The Great Escape

Companion piece to:

The Neurologist - Robby doesn’t think much of Jack’s friend The Neurologist…

Cuffs - Robby makes a discovery when a pair of handcuffs malfunctions at a crucial time.

The Blues (NSFW) - You and Robby spend your first wedding anniversary in New Orleans.

Bed Rotting - Robby starts to blow up his life after you return to Seattle.

The Voicemail - Robby puts the final nail in the coffin of your marriage when he leaves THAT voice mail.

Divorce Papers - Jack gives a couple of home truths to Robby after he finds out he signed your divorce papers.

A Fucking Nightmare - Robby’s worst nightmare comes true when his ex-wife shows up as a guest at Dana’s vow renewal ceremony.

Regrets - Robby can’t help but think about his regrets after seeing his ex-wife for the first time since he signed the divorce papers.

Unread - Robby turns to Jack when you don’t respond to his message

The Call - Robby takes the plunge and decides to call you, leading to a surprising revelation.

Shepherd - Robby’s world is turned upside down when he receives a call from Derek Shepherd.

Husband Number Two - Robby gets into it with the man vying for the role of Husband Number Two in your life.

The Road Trip - Robby makes a decision that brings the two of you closer together in the wake of your concussion.

The Lightning Field - Robby reminisces about a past vacation while the two of you make plans of your own.

The Study - Robby finds out the truth about what happened in Seattle.

You cry yourself to sleep.

Robby feels your body soften into his, your cries turning to laboured breathes that eventually even out. The sun dips behind the skyline, darkness filtering into the room and still he stays, holding you close, his brain processing everything he’s learned over the past twenty four hours.

When his arm starts to cramp, he shifts out from underneath you gently guiding your sleeping form onto the mattress, draping the quilt over you. You nestle down into it as his lip brush over your temple, mumbling in your sleep.

He picks up his phone from where it rests on his own bed, taking it into the bathroom with him before closing the door behind him. Jack will up by now and he needs to talk this out with someone, someone who cares about you just as much as he does.

“How’s she doing?” Are the first words out of his mouth when he picks up the phone. No pleasantries just direct, straight to the point.

“She’s barely holding it together.” Robby tells his friend as he sits on the edge of the bath and pinches the space between his eyes, trying to massage away the urge to murder Owen Hunt. “I’ve never seen her like this. It’s like he took that fundamental part of her and ground it up into nothing.”

Jack sucks in a breath, listening intently as he tells the rest of the story. Robby can feel the other man’s ire practically vibrating down the phone, matching his own as his lips purse together grimly in the mirror, an expression he wore for a year after you sent those divorce papers.

“It explains why Gloria was so eager to snatch her back up. Vivian’s fellowship was in Neurocritical Care, and she was a rockstar when she was here, but her focus was always on chasing research grants for CTE, expanding the depth of knowledge on the condition. Now she doesn’t have that…”

Gloria knows you well enough to understand you’ll double down as Head of Neurology without that distraction, that you’ll play a more practical, hands on role while applying those Type A administration skills to a department that’s he’d describe as ‘sluggish’ underneath its previous leadership. Her goal is to revitalise Neurology because it damn well needs someone to whip it back into shape.

“She thinks she blew up our marriage.” He whispers down the line to Jack, pressure building behind his eyes. “She blames herself for prioritising the study, but I know it wasn’t as simple as that…”

If there is anyone that understands the hold your past can have on you, it’s him and Jack. They each have their own demons, Jack’s grief, Robby’s abandonment, they know how it colours their lives, how it shaped the two of them into who they are today.

Your father’s suicide did that to you.

Walking in to find him dead after hearing that gun shot.

Reading that note demanding they use his brain for research into CTE.

That whole series of events altered the trajectory of your life.

And now your purpose is gone, stripped away from you by a man who wanted to manage you, who told you he loved you before stripping away your entire life’s work.

“What do I do Jack?” His voice is wrought with desperation because no matter how he looks at he just can’t seem to put the pieces back together. “How do I fix it?”

“You can’t.” Jack sighs, his favourite armchair creaking over the line as he settles back into it. “You just need to be there, give her that safe space to land.”

“I will.” Robby promises as he stares at that bathroom door, thinking of you asleep on the other side of it, of the wedding vows he made all those years ago. “I’ll do everything I can to take of her this time.”

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You came home from running errands to find... a clean-shaven stranger sitting on your couch reading a worn-out copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. The first thing that leaves your mouth is "What the fuck, Michael?", and he looks up startled to see you standing in the door with an aghast look on your face.

He smiles and says, "Hey, Sweetheart", getting up to kiss you, but you flinch away before he can make contact, and his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

"Honey, what...?", he says, not at all understanding why you're glaring at him like he'd just kicked a puppy in the street.

You bring a hand up to stroke his bare face, your scowl only deepening when he says, "Thought it was time for a shave. Like it?"

"No," is all you say before you promptly drop your hand from his face and retreat into the bedroom, leaving Robby standing in the living room dumbfounded.

"What the fuck just happened?", he mumbles to himself, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck.

For the rest of the day, it's like he's trying to talk to a brick wall, because you refuse to make eye contact with him and keep your replies to him as singularly worded as possible, if you even reply at all.

He's going out of his mind by the time you start winding down for the night, and he about flips his lid when he sees you gather up your pillow and a spare blanket to presumably go sleep in the guest room.

"Sweetheart, come on, talk to me. You've barely looked at me since you got home! What did I do?", he pleads, physically blocking the door to the bedroom so you can't leave.

You still don't look at him, but a quiet murmur of, "You didn't tell me you were gonna shave your beard," leaves your mouth almost unwittingly.

Robby is completely baffled, and he says, "Seriously? I've been getting the silent treatment all day because I shaved without telling you first???", almost amused by how petulant you're being.

You shrug, and your bottom lip sticks out in a pout before you say, "I really liked your beard," clutching your pillow tighter to your chest.

His heart melts. "Sweetheart, it's just hair. It'll grow back. Are you really that upset that I got rid of the beard?", he consoles as he tilts your chin up. You're still refusing to look at him, but when he murmurs your name, you finally look him in the eye and state, "Your face looks naked."

He laughs out loud, then says, "Okay, I promise I'll never shave it off again once it grows back. Only trimming. Can you forgive me, Sweetheart?", his hand running up and down your back.

You pretend to think for a moment, then say, "I guess so. You really promise to never go clean-shaven again?", making him lift a hand in a salute and say, "Scout's Honor."

You nod, and relief floods his body before he pulls you in for a kiss. His pride is only slightly wounded when he pulls back to see you making a disgusted face. "Ew. Yeah, I'm not kissing you until there's at least three days worth of stubble on your face," you say with a wrinkled nose.

Companion piece to:

No Regrets - You can never say no when Dominique Luca turns up at your door.

Thirty minutes.

That’s how long it takes you to break every single rule you have regarding Dominique Luca.

Thirty God damn minutes and he’s leaving love marks on your thighs before your hand rakes through his hair, directing his mouth to other places that need his attention.

“My girl is needy tonight.” He teases, his voice muffled by the fact his face is pressed against your panties, his heated breath tantalising your core. “Been too long since you got laid huh?”

You don’t tell him that the last person that fucked you was him over a year ago when his last ‘girlfriend’ kicked him out. Or the fact he calls you ‘my girl’ does a little something for you. He knows though, you can tell by the devilish look in his eyes as he tugs your panties down your thighs, his tongue still doodling circles on your clit through the fabric before it comes away.

