heavily into Lily’s side and spurting babble at James who was much more sober, surprisingly, his second cocktail still in front of him. How responsible, you thought. How boring.

“Loser,” you mumbled.

“I hope you’re not talking to me,” Remus said lowly.

You giggled. “Not you, Rem.”

Sirius clocked his missing drink and made a high pitched sound. “You fiendish girl.”

“Snooze loose.”

“Jesus, she’s gone,” James said. “I wish we had a camera, she’s funny when she’s drunk.”

“I’m not that drunk.”

Everyone at the table looked at you sympathetically.

“You guys suck.”

“I’m so tired,” Lily said, leaning her head atop Sirius’.

“Me too,” Remus said. They shared a companionable laugh.

“Not me,” James said.

“God, getting older sucks. What happened to getting blackout at sixteen? You guys have three cocktails each and fall asleep at the table,” Sirius said.

“Because you look wide awake.”

“Toss off, Moony.”

I volunteer, you thought to yourself. You laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

“Toss off Moony,” you repeated. It was funnier the second time; you giggled to yourself hysterically, so hard that it made you feel sick.

“Alright, calm down,” Remus said, fingers wrapped around your upper arm. “We don’t want a repeat of Sirius’ birthday.”

“You throw up one time and no one lets you forget.”

“It’s not that you threw up,” Sirius said gleefully, “it’s because you threw up laughing at frogs.”

You couldn’t help yourself, sighing in happiness at the memory. “They were so sticky.”

“Right. Home time. You’re coming with me-“ Remus said to you, “-so I can make sure you don’t choke to death. Sirius?”

“I’ve got a date with Miss McKinnon.”

“She won’t touch you like this,” James said, long arm wrapped tight around Lily’s shoulders.

“We’re gonna cuddle,” he said, enthused.

You staggered to your feet, wobbling in your canvas trainers. Remus steadied you by the shoulders.

“Can you side-along or are you a splinch-risk?” he asked you.

“I’m fiiiine, Remus. You worry too much,” you said, spreading the fingers on your hand against his chest affectionately.

“Sure. See you tomorrow for tea?” Remus asked the remaining friends at the table.

“Yes, Remus. See you then. Goodnight both!” Lily called.

“Goodnight,” you said. You crossed the threshold, Remus’ arm steering you out. He held your shoulder tightly.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Yes sir.”

“1, 2-“

You hurdled through the air, a complete feeling of weightlessness moving through you, landing gracelessly at the bottom of the steps to Remus’ flat building.

You felt like the air had been ripped from you, bending over at the waist to brace yourself.

Remus patted your back, used to this post-disapparation sickness.

“You’re okay. Quick, stand up before you throw up.”

You did as he said, smoothing your wind-blown hair to the sides of your head. “Why is side-along always the worst?”

“You’re usually drunk to begin with,” he said, opening the door for you. You walked into the foyer, grateful for the warm air that greeted you. You rushed forward to click the lift button, pleased at the green light that it emanated. Someone had drawn two dots over the downward v to make a weird smiley face.

The doors whooshed open, a low-pitched tone announcing the elevator's arrival. Remus walked in after you, much more steady on his feet.

The mirrored walls displayed you both clear as day. You, looking a little messy, mascara smudged under your eyes. Remus, handsome, neat, worn coat with the patched elbows.

You caught his eye in the reflection. “You’re tall.”

“Am I?”

“Mm,” you said, hopping from foot to foot. “Very tall.”

“No ones ever told me that before,” he said, nudging you out of the opening doors and onto his floor.

“Really?”

“No.”

The inside of his flat was orderly, the smell of woodsmoke and something soft, like lavender or thyme, greeting you. It wasn’t a huge place, just an open plan kitchen/sitting room, bedroom, and bathroom. He folded your coats over the side of the sofa and kicked his shoes off.

You couldn’t work the laces of yours, moaning in annoyance.

“Here,” Remus said, leaning down. You brushed the hair out of his eyes without thinking. He untied your laces in the nick of time. You used his shoulders to balance yourself and toe them off.

He rose to his feet. “Come on, you’re in the bed.”

“Remus,” you said, knowing the argument that was about to happen. “It’s your bed, I’m perfectly fine on the sofa.”

“You’re my guest,” he said familiarly.

“It’s your bed,” you repeated.

“You never win this one - I don’t know why you try.”

“You’re being unfair.”

He smiled, knowing he was winning. You had a sudden stroke of genius.

“Look, it’s a double bed. We can share. That way you know I’m not choking to death on my own vomit,” you used his logic against him.

He was hesitant. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You won’t. Now come on, I’m so tired I can see two of you.”

"What a treat for you,” he said. You turned from him to smile.

-

You woke up confused, boiling hot and with a mild headache. Remus was asleep next to you, his face peaceful in sleep. You shrugged the blanket off of yourself and huffed, trying to cool down. If you squinted, you could see his alarm clock on the opposite bedside table.

9:42AM.

You blinked, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Remus had already laid out a glass of water and a closed box of paracetamol.

What a sweetheart, you thought to yourself wistfully.

You sat up to chug the water, forgoing the painkillers. You knew the headache would dissipate as soon as you had a drink. Your legs were aching.

You shrugged off your jeans, bending over to rub at the red lines embossed in your skin from the seams. You searched through Remus’ clothes until you found a pair of navy jogging bottoms, pulling them on instead. You sighed in relief, unbuttoning your shirt to reveal the vest top underneath.

How you’d managed to fall asleep completely dressed was besides you. Remus was in similar fashion, probably overheating just as badly as you’d been.

You crawled over the sheets to his side, placing your hand on the flat stretch of his stomach. Kneeling like this, you could see every detail of his face, his collarbones, his Adam’s apple.

“Moony,” you sing-singed under your breath. “Mooooony.”

He scrunched his eyes closed even tighter. “What is it?” he asked.

You sat back on your haunches, hand trailing down to his hip bone. You considered yourself for a moment and drew away.

“I’m awake, so you must also suffer my misfortune.”

“How selfish,” he said, stretching and pushing his face into the pillow. “Godric, it's warm.”

“You’re fully dressed.”

“What?”

He opened his eyes, looking down at himself.

He glanced at you. “You’re wearing my clothes.”

“Oh, sorry. I can take them off.”

“Would you?” he asked, faux-eager.

You sniggered. “You’d like that, huh? Typical boy.”

“Don’t tease.”

“I want breakfast and we’re late.”

“Yeah?” he turned his head to squint at the clock. You ignored the urge to reach forward and touch his neck. “It’ll have to be brunch.”

-

“Cosmopolitans make you slutty too?” James asked, gesturing to your tank top.

“Misogynist,” you gasped, pretending to be scandalised.

“I never said there was anything wrong with being slutty, babe. Have as much sex as you like with Remus.”

“I’m not having sex with Remus.”

“You sound unhappy about that.”

You punched him in the arm. “Leave me alone. It’s too early for this.”

“It’s almost 11AM.”

You could hear Remus making tea in the Potters’ kitchen, his and Lily’s voices drifting in to mix with the sound of the washing machine, the whining kettle.

You’d come straight to the living room, intending to starfish on their sofa. James had beat you to it. You sat on top of his legs until he moved them

“I am unhappy about it,” you admitted.

James’ face might’ve split from the force of his victorious grin. “Acceptance. That’s like, the last stage.”

“Of what?”

“So, you’re gonna seduce him?”

“Are you joking?”

“No. Seduce him. Or confess your undying love, then seduce him.”

“I could do neither.”

“Bo - ring,” he said. “Look, I’ll help you out. We’ll plan, like, a whole thing.”

“You’re scheming,” Remus said suspiciously. Lily was close behind him, raising her eyebrows.

Remus sat down on the arm of the sofa next to you, offering you a cup of tea.

“Thanks,” you said.

James sat up properly to make room for his wife. Lily rested a protective hand on her stomach, tea held to her chest. They melted together, James’ arm wrapped around her shoulder, hand wandering up and down her upper arm. You could see the goosebumps break out on her skin, an expression of content on both their faces.

You leaned into Remus, just a bit, your hair against his elbow. You breathed out, watching steam from your tea swirl with the action. It tasted exactly as though you’d made it yourself.

“What are you and Y/N planning?” Lily inquired, smirking.

“I’m not planning anything.”

“That’s right, plausible deniability and all that,” James said, nodding gravely. “This burden I shall bear by myself.”

“That sounds like it’s not going to end well.”

-

It went like this.

Marlene got her cast off. Sirius decided that was enough to celebrate, declaring a party must be had at his flat. Everyone had to attend.

It was rammed from one end of the room to the other. You could barely make out one old friend from the next, people from your year of Hogwarts and even the year below having arrived in droves. Marlene sits in the middle of it all, a permanent perplexed expression on her face. Half the people who came brought birthday balloons.

You’re pushing through the people, looking for Remus like you usually are. He’d disappeared to find drinks and never returned 20 minutes ago.

Sirius popped up out of nowhere. “Hey, can I get your help?”

“Sure. Nothing better to do,” you said.

“‘Nothing better to do,’ she says. You’re young, fun and at the biggest party of the year!”

He led you into the kitchen, which was less packed but still had some milling guests, through the kitchen into his bedroom.

"What do you want?"

"Well, I knew there was something, but what was oh- right! You're in love with Moony."

Your face fell. "Sirius-"

"Don't worry, dollface, my lips are sealed."

You frowned. "James told you?"

"I guessed."

"With prompting?"

He didn't answer, which was answer enough.

"I'm going to wring James' neck."

"Settle down… is it such a bad thing, loving Remus?"

"No, of course not! He's - he's the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Then what's wrong?"

You sat down heavy on his rumpled bed, picking at a ladder in your tights. "It's difficult." You paused, chewing your lip.

"It's difficult," you repeated. "For me."

Sirius sat down next to you. "It doesn't have to be."

"I think people keep saying that, but they don't really believe it."

"I believe it. Love is never easy, but what's the point in loving someone and not telling them? Love with nowhere to go isn't what it could be."

You dropped your head into his shoulder. "Shouldn't you be having this talk with him? He's your best friend, not me."

"We're good friends, aren't we? Plus, James bagsied him."

"You drew the short straw," you grumbled.

"You're not the short straw, idiot. I like talking to you, especially if you're gonna marry my best mate."

"Marriage is not on the cards."

Sirius tapped a rhythm on his leg. "You're both the same. Determined to be unhappy."

"I love him," you said miserably. "It's a lot. I can't see everything else anymore."

"Love is supposed to make you happy."

"He does!"

"Then why won't you tell him?"

You thought about this for a long time.

"When we were 17… You remember, in potions, Slughorn made Amortentia. I was never any good at potions, Remus used to let me copy all his answers and - I turned to Emmaline, and I said - 'God, can you smell that? It smells like woodsmoke in here.' She looked at me like I was stupid."

You inhaled.

"I've loved him since I was 17," you whispered. "Maybe since the day I met him. How do you tell someone that?"

-

Remus leaned his head against the door, his fingers wrapped around the handle. James was looking at him with an intensely pleased expression.

"Woodsmoke," James said. "Boom."

He unwrapped his hand.

James' face was a picture. "Wh- wait a second! Where are you going?"

"I need to buy a ring."

James chased after him, tugging him back by his shoulder. "Woah- woah, Moons. You can't just ask her to marry you out of the blue."

"She loves me."

"Marriage is more than just love. Trust me." They both came to a stop. James was still grinning. Remus couldn't help it, he smiled back.

"She loves me."

"She does."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"She asked me not to."

"Oh, so now you've suddenly developed an ability to keep secrets?"

"Why do you think I pulled you off to Sirius' room in the middle of a party? For a snog?"

"I'm an excellent kisser."

"You sound like Sirius."

"Can't I get her a ring without getting married?"

"You can get her fifty. But maybe put the poor girl out of her misery?"

"How do I tell her?"

"Think on your feet, buddy," James said, turning them both around.

Remus felt as though volts of electricity were running through his body, as though every footstep he took back down the hallway was as loud as a thunderclap.

Sirius was shutting his door gently behind him.

"Ooh, perfect timing, lover boy. She's debating her whole existence in there."

"What did you say to her?" James asked indignantly.

"Nothing bad. Just that if she never tells him she'll die alone."

Remus ignored them both as they argued, squaring his shoulders to stare at the door. James patted him solidly on the shoulder. "Go get 'em."

They walked down the hallways like kings. "Let's get this party started!" Sirius cried.

"Y/N?" he called through the wood. "Can I come in?"

You said something. "What?" he called.

"Yes! Come in!"

You were splayed out on the bed, hair around you like a halo. You looked sick to your stomach.

"Cramps?"

"What?"

"Is it your period?"

"No."

He pushed himself up against the wall, his palm against the cold plaster.

He took a deep breath.

"When we were 17," he started shakily, "we had potions. Slughorn made amortentia. You were always pretty good at potions, but you never had any confidence, so you'd always copy my answers and I'd pretend not to notice."

You were staring at him with wide, wide eyes. He didn't dare move toward you, swallowing hard.

"And I turned to James and asked him what he could smell. He said Lily, obviously. He asked me what I could smell, and I said, ‘chocolate'. But-" he held your gaze, heart racing, and took the leap, "I lied. I didn't want anybody to know, I didn't want you to know. It was my biggest secret. Even bigger than the wolf."

He hesitated.

"It smelled of you. I fell for you a long time ago," he admitted.

“Was it so far to fall?” you asked him, voice cracking.

“It didn’t hurt at all,” he assured you.

You blinked. A tear gathered at the corner of your eyes, glassy in the low light.

You'd barely sat up and he was on you, almost pulling you off the sheets with the force of his hug. You laughed wildly and he cherished the sound.

You pushed your face into the side of his neck and he shivered at the feeling of you inhaling. You went to say something, and he knew he should've waited, listened, but he couldn't. He plastered his mouth to yours. You didn't hesitate, not for a second, kissing him back with all the wild abandonment you possessed.

He laughed into your mouth, kissing and kissing. You weren't the shy kisser he often imagined, matching his passion and tenacity with ease.

"Wait, stop," you said.

He looked at you in concern. "What, what's the matter?"

You leaned your forehead against his. "We can't make out in Sirius' room. That's, like, a cardinal sin. Imagine the things this bed has seen."

He touched the tip of his nose to yours. "Where else can we?"

"My bed, your bed. I'm not fussy."

He grinned, ducking his head to kiss your cheek. He pulled you up onto your feet. "Splinch-risk?"

"As if. He puts who-knows-what in the drink."

"1, 2-"

Maybe because he wanted to ravish you so badly, the disapparation felt as though it took millenia. When you both finally arrived at the outside of his building he pulled you in.

He couldn't accurately describe love to someone if they asked, but if he could he would play this clip, both of you falling over each other to steal kisses and laugh in the elevator at yourselves, red-faced, ecstatic in the reflections, almost missing your floor. Him fumbling with his keys at the door, forgetting to pull them out. Kissing you up against the thin flat walls like you were a sacred being, like you were a prayer he was sending.

The fronts you put up for other people, for yourselves, fell away. It was just you and him. Maybe it was hard to kiss your best friend without laughing madly or maybe it was your own mistake. Either way, it was a mess of kissing and laughing and struggling to breathe.

"Don't, don't," you begged, tickled by his lips against the skin under your ear.

"Or what?" he asked, though he pulled away anyways.

You went up on tip toes to do the same to him, laughing as he went boneless.

"Alright." He swatted your head lightly with the back of his hand. "You proved your point."

"Did I?" you asked, taking the skin between your teeth.

He gasped. "Demon."

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you. Sent to corrupt me."

"Consider yourself corrupted," you said, licking a stripe over his nibbled skin. "Now you're mine."

"Is that so?" His hands, seconds ago having held the nape of your neck, traveled down. The other pulled you flush against him. He watched your face saturate as you realised his affliction.

The other hand slipped under the edge of your skirt, holding your hip in a brushing grip.

"Excited to see me?" you asked, breathless. You were doing some exploring of your own, fingers traveling over the lines of his stomach and chest.

"Excited to do lots of things to you."

You moved away from the wall he'd pressed you against, walking him backwards until his knees hit the back of the sofa and pushed him down, clambering into his lap. You didn't shy away from him, setting yourself down on him in a way that made you both stutter in your breathing.

"Aren't we supposed to wait?" he asked you.

"For what?" you asked him, pushing his hair from his face with both hands.

"The right time."

"Doesn't it feel like now?"

"I just want you to be sure."

"I'm sure. Are you?"

He grabbed your hips, pressing you down, grinding you against him. "I'm sure," he laughed at your squirming. "I'm sure."

"Let me take my skirt off," you said, moving as if to climb off of him.

His arms tightened around your waist. "Do you have to?"

"Like this one, do you?"

"Can't you tell?"

"Let me up." You unseated yourself from his lap. It seemed much more illicit suddenly, him lying back on the sofa, red in the face and hard watching you undress with a heady gaze. You pulled your tights off in a hurry, almost toppling over. He smirked in amusement.

Next was the skirt. You unzipped it, letting it fall to your ankles before stepping out.  He hooked under your arms and brought you up, onto him again. Your underwear were simple, cute, black with a lettuce edge trim and purple ribbon with a bow on the top, like a gift.

He trailed a finger at the slip of skin just above it.

"You always wear stuff like this?"

"Thought I might get lucky," you admitted, bashful.

He moved his hands, pressed flat at the curve of your stomach, up, over your shirt to the peaks of your breasts. You brought your fingers up to the buttons, he squeezed.

The shirt came off. He pushed your bra up, not bothering with the clasp.

"What, you never took a bra off before?"

"Quicker," he mouthed, pressing his lips to the underside of your breast. He kissed stripes, leaving wet half circles in his path.

You did your best to maneuver around him, digging your fingers into his shirt buttons. You stopped at the first inch of a scar, tracing the thickest one with the lightest touch of your fingernail, sending goosebumps up his back.

"Do they bother you?" he asked.

"Never," you said. Pushing his shoulders back with your hands, you leaned down to analyse the scars. There was no rhyme or reason to them. Some were purple, some white with age.

You brushed your hands down his bare chest and smiled at him.

"You're so handsome."

The smile he gifted you in return was soft, loving.

"You're more perfect than I could have imagined," he said in turn.

"You imagine me like this?"

"Only every night."

Your hands wandered down to the zip of his trousers. You hesitated. "Go on," he said softly, pleaded softly.

You unzipped, unbuttoned. The trepidation between you both heightened. The shape of him was clearer and clearer.

You pulled his trousers down, then used a gentle hand to palm him through his boxers. His breath hitched. You were soft, lovely, probing with curious fingers. You'd be his undoing.

A fingernail, scratching at the waistband. You pulled him free, finally, his dick standing up. You used a knuckle to trace a prominent vein, gasping in happiness at his twitches.

He turned his head to the side, blinking hard. You took him in your hand and pumped with a confidence he wasn't sure you actually had, shyness and pleasure both written on your face.

"Alright, don't do me in," he said. He gripped the skin of your hips and pulled you forward, your silky underwear sliding against him. You took to this like a fish to water, planting your knees on either side and rocking your hips into him. He groaned, attempting to help, but your movements created a weakness in him he couldn't overcome.

You were wet on top of him, leaking through silk, coating him where you made contact.

You reached down in between your bodies to pull your panties to one side. You dipped a finger inside, then two, pulling slickness out and rubbing a circle around your entrance. Remus watched with half lidded eyes.

"You want to?" you asked him. He was better at it than you, probably because he could actually see what he was doing. He graced the skin of your clit, down, pushing his middle finger inside you with infinite care.

You moaned, your shoulders pushed back. "Ah, can you- will you-"

His middle finger was joined by his ring finger. His pinky and index hit the soft skin surrounding your entrance with each stroke. The meat of his pan rubbed your clit, sending spikes of hot pleasure up your abdomen.

You couldn't hold yourself up anymore, falling into his chest, arms braced on the sofa behind him. You tucked your head into his neck and gasped for air.

This restricted his speed but not his movement, scissoring his fingers inside you, curling to find where it felt best and repeating it whenever you squirmed.

You lifted yourself to escape his ministrations.

He rubbed the head of his dick against you. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Mh-hmm."

You were flat to his chest. He pushed his hips down, lining up with your entrance. You cried out at the feeling. The first few inches were easy-going, sliding up into you as easy as pie. You'd brought a hand up to the hair at the base of his neck and he winced at the death grip you had.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked, coming to a stop.

"No - oh my god. You're big."

"I thought I was tall? Handsome?"

"You can be - oh, you can be all of those things."

"Listen to you," he said under his breath. "Can't even speak properly, can you, lovely girl?"

He was far from bottoming out. He held you in place, pulling out to push back in, stretching you out that little bit further each time, filling you up. You tried to move, ride him, and he tightened his grip.

"Stay still, sweetheart."

You listened. He was making good progress of you, easing you open with long, firm thrusts. You were beside yourself at this point, making sounds in his ear that almost pushed him to the edge every time he pushed back in.

Finally, with his full length inside you, he stopped. You wriggled circles around his dick, moaning with weak desperation.

"Remus, don't be cruel. Don't be."

"Cruel with you..." He thrust up, harder than before but never enough to hurt. "How could I ever be?"

You were pitched up, higher than he'd ever heard. His hips were doing all the work, you a sopping wet mess.

"We're a perfect fit," you said, your hair on his neck, your face against his shoulder. He turned to kiss your forehead.

He spread you open with his hands, the drag of his dick against your walls almost too much to bear. He was moving you up and down on him, finally encouraging you to move. You did so with a struggle, using your knees as an anchor to ride him.

You rose as high as you could, taking great pleasure in making him moan with every drop, pulling all the way off to abruptly drop back in, feeling his dick at the very deepest part of you.

When he was fully inside you, you rolled your hips, leaning forward to press pecks to his chest. He tangled a hand in your hair.

His head was thrown back against the sofa. You might look at his face and think he was distressed.

You steadily increased your speed, puffing with exertion though it could hardly be noticed between the sounds you were making.

"Don't wear yourself out," he said, sounding worried.

You let yourself drop onto your legs completely. "I can do it."

He lifted and dropped you with little effort, bobbing short, deep strokes, touching a part of you that stopped you from thinking.

"Can we go faster?"

He lifted you up close to his chest and layed you out flat on the sofa. It felt nice to be on your back, staring up at him instead of down. He hiked one of your legs up by the knee. The other leg fell off the side of the sofa.

It was his turn to be on his knees, lining up with his hand braced beside your head.

He did exaclty as you asked, fucking you at a pace that hardly let you catch your breath. It was overwhelming in the best way. His free hand came down to rub big, arching circles in your clit.

"Pretty baby, so pretty spread open like this"

"I'm close," you breathed uselessly, hand gripping the wrist near your head.

"Yeah? You gonna cum for me, pretty girl?"

The praise sent a hot flush through your whole body. You cried out, feeling the pressure of his thumb on your sensitive clit increase. Despite enjoying the feeling you felt yourself shy away as the climax started, pushing your leg down and in. Remus chuckled, doubling down his efforts.

He thrust into you with a force and it was enough to push you over the edge, both hands clamping down hard around his wrist where he held himself above your head. “Oh, god,” you cried, breathless,  the words ripped out of you.

Remus had an intensely pleased look about him, bringing up the hand from the apex of your thighs to cradle the side of your face, smoothing the lines where you’d scrunched your eyes closed.

You opened your eyes, misty as they were, to look at him, the corners of your mouth going up. He leaned down to kiss you, pushing most of his weight on you.

You made such sweet sounds, he thought. And you were stunning, sweaty and boneless, splayed out across his sofa like a vision, face alight with pleasure. You covered the hand he’d brought to your face with your own, steadying the jostling of each thrust.

He held your gaze and you laughed, a cascading sound, breathy and infectious. He was nearing his own climax, increasing his speed so that the loudest sound in the room was the slap of where his body met yours. You were half-sobbing with every thrust, though they were coloured with pleasure.

He pulled out, leaning back on his haunches, and painted the skin of your stomach white with a few rapid pumps of his shaft.

“Messy,” you said.

“Yeah, you should see the sofa. I’ll never have company again lest they see how much you like me.”

“I more than like you.”

“That much is evident,” he said, charting a course down your abdomen and slipping his fingers back inside you, pumping leisurely in and out, forcing wetness into the ever-growing pool beneath you and smiling like it was funny.

He moved back, his fingers still inside you, to kiss the soft skin between your cunt and your thighs, teasing you. You held your breath in anticipation, almost screaming when he teased the bud of your clit with his mouth. He liked stripes up your centre until you were begging him to stop, ticklish and overwhelmed.

He pulled his fingers free of you and wiped his chin with the back of his hand.

“If we weren’t wizards I’d send you a dry-cleaning invoice.”

You snickered, finally closing your legs to rub the skin of your hips. He watched you, kneeling before you like a prayer.

“You’re a rough fuck, Lupin.”

“That wasn’t too rough, was it?”

“You could go rougher.”

“Oh, could I?” he said, pulling you up and into his arms. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your legs on either side of him. He was still hard enough underneath you to keep going, but he hadn’t pulled you up for that. He rubbed a hand up and down your back, the other behind your shoulders, soothing the shakes moving through you.

“Maybe not today,” you mumbled.

“No, I don’t think so. Another time. We’ve all the time in the world.”

You dotted lazy kisses over his freckled shoulder.

“Wait,” you said, stilling with your mouth a millimetre from his skin. “I lied before, about being on. You didn’t know that. You were gonna fuck me on my period?”

He pushed your head back, his hand in your hairline. “Yes? What a strange question to ask.”

“I am not the strange one.”

“I’ll fuck you whenever you like. A little blood never bothered me.”

“I’m not sure if that’s romantic or insane.”

“You’ll change your mind the next time you cycle.”

-

James invited you over with a bottle of champagne.

You rushed forward to hug him, laughing when the air rushed out of him. “Thanks for your devious master plan, James.”

“Don’t mention it,” he said, surprised. “Someone’s in a good mood.”

“She’s always like that,” Remus said.

“I bet she is, you dirty dog!” Sirius chimed in. Marlene whacked him upside the shoulder. He shifted her where she sat on his lap, laughing.

“Baby Lupin on the horizon? Harry’s getting so lonely,” James said, wiggling his eyebrows.

“Harry’s not even born yet,” Lily said. “Stop pressuring our friends into having kids.”

You felt yourself light up at the thought. It was definitely too soon to be having kids, but it didn’t stop you from thinking about it with great anticipation.

Remus hugged you to his side, grinning. “We’ll see.”

<3

It’s about four weeks after you first mate when Michael starts to notice something new about your scent. You’re sleeping peacefully in his arms, cooing through gentle dreams, when he catches the first whiff of it. You always fall asleep before him; he needs to know you’re safe and secure before he can let go himself. He nuzzles into your neck curiously and breathes deep. There’s all your usual notes, of course, but, underneath, so subtle nobody but your alpha would notice, there’s something deeper and earthier. Something like him. Your sweet honey stirred into a mug of his gingery tea.

His hand slips beneath your thin pajama shirt, roves along your hips to the base of your stomach, and lingers just above the waistband of your shorts. Wondering. Hoping. He holds you tighter, whispering love into your ear because there’s too much of it to keep inside his body.

You stir slightly when his nose nudges your sensitive mating bite, yearning for more of that sweetness to flow from you and calm him down and make him feel brave. “Everything okay, bear?”

He kisses your temple and runs his hand through your hair. “All good, sweetheart, go back to sleep.”

You nod and slowly flip toward him, burying your face in his chest and hooking your leg over his hips before falling back into your deep sleep.

For five days, Robby writes it off as nothing. Tries to convince himself that it’s just the way mates can start to smell like each other as their bond strengthens. But the smell gets stronger. Nobody else seems to notice yet, but it’s making Robby just a bit crazy. He needs to be around you constantly. Needs to touch you, check on you, make sure you’re okay. 

Luckily, you get clingy, too. It’s a notorious enough early pregnancy symptom in omegas that he’s surprised you don’t pick up on it in yourself. Still, he definitely doesn’t mind the way you unconsciously seek him out, following your nose to join him at the nurse’s station, by the vending machines, in the locker room. You tug him into supply closets just to ask him to hold you close so you can breathe in his deep scent. It calms you so much to be close to him, but you figure you’re just feeling clingy because it’s your first time spending the holidays with a mate.

Michael’s suspicions only get stronger when you start nesting. Another thing he could write off. You just moved in with him a month or so ago, after all; you’ve been rearranging and picking out new things to make his house nice the whole time. It’s been extremely cute watching you putter around his place, which had been totally untouched by an omega’s charm and sensibilities before. You wrinkle your nose up at his overhead lights and navy blue everything, swiftly bringing in warm colors and soft textures to ground it in comfort.

What was once just his house feels homier every day with your changes and now Robby actually sighs in relief when he opens the door. It’s stopped being the place where he collapses into bed and doom scrolls until he passes out. Now he cooks dinner side by side with you, following your orders and stealing kisses. He eats at a real table (with eight chairs, which makes him daydream) next to you and praises your cooking. You curl up with your head in his lap, a chunky knit throw blanket over your body, and force him to watch more horror movies. Cheesy as it sounds, the house becomes a home.

But, all of a sudden, you’re not satisfied with it.

You stare at each carefully arranged room with furrowed brows while Robby watches hesitantly from a few paces back, knowing better than to interrupt when you’re stewing. He just does as you ask when you suggest moving the couch for the third time, but he’s weirdly insistent on not letting you help shove the furniture around. More and more of your stuffed animals make their way into bed alongside Robby’s tees and hoodies. It reaches the point where he has to ask permission to remove his sweatshirts from the nest of your shared bed before his shift because you’ve squirreled all of them away. 

The house gets overrun with baked goods. Batches of cookies given out to coworkers, your book club, even the parents of your favorite pedes patients. You decide to throw a housewarming party and cater the whole thing yourself, a storm of cooking and baking for two days straight during your seven on/seven off. Robby doesn’t say shit, just complimenting your cooking and tidying up behind you as he enjoys the focused knit of your brows.

Your final nesting conquest is the two free bedrooms in the house: One’s been serving as an ‘office’ with a desk Michael doesn’t use and all his medical books stacked on Ikea shelves, and the other has become a lazy storage space since he hates actually putting things away in the attic or basement. While in your nesting tornado, insisting that his office needs to become a proper guest bedroom so you can host out-of-town friends and family, you comment, sounding almost annoyed, on how much nice natural light the storage room gets. You may not be thinking it consciously, but Robby knows what your hormones are eyeing up the space for.

So he subtly starts moving the boxes into the attic when you aren’t paying attention, knowing you’ll be thrilled and bouncy with joy when you finally do realize. He can already imagine the way you’ll throw your arms around his neck and hug him in that way you do where he can lift you slightly off your feet and spin you around until you wrap your legs around his waist and he can-

Yeah, you’re pregnant.

Robby’s mind is way too occupied with you and your needs for anything else to be the case. He follows you around the house like a puppy and makes sure he’s available for your every whim. You mention wanting orange juice and it’s in your hand. You say you crave gummy worms and there’s a jumbo bag in the pantry. You sigh about having to do the laundry and suddenly it’s all warm and folded and put away. He’s so obsessed with creating a relaxing environment for you that he can barely think of anything else. His instincts are driven wild with the need to protect you and whatever little life must be growing inside.

He’s not sure what to do from there – if he should tell you his suspicions so you’ll take a test or wait for you to come to your own conclusions. There’s a not-so-subtle part of him that loves this brief period of you not knowing where he can just focus on taking care of you however you need without you pushing back. He knows you well enough to know that, once you see the positive test, you’re going to stubbornly insist you can do everything yourself. That you’re the only omega ER doctor in the state, dammit, and being pregnant doesn’t change how you’re capable and tough and strong. And, as much as he loves that tenacity of yours, he wants to indulge in smothering you with affection as long as he can.

The last straw comes when the other alphas notice.

Samira and Trinity, true to form, just become a little obsessed with you. Trinity insists on pushing around your carts, running to the supply closet for you, and assisting with any patient bigger than you while Samira brings your water bottle to your side constantly, buys all your favorite snacks, ties your shoes, and goes out of her way to keep you comfortable. She even gets a fan for the break room when she quietly sees that you’re warmer than usual. And, sweet thing that you are, you just think of Trinity and Samira as your friends being kind. It’s different from when you were in heat. Robby doesn’t mind it this time and he doesn’t chastise them for their hovering and doting. The more alphas he trusts looking out for you the better, by his estimation.