He bundles them up in his fist, tossing them across the living room before diving back in, like a man starved for a hundred days. The things this man does with his tongue when he does shut the fuck up is enough to ruin you. His tongue swirls around your clit before dipping inside, his thumb taking its place as you arch against his mouth.  He grips your thighs hard enough to leave bruises as he tongue fucks the life out of you, his wide shoulders keeping you spread for him. You tug his hair, riding his face, taking your pleasure and he moans his approval, sending vibrations ricochetting through your body.

“Oh god, just like that.” You whisper, your motions quickening as the rapture surges up inside of you like a tidal wave. “Don’t stop! Don’t stop!”

He doesn’t. Not when you’re coming all over his face, not as you ride out that orgasm, not when he has you hurtling towards the second and third one, your whole body trembling as he pulls away, your spent smeared all over his chin.

“I think you’re ready for me baby.” He smirks, slipping the condom out of his wallet as he shucks off his pants. “You need me to fill you up? Fuck you so hard you see stars behind those pretty eyes of yours?”

You wrap your hand around his dick in response. Your fingers barely meet around the girth because Luca, he’s built proportionately which is why he buys Magnum BareSkins. He moans softly as your thumb smears his pre-cum all over that weeping red tip.  

“God, I love it when you touch me like that.” He fumbles with the wrapper, tearing it open with his teeth. “Love having your hands on me.”

You take the condom from his palm, rolling it down the length of his cock. His breath catches and you can tell he’s already on a hair trigger. Oral is a real turn on for him. Giving a woman that pleasure is enough to have him grinding on the couch cushions, desperate for release.

 “Oh, poor baby.” You tease, pumping him slowly. He hisses through his teeth as he kneels above you, thrusting into that tight ring of fingers. “Those other girls not doing it for you? You have to come here and get fucked by a real woman.”

His mouth finds yours, tongues clashing in a filthy, desperate kiss as you leverage him onto his back. Your thighs straddle his hips as he watches you strip off that oversized LA Blaze t-shirt, leaving you bare for him.

“You know how good you look like this?” He murmurs, his hand reaching up, kneading your breast as you line yourself up with his cock. His calloused palm grazes your sensitive skin, toying with the nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it tightens into a demanding peak.  “Like my favourite fucking thing in this world.”

You sink down slowly, the air punching out of your chest as you feel the stretch. He’s a big boy and it takes a minute for you adjust before you work your way down his cock.

“That’s it baby, you can take it.” He encourages you, watching himself disappear inside you inch by inch. “We both know it’ll fit.”

It takes a few seconds of coaxing until your finally seated and that feeling, there’s nothing else like it as you clench around his cock, hugging every inch of his dick like you were made for him.

“Never been this good with anyone else.” He mutters, rocking his hips gently. Colours explode behind your eyes as he hits that sweet spot, and you know you’d die a happy woman on his cock. “Could fuck this pussy for the rest of my life.”

Luca… he says things during sex, things that get you off in the moment, things he can’t possibly mean.

Your hand claps over his mouth and his head tips back into the couch cushion, those blues eyes fixing on you as he starts to thrust. He likes his women a little dommy. He likes being restrained, manhandled, cared for but you understand it’s few and far between for a man of his size because other women tend to view him as the dominant one.

You set a furious pace, one that makes his nostrils flare, his breath coming out in stifled, ragged pants as he fucks you with abandonment. The ecstasy builds, like waves crashing against the beach during the midst of a storm, dragging you under until you’re drowning in the rapture and he’s bellowing his release behind the palm of your hand, his climax spilling into that condom.  

Your hand slips from his mouth and he draws you down against him, his lips  capturing yours, his large hands roaming over your sensitive skin, grounding you in the moment.

“There are no other girls.” He mumbles in between those warm sunshine kisses. “There hasn’t been anyone else since you.”

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You should’ve told him to give this a name back then — whatever this thing was between you — because at least then you’d have a name for the feeling searing in your chest just now, as you’re forced to watch Robby flirt with Noelle on the other side of the workstation.

You’re examining the chart glowing from the iPad in your hands, trying hard to ignore the ache in your lower back and the fact that you haven’t eaten since six that morning, when the sound of Robby’s sudden laughter graces your ears — finding you despite the buzzing chatter of the crowded E.R. 

You glance up automatically and find him leaning against the counter, with the sleeves of his undershirt pushed up to his elbows and his stethoscope looped lazily around his neck, towering several inches over Noelle.

“You’re getting less grumpy in your old age, Robinavitch,” the older woman quips beneath a quiet smile and the faint flush coating her caramel-colored cheeks. She arches a manicured brow in his direction, dark eyes glimmering beneath long lashes. “Something been improving your mood lately? Or some-one?”

Your palms go clammy around the tablet in your hand. You never wanted anyone to find out that you were dating your attending, but god, your heart stops beating just to hear your name fall from his lips.

Robby laughs instead, a sharp exhale from his nose. 

“You always think you know everything,” he says with a shake of his head, though you can still hear the smile in his voice when he tells her, “I’m not sure your new boyfriend up in ortho would like you asking about my love life, Hastings…”

“Oh, I stopped seeing him ages ago,” Noelle scoffs. “He kept calling himself an alpha male unironically, and I— couldn’t take it anymore.”

Robby physically recoils. “Jeez… And here I thought your taste in men improved after me.”

Their laughter entwines and lingers in the air for several lingering moments. It’s more familiar than flirtatious, but your stomach twists with a sick feeling anyway. Because Noelle was, to put it simply, everything you weren’t. She was effortlessly gorgeous and carried all that confidence in her matching pant suits and pulled-back curls. She was much closer to Robby’s age, too, and their lengthy history is one you know you couldn’t compete with if you tried.

You feel a little like a child as you watch them talk in hushed voices. You flare with all the embarrassment of one, too, when Robby’s eyes lock suddenly with yours.

You turn away a beat too late, just in time to catch the look that flashes suddenly across his weathered features — as if he’d somehow been caught. You pretend not to notice, or otherwise care, when he dismisses himself from Noelle and closes the distance between you. He towers over you the same way he had with her, smelling like a mixture of his cologne and your bed sheets.

“Hey…” he says, all casual, stuffing his hands into his scrub pockets and nodding to the tablet in your hands. “You get that CBC back on Central Eight?”

“Yep,” you deadpan, still without looking at him. 

He flinches slightly when you shove the chart suddenly at his chest with a less-than-gentle hand. His brows lower in confusion when you turn on your heel and walk away a second later, with considerably more ire than you had that morning. (‘Cause you’d been complaining about some mild insomnia for a while now, so Robby fucked you to sleep the night before. He figured you’d be in a better mood today accordingly. But alas.)

“So I take it you’re not helping with this endoscopy?” he calls after you, pulling his glasses from his shirt pocket for a better view of the screen in his hand.

“Nope,” you call back, already halfway down the hall — not as his resident, but as a woman halfway scorned.

Whitaker’s eyes dart back and forth like he’s watching a tennis match — between you, Robby, and the bloodied head wound he’s watching you stitch up with practiced hands. There’s a heavy tension he can feel simmering in the air, snatching all the remaining oxygen out of the room. Even from where he stands behind you, peering over Trinity’s shoulder, he feels hardly shielded from the building stress.

“Call ortho for a consult for me, will ya?” Robby asks you, or rather politely commands, without looking away from the chart in his hands.

You, similarly, don’t glance up from your sutures as you tell him, “You have a pair of free hands, don’t you, Dr. Robby?”

The man’s eyes dart to you in an instant, peering at you over the top of the glasses sitting low on his broad nose. His dark brown gaze glimmers with a mixture of amusement and shock as a faint smile flickers beneath his beard.

“Excuse me?”

“I’ll do it!” Whitaker blurts, half-strangled by the tension, as he rushes for the red phone across the room. It’s quite telling, the younger boy finds, that he’d rather suffer a call with Park the Shark than watch this lover’s quarrel unfold.

Robby squints as he takes a slow step towards you. His eyes flit from your deadpan face, to your gloved hands, to the balding head of the unconscious patient you stitch up. 

“Have you eaten today?” he wonders aloud.

“Are you gonna ask if I need a nap next to?” you scoff. “I’m not a child.”

“Well, you’re kinda acting like one,” Robby says within a breathless chuckle. “So do you wanna maybe dial the attitude back a notch?”

“Sorry, Dr. Robby,” you say flatly, tying off the final stitch with sharp, methodical movements. “I’ll remember to stroke your ego next time—  Maybe then you won’t accuse me of being a bitch.”

“I wasn’t—”

A laugh sputters suddenly from Santos’ mouth before she can help it. She hides it behind her fist when Robby glares at her and pretends to cough instead.

The tension between the two of you doesn’t snap until around the tenth hour of the shift, when you’re hiding from the chaos of the E.D. with the excuse of fetching more supplies from the walk-in closet. Robby enters like a dark cloud, mixing with your own storm, and threatening to create a most fatal concoction when he corners you against the shelf. (You hadn’t stopped moving for about four straight hours, to be fair — this was his only real chance of getting you alone.)

“What the hell is your problem today?” the older man says in lieu of a greeting.

You huff and roll your eyes, shoving at a pack of saline flushes a little harder than necessary when they threaten to fall from the shelf and on top of you. Robby watches with narrowed eyes and a pair of weathered hands splayed on his hip. 

“Did I do something to you? ‘Cause you’ve been acting crazy all day—”

You slam the cabinet door shut with a resounding clang, so hard it refuses to latch,before spinning on your heels to face the man behind you. The glare you give him almost makes him flinch before he swallows down the instinct to.

“Crazy?” you echo through a tense jaw. “You flirt with Noelle all day, right in front of me, and now you’re calling me crazy?”

Robby blinks owlishly back at you for several long moments. 

You almost think you see a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth beneath his mustache, before a chuckle sputters suddenly from his lips. You flinch at the intensity of his laughter, and at the distant mania glimmering in his dark eyes.

“Oh, my god—”

“Don’t laugh!” you exclaim, face burning under the weight of your embarrassment.

“—That’s what this is about?”

“Yes! It is. Because I thought I was enough for you.”

His weathered features soften with a heavy sigh, though traces of his amusement still remain — equal parts fond and exhausted. 

“Oh, c’mon… You know this wasn’t supposed to be anything serious,” Robby croons gently, taking slow steps towards you. “That was the agreement, right? Casual. So we could avoid all… This.”

You peer up at the man from beneath your lashes when he plants himself in front of you. You try not to melt when you catch a whiff of his dizzying cologne. “This?” you echo.

“Yeah… You know, all the… jealousy and the— arguments,” he huffs with a lazy shrug and crosses his pale arms over his chest. “I’ve been through this before, kid. Trust me. This is… This is what’s best.”

Your chest sears with a mixture of red-hot anger and ice-cold jealousy. Your jaw tightens at how detached he sounds, how rational, as if he were discussing policies instead of real actual feelings. (If he was even capable of those). You want him to feel this, too — this awful, wretched jealousy clawing at your ribs from the inside out. 

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, forcing your voice into a deadpan as hurt simmers somewhere beneath the words. “So I can see whoever I want?” you ask him.

Robby’s expression flickers slightly, almost imperceptibly. His adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows, but his dark gaze never once wavers from yours. 

“Of course, you can,” he tells you, though his taut voice threatens to betray him. “We’re casual. That was the deal.”

“Okay,” you nod once and turn away from him again, giving him very little to play off of as he tries and fails to call your bluff. 

Robby’s forced to stare at the back of you while you pull a large pack of lap pads from the shelf. His brows knit in confusion when you spin back around to face him, mostly back to normal again, with a ghost of a polite smile dancing the edges of your mouth.

“Run these to Trauma 1 for me, will ya? Dr. Al-Hashimi needs ‘em for a trauma patient coming in.”

You press the package to Robby’s chest before he can answer and walk past him for the exit before he can blink.

Three days after the fact, you’re sitting in a crowded bar a block away from the PTMC, drowning your post-shift sorrows in half-priced beers. 

In those three days, you haven’t seen Robby once outside of work. There were no more stolen kisses in empty elevators, no more lingering touches in stairwells, no more “come over” texts sent in the dead of night. And Robby thought it was strange, because the two of you weren’t even fighting anymore — not technically, anyway — and yet you were more distant now than ever.

“Question,” the man murmured casually from the other side of the desk while you finished up your charting at the monitor. “Is it me you’re avoiding or just my apartment?”

“What?” you scoffed, still typing. “I’ve just been— busy, Robby.”

“Hm…” he sighed, less than convinced.

You didn’t spare him a second glance — not then and not when you took Santos’ offer of happy hour and Friday night karaoke. The girl herself returns now to the cracked pleather booth in the corner of the dingy bar, where you sit with Mel and Whitaker, after butchering another Alanis Morrissette song. 

Her chest heaves with panted breaths under her black tank top, pale skin sticky with a thin layer of alcohol-induced sweat.

“Okay, what’s with the long faces over here?” Trinity jokes as she steals a room-temperature fry off your plate, talking through the mouthful. “I know you and Robby are fighting or whatever, but I just gave the performance of a lifetime up there.”

You slurp nosily at the remnants of your fruity drink and nearly choke on it at the accusation. “What?” you cough with the thin straw still in your mouth. “We aren’t— fighting. What are you talking about?”

“Oh, please,” Trinity scoffs and reaches for her beer. “You’re both been acting like a couple of… divorced parents at soccer practice.”

“Okay, I don’t even know what that means—”

“Playing nice in front of everyone as not to evoke suspicion, which inevitably turns the obvious tension between you from angry to sexually charged,” Mel rambles matter-of-factly. Her blonde hair sways around her jaw as she nods, left slightly crimped from her undone braid.

Your eyes flit to Whitaker then, who nods much more solemnly in agreement.

Your face burns red-hot in response. “Well— we’re not even, like, together or anything, so…”

“Mhm…” Santos hums with a knowing look that makes you shift uncomfortably in the booth. She takes another quick swig from the amber bottle in her hand before her gaze zeroes in on an unfortunate Whitaker. “C’mon, Huckleberry. You’re up.”

His light eyes widen, glassy with exhaustion and alcohol alike. “I’m… Up?”

“Yeah. You’re doing karaoke with me. Let’s go,” Trinity says as she slides once more off the weathered vinyl. She frowns when she rises and finds the boy still sitting in place. “Let’s go, I said! We gotta get back in line before the spots fill up—”

Whitaker scrambles to follow the girl towards the stage despite his better judgment. You use that as an excuse to get another drink, tugging the skirt of your dress further down your thighs as you go. You weave through the crowd of strangers and coworkers alike until you reach the sticky wooden counter. 