Of course, Robby does mind it a little when it comes to Jack. Maybe more than a little. The objective part of his brain knows that Jack would never try anything with you, but that deep primal instinct to show everyone that you belong to him is becoming stronger by the day and he just hates how Jack starts to instinctively hover around you. He manages to bite his tongue through it – hard, some days – until he catches Jack touching you.

You’re deep in a trauma, both hands working in a bloody field that a nurse works to keep relatively clear for you as you stitch and glue the patient toward stabilization for surgery. You look strong and badass and totally focused. Jack is just there to supervise and step in if you decide you need help. All Robby feels is pride until a strand of your hair falls in front of your face. You try to blow it out of the way a couple of times, your hands entirely occupied, but you can’t get it. Then Jack steps forward, crouches slightly next to you, and tucks the hair back behind your ear, murmuring a particular instruction or compliment that makes you smile and nod.

Robby’s anger flares. He’s known Jack long enough to notice the subtle shift in his scent from bright and springy to softer, more like rosemary. The smell of Jack being protective over you. Over his omega. And he doesn’t miss the way your own scent blooms with the gratitude of Jack’s help and compliments.

Robby’s vision goes white. Before he can even think about it, he crosses the ED in swift strides and taps Jack on the shoulder. Jack checks with the senior resident to oversee you and then follows Robby a few paces away, his expression annoyed and gruff. His eyebrows pinch together, though, when he sees how pissed Robby looks. That’s a very, very rare expression on him, one Jack’s only seen a handful of times in their decade of knowing each other.

Jack drops his voice low and scans the floor before meeting Robby’s eyes. He can smell the slight ash of his anger and it makes his skin crawl. “What’s wrong, cap?”

“I’m only going to say this once because I’m really fucking embarrassed about how mad I am, alright? So I need you to really hear me.”

Jack straightens up and nods slowly. “Go ahead.”

“Okay.” Robby’s hand is bruising on Jack’s trap, fingertips digging into the flesh. “Abbot, I love you like a brother, but if I see you touch her again, I don’t think I’m going to be able to stop myself from beating the shit out of you.”

“Woah, there,” Jack replies, raising his hands up, “where’s this coming from?”

Robby rolls his shoulders and clenches his jaw. He realizes just how aggressively he’s grabbing Jack and shakes out his hands. “She’s my omega. You touched her.”

Jack gives him a pointed, probing look. “You know perfectly well I have to touch her pretty much every shift.”

“You didn’t have to touch her just then.” Robby shakes his head, annoyed both at Jack and at himself. “When you did that thing with her hair.”

Scoffing until it’s a laugh, Jack cuts back, “What, she has to call you every time she’s got hair in front of her face during a procedure? She couldn’t see the field; I helped.”

“You should’ve let a nurse-”

“Wait. Hold on a second.” Jack’s puzzled scowl transforms into a smile that lights up his whole face. His eyes narrow and he says, “Give it to me straight, Robby: Am I about to be an uncle?”

Robby’s eyes widen like he’s been caught stealing. “Jack, you don’t know what you’re-”

“Nope, you can’t pull that with me. You’re being an asshole for no reason, which means there has to be a reason because, unlike me, you hate being an asshole,” he teases warmly. “Plus, I totally did touch her hair because she smells like a damn candy store. I’ve felt weird around her – edgy, you know? – the last few days, but I didn’t put the dots together until just now.” Before Robby can linger too long on the maybe-too-observant remarks about you, Jack asks, “Does she even know yet?”

“Not consciously,” Robby replies. Finally his anger subsides, replaced by the soft feathery feeling of watching you while knowing you’re pregnant. “She’s nesting like crazy. Super clingy. And she looks…I mean, you can see her.”

Jack’s definitely noticed the subtle changes to your body – your swelling breasts, widening hips, flushing cheeks, like you’re in heat but more attractive by exponents – but he cares too much about keeping his heart beating to say absolutely anything to agree with Robby. Stiff and polite as a soldier, he grunts back, “I don’t see anything out of the ordinary with regards to her appearance, cap.”

Robby chuckles, shakes his head, and says, “You’re the best.”

“I know.” With a smirk, he tacks on, “So, hands off from now on, got it, but can I start a betting pool with the other alphas on how long it’ll take her to notice?”

Robby shoves him on the chest, the gesture mostly joking. Mostly. “If you cut us in for half.”

“Half’s a little rich, don’t you think?”

Robby rolls his eyes and starts to walk away. “Get back to work, Abbot.”

“Hey, hold on.” Jack tugs him into a hug, warm and honest, thumping him on the back a few times. He holds Robby’s shoulders a second and grins. “Congratulations, brother.”

Weirdly, it’s Mel King, a recent transfer from the VA and the least stereotypical alpha anyone at the Pitt’s ever met, who consciously notices first. Maybe because she’s obsessively perceptive, maybe because you’ve started favoring her as a friend, maybe because she works so closely with Robby. Regardless, she’s the first one to pull Robby aside and suggest, “I’m sorry if this is way over the line, Dr. Robinavitch-”

“I told you to call me Robby, right?”

“Yes, right. Robby.” She looks at her feet and stammers out, “I know it isn’t any of my business, but I noticed that your omega has, um, a particularly strong scent right now that might be starting to distract the other alphas. I’d be happy to get some pregnancy pheromone suppressing plug-ins for around the ED from the overflow medical supply if that’s, ah, if that’s what’s going on here.”

Robby shakes his head to himself and smiles softly. He places a hand on her shoulder and says, “I’d really appreciate that, Mel, thank you.”

She smiles wide and throws her arms affectionately around Robby, way more contact than they’ve ever experienced as recent professionals. All alphas are affected positively by the presence of a pregnant omega; it’s probably going to do wonders for patient satisfaction rates to have all of them feeling giddy and protective and focused for the next eight months. She pulls back but doesn’t stop grinning. “Congratulations, doctor, I’m so happy for you both. You’re gonna be a dad! Wow, that’s just…It’s so wonderful.”

It’s the first time Robby’s heard it – dad – and it honestly makes him tear up. As one drop spills over and onto his cheek, he wipes it away and laughs, “Thanks, kid. Keep it under wraps for now, though. She hasn’t even realized it.”

“Really?” She purses her lips and considers that. “She just smells so-” Mel fights for an adjective that’ll come off appropriately non-threatening but still complimentary “-powerful.”

He shrugs and replies, “Hard to notice your own scent changing, I guess. Don’t worry; I’ve got a plan.”

You set down your knife and pop another slice of fresh mozzarella into your mouth, earning a chastising look from Robby as he cuts it on the board next to yours. “I had a physical right before I moved to Pittsburgh, Michael, there’s no reason to repeat it.”

He swats your hand lightly when you go for more cheese and insists, “Humor me, sweetheart. You know how important it is to get set up with a primary care doctor after moving to a new place.”

“I’ve been here for six months. Not exactly new anymore.”

“You say that like it’s not worse,” he replies with a heavy sigh. “I didn’t have any right to nag you about medical care before we were bonded, but I definitely do now.” Then he catches your hand and kisses it before saying, “Honey, if you eat all the mozzarella, this is going to be the saddest caprese ever.”

You tug your hand back and protest, “I’ve only had two slices!”

“Four,” he corrects pointedly. “See? You need your memory checked.”

With an eye roll, you go back to cutting your tomatoes. “Fine. If it’s so important to you, I’ll get a physical done. But you’re not allowed to get all panicky and intense when you see that my cholesterol’s too high or my heart rate is elevated or-”

He gives you a slightly alarmed look. “Do you have high cholesterol or an elevated heart rate?”

“No, but that’s not the point.” You poke him in the bicep and needle, “I’m just saying you’re a worrier and I don’t want to give you more things to worry about.”

“I’ll be good; I promise.” He offers up his pinky and you link yours with an eye roll. “On that note, I’m pretty sure I can smell the eggplant burning in the oven.”

Friday night, you bounce into the house already talking about stories from your day since you know Robby will be waiting for you right inside the door. Robby’s seven off started that morning and yours starts tomorrow, so you’re looking at nearly a week of being together nonstop.

When you step inside, though, whatever you were saying gets stuck in your throat and you stop short. The whole living room is full of soft pink carnations and warm yellow daffodils and there’s a stack of silver-wrapped gifts on the coffee table.

“I couldn’t pick just one bouquet,” Robby says sheepishly as you slowly walk into the space. “Hope that’s okay.”

“They’re beautiful, baby,” you breathe tentatively, inhaling the soft florals, “but what’s all this for?

He’s choked up gazing at you. At his whole life spreading out before him. He can’t bring himself to speak because his throat is too thick with emotion. Your nerves start to spark at his silence.

Trying not to sound too scared, you press, “What’s going on here, Michael?”

At the faintest trace of your mint distress coming through, Robby snaps back into focus. He takes your hand and tugs you closer, toward the couch. “Just open the gifts, okay? They have numbers on them.”

He sits with his legs spread wide, an invitation, so you settle between them. With Robby’s arms around you, the world spins a little more slowly. Peacefully. You pick up the small box with #1 on it, his scratchy handwriting in contrast to the impeccable wrapping, and toy with it a second. “You remember it was Christmas, like, two weeks ago, right? You’ve already showered me with a ridiculous amount of presents.”

Robby brushes your hair to the side so he can breathe deeply at the base of your neck. “Bad news, sweetheart, I’m gonna be getting you presents literally whenever I feel like it for the rest of your life.”

“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, “I’ll just be spoiled, then.”

With a grin, he kisses the side of your head. “That’s more like it; let me spoil you.”

The first few gifts don’t make you raise any eyebrows. A gorgeous golden locket with an R on the front, empty, with a promise to take a nice photo to put inside. A new blush pink silk robe. A facial steamer that earns him a pleased little squeal and you praising, “Someone’s been lurking on my wishlists.”

He can’t help glowing with satisfaction as he watches your happiness grow. “Guilty as charged.”

Then you start to get a bit suspicious.

There’s a large box with a gift card on top. “Weekly couple’s massages, very nice.” Beneath it, a brand new massage gun with lots of different attachments. “And extras for at home massages. Interesting. Will you lend me your long arms to do my lower back?”

He smirks and says, “My arms are always yours.”

Next up is a mocktail recipe book with pictures of lots of beautiful, alcohol-free drinks for every season. You page through it with furrowed brows. “What’s this about?”

He tells you innocently, “You like hosting parties.”

“Which typically include lots of booze for all my overworked hospital friends,” you reply carefully. “I’m onto you, Robinavitch.”

Raising one eyebrow, he squeezes you lightly and asks, “Are you now?”

“Not quite,” you admit, going for the next gift. The aroma hits you before you’ve even unearthed the set of shiny bags of coffee beans. Decaf. Staring down at the different blends, your brows furrow. “Are we going straight edge and you forgot to send me the memo?”

“Something like that,” he chuckles. Pregnancy brain fog must be a real thing because it’s absolutely adorable watching you try to work out his master plan. With three presents left – one box and two envelopes – he murmurs, “The next one’s my favorite.”

You nod slowly and pick up the box, giving it a little shake that doesn’t provide any information. With delicate hands, you tug the ribbon and undo the paper. Inside is a thin white box from a boutique you vaguely recognize downtown: Tiny Treasures. Opening it up, your heart starts to pound, your body understanding before your mind. There’s a small, pastel yellow onesie with cutesy embroidery across the chest. Trust me: My parents are doctors.

Your eyes well up as you search his face, the small outfit soft and curious between your fingers. Vignettes of the last few weeks start to fit together like puzzle pieces. With a voice wobbly from shock, you just ask, “What?”

He takes a deep breath and reaches for the second to last envelope. Opening it up while you struggle to process, he hands over a piece of paper showing the positive pregnancy result on your list of blood tests. “That’s from your physical.”

“But why would they even run a-” You purse your lips to stop from crying. The tears start up anyway as you turn and wrap your arms around Robby, realizing he’s been keeping this a secret from you just to surprise you in such a sweet way. Even if a tiny part of you is mad at him, 98% of you is soft and joyous. Breathing in his happy cedar scent, you smile against his chest and ask, “How long have you known?”

“I first noticed when you were around four weeks, I think,” he murmurs into your hair, stroking your back gently and focusing on nothing but the way you feel in his arms. Then he noses into your neck and sighs intimately, “You smell so damn good. Like you’re all mine.”

You tilt your head and kiss him. “I am.” You touch your lower abdomen and sniffle as the tears finally come. “And so is whoever’s in here. All yours.”

Robby starts to rumble happily and you tuck into the vibration; it makes you feel so safe to be held by him like this. He tells you, “I promise I’m going to do everything in my power to keep you safe and happy for the rest of our lives.” Then he bends down and kisses your total lack of bump, pressing his forehead to your stomach. “I’ve got you, little Robinavitch; I swear.”

“I’m so happy right now I might pass out,” you laugh as you swipe the tears from your cheeks. Just in case, Robby holds you closer to his chest. You kiss his beard and hiccup through your tears, “Wait, why is there still one more present?”

He chuckles, “Right, that. One last thing.”

Robby reaches forward and offers you the silver envelope. Your hands are too shaky and your eyes are too misty, so you tell him, “Read it to me, baby.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tears open the envelope and removes the small white card inside with nothing but his writing on it. He holds it in front of you and reads, “Didn’t want to rush this one, so this is an IOU for the perfect engagement ring.”

More tears roll down your cheeks and you turn around, readjusting so you’re straddling his lap. You wind your arms around his neck and kiss him sweet and slow. He gives a happy, surprised hum when you deepen the kiss, your hands skating underneath his tee and gripping his hips. “Michael Robinavitch, you’re about to have the best sex of your life.”

Without a word, you walk in the same direction. Showers. There are three stalls next to each other, none of them occupied, so you take one end.

Robby takes the middle. The ‘wall’ between you is more like a privacy screen, every movement audible, your feet visible to each other. Actually, you can see the top of his head, too, poking just above the line of the wall. You always forget how tall he is. You strip off your scrubs and drop them into a biohazard laundry hamper and crank the water as hot as it’ll go. As steam curls up your body, thinning red pools around both your feet.

You grab a few pumps of soap from the wall-mounted container and work it over your skin from head to toe, scrubbing harshly and thoroughly until there isn’t a trace of the trauma left on you. You can hear Robby doing the same; the soft scratch of his hair against his hands makes your imagination go crazy.

The water’s just started running clear when Robby breaks the silence. It’s petulant and annoyed, like you didn’t just work together seamlessly through a major trauma. “Seriously, you fucked Evans? Evans?”

“What’s wrong with Evans?” You reason, trying to sound mature as you give yourself a second scrub just for good measure, “He’s attractive, he’s sweet, and he’s available.”

“Christ.” He sighs, then, and you can hear the pain and jealousy thickening his gravelly voice as he goes on, “Do you have any idea what that was like for me? Seeing some guy’s hands – no, my own goddamn student’s hands – all over you? Watching you getting all worked up for him? Jesus, it was fucking torture for me to-”

You interrupt, voice small, “You said you wouldn’t watch me anymore.”

That catches him off guard. He’d expected you to throw it back in his face, to stoke the flames of the fight, to justify the way he’d been feeling toward you. But you sound wounded. Soft. He turns off the water and his voice drifts to your ears. “I lied.”

That hangs for a little too long.

You swallow hard.

“You could’ve closed your window, Dr. Robinavitch,” you tell him with no emotion in your voice, fighting hard to sound distant. If there’s one thing you’ve learned over the years, it’s how to ice out doctors, even the ones you like. “It would’ve been easy to save yourself from all that torture.”

“I know.” He’s gutted. Vulnerable. Not matching your coldness. “I just couldn’t. What if- What if he’d hurt you or you’d been too drunk to say no or-”

You turn off your water and stand there, chest rising and falling fast. You wrap yourself in one of the hospital towels, rough and thin, and lean against the wall. “You were…worried about me?”

“I’m always worried about you.” His voice sounds closer, like he’s leaning against your shared wall, trying to get closer. “That’s why I went and fucked it up in the first place like I always do. Because I’m terrified. I had to- I was trying to protect myself.”

Quietly, you push your stall door open, take a deep breath, and tap once on his. He opens it and you slip into the small space where he’s standing in just his boxer briefs. You’re both practically naked but neither of you care about that right now. When your eyes meet, you see that there are tears on his cheeks, definitely not leftover droplets of water like the ones falling over his chest hair. You take one more step closer, put your hand on the center of his chest, and ask, “What are you trying to keep away from me?”

Robby’s right hand flies up to yours, clutching your fingers as his eyes pinch shut. “I can’t handle losing someone I love again. I just can’t.”

That strikes through your core. Love. He said ‘love.’ Not ‘care about.’ Not any other half-truth. Love. You get onto your toes and press your lips reverently to his cheek. “You’re not going to lose me.”

Opening his eyes at the contact, he lets out a sharp, broken laugh. There are years and years of agony in his warm brown eyes. “You’re already leaving. Of course, after a whole career with a strict ‘no hospital’ dating policy, I go and fall for the one nurse who’s not going to stay.”

You’re deciding the same time as you’re speaking: “But I am staying.”

He’s too afraid to let hope flicker in his eyes. “Dana told me you didn’t even open the offer letter.”

“I haven’t yet,” you admit, a little sheepish. “But I would’ve stayed without the offer.”

“Don’t. Don’t say that just to make me feel better. I’m not-”

“Michael.” You shake your head and insist, “I would’ve stayed. For you. You know, I get to choose how long I take before new assignments. I wanted to try out staying, for the first time, because of you. How you made me feel.” Your voice falls and he wants to find a way to catch you. “But you didn’t want to try with me. You didn’t even give me the chance to talk to you about it. You just…decided. For both of us. Nobody’s ever made me feel that small.”

Robby leans down and rests his forehead against yours. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Your heart begins to stammer as his hands go to each side of your face. His voice is little more than a breath. “Tell me where to start to earn you back. I’ll do anything to make this right.”

“I’ve already forgiven you,” you whisper back, honest and soft. The ache in his eyes begins to lighten. They scrunch into a smile when you add a teasing smirk and tell him lightly, “Although, a little groveling wouldn’t hurt your case.”

Robby flashes a hunky grin and drops down to his knees.

“What are you-” The question dies in your throat as he kisses the tops of your freshly washed feet, his lips ticking along your skin toward your ankles. You roll your eyes and snicker, “That’s a good start, but I’ve gotta admit I’m not much of a foot person.”

“Move higher. Got it.” Robby kisses up your leg, his hands on your calves, and you shiver. He nudges your legs slightly open and you draw in a sharp breath as he sucks a mark to your inner thigh.

Gripping your towel to your chest, you whine, “Michael, we’re still in the middle of our shift.”

He growls into your skin, “I’m taking my ten.”

You drop your hand into his damp hair and yank, eliciting a throaty, desiring moan from Robby. You look down at him seriously, blush trailing from your cheeks to your chest and down further. “If you keep going like that, I’m going to need way more than ten, so you’d better stop now.”

“You’re right.” Robby sighs and kisses your thighs a few more times. “I’ve dreamed about our first time together way too many times to do it like this, anyway.”

As he gets to his feet, groaning and stretching from the contorted position, you bite your lower lip and give him an almost shy look. “Yeah?”

Robby pins you between his arms against the shower partition and grins. “Yeah, and I’m planning on turning every single one of those dreams into reality.” He touches your chin with his thumb and instructs, “When this shift is up, I want you to talk to Evans. Let him down easy.”

You furrow your brow. “That’s what you’re worried about right now? Evans?”

Robby’s eyes are dark. Charged. “If we’re doing this, then we’re doing it all the way. I can’t handle watching some intern flirt with you while I’m trying to work.”

“You’ve made that perfectly clear,” you tease, standing on your tiptoes to try to catch his lips with yours.

He dodges you, though, giving you a pointed look. His fingers trail down from your cheek, wrapping around your neck ever so slightly, just until you let out a little squeak. He’s intense and he’s serious and, god, he’s so fucking hot you can barely breathe. “What I’m saying is that if you’re mine, you’re mine. I won’t have anyone else thinking they have a chance.”

You swallow hard and he can feel your heart rate rising underneath his index finger. “Consider it done.”

Robby finishes up a few minutes after you. He collects his things and heads outside, scanning for your outline among the shift changes. He hears you talking with Evans before he can see you around the corner. Evans is pissed; that much he can tell without getting closer.

“So that’s it? You and Robby have one good moment and I’m just…out? I’m supposed to pretend nothing happened?”

“It’s not- It’s not even about Robby,” you try, rushing over your nervous words. “I told you I wasn’t…looking for anything from you. I never should’ve done something with you when I knew you had a crush and I didn’t feel the same. It wasn’t fair. I’m sorry.”

Robby’s impressed with you – honest, owning your shit, clear – and he’s ready to interrupt to whisk you away when Evans goes on, “You used me. That’s cold. That’s fucked up.”

“You’re right. It was fucked up.” Your voice is a little more strangled now and Robby turns around the corner of building, his sense of danger perking up at the stress in your tone. “I was hurting and it was a huge mistake dragging you into that.”

“A mistake?” He scoffs, stepping in closer, too close, making you wish you’d chosen to do this inside instead of in the dark parking lot. Robby’s a few steps back but neither of you can see him yet. That’s when Robby sees Evan’s fingers curl around your wrist, tugging you toward him. “You definitely didn’t act like it was a mistake when you were practically dragging me into your bed.”

“Okay, seriously, stop.” You try to pull back but his grip is tight. Still unseen, Robby’s rushing now, rage rising up in his throat like bile. “Let’s just-”

Evans laughs – more like a bark, honestly – and leans in closer. “Please, you want me to stop? You weren’t telling me to stop when-”

Robby interrupts from behind you and relief floods your body. “Doctor, is there a problem here?”

Evans’ hand doesn’t move away from you, though. He barely looks up as he says, “Stay out of it, Robby.”

Robby drops a bruising grip on Evans’ shoulder and yanks him backward. “No, I don’t think I will. I don’t like seeing my doctors bothering my nurses on their time off. Why don’t you head home, big boy? Sleep off whatever this is.”

Evans rolls his eyes. “Right, of course. I should’ve figured you’d be standing up for your sl-”

“Right, how about this?” Robby turns around and his right hand goes to the center of Evans’ chest, his left still on his shoulder. He begins shoving him toward the hospital. When they’re at the curb, you can barely hear Robby’s threatening tone, but it still makes your toes curl. “Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking hand, not to mention what I’ll do to your medical career. Is that clear, doctor?”

You can’t hear Evans’ mumbled response, but, based on the way Robby walks back toward you with complete confidence in his step, you don’t need to worry about it. The moment he’s at your side, he gingerly touches your cheek like he’s looking for wounds and checks, “You okay?”

“Fine,” you confirm, although your voice sounds a little shaky. “I probably deserve a lot worse for how I treated him.”

Robby shakes his head and pulls you close to his chest like he’s worried you’ll slip through his fingers if he isn’t careful. “You told him you weren’t looking for a relationship, he got laid, you let him down honestly. He can grow up.” When he pulls away slightly, he searches your face. “Can I take you home, beautiful?”

You raise an eyebrow and smirk. “Mine or yours?”

“Definitely mine.” Robby laughs when you scrunch your face up, “Your bed is only slightly larger than a coffin and I have a king.” Ghosting his breath across your neck, he murmurs, “I want to be able to spread you out like you need.”

Goosebumps prickle over your arms. “Yours it is.”

Before he responds, he interlocks his fingers with yours for the first time and you’re already swooning. You’re totally screwed when it comes to him. When you reach his sleek black car, he opens the passenger door for you and says, “I’m going to drive you home from now on, even if you’re not coming back to my place.”

“Robby, come on, I’m a big girl. I can walk a few blocks at night by myself.”

Secretly, though, you love the almost warning tone he takes.

“I know you can,” he replies, leaning into the car, almost close enough to kiss you, “but that doesn’t mean you have to. Let me keep you safe.”

As he rounds the car to slide into the seat next to you, you get the sense that Robby cares a lot more than he lets on to anyone else. Which is saying something because nobody would ever doubt how much he cares. But when it comes to you, it seems a hell of a lot more intense than the warmth he gives to patients and their families. It even seems like more than the tenderness he offers to his students in crisis. When he looks at you, you feel like the center of his universe, the cosmic body he orbits around.

You already want more.

You want him to consume you, to always protect you, to check in with you, to huff when someone flirts with you and catch you when you cry and squeeze your thigh like he’s doing right now and- Jesus, his hands are so big. His fingers wrap easily over the top of your leg, spanning the distance in a way that has your mind reeling with all the possibilities of those big hands being all yours to play with.

Robby backs into his parking space next to his building, doing that move where he puts one hand behind your seat, making you smell his deodorant and see the flex of his forearm. Once he’s parked, he walks around the car, collects his backpacks, and opens the door for you again, guiding you up and out by the small of your back.

You give him a smirk as you walk next to him, his hand never leaving the arch above your ass, protective and firm. “Are you always such a gentleman or are you trying to make a good impression?”

“I think the ship has sailed on making a good impression on you,” he chuckles. “And I’m definitely not always a gentleman. Just- Well, you’re very, ah-” He shakes his head, buzzing into the lobby and leading you to the elevator as he tries to come up with the right word. When the two of you are behind the closed doors, he turns to you, puts one of those strong hands on the back of your neck, and says, “You’re incredibly precious to me.”

God. You’d make fun of him for using a word like ‘precious’ if he weren’t so serious. If his brown eyes weren’t as clear and bright and warm as a creek on a summer day. If his lips didn’t seem so pink all of a sudden. All you can manage is to whisper out, “Thank you.”

“With you, I feel this- this need.” He drops his forehead to your shoulder, breathing you in, and rumbles out, “I need you to be safe. I need you to be close. I need you.”

You breathe out a tender sigh. “Michael, I-”

The elevator dings and lets you off on his floor. His apartment is only a couple of doors down and he unlocks it with a hand you can’t help but notice is shaking a little. Nerves, you realize. Doctor Michael Robinavitch is nervous to bring you into his apartment. The idea brings a secret smile to your lips.

“Make yourself at home,” Robby tells you as he takes his things out of his backpack and puts them in their proper places. You kind of love that he sticks to his routine, not just jumping on you the first chance he gets. After slipping off your shoes, you take a self-guided tour of his apartment, not stopping to ask his permission. Two bedrooms, one outfitted into an office and gym. His living room is messy; he wasn’t expecting your company tonight. Or maybe any night after how things have been between the two of you.

Tentatively, you push open his bedroom door. It’s much more personal than the rest of his apartment; you get the sense that he spends most of his time in here, the place he disappears into when you can’t see him through the window anymore. Books tower up shelves, a worn chair waits for attention by the closer, and a small TV sits atop the dresser.

And there’s the aforementioned king bed. God, it looks cozy. There are a few layers of throw blankets, sheets, and comforters, along a pile of pillows with different firmness. This is the bed of someone who understands how important real rest is and values it above anything else – no matter the temperature or clothes or company.

Unable to resist temptation, you take off your outer layer of clothes and sink into the bed, closing your eyes and listening to Robby puttering around the apartment nearby. When he pushes the door open, you startle a little, already halfway asleep despite the nerves fluttering around your ribcage. He chuckles at the site of you sprawled out in his covers. “Glad you made yourself comfortable.”

You hum some sort of response and force yourself to sit up. “I definitely like your bed better than mine.”

He steps in front of you, between your knees, and runs his fingers through your hair like he’s done it a million times before. You’re practically purring when he says, “You can stay in it whenever you want.”

“Careful, I’ll take you up on that.”

At last, Robby leans down. He tilts your chin up and you look at him through sleepy lashes. When your lips meet, it’s with an unexpected softness that takes your breath away. He pulls back only an inch and tells you, “I want you to. Wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it.” The moment he begins to pull away, you stand and drag him into another kiss. With his hands on your hips, slowly wrapping around your waist, he murmurs, “Come get ready for bed with me.”

Smiling against his lips, you ask, “You brought me home to actually sleep with me?”

“Yeah, I did.” His eyes sparkle with familiar mischief. “I’m not going to fuck you when I’m exhausted and can’t give you my best. At least not the first time.” Digging through his dresser, he presents a tee and a pair of boxers, neatly folded. “Here, you can wear these.”

You move to rummage around in your backpack, assuring him quickly, “Don’t worry; I always keep extra clothes in my-”

“No. Wear mine.”

Your eyes clap together.

You swallow hard. It’s a command, not a request. With his own pajamas in hand, he leaves the bedroom and closes the door, not sticking around to watch you change, and the little gesture makes your heart pound. He’s seen your bare chest before. He’s seen you in a bra before. Hell, he’s seen you covered in blood and guts, which is more intimate than anything else. But he wants you to feel safe with him. He wants you to feel like this is more than just sex. Which, undeniably, it is. For both of you.

You quickly strip and change into his tee, which is old and soft, an advertisement for some local band’s regional tour, the dates listed down the back. You opt for your packed panties, though, instead of his boxers. They’re nothing special, just white cotton, but the cut of them still makes your ass look nice and round. He’ll probably forgive the minor disobedience when he gets to feel your skin against his.

Robby knocks softly on the door, waiting for you to call out, “I’m decent,” before pushing it open. Now shirtless and in gray sweats, he sets two steaming mugs of tea on one of the bedside tables. “I took a wild guess on chamomile; hope that’ll do.”

“That’s perfect; thank you.”

You settle on one side of the bed, expecting him to sit next to you. Instead, Robby climbs on top of you, pinning you back against his headboard, and lets his fingers skate across your bare thigh “The way you look wearing something of mine…Christ. Although I do like your choice of bottoms more than mine.”

“I thought you might,” you giggle as he bends down and plants kisses over your thighs. He doesn’t spread your legs or rush, just sweetly trails his lips over you. His beard is scratchy and you can’t help imagining it between your legs. A little breathless, you tell him, “If you don’t stop, we’re not going to end up sleeping.”

“Good point, gorgeous.” Robby settles next to you with a lingering grin and hands over your mug of tea. He picks up a remote from his nightstand and hands that over, too. “Put on whatever you want. I just like the background noise.”

You decide on some cooking show that doesn’t seem too intense and snuggle underneath Robby’s arm. The soothing tea coats your throat and you feel your body and mind giving way to the tiredness that always wants to take you at the end of a long shift. Robby smells so nice, too, and the heat of his body is melting you into a puddle version of yourself, one who doesn’t deal with traumas all night every night.

With heavy lids and and your body floaty, you don’t notice Robby taking the mug from your hands to carefully set it aside, don’t notice him guiding you underneath the covers, and don’t notice him kissing your forehead. The only thing you’re even vaguely aware of is the feeling of his body pressed against yours as you nestle into him.

You wake up with your limbs flung everywhere, your hair mussed, and your whole body feeling good for the first time in…well, in years, frankly. You haven’t slept so well in a long, long time, trading shitty apartment for shitty apartment, never having your own bed. And, as you slowly let your eyes draft open, you remember why. You’re in Dr. Robby’s bed and he’s looking down at you. A beam of sunlight across his face through the sheer curtains turns his brown eyes amber.

“You’re staring at me,” you mumble through a smirk, turning only your head toward him. You’re way too comfortable to move any more than that. “Just like the first time I saw you.”

“I wasn’t staring the first time I saw you.” His morning voice is gravelly and lovely, vibrating down your spine, as he teases, “I glanced innocently over at my new neighbor and happened to see a hot piece of ass.” His hand is on your stomach. You hadn’t noticed that until now. It’s warm and firm and intimate and lovely. “And this morning I woke up to someone beautiful in my bed for the first time in way too long. So, yeah, I’ll cop to staring this one time.”

Debating what thread to pull on, you ask, “How long has it been?”

He raises an eyebrow and challenges, “Since what?”

“When was the last time you had someone in your bed?”

“Last time I had someone in my bed,” he responds with his eyebrows all teasing, “was Abbot after a bachelor party. I know he doesn’t look like it, but he’s a lightweight. Practically had to drag him to the car.”

“You let him stay here?”

“I’m actually kind of a nice guy.”

“If you squint.” You lean up and give his neck a playful nip. “I wanna know.”

Robby shifts his weight so he can prop himself up on his elbow. The hand on your stomach begins to snake upward towards your breasts, which are begging for attention underneath the threadbare shirt. When his thumb and index finger come together to gently – so, so gently – squeeze your nipple, you suck in a sharp breath. He teases, “Ask me in two hours and I’ll say five minutes ago.”

Even as you let out a moan for him, you prod, “C’mon, Robby, tell me how long it’s been since you fucked someone.”