You lean your elbows against it and flash the bartender a kinda smile. “Can I get another aperol spritz, please?”

“Put that on my tab,” a familiar voice says from beside you.

Your head whips to find Jack sitting there, one chair down and nursing a sweaty amber bottle of cheap beer in his pale hand. He looks more relaxed now than you think you’ve ever seen him — camo pants baggy around his legs, black t-shirt untucked from the belt, warm around the edges from the alcohol.

You feel very suddenly overdressed in your form-fitting velveteen number and cross your arms over your chest to hide beneath the loose cardigan you wear over top of it. “Oh, you don’t have to do that—”

“I insist,” the older man smiles. “You deserve it after that canthotomy you did today. You were a real trooper.”

The bartender slides a cocktail glass across the wooden surface over to you. The orange liquid threatens to slosh over the thin rim. You give him a polite grin in return. “Thank you,” you tell the man, then grow considerably shier when you turn back to the attending sitting a stool down from you. “Thanks, Dr. Abbot.”

“Jack,” the older man corrects before bringing the lip of his bottle back up to his mouth.

“Jack,” you echo softly.

The man shifts on the hard stool, keeping his prosthetic limb stretched slightly ahead of him beneath the bar. A not quite silence settles between you then, filled by the buzzing bar all around you. Your eyes cut to the stage on the far side of the room, where Santos belts the lyrics to “You Oughta Know” and Whitaker stumbles over himself to get the foreign words out. 

“I think Shen is looking for a karaoke partner,” you quip, nodding your head towards the doctor standing by the stage and flipping through the binder of song choices there.

The dim overhead lighting turns Jack’s silver curls a softer golden shade when he turns his head to follow your gaze. He grimaces instantly at the thought. “Yeah, absolutely not.”

“Why?” you laugh softly, with the thin straw dancing against your mouth. “You scared?”

“Yes,” the man answers without a second thought. “And I’ve been shot at before— Today, even— And somehow karaoke still feels more terrifying.”

Your eyes squint in his direction, glittering with something foreign. “That’s a little dramatic, don’t ya think?”

“Eh. Maybe a little.”

You scoff and slide into the bar stool beside him. “You don’t strike me as someone who embarrasses easily, Dr. Abbot.”

“That’s because you only know me at work,” he quips halfway into his beer, before licking the amber sheen from his mouth. “Where I am equal parts competent and mysterious.”

“Mysterious?” you repeat skeptically.

“Mm,” Jack nods with narrowed eyes and a faint smile twitching the corner of his lip. “Very tortured, you know? Very brooding.”

“Ah, yes…” you sigh with alcohol glittering on your lips like gloss. “The very brooding, tortured doctor who makes dinosaur noises to win over scared children in pedes.”

Jack pauses mid-sip, pale eyes narrowing. “Well, this is new…” he hums.

Your stomach flips at the way he’s looking at you. Heat crawls instantly up your neck. You feel very suddenly suffocated by the heavy cardigan on your shoulders. “…What is?”

“I don’t know,” he answers with a lazy shrug, though his heavy eyes dart once down your form and up again. You don’t realize, until then, that this is his first time seeing you in anything other than your dark black scrubs. “You… Flirting with me.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, if only to dispel the anxiety clawing at your chest. “Flirting? Is that what this is?” 

“Hey— You’re the one who called me mysterious.”

“Actually, I was clarifying if you thought you were mysterious.”

“Still counts.”

“Does it?” you squint.

Jack smirks behind the lip of the beer bottle against his mouth. His adam’s apple bobs with a short sip before he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You know… For a while there, I thought you hated me… Considering you never talked to me unless you had to.”

“You work nights, Jack— I don’t talk to you because I see you for, maybe, twenty minutes out of my day,” you scoff, and don’t realize you’ve called him by his first name until his eyes glimmer with amusement. You turn away with a shake of your head as your face burns, bringing the straw back up to your mouth. “Though, I’d be lying if I said it didn’t consider it…”

“Oh, really?” Jack hums with raised brows. “What’s the verdict now, then, huh?”

You let your gaze drag over him deliberately as you ponder the question, biting at the straw between your teeth. You scan over his toned biceps, his lean stomach caged beneath his form-fitting tee, and his spread thighs that make your head spin, before meeting his eyes once more. 

“Now,” you hum sweetly, “I think I’m starting to understand the appeal…”

Jack stares at you for a long moment before he lets out a low, disbelieving laugh. The lamplight shines in his greying curls as he shakes his head. “Yeah? And how does Robby feel about that?”

Your eyes harden in an instant.

Jack raises a free hand in surrender. “Hey, I’m just sayin’— He looks like he wants to put his fist through a wall any time another attending talks to you for more than thirty seconds.”

Your chest tightens unexpectedly. You swallow hard to fight the strangling feeling — of Robby, and of his laughter in the supply closet — as you shrug a lazy shoulder in response. You don’t bother to lift your cardigan when it slips softly down your arm.

“It’s casual,” you tell him.

Jack studies you for a long moment. The corner of his mouth curls into a slow half-smile, and you feel your heart stuttering behind your ribcage. 

“Casual, huh?” he hums and brings his bottle back up to his mouth. “Interesting…”

Morning arrives slowly through the veiled curtains of the quiet bedroom, where pale golden light cuts softly over hardwood floors and rumpled sheets. You rouse gradually, cocooned beneath strangely heavy blankets that smell differently from your own back home — like unfamiliar detergent, cedarwood, and musky cologne. 

For a blissful wink of a moment, you don’t remember where you are. Not until you stretch your tired limbs and brush a scruffy leg with your foot, anyway.

Your breath catches. Your heavy eyes snap open. Your body prickles with heat as flashes from the night before return to you at once — of the walk home from the bar, of Jack’s laugh against your throat, of his stubble scraping your skin, of the teasing murmur in his velvety voice as he told you to cum for him.

Your thighs clench together at the memory, while a lingering ache pulses pleasantly low in the pit of your stomach.

You lift your head from the pillow and inhale sharply through your nose as your eyes scan the foreign bedroom, which you had been too busy to do the night before. 

There’s an expensive-looking record player in one corner, sat beside a crate of well-loved vinyls. There’s a bookshelf lining the far wall — cluttered with medical textbooks, old paperbacks, and framed photos from his military days. His camo bag, etched with his name, slouches by the entrance, and over the foot of the bed, you can see his prosthetic limb lying beside your shoes.

Other than that, it’s strikingly empty, with very little decoration on the wall or bedside tables. It makes sense, you figure, for a man who is working far more than he isn’t.

Your head turns in the opposite direction to find Jack sleeping soundly just beside you. The gentle rays of morning light brush over the canvas of his bare back, turning his freckles there a deeper shade of golden brown. He’s got one arm shoved beneath the pillow he folds into his cheek and the other lying loose across the mattress — from where your waist must’ve been before you slithered out from underneath it.

Your chest pinches at the sight of him. With pride, maybe, at having conquered him. And with a pang of white-hot guilt that twists when your mind inevitably drifts to Robby.

You slide out of bed, careful not to let the mattress give too much beneath your weight. You grimace when the fabric of your t-shirt twists uncomfortably around your form, only to find that you’re wearing Jack’s shirt, which had seemingly been given to you at some point last night. It falls over your thighs when you stand, bare feet padding as you gather your discarded clothes.