“Eight months,” he answers as he maneuvers on top of you. As he tugs your shirt up over your head and arms, he gives you a pointed look and says, “Now, I know how long it’s been since you last had sex.” He drops the teasing tone and adds, “So I want you to tell me how long it’s been since you fucked someone you love.”

Blush slams into your cheeks and chest as Robby’s lips wrap around your nipple, his other hand going to cradle the opposite side. The words tumble out before you can consider them fully. “Ask me in two hours and I’ll say five minutes ago.

Robby drops all pretenses. He looks at you with soft eyes and brushes your cheek with his thumb. “Tell me, sweetheart. Be honest.”

“I’ve never-” You shake your head and bite your lower lip, shuddering slightly at the intensity of your desire and his palpable lust for you. “Not with someone I love. Never.”

“That can’t be true. High school boyfriend?”

“Didn’t have one.”

“How about your first time?”

“Definitely not a romance novel.” He gives you a curious, concerned look, probing without speaking, so you quickly clarify, “Tinder hookup. Just wanted to get it over with.”

“And since then?”

You admit sheepishly, “Never been in one place long enough to bother. Lots of hookups, lots of nights with my vibrators.”

“One of those things isn’t going to change,” he laughs. “I’ll definitely need a tour of your toy collection some time very soon.”

You grin and ask, “Yeah? A lot of guys are insecure about-”

“They’re idiots.” Robby shakes his head, scoffs, and drops his lips to drag them up your pulse. “If I want you to make you cum so hard you forget you’ve ever been with anyone but me-” he snickers when you gasp, his breath hot on your neck “-then I gotta use every tool available.”

“I have a sneaking suspicion,” you murmur, trying to sound sexy but mainly landing somewhere around ‘desperate’ as you look at his big hands roaming over your soft skin, “you can do that just fine with the tools god gave you.”

Robby’s fingers slip beneath your panties, trailing closer and closer to exactly where you need him. His tone goes low and wanting; you can’t believe that it’s you who’s making him sound like that, all domineering and full of barely controlled lust. “How about we find out, baby?”

At that pet name, so intimate and gentle, you whimper. Honest to god whimper. You haven’t made a sound like that in a very, very long time. Maybe ever. It looses from your throat without your permission. Robby’s fingers finally dip between your folds, collecting your embarrassingly overflowing wetness, and rub so goddamn infuriatingly slowly over your clit. At last, your pathetic whine turns into a breathy moan that turns into one word: “Please.”

Robby tries not to laugh at how wrecked you look thirty seconds into him focusing his attention on you. “Please what, gorgeous?”

You cover your blushing cheeks with your elbow and roll your hips up into his hand. “I don’t know, just…please.”

Robby’s smile is absolutely devastating. He smiles so rarely that the curl of his lips alone is special, but the mischievous pleasure in his eyes make it so much better. The heat inside of you grows faster than it ever has, even with a vibrator, even doing exactly what you know gets you off. Plus, he’s watching you, the bastard. Memorizing. Those brilliant brown eyes of his are noticing every single twitch of your lips and flutter of your lashes, creating a mental map of just how to touch you.

And, even worse, he knows what he’s doing to you. He’s so, so aware of his effect. Because when he finds the right pressure and tempo, he smirks. Smirks. “That’s it, isn’t it? Right there. Just like that.”

You let out a sound that could most accurately be called a squeak and nod.

That’s when Robby’s free hand grips around your jaw and your cunt pulses around his fingers in response to his dominance, your body listening to his unspoken commands. “No, I want you to say it for me, baby. I need to hear how it feels.”

Christ, how is he so composed?

“Feels s- so-” You have to pinch your eyes shut to focus on coming up with something to say, Robby’s fingers working you unrelentingly. “It’s so good, Michael. You’re-”

Just to interrupt you, Robby plunges one of his thick, calloused fingers inside of you. Whatever word you’d been about to say transforms into something downright animalistic, throaty and slutty. It makes Robby’s grin spread. “There you go. That’s what I wanna hear.”

Getting comfortable with it now, you let another moan roil off your tongue. Not that you could control it either way considering how his fingers have you right on the edge.

He gets close to your ear again and the short puffs of air between his wordsdrive you so wild it’s getting really hard to think. He sounds downright mean as he chides, “You were so quiet with Evans, even quieter than you are when you’re focused at work. I could see your mouth opening but I couldn’t hear you even with both our windows open.”

You manage to giggle out, “You’re a pervert.”

His grip on your jaw tightens and moves down your throat. You can’t help but notice the expert precision of his thumb on your artery, pushing down just enough to make your head spin but perfectly safe. He growls when he sees your eyes rolling back, “I want every fucking person in your building and mine to hear you now. With me.”

Barely holding onto any trace of your personality as you start feeling your orgasm building, you tease, “Possessive much?”

“Yes. Very.” He bites down on your neck and sucks. Hard. His fingers slow on your clit; he knows you’re done for and he’s drawing it out, making sure you get every millisecond of it. “Now are you gonna be good and cum for me? Go ahead, baby, let go. Just want you to feel good.”

You’re powerless to do anything else. The sting of his claiming mouth over your vein shoves you headfirst over the edge. He’s muttering filthy praise into your ear but nothing’s coming through as white hot pleasure crests over you, blinding and delicious. All your muscles tense and release, your entire body giving in to Robby Robby Robby Robby.

The plea is leaving your lips before you’re all the way back down from the top: “Fuck me.”

“Much as I like the sound of that,” he breathes, looking positively rabid as he takes in your shaky thighs and parted lips, “I don’t have any condoms. Been a while – and I wasn’t planning on you taking me back any time soon. But trust me, I’m more than happy to spend as long as I can-”

With neon pink cheeks, you interrupt him, “There are some in my backpack.”

“Really now?” With a wicked smile, he gestures to your bag, not wanting to be presumptuous by messing around with your stuff. “Mind if I…?”

It’s worth the shame to see just how badly he wants to be inside of you. “Knock yourself out. Front pocket, I think.”

Robby picks up your backpack and finds the teal pack of twelve, two missing. With a sharp, turned-on laugh, he observes, “Never seen a variety pack before.” He keeps snickering to himself about it as he fishes one out of the small box; you can’t help but notice he’s gone for the gold wrapper. “Always nice to have options.”

You roll your eyes. “Well, if I’m gonna screw the whole hospital, gotta be prepared.”

Robby turns back to you, drops his sweats, and reveals his cock for the first time. It’s heavy and thick in his hand and you’re already imagining what it’s going to feel like opening you up. Fuck.

His tone is deathly serious as he easily rolls on the condom and informs you, “You’re not screwing anyone else anymore.” Then, as he climbs on top of you like a predator approaching its prey, he makes breathtaking – breath stealing – eye contact and says, “Tell me you only want me from now on.”

For once, you’re not at all nervous to meet his eyes. This is right. Your hand goes to his, fingers locking together above your head, and you spread your legs, tilting your hips forward, begging with your body for what you want and need. “I’m yours. Take me.”

Robby groans and pushes into you. Everything in the world makes sense for the first time. He’s gripping your fingers tight, like he really needs to hold onto you to stay tethered to the planet, and you can feel his skin touching you in so many delicious places. His thighs on your thighs. His chest on your chest. It’s so much and it’s not enough.

His eyes go between watching, rapt, as your cunt swallows his barely moving cock and carefully examining your face for any signs of discomfort. After all, he’s fully aware that he’s well above average in the thickness department and, despite all his talk, he’d die before he hurt you.

But there’s no discomfort. God, no. He’s taken the time to work you open for him and there’s no doubt in your mind that he’s stretching you exactly the way you need and no further. He sees that written all over your gently parted lips, in your blown pupils, in the ruddy blush that goes all the way down your neck and spreads over your chest.

Warm and perfect as he begins to thrust earnestly, giving you his fullness, you groan out, “Jesus fuck, that’s so good, Robby.”

He rasps out, beginning to lose his composure now that he has you, “Don’t call me that when you’re in my bed.”

You wrap your arms around him, threading your fingers with the short hair at the back of his neck as he traps you between his forearms, and ask, breathless and stupid, “What should I call you then?”

“Anything else.” His words are more like grunts. “You’re my hospital’s best nurse, but that’s not how I wanna feel when I’m with you. I don’t wanna be your attending when I’m- Fuck, when I can feel your pussy squeezing me like this.”

You lock your legs tighter around him. “Yeah, my attending can be a bit of a jackass; I wouldn’t fuck that old man in a million years.”

“Oh, you’re in for it now,” he laughs. He pulls out abruptly, yanks you forward by the hips, and flips you over so that he can- Jesus Christ, he spanks you. It’s definitely not with the full force of those broad shoulders and muscular biceps, but he spanks you. The sound alone is enough to make you inhale sharply and roll your hips back.

He thrusts back into you again – hard, fast, no mercy – and you can’t stop yourself clamping down around him. You cry out with want when he smacks your ass a second time. Then, satisfied and cocky with the state he has you in, he croons, “That’s much better.”

When he reaches around your body to find your clit effortlessly, you lean back into his cock and moan, “Oh, Michael, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. That’s- Just like that.”

Robby speeds up at the sound of his first name; you’re not even sure he notices that he’s done it. But you definitely do. You start moaning out his name, his real name, over and over as he fucks you like he’s in love with you. He fucks you like he’s never going to look at anyone like this again.

And when you’re still whimpering and wailing out his name as you begin to tighten again, his dark voice praises, “There you go. Good girl.”

You whine, the pleasure unrelenting as he fuckes you through it, keeping you on a new wavelength of bliss, “Oh my god, you did not just say that.”

“I did.” He pushes you down and mounts you like an animal, one of his hands on the small of your back and the other wrapped around you to keep constant pressure on your clit. This is about him now and, god, you really do what to be the thing that gets him off. “And you liked it. You like being a good girl for me.”

The embarrassment of that makes sweat bead on your hairline, face shoved sideways into the pillow. “I didn’t say that I-”

“Can’t lie to me when I’m inside of you, baby girl,” he chuckles, knowing and self-assured, slowing his thrusts down in a way that tells you he’s recklessly close, edging himself, savoring the way your warmth squeezes him. “I can feel every time I turn you on. Every time you- Fucking hell, sweetheart, you’re perfect. I’m- I need to-”

Your eyes widen when you feel him tensing. You couldn’t have predicted the fact he’s making, so free that he barely looks like himself. His desperate hand tangles into your hair and you slam your hips back to meet his every thrust and he’s done, he’s fucking finished, he’s absolutely ruined all because of you.

You’re so fucked out by that point you hardly notice him tying off the condom and tossing it in his bathroom trash. When he falls onto the bed next to you, his expression is nothing short of dreamy. He lifts up an arm and gazes over at you in a way that erases decades of insecurities. “C’mere, gorgeous, let me hold you.”

Curling onto his chest feels like coming home. “How long ‘til we have to be up for work?”

He kisses the top of your head. The slight scratch of his beard is weirdly so comforting. “Well, if you want a shower and a meal, then we’re already running late.”

You start to bolt upright but he grabs you by the waist, keeping you by his side. Protesting only half-heartedly, you rest your chin on his shoulder and say, “I don’t want to get written up, doctor.”

With a shit-eating grin, Robby replies, “I’m guessing that ugly old man attending will forgive you.”

You catch his lips in a kiss and murmur, “I don’t know, might have to suck his dick to apologize.”

He hums low in his throat and pulls you closer. “That’s probably a good idea, actually. Wouldn’t want you getting in trouble.”

-

Fine. If Dr. Robby isn’t interested in you, that’s fine.

At least your first day back after your seven off is his last day at home, so you don’t have to face him. You can fall into rhythm alongside everyone else first so the whole hospital doesn’t feel like walking through Robby’s air.

Dana touches your forearm before you can reach the locker room to put your things away. “Can we talk for a second?”

“If this is about Dr. Robby, then-”

“Huh?” Her eyebrows pinch together, curious and annoyed. “No, what did he do this time?”

You sigh out in relief; he hasn’t talked to any of his hospital friends about the two of you. It confuses you that that, too, stings, even though it’s the best-case scenario. You kind of wish he were wailing with regret over a bottle of tequila with Dr. Abbott and Dana. Whatever. You put on a tight-lipped smile. “Nothing, nevermind. What’s up?”

She reaches underneath the desk and gives you a manila envelope, trying to hold back a big smile. “This is an offer package for a full-time job here at the Pitt; after your heroics last week, the attendings rallied together to figure out how to keep you around and presented it to the administration.”

Your gut tightens. “Really?”

“Yeah, Robby suggested they all take a small pay cut to cover a salary. It didn’t take a lot of convincing with how much you’ve helped streamline things around here.”

You feel like throwing up. A week ago, this would’ve been the best news ever. You would’ve flung yourself into Robby’s arms and insisted on giving him a blowjob in the on-call room. But, today, it feels like a slap across the face.

Dana can feel your surprise – your hesitation – as you take the envelope from her. So she gives your forearm a squeeze and says, “Read over everything. I don’t need to know until the end of the week, alright? If you don’t take it, no hard feelings, you’ll still finish out your summer here. I know that settling down in one place isn’t for everyone.” Then she gives you a knowing look and adds, “Tell me what Robby did over lunch so I can chew him out when he comes in tomorrow?”

That makes you laugh, at least. “We’ll see.”

You don’t open the offer letter. It feels heavy and magnetic as you set it in your locker for the night. You drink down half your water and close things up, giving yourself a mental pep talk.

You hadn’t heard him approaching, but suddenly Evans’ small voice is coming from behind you. You feel his hand on the middle of your back, more comforting than flirtatious. “Are you alright? You’ve got this look on your face like you’re trying to solve a million problems.”

With a grimace, you turn to him and offer, “Just having a rough day. I’m working on it.”

“Blood and bureaucracy, right? It’s never easy.” When you give him a hollow laugh, his eyebrows knit together. His voice takes on an earnest tone you haven’t heard before. Human. “Just, well- I know I flirt with you a lot, but, on a real level, if you ever want to talk or just get a drink and ignore everything, I’m here for you.” He backpeddles, not wanting to get chewed out, “Just…I think you’re great. Kinda scary, too, but just the right amount.”

This time, you’re laugh is honest. “Scary?”

“In a hot, competent way,” he assures quickly, hands raised like you might beat him up. “Like you’d bury me in paperwork and make me say thank you.”

“That much is true.” Satisfied that he’s lifted your spirits at least a little, Evans goes to return to the ED floor, but you catch his wrist. You don’t know what’s coming over you as you say, “Hey, Evans?”

“Yeah?”

“Ask me if I’ll go out with you again.”

He gives you a big, goofy smile. “Seriously?”

“I’m off at two. When are you done?”

Smile infectious, he confirms, “Also two.”

“Well, the bar closest to my place doesn’t close ‘til four,” you suggest, surprised at how timid your voice sounds. It’s like your vocal cords know you’re making a mistake and want to stop you. Then they try to at least dig you out of the hole a little bit, tacking on, “Look, though, I’m only going to be in town another month and I don’t know how-”

“Not looking for a serious relationship. Understood.” He gives you a thumbs up so cute that you want to bolt. “I’ll see you in a few hours, beautiful.”

You know you’re being stupid. The way that boy looks at you definitely doesn’t read ‘casual.’ He’s got sweet puppy dog eyes that make you feel guilty just for looking in his direction. But Evans is handsome and sweet and uncomplicated.

And he’s here.

So you walk with him to the bar after your shift. You touch his arm when he makes a joke and you do a few shots together and you offer to take him back to your place and you try to convince yourself that it’s not because you know Robby’s home, across from your apartment, trying to tune into you still. The last week, Robby’s been poorly pretending that he’s not watching you, hoping that you’ll make the first move in patching up your relationship or maybe trying to get up the courage himself.

The moment you have Evans inside the door, you’re on him like you’ve never had sex before and it doesn’t take long for the two of you to end up in your bed. You register in the back of your mind that your window is open, your curtains pushed to the sides, and that Robby’s light is on across the alley. But that’s all you realize before Evans’ hands on you take your attention.

You don’t close the curtains.

For the next hour, you moan into the coming sunrise and the springtime breeze grazes your nipples as he leans you back into the bed and fucks you. The whole time, you’re desperately trying and failing not to think about Robby, the way he would feel so different from this young, inexperienced man fumbling sweetly through sex. You know you’re leading him on and making a mess of everything and being unfair to Robby and to Evans and to yourself. But you do it anyway.

It feels too good to be wanted after the person you want most made you feel the opposite.