You bend down to drag your underwear back up your thighs and wince when your head throbs from last night’s cheap cocktails. With your dress and knit cardigan balled in your arm, you toe your shoes back on. Your breath hitches when the mattress shifts with a soft creak.

Jack squints when he raises his wild head. His mouth twitches when he finds you at the foot of the mattress. “Y’know…” he rasps, voice rough with sleep. “I’m at least grateful you’re not robbing me before sneaking out. That’s very courteous of you.”

“I’m not sneaking,” you scoff. “I just… didn’t want to wake you.”

The man inhales sharply as he twists onto his back, charcoal sheets tangling around his waist. You force yourself to look away from his lean stomach and the red claw marks you left on his scruffy chest when he stretches his toned arms above his head. 

“That’s sweet,” he says with a wince. “But unfortunately, I wake up if somebody breathes wrong in the next room.”

You exhale a soft laugh. 

Jack’s eyes soften around the edges at the sound of it. “You workin’  today?”

“Yep, in about…” Your eyes flit to the alarm clock on his nightstand. “Half an hour.”

“Brutal,” he scoffs.

“You’re fault.”

“Don’t say that like you didn’t have a good time,” he teases with narrowed eyes, then softens slightly when you turn away. You fumble with the stubborn back of your shoe, and his chest twists at your silence. “Do you… Do you regret it?”

“No,” you answer instantly.

“Good,” he hums, relaxing visibly once more into the sheets. “Me neither.”

Your stomach blooms with warmth. You shift awkwardly on your feet before him, even still. “So, uh… What— What now?”

“Well, feel free to use my shower, if you want—”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you insist gently, then add, more sheepishly. “But I will be using your shower, actually, thank you…”

Jack inhales deeply, considering. “Well,” he starts carefully, “I like you. Obviously.”

Your pulse rushes like a teenage girl.

“But,” he continues, as relief and disappointment tangle in your chest all at once. “I also know that neither of us is in the right spot for a relationship right now…”

“So… Casual?” you offer lightly, mouth lifted in a tired smile.

“Casual,” Jack agrees with a firm nod and glassy eyes.

You wear the night before all over, despite your desperate attempts to hide it.

Robby notices it the moment he sees you — how relaxed you are, how happy you seem to be. Whatever had been plaguing you before is now long gone, and that alone should be enough to comfort him. But still, he can’t shake the feeling that someone had gotten rid of all the aching for you — fucked it out of you the way only he could.

“You’re in a good mood today,” he observes while signing off on the chart you’d given him.

“Am I?” you hum.

“Yeah,” he nods, clicking his pen with his thumb. He glances at you over the top of his glasses before averting his gaze once more. “What’d you get up to last night, huh?”

“Nothing,” you shrug. “Other than watching Santos butcher Alanis Morrissette’s discography at karaoke… Maybe I just slept well.”

“You usually only do that at my place.”

Your brows furrow when he passes the clipboard back to you. “I’m sorry— Are you accusing me of something, Dr. Robby?”

His mouth opens to respond — to tell you that he can smell the foreign body wash on your skin, far muskier than the delicate sweet-vanilla he’s used to. But the automatic doors across the station swish open and shut before he can. 

Jack enters with his camo pack slung over his shoulder and brings a cool evening breeze in with him. Robby can’t help but notice how your eyes find each other’s almost instantly, clicking like magnets and lingering together like there’s a secret that only the two of you know about. His stomach swirls with jealousy.

“Look alive, degenerates,” Jack announces in lieu of a greeting, then quiets slightly when he reaches your side. “What’d I miss?”

“I was just briefing Robby on last night at karaoke,” you answer with a polite smile. “And how I will never be able to listen to Alanis Morissette after Santos’ crimes last night—”

“Fuuuck you,” Trinity drags out from the desk beside you, still sluggish from the long day and the hangover that won’t seem to leave her.

“Don’t drag me into this,” Jack quips. “I took an oath as a physician to do no harm.”

You exhale a quiet laugh. The man’s eyes soften around the edges, as though pleased at having earned the sound, before walking off towards the locker room. He leaves a trail of musky cedarwood as he goes, and Robby’s heart drops when he finally places the scent — the one he’s been smelling on you all day. 

The realization hit him like a truck.

His expression darkens instantly when he turns back to you.

“Supply closet,” he mutters lowly as he walks past you. “Now.”

Your stomach drops at his tone. He takes all the remaining breath from your lungs with him as he goes. Your chest stings accordingly — with a surge of pride at his jealousy, and with a pang of distant regret at his hurt. You follow behind him down the long hallway to the supply closet like a scolded child. He barely waits for the door to click shut behind him before rounding on you.

“You slept with him?” he shouts, eyes wide and wild.

You cross your arms tight over your chest, with your head tilted inquisitively to your shoulder. “Aren’t you the one who said I could see whoever I want?”

“Yeah, I meant random assholes at the bar,” he snaps. “Not my best fucking friend!”

An incredulous laugh sputters from your lips. “Oh, so now we have rules? What happened to just being casual, huh? If you can flirt with your coworkers, why can’t I?”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow as he takes a slow step towards you. You catch a faint upward flicker of his mouth as he asks, “So that’s why you did it, huh? You just wanted to piss me off?”

Your anger spikes instantly. You feel it prickling red-hot beneath your scrubs. Because he’s an arrogant asshole, maybe, or maybe because a distant part of you knows that he’s right.

“No, actually,” you tell him anyway. “Because not everything’s about you, Robby. I did it because Jack wanted me. Because he didn’t treat me like I was just another one of his dirty secrets—”

“Yeah, alright,” Robby scoffs a breathy laugh and turns away, running a pale hand through his chopped brown hair.

“Because being with him made me feel good—”

“I said alright!” 

“Aw, what’s wrong, Robby?” you coo, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Does it bother you that somebody else wanted me?”

Robby exhales another one of his stupid laughs.

Your chest swells with a burning feeling that makes you feel like crying. “Why is it so hard to admit that you care about me?”

“I care about you! Of course, I fucking care about you!” he exclaims, red in the face. “Because I’ve spent months trying not to screw this up.”

“Oh, please,” you roll your eyes. “Says the man who practically shoved me into someone else’s bed.”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Robby squints.

“Do what?”

“Act like this is what I wanted—”

The words die in his throat when the silver knob to the closet door clicks suddenly behind him. The hinges open with a quiet squeak a second later. Your heads whip in sync to find Santos in the threshold, rubbing at her tired eyes as she steps into the room. She doesn’t realize the two of you are in there until the door shuts behind her again. 

Her wide eyes dart back and forth between the two of you for a moment. “…Why does it feel like I just walked into a hostage situation?” she quips in a monotone.

“Now you know how I felt last night,” you joke back weakly.

She flips you off and walks further inside. Neither of you says a word as she retrieves a case of saline flushes and four-by-fours from the shelves. The plastic crinkles loudly in the silence. 

“Please. Feel free to continue,” Santos deadpans as she leaves. “I definitely won’t be listening with my ear pressed against the door.”

The entrance shuts behind her with a dull click that sounds much louder in the quiet. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as Robby pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger. When he lifts his head against, his eyes zero in on you. 

“We’ll finish this when we get home,” he tells you, firmly.

“Can’t tonight,” you shrug, lying through your teeth. “I have plans.”

“Yeah, not anymore, you don’t.”