You show up early at the Pitt, hoping to beat Robby there so you can already be in the flow of things when he shows up. But you’ve never been a lucky person and today is no different. You arrive at the locker room right when he’s there, in the same cramped space, sorting through his stupid backpack for his stupid jacket like he does every morning.

Clenching your jaw, you go to your locker and get your shit together in whatever way you can.

Evans walks in next.

Just your luck.

You give him a warm, polite smile when he stops next to you, clearly expecting something more than your usual pleasantries, understandably. “Morning, Evans. How are you?”

“Hey.” He wraps you up in a hug and then steps back out of it, realizing his mistake. “Sorry. Casual. Right. Did you sleep okay after I left?”

You close your locker and give a tight smile. “Like a baby. Thanks for asking.”

“Yeah, me too.”

You bump him with your hip and grimace/laugh. “Wonder why.”

Robby slams his locker so loud the entire building jumps.

Evans snorts as Robby storms out. “Jesus, someone woke up on the regular side of the bed.”

You shrug lightly and head out into the Pitt for your shift.

It becomes clear very, very quickly that Robby’s punishing you for fucking someone else. The problem is that he can pretend it’s just work. He doesn’t even speak to you outside of completely necessary interactions, but he blows up your pager with scut work. You spend hours repairing basic lacerations, gluing and stitching and gluing and stitching, while students handle traumas way above their level of understanding just so Robby can feel superior. Like he’s put you in your place.

The moment your lunch is up – down to the second; he’s definitely been watching the clock – there’s an ‘emergency’ page ordering you to the nurse’s station.

When you arrive, Robby’s holding out a chart like it’s a weapon. His finger goes down hard on one particular line, highlighted in yellow. “You logged Ativan under discharge meds for 3A. He got those in the ED, not as a script.”

“Pharmacy already flagged it,” you tell him without an ounce of apology in your tone. “I fixed it in the portal before I took my lunch.”

But Robby doesn’t drop it. Reaching for something that isn’t there, he presses, “You should’ve fixed it before the pharmacy had to catch it for you.”

At his probing, you stare him down. Not taking the bait. “Did someone die because of it?”

He glares and gets closer to your face, keeping his voice low to avoid making a scene but still attracting the attention of Dana nearby, who eyes the two of you up carefully. “Don’t make this a joke.”

“I didn’t.” You spit back at him, “You did when you used a resolved, minor clerical error as an excuse to talk down to me.”

“I’m just trying to hold you to the same standard as everyone else.”

“Then file a complaint,” you say. Flat. Nothing for him to grasp onto. “Is there something I can help you with or can I return to my rounds, Dr. Robinavitch?”

He sighs like it’s you who’s inconveniencing him. There’s a pain underneath the frustration. “I’m not trying to fight with you.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“You know, you really shouldn’t speak to your attending physician like-”

Your voice is a slap whipped across his face as you move close enough to kiss him. “How about you put your cock back in your pants, use your brain to think instead, and focus on doing your job? Or is that not an appropriate thing to ask of my attending physician?”

He’s slack-jawed at that, so you walk away.

A few hours later, you’re in the middle of splinting a kid’s broken finger when one of Robby’s interns taps your shoulder, tentative but urgent. “Dr. Robby says he needs you in Trauma 3.”

Rolling your eyes at the thought of enduring another interaction like the ones you’ve had today, you huff, “Does he actually need me or-”

Across the floor, piercing above it all, Robby’s voice calls out your name.

It’s not angry and it’s not an order.

It’s a plea.

Everything else falls away.

You rush through the department to Robby’s side. The bay’s in chaos. There’s blood everywhere and the patient – a man in his thirties – is gurgling and groaning. Red is pulsing from his neck, field dressings soaked through and scattered around the floor beneath the gurney. He’s thrashing weakly, straining to move at all. You can’t get a great look at this distance, but you can tell his neck is shredded and he’s lucky to be alive. If you can call that lucky.

A few residents and interns are scrambling to assist as Robby fights to get the situation under control. You’ve never heard him sound so pissed at them, any of his usual paternal patience gone and traded for criticisms. “Who the hell tried to cric her without suction ready? Where’s my goddamn-”

One of the doctors fumbles with a laryngoscope and blood sprays everyone and everything within a six foot radius. Robby yanks the scope from his hand and shoves him away from the patient.

You glove up as you cross the threshold and order the ducklings, “Back up! All of you!”

Robby’s team who usually float around him to absorb everything they can press themselves up against the wall like they’re duct-taped to it.

With a deep breath, you slide in next to Robby. You’re already prepping the cric kit, tube tray, and suction while he explains, “Broken beer bottle to the throat during a bar fight. Tracheal deviation, active arterial bleed, airway’s a mess, can’t get a clean intubation.”

Maneuvering through the airway cart, you ask, “6.0 or 5.5?”

“6.0.” Focused, he glances at you, and you can see the relief underneath the angry adrenaline. “You cut. I’ll control.”

You nod, hands already moving as you tear open the cric kit and lay out all the tools. Robby’s clamping down a bleeder and you’re searching for the membrane. With a grimace, you tell him, “Neck’s tight. Might need a couple passes.”

“You’re clear low. I’ll hook and lift. We just need to open it, even if it’s messy.”

You nod and make the vertical incision. Blood wells through the field instantly, but Robby’s right there with you, passing you the trach hook with the hand that isn’t holding the bleeder. You insert, he lifts, your arms and hands and bodies on top of one another. You spread the tissue and slide the tubing while Robby begins to pack the wound. You connect tubing to a bag and start to ventilate. The patient’s chest rises, oxygen levels rapidly climbing up from the low sixties.

Robby lets out a long breath. “We’ve got him.”

“Two large bores?”

“Yeah. Take the left. It’s tricky over here, though, might need your help in a sec.”

Striking the vein perfectly on your first pierce, you hook up the bag and cross over to his side, your hands meeting his right where he needs you. “I’m with you, Michael.”

“Pressure wrap.”

You hand it off and grab fresh dressings. You work in silence for a beat. It’s efficient, fluid, in sync, familiar. As he finishes off, you check pupils and breath sounds. Things are looking up. And then the ICU transit team’s there, rolling the patient away, and it’s just you and Robby and a few liters of blood soaking you both.

-

Over the course of the next week, the tension becomes unbearable. Robby intentionally lets your fingers brush when you go over charts at the beginning of his shift. At one point, as your index finger traces over a summary, he takes your hand in his for a moment, admiring the way your hand looks so delicate next to his larger and more calloused one, and says almost absently, unaware of the way your heart’s pounding from his touch, “New nail color. Pretty.”

“Thanks, doctor.” Emboldened by the compliment that was clearly an excuse to stay close a second longer, you give him a wicked little smile, lean up close to his ear, and whisper, “It matches my thong.”

The quiet groan from low in his throat is all the reward you need. The rest of the day, in the moments between the chaos, his mind drifts back to figuring out a way to see if you were telling the truth.

Another day, just to drive him even more nuts, you add an extra spritz of perfume in the morning, right at the back of your neck, because Dr. Robby’s developed a habit of being the person to lace up your trauma gown, somehow always right there when you ask for a hand. And he notices, lingering especially close when he finishes tying the top loop. You can feel his breath hot on your neck as he asks, “What is that – citrus or something?”

“It’s bergamot,” you reply with a knowing smile. “Do you like it?”

“Yeah, it’s nice.” No, that’s an understatement. Actually, he has to fight to resist burying his nose in your hair and breathing deeply, hands working their way around your stomach, holding you close and never letting go. As the ambulance rolls in and the two of you have to refocus, he amends, “I love it. You should wear it more often.”

You nudge him in the arm with your shoulder. “Anything for you.”

On the last night of your seven on/seven off, looking forward to the long stretch of sleep and takeout ahead, you spend your first ten-minute break in the locker room. Robby pretends he’s not following you as he goes to his own locker, seeing you with one of his more handsome and capable interns – Evans – with his hand on your arm and a big dopey smile on his lips. He listens in for a minute, morbidly curious.

Evans is pouting. “I honestly think it’s starting to get unfair.”

You raise an eyebrow as you crack open a gatorade. “What is?”

“I’ve been so good this week, barely even flirted with you, exercised total restraint, and you still don’t ask for my number.”

You snort out a pity laugh. Evans has a totally hopeless, desperate crush on you, and he’s made you painfully aware of it throughout your weeks at the Pitt. “This is your version of restraint?”

“Yeah, absolutely. I should get a medal.” He leans in closer and your cheeks go hot. He is cute, after all. And a doctor. And, god, he’s tall enough to cage you between his arms easily, but he doesn’t. Even with his thick flirting, he’s polite. His fingers occasionally tuck hair behind your ear or graze your forearm, but it’s nothing with pressure or expectation. “Barring an award, how about dinner? Or coffee? Or anything as long as you’re there.”

You finish off your drink and stand. With a touch to his shoulder, you tell him, “Evans, you’re cute, really, but I don’t date anyone who can’t place an IV on the first stick.”

That only makes his smile wider. “So our first date’ll have to be in the skills lab, just you and me. You can stand behind me and guide my hands to do it just right.”

You chuckle; you have to admit you don’t mind the attention. Still, with a quick glance in Robby’s direction, you offer up, “I don’t date interns or med students.”

“I’ll quit right now.”

“And give up your promising medical career for a near stranger?”

“One as hot as you? Maybe.” As you head back to your own locker, he calls after you, “And it’s not that promising, remember? Can’t even place an IV properly!”

You roll your eyes and open up your locker, tugging off your scrub top to put on a long-sleeve shirt underneath; the hospital gets crazy cold in the middle of the night. “Try again tomorrow, Evans.”

“I always do.”

As soon as you’re changed, Robby’s invading Evans’ personal space, lording over him. “You were supposed to be back from your ten six minutes ago. You’re not being paid to linger in locker rooms; you’re here to learn not to kill someone.”

“Right, yeah, I know.” Evans tries to stand up straight, but it’s hard not to fold under Robby’s serious teacher glare. “Just catching my breath for a minute.”

“Six minutes,” Robby corrects. “You can breathe during rounds or on your feet. If you want to stay in this program, I suggest you find a way to breathe and work at the same time, if you can manage that.”

Evans hurriedly collects himself and scampers out of the room back to the floor.

You fall into step next to Robby when it’s time for the two of you to head out again. “Michael,” you chastise lightly, “don’t be such a child.”

“It’s not childish to make sure my interns do their work.”

“It is when you’re basically threatening to write someone up for flirting with me.” You bump him with your hip, thoroughly enjoying yourself. “He’s harmless.”

Robby grunts in a way that makes your thighs shake. The sound is jealous. Possessive. “Does his flirting make you uncomfortable?”

“No, actually,” you tell him with a teasing smirk. “He’s…nice.”

“I’m not nice?”

That makes you laugh out loud. “Were you going for ‘nice’? If that’s your goal, you could definitely use some lessons.”

“Maybe you could give them to me,” he says, doing an impression of Evans’ baby-faced adoration. “You and me in the skills lab. Teach me to be nice, sweetheart.”

You chuckle and murmur, “Asshole.”

Then Dana announces an incoming trauma and the moment's over.

You and Robby are a unit. The night starts with an unspecified chest trauma. You cut away clothing as Robby checks for entry/exit wounds. You’re starting a large-bore IV while he confirms your suspicion of a hemothorax. The patient decompensates while you move him to the trauma bay together.

You call out, “Tracheal deviation.”

Robby nods once. “Needle decompression. Second intercostal. You got it?”

“On it.” The soft hiss of air starts improvement in the patient as you puncture through the ribs. “Slight positive change.”

“I need to place a chest tube,” Robby says, barely audible to the medical students observing, and you’re already handing off the capped scalpel, having known the next step in his routine. You swab and retract a millisecond before he inserts. The rush of blood confirms your suspicion and you’re clamping down before Robby even has to instruct you, adding suction and making sure Robby can finish.

The monitors stabilize. Robby cuts you an appreciative look. His eyes are softer than they should be. “Good call on the hemo.”

“Thank you, Dr. Robby.”

As he launches into explaining the process to his ducklings and giving them follow-up orders, you smile to yourself the whole way over to changing out your gown and gloves. It’s one of those rare moments when being covered in blood feels more like a badge of honor.

Your dance with Robby continues when you’re almost finished with your last round. A middle-aged woman with a supposedly controlled post-operative infection. The moment you look at her arm, you know something’s seriously wrong. You tap Robby on the shoulder while he’s downing half his coffee over by Dana, in a brief moment of peace that you wish you didn’t have to disturb. He follows like he’s attached to you. “Take a look at her IV site. Purpura, petechiae.”

Robby only needs a glance before he says, “Let’s repeat CBC, coags, blood cultures. Could be approaching DIC.”

And then she’s crashing. Her blood pressure goes first and suddenly you’re dealing with uncontrolled bleeding from the IV and her surgical sites. You curse under your breath as you start on a clamp. At the same time, Robby orders for transfusions. The two of you get the bleeding under control so easily it could’ve been a movie scene, your hands and thoughts overlapping. You’ve never felt this kind of flow with a doctor or their team before, everything falling into place.

You only speak to read back his order for a cocktail of cryoprecipitate, platelets, and vitamin k. When one of his students tries to step in to administer it, Robby practically bites his head off. He spits, “You want to assist? Notice the problems before they’re life-threatening. Watch and learn.” Then he focuses all of his attention on you, eyes steady and confident, as you take a deep breath, still your hands, and begin to push the plasma. “Easy, now, her heart’s fragile.”

You nod and reply, laser focused. “I’ve got her.”

“I know you do, sweetheart.”

If anybody notices the slip, they don’t say anything.

When she’s on her way back to the ICU, everything under control for now, you take your last break of the shift, grabbing a snack and your bottle of water before heading into the brisk night air to get a little peace and quiet.

That doesn’t last long, though.

You feel a tug on the hem of your scrub top and look down to find a kid, maybe five or six, with blood on his shoes. As you snap to attention, the kid asks, “Are you a doctor? I need help.”

You drop down to your knees and begin to assess to the degree possible in the ever-changing light of the ambulance bay, trying to stay calm and locate the source of the blood. “Are you hurt or is somebody else?”

“My brother,” the boy tells you quickly, his tiny hand still wrapped up in your top. “He fell over and he won’t get back up.”

“I need you to take me to him, alright?”

He nods and runs in the other direction. Shit. You follow at a jog right behind until you reach the collapsed boy – maybe fifteen at most – near the hospital entrance. Clearly, he’d been trying to get inside but had fallen in the worst spot possible, in the dark, behind a column, where nobody could see him. And he’s in a pool of blood.

As you check his pulse – rapid, thready, but definitely present and fighting – you find a deep laceration on his inner thigh. Femoral hit. You rip off your scrub top to get at the long-sleeve shirt you’d worn underneath. You wrap it and tie it tight, tighter, tighter around his thigh and apply the hardest pressure you can, centering your entire body weight over the wound. His lips are going blue and you know it’s only a matter of time before he starts coding out.

You turn toward the younger brother, who’s been watching nearby, frozen, having never seen so much blood at once. Knowing that you’re in the middle of a moment he’s going to replay a million times over and over no matter what happens from here, you calmly ask, “What’s your name, kiddo? Can you tell me that?”

Through tears, he asks, “Is my brother going to die?”

Steeling yourself, you put on the most maternally stern voice you can manage and say, “Honey, I know it’s scary right now, but I need your help if we’re going to keep your brother safe. Can you tell me your name?”

After a beat, he meets your eyes for the first time and says, “Jaime. And my brother’s name is Aaron.”

“Good.” You introduce yourself, too, and then instruct, “Jaime, I need you to go through those big glass doors right there, walk right up to the nice blonde lady behind the desk, use your biggest voice and ask for Dr. Robby, okay? Say that back to me. Tell me what you’re going to do.”

In a surprisingly steady voice, he repeats it.

“Good job. Go ahead. They’ll know what to do from there. I’ll take care of Aaron while you’re gone; I promise.”

He nods and then sprints inside. Alone again, you check Aaron’s pulse and it’s barely there. Barely. This isn’t about stopping the blood loss anymore. Maintaining as much pressure as you can by sitting on the wrapped up thigh, you contort yourself forward into a position where you can start chest compressions at the same time. That’s all you can do until you have help.