Your stomach does a back flip at his words, at his very sudden act of dominance that makes you feel like melting into a puddle at his feet. And judging by the newfound glint in Robby’s dark eyes, he notices it, too.

You couldn’t hide from him if you tried.

Ever since you were a little girl, you knew this was what you wanted, to spend your life helping people in the ways that mattered most. Nothing else ever came close to the satisfaction of knowing you’d made a real difference, even if it was just for one person on one impossible day.

Working as a social worker at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center has shown you the rawest edges of humanity. Abused kids, elderly patients with no one to hold their hand when the doctor delivered bad news, addicts fighting for one more chance while the world keeps telling them they’ve run out. You’d been there almost a year now, long enough to have learned the rhythms of the place, but it wasn’t perfect. Some nights, the weight on your shoulders was too much to carry alone. When a kid you thought was safe got pulled back into the same house, when an addict relapsed and the look in their eyes said they had already given up, when you left a room and realized you were crying in the stairwell without even noticing.

Your office was tucked away in a quiet corner of the administrative floor, a small room crammed with files and silence, so much different from the noise and chaos of the ED. But lately, your sanctuary had been invaded, not unpleasantly, but persistently, by Robby.

You first noticed him about a month ago, during a particularly grueling case involving a young mother who'd been in a car accident. You'd been called in to assess her family's needs, and there he was, scrubbing out after stabilizing her, his scrubs splattered with blood. "Tough one," he'd said, nodding at you as you passed in the hall. "You holding up? I know you’re new here. It can take some time to get used to." It was casual, but there was something warm in his voice… something you couldn’t shake off.

Since then, it'd escalated. Subtly at first, he'd bump into you in the cafeteria, offering to grab your tray. "Let me get that for you," he'd say with that lopsided grin, brushing his hand against yours just a second too long. Then came the coffees, the first time, it was a surprise on your desk, a steaming latte from the hospital's overpriced kiosk, with a sticky note: "Fuel after a long day. -Robby." It slowly became a pattern. Every few days, another coffee, sometimes with a muffin or an oatmeal cookie. "Thought you might need a pick-me-up," he'd say if he caught you in person, leaning against your doorframe like he had all the time in the world.

You weren’t naive. You knew exactly how men worked. You could read Robby’s flirting as clearly as a neon sign: the way his gaze lingered a beat too long when you passed in the corridor, his voice when he asked about your weekend like he actually cared what you’d done, the easy smile he flashed when he shared some absurd story from the ED that always made you laugh before you could stop yourself.

Every time he locked eyes with you, you felt that familiar flutter in your stomach. The dangerous kind. The one that whispered this could be trouble, while your pulse kicked up anyway. Because Robby’s reputation wasn’t just gossip, it was more like a well-documented pattern. You’d overheard all about his brief hospital romances with nurses, residents, and the occasional admin, who’d all fallen for the same things, his charm, his attentiveness. Until the moment things edged toward anything real… anything that required staying, vulnerability, effort, then poof: Robby was gone. Vanished into long shifts, vague excuses, and polite distance, leaving the other person to pick up the pieces and pretend it hadn’t stung.

So it didn’t matter that he was exactly your type: a little older, tall enough that you had to tilt your head to meet his eyes, that beard framing a jaw you’d caught yourself staring at more than once, kind eyes with wrinkles at the corners when he laughed, and a sharp mind. He could be funny, thoughtful, devastatingly good at his job. None of it changed the math.

You were done with flings. Done with hookups that left you hollow. Done with anything that came with an expiration date. You’d spent too many nights replaying conversations, wondering where you went wrong, promising yourself next time you’d be smarter. You weren’t going back.

Robby could flirt all he wanted. He could keep showing up with your favorite coffee and those stupid blueberry muffins he pretended he “just happened to grab.” He could lean against the nurses’ station and talk to you like you were the only thing worth his attention in the middle of a fifteen-hour shift.

But you weren’t going to let him charm his way past your walls just to discard you at week seven like everyone else. You’d built those walls for a reason. And this time, they were staying up.

One day, you found yourself buried in paperwork when you heard the knock. You looked up, and there he was, framed in your doorway, holding two coffees. He was in his navy-blue scrubs, a stethoscope draped around his neck, a hint of vulnerability in the smile he offered you that made your resolve waver.

"Hey," he said, stepping in without waiting for an invitation. "Figured you could use this. Double shot, no sugar, right?" He set one cup on your desk, grazing his fingers on the edge of your keyboard as he did. Up close, you could smell his cologne, and it made you want to bury your face in his neck.

You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms to create some distance. "Robby, you don't have to keep doing this." Your voice was steady, but inside, your heart was doing that annoying skip it always did around him.

He perched on the edge of your desk, ignoring the stack of files he was displacing. "What, bring coffee to my favorite person in this building? It's no trouble." His eyes sparkled with that playful mischief, and he tilted his head, studying you. "Besides, it gives me an excuse to see you. How's your day going? Has Gloria come and annoyed you with her bureaucratic nonsense already?"

You couldn’t help but chuckle, despite yourself. He was good at this, disarming you with humor, making the conversation flow like it was the most natural thing. You told him about the elderly patient you were advocating for, the one whose insurance was denying coverage for rehab. He listened intently, nodding, offering insights from the medical side. It was easy talking to him, he got the grind of hospital life with more compassion than most doctors showed.

But as the chat stretched on, you felt the way his gaze lingered on your lips when you spoke, the subtle compliments woven in. "You're amazing at what you do," he said softly. "Don’t know how we managed to get by before you." His hand reached out, almost touching your arm, but he pulled back at the last second, as if sensing your hesitation.

You've been here before, not with him, but with men like him. Now, all you were craving was something real. You wanted stability, commitment, a partner who sticks around when the novelty wears off. And Robby? From what you'd heard, he was the opposite.

Every time he got too close to you, you remembered the nurses talking: “He's dated a resident, nurses, oh, and that radiology tech too. He pulls away when things get serious. That man is really damaged”. "Seven weeks," one of them confided over lunch last month. "That's his record. Gets bored, or scared, who knows. But he's the type of man you should run from."

You decided it was time. No more dancing around it. "Robby," you said, your tone shifting to one firmer. He straightened, sensing the change. "You're really sweet. The coffees, the chats... It's nice. You’re nice."

He smiled, but it was cautious now. "But...?"

"But I've heard what people say about you." You met his eyes directly, not accusatory, just honest.

He smiled, arching his brows with both curiosity and amusement. “Ah, good things only, I presume.”

You sighed, leaning forward. “You have a reputation when it comes to women, Robby.”

His brow furrowed harder, and he set his coffee down, crossing his arms defensively. "Reputation? You’re making it sound a little dramatic. I don’t have a reputation, come on."

“I’ve heard about the seven-week curse,” you said without preamble, no sugarcoating the truth.

Robby choked mid-sip, the coffee going down the wrong pipe. He coughed hard, his eyes watering as he thumped his chest like he was trying to dislodge a lung. “Seven-week curse?” he wheezed, half-laughing and a little-horrified. “What the hell am I, some kind of demonic entity?” He gestured wildly with both hands, his palms up, eyebrows shooting toward his hairline in exaggerated disbelief. “Jesus. Is that really what people are saying about me?”

"I know you've dated other people here at the hospital. A few, actually. And from what I've heard, you don't stick around. Things get too serious, and you're out. You’ve never lasted more than seven weeks with any of them."

He winced, rubbing the back of his neck, a telltale sign he was uncomfortable. For a moment, he looked vulnerable. "Whoa, okay. That's... I’m sure it had to be more than seven at least once." He narrowed his eyes, as if he was thinking deeply about it. “Are you sure they said seven?”

“That’s what they said.”

“I must sound like a douchebag.”

“You do. You’re like Leo DiCaprio when his girlfriends turn twenty-five,” you said flatly.

He frowned, clearly lost. “Yeah… I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“He dumps them and moves on to the next,” you explained. “You’re the same, except you do it when the relationship hits seven weeks.”

Robby scoffed, getting a bit defensive already. “You make it sound like it’s a pattern. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” He paused, then added, thinking it over, “And I’m pretty sure one of them lasted eight weeks… ish.”

He paused, like he was trying to read the verdict before you delivered it. “Look, I know exactly how that makes me sound. I don’t have a strong case here, and I’m not gonna pretend I do. But for what it’s worth… that was before. I’m a different man now.” You couldn’t help it, a mocking snort escaped you. “No, no, don’t laugh, I’m serious! The sabbatical really changed me. Three months away from this place, I’m not the same man I was.”

You raised an eyebrow, your skepticism kept creeping in. "A new man? If I got a dime for every time I’ve heard guys saying that, then I wouldn’t be working here."

He slid off the desk, stepping closer, his presence filling the small office. "I've been thinking a lot lately. About what I want. I see you, and... you're different. I don’t see you as just... a distraction from my life. I want to try something real this time."

His words hang in the air, and they sounded so tempting. Part of you wanted to believe him, the part that had enjoyed his relentless attention, the butterflies when he smiled at you. You imagined it: dates outside the hospital, lazy mornings, building something solid. But the wiser part, the one scarred from past disappointments, held back.

You stood up, creating space, pacing to the window. "Robby, I appreciate all you do. I do. But at this point in my life..." You turned to face him. "I'm tired of one-night stands, of no-strings-attached flings that go nowhere. I've done that, hookups after bad days, situationships with guys who are not willing to commit. I want something solid, shared dreams, someone who won't bail when it gets hard. And honestly? From everything I know about you, you're just not it."

He stared at you, opening his mouth and then closing it like the words were slipping through his lips before he could catch them. “Wait—that’s not fair,” he finally managed. “You can’t judge me on rumors and hallway gossip. Let me take you out. Just once. Get your own idea of me.”

You shook your head, unyielding. "It's not about one date. It's about patterns. I've seen too many people get hurt chasing the 'new man' version of someone. And I can't afford that anymore.” You paused, “I’m sure there are plenty of impressionable, young residents and nurses in this hospital who’d jump at the chance for something casual with the hotshot attending. You’d have no shortage of takers.”

“There might be,” he admitted before he caught the sharp arch of your brow. He exhaled through his nose, recalibrating. “But none of them are you.”

“You’re a manwhore, Robby,” you said without preamble. “And I don’t do men who can’t commit.”

“Manwhore? You— I’m not—”

“And if you want my opinion,” you cut in before he could scramble together an excuse, “you’re a little old to still be acting like a fuckboy with commitment issues.”

“I’m not that old.”

“You’re what—fifty?” you asked, arching a brow.

“Ish,” he said, rolling his eyes and making a vague gesture with his hand. Then, smirking, he added, “Have I ever told you how much I love it when you put me in my place?”

You chuckled, and for a second, the air between you felt too charged. “I’m sorry, Robby. At some other point in my life, I would’ve said yes. I would’ve let you take me out, let you charm me, let you break my heart. But I’m not that person anymore.”

The silence stretched. Robby's face fell, the charm giving way to something that looked just like disappointment, maybe even hurt. He nodded slowly, stepping back toward the door. "Okay. I get it. But for what it's worth... I think we could've been good together." He picked up his coffee and gave you one last look. "Take care of yourself."

He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him, louder than it should have been in the quiet office. Maybe he was right. Maybe he had changed… maybe the man who just looked at you with unguarded eyes wasn’t the same one who used to disappear when things got real. But you’d been burned before, and you were not willing to gamble your heart on “maybe” anymore. 

You threw yourself into the chaos to drown out the echo of his voice. Every time you stepped into the main emergency bay, your gaze flicked involuntarily toward the trauma bays, the hallway, the nurses’ station, half-expecting to catch him leaning against the counter, with a crooked grin as he tossed out some flirty line just to watch you roll your eyes. But he wasn’t there. 

The week that followed felt strangely hollow. Robby didn’t hide. He didn’t avoid you. He was there, same shifts, same corridors, but he’d dialed himself back to something painfully professional. A polite nod in passing. A clipped “good work”. Eyes that met yours for exactly the appropriate second before sliding away. He was respectful and controlled. Too controlled.

You should’ve felt relieved. You’d told him you wanted boundaries, and he was giving them to you. He was doing exactly what you’d asked. So why did it sting? Some small, traitorous part of you missed the game, the way he used to lean too close when no one was looking, the teasing drawl of your name, the hum that crackled between you every time your shoulders brushed in the hallway. The mouse-and-cat chase that made the long shifts bearable, that made you feel seen. 

You missed the heat of it. The stupid, addictive thrill of knowing he wanted you.

Two weeks later,  the rain was coming down in sheets, turning the hospital parking lot into a glossy black mirror under the glow of the streetlights. Your shift had stretched with consultations with a suicidal teen, a battered spouse reluctant to press charges, and an overdose case that required hours of coordination with rehab facilities. Your muscles ached, and all you wanted was to collapse into your bed after a hot shower.

You pushed through the employee exit, you'd forgotten your umbrella again in the rush of the day, and now you were regretting it as fat drops pelted your shirt and hair. Cursing under your breath, you hunched your shoulders and made a dash for your car, parked in the far corner of the lot because the closer spots were already taken.

"Hey! Wait up!" The voice cut through the downpour. You turned, squinting against the rain, and there he was. Robby, jogging toward you with an oversized black umbrella clutched in one hand. His hair was plastered to his forehead, but that grin, God, that irrepressible grin, was still there, lighting up his face like he hadn't just pulled a 15-hour shift in the pitt.

"Robby? What are you—" You started, but he cut you off by stepping close, angling the umbrella to shield you both. The sudden proximity sent a jolt through you. He was only inches away, and you could feel the warmth of his body next to yours.

"Come on, let me walk you," he said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. "It's pouring out here. You'll get soaked."

You hesitated, it'd been two weeks since that awkward conversation in your office, and true to his word, he'd stepped back. No more overt flirting, but small gestures: a quick "How's it going?" during rounds, even stepping in once to vouch for a patient's social services needs in a meeting. It was like he was proving himself without pushing, giving you space while still being present. But now, here he was, holding his umbrella in, looking at you with those eyes that seemed to see right through your defenses.

"Fine," you stepped under the umbrella's canopy. It wasn’t big enough for two without being close, your shoulder brushed his arm, and you felt the solid muscle beneath his scrubs. "Thanks."

You walked in silence at first. "Long night," he said finally, breaking the quiet. "I saw you with that OD case earlier. You handled it well, got the family on board without a fight. Not easy."

You glanced at him sideways, surprised he noticed. "Yeah, it was rough. Kid's only 16. Parents in denial. But that's the job, right? Patch 'em up, send 'em out, hope they make it."