You’ve done three sets of thirty compressions when you’re swarmed by your coworkers, led by Robby a few steps ahead. God knows what that poor little boy said; Robby’s face is contorted in fear. He must’ve thought you were in danger. He’s almost relieved to realize that all the blood you’re covered in belongs to someone else.

Robby kneels next to you. “What have you got?”

Your voice hiccups with every compression you give. “Femoral bleed. I’ve got pressure. He coded just under two minutes ago. Compressions ongoing.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he chuckles, keeping a cool head as he watches you in complete control. You really are a vision there in just your ugly old sports bra, smeared with blood, sweat on your brow, determination written across your every feature. Robby touches your lower back and says, “I need you to stop sitting on the wound so we can expose it and pack it. Need to get that stabilized before we can move the kid.”

“Aaron,” you tell him breathlessly as you readjust your weight forward, never losing the beat of your compressions. “His name’s Aaron.”

Robby nods. “Let’s get Aaron taken care of, then.”

As Robby works right behind you to secure the wound, you bark out orders to the med students to prepare for transport inside. Nobody questions your place as you direct them through transfusions and pushing stimulants, never missing the pulses to his chest that keep him alive while his heart tries to figure out how to kick back into gear.

Once the wound is closed and new blood is pushed, Aaron regains a pulse. You notice it first because his lashes flutter. Your eyes have been trained on his pale face for what feels like hours and this is the first real, conscious movement you’ve seen.

You only stop the rhythmic pushes to his chest when Robby touches your face with his bare hand. The skin-to-skin contact yanks you from first responder mode into something else. You drown in Robby’s eyes. “Hey, sweetheart, you can stop now. He’s back. You did it.”

At last, you roll off of Aaron’s no longer lifeless body and fall to your back on the cold concrete sidewalk. Adrenaline has your hands shaking and your chest heaving and your mind spinning with stars. You fight to catch your breath as they move Aaron to a gurney and bring him inside.

Dana crouches next to you. She’s holding out your water bottle when you finally manage to look at her. “That was incredible.”

She helps you sit up. Your muscles are all twitching from the exertion of maintaing compressions for minutes on end. After sucking down half your water in one long drag, you let out a sigh. “All in a night’s work.”

“Don’t downplay it. You’re a badass.”

A flicker of pride ignites in your ribcage. “Thank you.”

Then she gives you a knowing smile. “Ready to get back in there?”

With a shaky breath, you laugh, “Always.”

By the time you head home two hours later, you’re walking on air. Aaron’s stable and his parents insist on thanking you profusely. On your way out of the locker room, everyone pauses to clap for you. A save like that lifts everyone’s spirits. You’re exhausted and sore, but you’ve never felt better. Your eyes are instinctively scanning for Robby since his shift ends the same time as yours, but he’s off being a hero somewhere else.

So you head home and straight into the shower, unaware that Robby gets back only a few minutes after you and does the same thing. You’re not even thinking as you cross the apartment wrapped in a towel and pick out a pair of pajamas.

Across the alley, Robby, half-dressed after his own quick rinse, tries so hard not to watch you change. The moral part of his brain itches to close his own blinds to remove temptation. But he seems to have left that part behind at the hospital – because you’re facing away from him and dropping your towel and your music is on full blast and you’re swaying to it and you’re carefree and beautiful and addictive. The very dominant section of his brain that watched you single-handedly save a life, glorious as your body moved and tensed and sweated, singularly focused, takes control. 

He watches your strong and soft back stretching as you bend over to pick something up. At this angle, he can’t see your ass and, frankly, he’s thankful. He’d be rock hard and unable to resist wrapping his fingers around himself in full view of you. The arch of your lower back alone is enough to drive him wild. Even the way you towel off your hair has him daydreaming about being there with you, reclining on your bed, fisting his cock and waiting for you to join him.

He traces your path to the kitchen, where you take a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and pour yourself a heavy, celebratory glass. Only then is he willing to interrupt your peace.

Robby’s teasing, now-familiar voice calls across the alley after he slides open his window. “Hey, sweetheart.”

You appear in the frame, wet hair dripping onto your shirt, and grin. “Hi, Michael.”

Something in him loosens every time you use his first name. “I didn’t get a chance to see you again before your shift ended. Just wanted to say that you were incredible back there. Everyone’s going to be talking about that at the Pitt for months. I mean, come on, clamping a bleeder and keeping compressions by yourself without a shirt on? That’s the stuff of legends.”

“I know; it was pretty badass.” With a giggle, you lift up the glass of wine, on the last sip and working toward tipsy, and ask, “Wanna come by to shower me in more praise?”

Robby smirks. “Yeah, I think I could do that.”

Barely two minutes pass and Robby’s knocking at your door. He’s in gray sweats and a navy tee so old it very well might be from his undergrad, a few holes worn around the seams. You’re not much better, though, in a pair of tiny cozy sleep shorts and a white tank top that’s pretty frumpy hanging from your form.

You’re a little breathless as you open the door, the day’s confidence fizzling out as soon as you see those gray sweats. The outline of his cock is completely visible and, even soft, it’s admittedly mouthwatering. With a hard swallow, you offer, “Wine? I have beer, too.”

He smiles, eyes unabashedly roving over your miles of exposed legs like he never lets himself when you work together. “I could go for a beer.”

You grab him a beer and settle at the corner of the couch. To your surprise, he sits right in the middle, your legs touching, and sets a hand on your thigh. A big, rough hand. Jesus. Stupidly, mesmerized, you say, “Dr. Robby, you’re touching my thigh.”

His eyes flick from his hand on your skin to your face, his expression challenging. “Is that a problem?”

As your cheeks flame pink, you reply, “Definitely not a problem.”

“Good.” His voice takes on a timbre almost like a growl when he sets his beer down on the table, turns to you, and takes your wine from your hand. “I’m going to kiss you now.”

He’s moving to lean in, but you’re too hungry for him. You press your hand to the center of his chest and straddle him. There’s a single breath of hesitation – a moment when you’re both acknowledging that this is a point of no return – and then he’s closing the gap. The thing that surprises you most isn’t how soft his lips are or how tender his hands. It’s the fact that he makes a sound in the base of his throat that’s high-pitched and needy, like a release of tension. Like he’s shocked you’re kissing him back.

After that, his hands splay over your back and he tugs you close and the next noise he makes is low and dark and masculine. Your lips part in a gasp and he’s claiming the space between them with his tongue. He tugs your lower lip between his sharp teeth and your eyes roll back. Robby’s so strong and sturdy beneath you, a solid foundation you can rely on to hold your weight.

You sink into the feeling of kissing him for hours. Your hands rove over his chest and he palms the top of your ass and eventually you’ve so thoroughly explored each other’s clothed bodies that you can’t take anymore. Your fingers go to the hem of your shirt and you pull it over your head, casting it aside before going in for another taste of his lips. The moment he sees your bare chest, Robby’s expression becomes an unreadable cocktail of lust and so much more.

“Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck,” Robby hisses under his breath. His cock is definitely hard and definitely pressing directly against the heat at the center of your body and his hands are gripping your hips like they’re the only thing tethering him to the earth and he has to lean his head back and groan to calm himself down. “We can’t do this.” He pulls for the only excuse he can think of because he’s too afraid of telling you the truth. “I’m an attending.”

You study his expression, confused. “So? I’m not a student.”

His response is quick. “You might as well be.”

Your eyes narrow into pinpricks as a flash of anger flickers over your features and he knows he’s in for it. You slip off his lap to the couch next to him, snatch your shirt back up, and give him a look that cuts. “I’m sorry; is that a dig at nurses, doctor, or are you just saying I’m particularly incompetent? Because I’m pretty sure you would’ve lost half your patients tonight if I hadn’t been there.”

Robby stumbles over his own words, a rare occurrence. “No, fuck, no. You know nobody respects nurses more than I do and that goes double for you. I just meant that, no matter what, I’m still your boss.”

“Dana’s my boss; you’re the guy I hand tools to,” you clarify, tone becoming more annoyed as you cross your arms over your chest, suddenly feeling stupidly exposed in the sting of his rejection. “Are you her boss suddenly? Because I don’t think she’d like hearing that.”

“Sweetheart, don’t be-”

“Don’t call me that right now.” You cut him off and stand abruptly. “Where’s this actually coming from, Robby? Because last week, the only thing stopping you from shoving your tongue down my throat was that you were a dick to me. Now we’re here, celebrating something for once, and I’m asking for you, practically fucking begging because I feel so pathetic around you, and you stop yourself. Why?”

“It’s just-” He pinches the bridge of his nose, wishing he could go back in time and unfuck the situation. “Look, it would just be too complicated. We work together and I’m, what, fifteen years older than you? And you travel for a living and I’m here for good and- You understand what I’m trying to say, don’t you?”

For a beat, your eyes leave his. He hates how sad they look, but he hates it even more when they turn dark and angry. The tears in your eyes when you look back up at him aren’t heartbroken; they’re pissed. Your voice is small but venomous. “Yeah, I knew it would be complicated, Michael, but I actually believed it would be worth it. Good to know you don’t. Thanks for ruining a perfect day.” You stand up, cross your apartment, and open the front door, an obvious order. “And I’d appreciate it if you stopped looking in my window.”

Robby’s too stunned to say anything but, “Okay. I won’t.”

He hadn’t expected you to be so angry; he thought you’d reluctantly agree and you’d go back to bantering and working together after maybe a couple of awkward shifts. Instead, you draw your blinds and shut your windows. The only thing he can ever see is your silhouette, a shade of you, never quite enough. Your seven off overlaps with his by six days and he wants nothing more than to march over and make things right.

But he doesn’t.

And neither do you.

-

It’s nice that this hospital offers temporary housing for traveling nurses. That’s not always the case, and it definitely makes you think better of the administration before you’ve even formally met any of them. It’s your first night in Pittsburgh and it’s so late it’s early. You’d driven through the night to get here from your last assignment and just wanted to get to bed for the day so you could join in on the night shift ‘tomorrow.’

When the super lets you into the fully-furnished apartment, though, you frown. It’s a studio, which you’d expected, but it’s also 1) very minimally outfitted (no window/shower curtains, no microwave, no frills at all) and 2) looking directly into the next building over. Like, so close that if you and your across-the-alley neighbor opened your windows, you could spit on each other. What’s the point of these oversized windows when the only view is someone else’s kitchen?

Still, you thank the guy and settle in. It’ll only be a few months, anyway, and it definitely beats trying to find a short-term rental, which is always a nightmare you’re more than happy to avoid. Nothing that opening up a window to let the spring air in can’t help. Once you’re alone, you strip out of your travel clothes and into your pajamas, just a crop top and a pair of cheeky underwear since you’re not awake enough to unpack for something better. Your breasts peek out from the hem of the shirt if you stretch even slightly, but there’s no point in caring right now.

As you putter around the apartment, taking inventory of what little kitchen supplies have been provided for you to see if you can scrounge up a cup of tea before bed, the light in the building across from you flicks on in the corner of your eye. Jesus, it’s bright. With a sigh, you try not to get too annoyed about that fact. If your new kind-of neighbor is coming home from the night shift, at least you keep similar schedules, which would be better than sharing an alleyway with someone who likes to blast music in the middle of the day when you’re trying to sleep.

Having found a mug and dug through your backpack for your favorite tea, you turn around to put some water on the stove and startle so hard your heart pounds. The guy from across the alley is staring into your apartment. Well, not staring. That’s not fair. Curiously looking. Looking with sympathetic, intelligent brown eyes that sit above smile lines and a graying beard. Looking with a very, very handsome face.

Realizing with horror that he’s definitely seen your entire ass and is now seeing a decent amount of underboob, you do the only thing you can think of: Drop down onto your knees, below the line of the window, so he can’t see you anymore. You hear a muffled loud laugh, his window creaking open, and then a low, gravelly voice that’s clearly trying not to sound amused. “I’m not looking anymore; you’re good to make an escape to a pair of pants, if you want. Doesn’t matter to me either way.”

Horrified, you crawl on all fours to your backpack and snatch the sweats you’d worn on your drive over. Awkwardly shimmying them on while standing, you see that the man actually has turned around, not staying around for a creepy look. Timidly, you call back, “Thanks. Nice to meet you, neighbor.”

“You, too.” When he turns around again, he’s giving you a bemused smile that hints at years of having to earn them. You don’t know it yet, but he’s being thoughtful to you right now. He knows that your building is housing for med students and short-term placements, so the odds you’ll work together at some point are high, but he doesn’t want to show his hand and freak you out ahead of your first shift. So, instead, he just says, “I’ll close my curtains until you get some of your own, alright? Maybe we can work out a fresh air custody schedule.”

“That sounds good.” The nerves in your chest deflate as you decide he’s not a serial predator. “I have to get to sleep, so I’ll, ah, see you around.”

“Same here.” Then his microwave beeps and he holds up a steaming mug. “Looks like we’ve got the same bedtime routine.”

With a shy little smile, you nod and he tugs his curtains closed as promised.

In the evening, you wake up raring to go. You’ve always loved the first few shifts at a new hospital, learning how a new machine works compared to the training you already have. Jumping in headfirst always gets your blood pumping in the best way. That’s why you do this job. More exciting than regular nursing by a mile but not as expensive as bothering with med school yourself. For a young, single, admittedly adrenaline-chasing person, it suits you.

In your favorite pair of baby blue scrubs with extra layers tucked in your backpack just in case, you take the short walk over to the hospital, where you find the emergency room suspiciously quiet. The charge nurse, a pretty blonde woman who’s clearly never taken shit from anyone, shows you through the locker rooms and showers, gives you a tour of the supplies and facility, and then brings you right back to the central desk. You repeat her name a few times in your head; memorizing names fast is an important part of blending into a team seamlessly, showing them they can rely on you right away.

A gray-haired doctor is going over the shift change orders with a tall, lanky one in a hoodie, both facing away from you. Dana takes you over to them and their gaggle of med students and interns, pushing you forward into their clutches like she’s worried you’re going to run out any second. Extra nurses are like gold these days, so you try not to hold it against her.

Everyone in the circle turns to you and your arm brushes the tall doctor.

Him.

The guy from across the alley.

Before you can even process, Dana’s introducing you fast so she can get back to work. “This is your new trauma nurse. She’s here for the summer, and if any of you do anything to make her question staying when it took me weeks to get approved for her placement, you’ll be doing nothing but pulling foreign objects from rectums for a month.”

Your kind-of neighbor offers a clear, tight nod. “Understood.” His eyes flicker to yours only momentarily and you swear there’s a slight blush to his cheeks. “Thanks for joining us; stick close to me tonight so I can show you the ropes of how we handle our traumas.” Then he turns to the students who look at him like he’s a god on earth and adds, “You know my policy about nurses. She’s as much your boss as I am. Got it?”

They nod their assent and everything falls in line. As he sends them off in different directions, you catch his wrist, swallow hard, and say, “Since I came in mid-speech, I didn’t actually catch your name, Doctor…?”

“Right yeah.” His eyes scan everywhere but your face as he says, “Robby. Michael Robinavitch, actually, ah, but it’s Robby.”

You crack a smirk at his stiffness. He doesn’t strike you as a man who’s easy to fluster. You’ve been in this profession long enough to know that you have to just bite the bullet and get awkwardness out of the way. Keep perspective. So you offer up, “Can I call you Mikey? Considering you’ve seen me mostly naked, it seems like I should have my own special nickname.”

“Only if I can call you ‘tiny pink panties,” he cuts back with a laugh. Okay, so he’s not going to make it weird. He just needed to check your vibe first. Thank god. He shrugs, sighs, and tells you, “Well, god knows I’ve needed another nurse around here, so I hope this place is paying you enough to invest in some curtains and think about sticking around.”

“Already ordered some.” You grimace as Dana calls out an inbound multiple stabbing, any playful banter thrown out as you focus in on your shared job. “Alright, Dr. Robby, where do you need me?”

Hours and hours later, when you’re both in your respective homes, you notice that Robby’s window is once again wide open, letting in the breeze. He doesn’t close his blinds until it’s clear you’re going to change your clothes, letting himself glance over in your direction the rest of the time. You steal glances his way, too, unable to satisfy your morbid curiosity. Before bed, you make that same eye contact, more charged now that you know each other, as you tip your mugs toward one another for your bedtime tea.

It becomes a sort of routine. You work your shift together and then spend the little time after work and before sleep in parallel. He plays classic rock and turns it up when you text him that you want to listen. You place your TV in his line of sight so he can ask about what you’re watching at work. When one of you can’t sleep, you linger in the outline of the window to see if the other can’t. On those mornings, you talk just loud enough to cross the space between you, whittling the time away until you’re too exhausted to fight off the weight of your eyelids.

On top of the fact that he genuinely enjoys your company, Robby has to admit he’s impressed with you. Compared to other people he’s worked with, you’re quick, thoughtful, and easy to tune into. You can predict the movements of the people around you with surprising accuracy, which makes the workflow much smoother as he tries to create order from chaos. One night, you end up running a code while he’s elbows deep in organs, tied up in a case with a few other doctors. Despite his fears of trusting a new person, you take command effortlessly and calmly stabilize the patient, saving their life before a doctor can even reach the bedside and not taking a moment to pat yourself on the back after.

The two of you make a good team. You get used to his guiding touch on your lower back right when you need him; he gets used to turning to you for help at crucial moments.

Then, weeks into your placement, a suicide attempt rolls into the Pitt. Fifteen, overdose. Just like your baby sister had been when you lost her a decade ago. The whole reason you had to leave pre-med and trade into nursing. The reason you’d left your hometown and never looked back.

Which you don’t talk about with anyone, least of all cute doctors you have crushes on.

So Robby’s caught off guard at your demeanor as soon as the patient is in front of you after rolling right through triage. He’s never seen you so intense as you run an IV, hook up vitals, and push a round of Narcan. Usually, even when you’re laser-focused, you’re ready with a smile, a beat of reassurance, or just a steady hand to support the doctors around you. Tonight, you’re frowning in a way that darkens your whole face. Still, you’re following protocol and you’ve proven more than a handful of times that you can handle traumas as well as any of the doctors.

And then you tell him, “We need to push intralipids.”

Robby steps in closer, surprised at the certainty in your usually deferential voice, and assesses the situation.

Before he even has his footing, you go on, “This is a calcium channel blocker overdose; probably took her dad’s high blood pressure pills.”

He shakes his head as you stare at him sharply. “It’s much more likely she took painkillers or-”

Your voice shoots up a few notes and you step toward the foot of the bed, chest-to-chest with him. “She’s not improving on Narcan!”

The tension between you spikes in a way it never has before. You’ve never challenged him, never questioned him, always listened to orders like a good little soldier. Probably why Dr. Abbot likes you so much. Robby sets his jaw and says, cold and calculated, “I’m not pushing fat emulsion on a hunch from a nurse.”

The comment stings but you don’t care. Keeping your stance firm, you only push him harder, relying on the medicine, “Her skin’s warm and flushed, not pale and clammy. No pinpoint pupils and she’s still breathing. I know what this is. Everything lines up.”

You can feel the heat of his irritation as he shoots back, “I said no. It’s not worth the risk to-”

“She’s fifteen.”

“And I’m the one carrying the liability if she codes on an unindicated therapy.” He shoves her chart into your chest and pivots away. “Now go and get me a consent for a tox screen and ask what her mother wants me to do when she flatlines in the next ten minutes.”

“That’s not my job and you’re being-” You bite back the fight and stop yourself instead; it’s not worth it to waste time reminding him that you’re not one of his students who does busy work during a crash. You just nod. Ice fills your veins. The girl’s pulse is thready and there’s nothing you can do without an attending signing off. So your voice falls to a defeated whisper and you back away from him. “Of course, Dr. Robinavitch. I’ll send down a tox consult, too.”

You’ve never used his full last name before.

The girl’s dead within an hour.

There’s only another twenty minutes in your shift at that point, so you keep it together. Head down, hands helpful, doing whatever grunt work the doctors ask for so you can avoid Robby.

The last thing Dana tells you on your way out is that you were right about the CCB overdose. After she was already gone, they’d located her parents and the dad confirmed that his amlodipine was spread all over the bathroom, more than half the pills gone from a new bottle.

Two hours later, Robby finishes his shift, limps inside his apartment, and drops all his things on the floor. Immediately, he walks open to the window that faces yours to check on you. But your curtains are drawn. Only the dim light by your bed is on, casting distorted shadows. He can’t see you moving around the apartment, not even your outline reading in bed, and his heart drops into his stomach.

Before he can even question himself as to why, he’s changing his clothes and leaving his building. Christ, he doesn’t even know what number apartment you live in, but he has to see you. Has to know you’re okay. Has to apologize. It takes him fifteen full minutes of knocking on all your neighbors’ doors before he finds yours. He knows it’s yours because you don’t answer the door for him.

On his third round of knocks, your meek voice calls, “Go home, doctor.”

He wishes you’d call him anything else. “C’mon. Please.”

When you don’t respond, he tries the doorknob, feeling possessed by the desire to see you safe. The desire to see you – period. The door’s unlocked but the chain’s latched. Through the crack, he sees you sitting on the floor, still wearing your scrubs even though your shift ended hours ago, leaning against your bathroom door, eyes closed even as someone messes with your front door.

Sighing, he tries, “You were right.”

You don’t move. “I know. Dana told me.”

“I should’ve listened to you.”

“I know that, too.”

“Sweetheart, please.” His voice breaks. That tender, easy use of such a gentle word breaks your stupor. You look over at him. The sliver of his face that you can see is torn up with emotion. “I’m sorry. Let me see you. Just- just come to the door. You don’t even have to let me in, okay?”

So you stand. His voice is so soft. You only ever hear it like that when he has to comfort a family or work a student through a crisis. There’s another level to it right now, though. Something more honest. You push the door closed, giving him a pointed look, and undo the latch. With averted eyes, you say, “It’s a disaster in here and I, ah, I don’t have anything to offer you – I’m behind on groceries – but you can come in. If you want.”

Robby steps tentatively inside, his posture carefully manicured to be non-threatening, his shoulders shrugged and his arms across his chest. For the amount of times he’s seen the place, it feels different to actually be here. It’s the first time he gets a chance to see your side of the view. The photos of your family on the wall, the clutter you leave in your wake, the personal touches you’ve added to the otherwise faceless spot. The door closes behind him with a soft click and the two of you are alone.

“About today,” you rush out before he can speak, “I was being so intense because my little sister died in a really similar way. It was a long time ago, but it still- You know how it is. What I mean to say is that I realize I was letting my personal issues cloud my judgment, so I’m sorry for-”

“Don’t,” he cuts you off with a whisper. His hand goes to yours and he brushes your fingers with a gentleness that shouldn’t be possible for a man his size. “Please, don’t apologize. I’m sorry to hear about your sister, but, no matter what you might’ve been holding on to, you were right. You knew what you were talking about and I treated you the way macho asshole doctors treat nurses. If I would’ve listened to you, she might be alive right now.”

As silent tears roll down your cheek, you reply, “She was going to die no matter what.”

Robby sighs. The sound rattles through both your bodies. “Yeah, I know. But maybe her parents would’ve gotten the chance to say goodbye to her first. Maybe she would’ve been in less pain. Maybe-”

“Michael.” You take another step closer to him and, all of a sudden, he’s wrapping you in his arms. Like it’s second nature, you nestle against his chest and breathe deeply, with him, until both of you are ready to pull away. You reach up and touch the side of his face, the scratch of his graying beard and the softness of his cheek in stark contrast. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not. Not if I hurt you.” His big hand covers yours and his other hand drops to your waist, gripping a little possessively. It doesn’t feel professional and it doesn’t feel like a friendly gesture. It makes heat rise in your stomach. “I’m sorry. Seriously. You need to be able to trust that I’m going to listen to you and respect you at work. Because I do. I really, really do. You’re brilliant and you’re observant and-”

As his voice speeds up, your hand trails to his chest, trying to ground him. “Robby, you don’t have to-”

“I do. Please, let me- let me get this out.” He releases a shaky breath and suddenly both his hands are on you, one still at your waist but the other trailing up and down your arm, leaving a line of goosebumps in its wake. “I wanted to apologize because of all the work stuff, yes, but I also realized, as soon as I saw your blinds closed, that it’s more than that. I want you to feel safe with me. I want you to-”

Your soft voice wraps around him like silk. “Kiss me, Michael.”

“No. Not now.” You can hear the strain in his response, how badly he wants to give in. But then he touches his lips to your forehead and says, “I’m not going to have the first time I kiss you be after you’ve had a shitty day that I made even shittier. When I kiss you, it’s going to be right.”

You raise a teasing eyebrow and bite your lip. “When? Not ‘if’?”

“Definitely a ‘when.’” He kisses your cheek like it’s made of solid gold, worth everything to him. “I just couldn’t go to sleep tonight knowing you weren’t okay. Get some rest, gorgeous.”

“You too, Michael.”

-

Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.  

That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience. 

You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it? 

Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming? 

83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her. 

You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created. 

You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.  

You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest. 

You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?” 

You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department. 

Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room. 

You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.  

And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. 

It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong. 

You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.  

But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station. 

“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.” 

You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine. 

“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that. 

The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out. 

His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.  

You couldn’t get out of there sooner. 

It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible. 

You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare. 

You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears. 

But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.

You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all. 

You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird. 

“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station. 

“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime. 

There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.  

“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head. 

“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.” 

He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused. 

“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through. 

Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night. 

You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out. 

He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket. 

“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact. 

There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over. 

“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving. 

He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.” 

Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.

You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.  

“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator. 

The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs. 

“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman. 

You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head. 

You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements. 

By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.

The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill. 

You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way. 

And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance. 

It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body. 

You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central. 

“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips. 

And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again. 

He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”  

“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him. 

He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”

You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack. 

“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.” 

Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried. 

You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you. 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale. 

He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in. 

“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you. 

You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there. 

Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had. 

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician. 

Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak. 

You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.

“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in. 

“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded. 

“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?” 

Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”   

Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times. 

It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could. 

It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.  

He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling. 

He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.

And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up. 

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.  

“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.

The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that. 

You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue. 

You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor. 

Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you. 

You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break. 

That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?” 

Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory. 

And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now. 

His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now. 

You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions. 

He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office. 

Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.  

It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock. 

“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy. 

The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?  

It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you. 

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing. 

You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.” 

He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.” 

Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.  

He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.” 

You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk. 

He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it. 

“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips. 

He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.” 

You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.    

“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?” 

You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.” 

He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology. 

Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway. 

It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam,  caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth. 

You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time. 

It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up. 

You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through. 

Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later? 

Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it. 

You: sounds great, see you later :) 

You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.

It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office. 

“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.” 

You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him. 

It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend. 

But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop. 

“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?” 

“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.” 

“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”

“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.

“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.” 

You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.  

“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly. 

He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”   

Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.” 

You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you. 

“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”  

You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.” 

Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.

“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”  

You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones. 

You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul. 

But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him. 

You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door. 

“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow. 

Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing. 

He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk. 

You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly. 

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away. 

You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.  

He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–

CLANG! 

The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.  

You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise. 

A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it. 

“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.  

He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.

“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back. 

You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.” 

He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out. 

“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.  

You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.

You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak. 

You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously. 

You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face. 

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought. 

“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously. 

“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.  

“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.” 

“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.” 

“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.” 

You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force. 

Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind. 

You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always. 

But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel. 

And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure. 

You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork. 

“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate. 

“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break. 

He looked skeptical, but didn’t push. 

“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient. 

You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you? 

Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will. 

He just doesn’t know how to let her down.

He probably feels guilty.

Her fawning over him is not cute.

You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say. 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.  

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” 

You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.” 

Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you. 

He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish. 

“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back? 

He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing. 

“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.” 

You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?” 

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words. 

“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?

“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color. 

“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.” 

You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to. 

“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again. 

“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked. 

“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,” 

“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively. 

He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday. 

“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek. 

You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in. 

His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.

He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss. 

He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was. 

You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate. 

When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach. 

He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” 

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him. 

He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw. 

You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you. 

“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?” 

“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.” 

A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job

You stir, pushing yourself up, “give her”

Brendon passes her over once you’ve unbuttoned your shirt, cooing softly as she suckles against your breast, “you look so pretty”

You raise an eyebrow, a sleepy groan as you stare at him staring at you. Yawing as you rub your eyes, sleep pulling you back into sleep, “m so tired, I don’t know when I showered last” you murmur. Still rocking her slightly as she pulls off your nipple. Baby Edith opening her arms to her father as he sits back up to burp her.

It’s usually how the nights go, waking up at twelve to feed her. Letting Brendon burp and change her while you collapse again from exhaustion.

You move in patterns, coffee, breakfast, cuddling the baby as she sits in your lap. She moves in patterns, sleeping, eating, pooping, “she has your face when she sleeps” Brendon murmurs from the couch, her nose is scrunched, eyebrows wiggling softly as Brendon traces over her face with his thumb, “she’s beautiful”

You look up from the couch, a sight you want to remember forever. Your baby girl, tucked in her dad’s arms, sound asleep. Nose scrunched. Cooing softly, “she’s a happy baby”

Edith is a happy baby, she likes to go on walks, but only if Brendon carries her, and you like to shower with her. Not in the weird sense, you just like having her wrapped around you while you shower. Skin to skin, although mostly it’s just you standing in warm water as you wash her.

You’re deep in the newborn trenches, paternity leave over for Brendon. Caring for yourself and a newborn, in a house that’s barely moved into. Dana shows up at your door, you know her. Briefly during some hospital events with Brendon, “Dana! I’m so sorry- the house is a disaster”

She smiles, carrying bags of food and made meals, “oh honey I know! I’m here to bring you something to eat, be your little helper. Let you rest and snuggle that baby”

Your shoulders drop as you let her in, “really?” You think you’re hallucinating, that she’s a dream. A dream in jeans and a cardigan.

“Really, I know you and Shark just moved. But I got. Lasagna, chicken, enchiladas. Stuff to eat now, freeze” She sets things down on the marble counters, slowly unpacking and placing things into the empty fridge, “how are you doing?”

“I’m tired. I don’t know the last time I showered” You admit, “and my boobs are sore”

Dana laughs softly, “you poor thing, here. You wanna put her down for a nap? I can watch her. You go shower and sleep. Or I can set you up on the couch to pump change the sheets”

Your lip quivers, “she sleeps at.. one thirty usually, there’s breast milk in the fridge. Are you sure you can watch her?”

Dana nods, “I’ve raised three of em myself, if it’s okay with you”

You bring her in for a brief hug, apologizing when you realize how bad you smell.

You shower, wash your hair. Even contemplate a face mask, you indulge. You feel like a new woman when you step out, detangling your hair, moisturizing your legs and arms. When you come out, the bed is made with new sheets; and you can hear the washer running.

Edith is asleep in her downstairs crib, Dana is pulling something out of the oven, “hey honey, good shower?”

You nod, wordless at the state of your house. Clean, partially unpacked now fully unpacked, “yeah. You. Unpacked?”

Dana nods, “I kinda winged it, ‘m sorry I overstepped the boxes were just gettin to me. Is everything in the right place?”

You rifle through, and you can’t complain. Because it’s unpacked. And the baby is asleep, and dishes are washed. And something wonderful is cooking in the oven, “it’s. Dana thank you”

“Don’t mention it honey. I have chicken parm in the oven. I can make some pasta to go with it. Some greens. How’s your stomach?”

You nod, “greens would be great. If that’s not to much”

She prepares a salad, “I wish I had all of this after my first. Benji was great but. Having someone cook and clean and let you feel like a human again”

You nod, “I know we aren’t super close- I appreciate it.. I don’t. I have friends” you clarify, “they just.. live in North Carolina”

She nods, “I understand.” The timer dings and she pulls the chicken parm out. Sliding a cutlet onto your plate; with some salad. And when you hum she smiles in satisfaction, “good?”

“Heavenly, I’m serious Dana. Brendon can cook but this is. Phenomenal” You grin into a second bite, eyes closing in satisfaction.

Dana wipes the counter down before she leaves, and Brendon is surprised to see dinner when he comes home, you showered. Looking refreshed in a soft yellow sweatset, “you got busy” he comments, picking up Edith from your arms as he takes his shoes off

“I didn’t. Dana did” you grin, “she came over, I showered, did a face mask. And she made like a ton of food and we have enough leftovers to last us until she goes into college” You continue, “she even changed the sheets. And folded the laundry”

You’re beaming as Brendon rubs Edith’s back, “that sounds awesome honey, did you eat dinner yet?”

“No, do you wanna shower? I’ll warm something up?”