He nodded, his expression turning somehow thoughtful. "We do what we can. Day after day."

You reached your car, fishing for your keys in your pocket. The rain had eased a bit, but droplets still cascaded off the edges of the umbrella. You clicked the unlock button, and the headlights flashed in response. "Well, this is me. Thanks for the escort, Robby. I appreciate it."

He didn’t move, though, holding the umbrella steady over you as you opened the door. His free hand rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you'd come to recognize. "Hey, wait. Can we talk? Just for a minute?"

You paused before getting inside the car. "Robby..."

"I know," he said quickly, anticipating your protest. "I know what you said before. About my so-called… reputation, about not wanting something casual. And I've been trying to respect that, giving you space. But... come on. Give me a chance to prove I'm right. That I can be different from what you’ve heard."

His eyes were earnest, pleading almost, and in the dim light, he looked younger, more vulnerable. Water beaded on his lashes, and his breath fogged slightly in the cold air. You'd heard this before, but Robby's persistence felt different, or maybe you were just tired enough to want to believe it.

“I might’ve been a little… uncommitted before,” Robby said quietly,  like he was forcing the words out. “But I’m not a bad guy.”

You looked at him, even if doing so felt like daggers sinking in your chest. “I’m not saying you are, Robby. I just… I think we want different things.”

He leaned forward slightly. “What do we want, then?” His tone was careful, almost daring you to say it.

You exhaled, the sound coming out small and tired. “I want something real. Something with a future. I want stability, a routine. Someone who stays when shit gets hard. I want the boring parts too. The grocery runs, the quiet mornings. I want to build something.” You paused, searching his face. “And you… I think you want something you can use to run from whatever’s eating at you. A distraction. A good fuck. A way to feel alive for a few hours before you disappear back into your own head.”

He blinked, his eyes widening for a split second before he tilted his head to the right, a shocked little laugh escaping him, full of disbelief and admiration. “Oh-ho, you’re good at this.”

You couldn’t help it, a reluctant laugh bubbled up too, breaking the heaviness for just a moment. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. We’re incompatible. You’re a master at deflection, and I’m… I’m tired of being someone’s escape hatch.” You shook your head. “I don’t want to waste seven weeks of my life on something that’s just going to end when you decide it’s too real. I’d rather walk away now than wake up in week six hating myself for hoping.”

He leaned against the doorframe, the umbrella still sheltering you both. "Look, I get why you're skeptical. My track record sucks, I own that. Seven weeks? Yeah, that's probably accurate. But I can't stop thinking about you." He shifted closer. "One date. That's all. Let me show you."

The words hang there, tempting. Your resolve wavered, maybe it was because of the rain, maybe the exhaustion, or the way his presence felt like a warm anchor in the storm. You'd been single for over a year, focusing on work, on yourself. But the loneliness crept in on nights like this, and Robby was offering a glimmer of possibility.

"Fine," you said the word escaping your lips before you could overthink it. "I'll go out with you."

His face lit up, that grin breaking through like sunshine in the middle of the storm. "Why do I feel like there’s a “but” coming?"

"But," you interrupted, holding up a hand. "There's a condition."

He tilted his head, curious. "Of course there is."

"No sex. Not until we've been dating for at least seven weeks."

He blinked, stunned, the umbrella dipping slightly as his grip loosened. "What? Sorry I.. I don’t think I heard you right, with the rain and the cars passing by."

You crossed your arms, trying not to laugh at the confusion etching his features. "No sex, Robby. Seven is your magic number, right? The point where you usually run. If we hold off on the physical stuff, then you’ll be forced to have something real with me. No using me as a distraction, no running away from your problems, no rushing into bed to avoid dealing with emotions. You’ll get the chance to prove if you're serious or if this is just another fling."

He stared at you, processing what you’d just said. For a moment, you thought he might back out, but then he chuckled. "Seven weeks, huh."

"Is it a deal-breaker?" you asked, arching an eyebrow, though your heart pounded waiting for his answer.

He met your gaze, and somehow, he managed to look smug even now. "Oh, please, I could do fourteen weeks." 

“Fourteen?” You bit your lower lip, noticing the way his eyes moved there, full of want.

“Easily. But I’ll settle for seven, I don’t wanna make it too hard for you.” He extended his hand through the open door, and you shook it. The touch lingered a second too long before he pulled back. “We have a deal.”

"Okay, then," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. "When do we start?"

"I’m free this Friday. Pick you up at seven? Dinner, maybe a walk after if you’re up for it."

You nodded, sitting in the driver’s seat, closing the door but rolling down the window. "Friday it is. Don't be late."

He stepped back as you started the engine, folding the umbrella now that the rain had slowed to a drizzle. "Wouldn't dream of it." 

You drove off, watching him in the rearview mirror as he stood there, hands in his pockets, with a stupid smile painted on his face. The wipers swoop rhythmically across the windshield, clearing the view, and you wondered if you'd just made a huge mistake or the best decision of your life. Seven weeks. It sounded simple, but you knew it'd be anything but. 

The days leading up to Friday crawled by in a blur of hospital work. A multi-car pileup flooded the ER, keeping Robby buried in work while you worked in the aftermath, grieving families, insurance nightmares, and child custody issues for orphaned kids. You crossed paths a few times: once in the elevator, where he flashed a quick smile and said, "Still on for Friday?" You nodded, and he winked before the doors opened. 

By Friday evening, your stupid nerves had you second-guessing everything: the dress (too much? too little?), the way you laughed too loud at his last text, whether this whole thing was going to crash and burn the second you both made it to week seven. You were pacing your apartment when the doorbell rang at exactly seven. Not a minute early, not a minute late. 

You opened the door, and the air left your lungs. He was standing there looking unfairly handsome, holding a generous bouquet of tulips. “For you,” he said, with a small crooked smile that made your stomach flip.

The date was… easy. Stupidly, disarmingly easy. He took you to a quiet place. The food was perfect, but it wasn’t the food that made the date perfect. The conversation flowed naturally, from work stories to childhood memories and favorite movies. He listened, really listened. Robby kept his eyes on yours, no phone, no glancing around the room, no interrupting to one-up you. When you talked, he leaned in just a fraction, like he was afraid he’d miss a single word. 

Every now and then, his knee brushed yours under the table, and each time the contact sent a spark up your spine. When you laughed, really laughed, at something he said, he dropped his gaze to your mouth for half a second before he caught himself and looked away, flexing his jaw like he was trying not to do something reckless.

By the time the check came, you were warm from the wine and warmer from the way he was looking at you, like you were the only person in the room, maybe the only one who’d ever mattered.

After dinner, you walked along the riverfront, and he slipped his jacket over your shoulders when you shivered. "So," he said eventually, stopping at a bench. "We’re really doing this… seven-week ban."

“Yep," you replied, sitting beside him. The jacket smelled like him, and it comforted you. "Does it feel weird? Not drawing your sorrows in meaningless sex?"

Robby let out a low, genuine laugh that rumbled through his chest. “Oh, my sorrows keep getting bigger every day. And you’re not helping me.” He dragged his gaze over you deliberately, taking in the way your simple black dress clung to every curve like it was painted on, hugging the dip of your waist, the swell of your hips, the soft line of your thighs. “You put that thing on just to punish me. Don’t even try to deny it.”

You felt the heat crawling up your neck despite yourself. “It’s just a dress.”

“It’s a weapon,” his eyes kept roaming like he was memorizing you for later. Then his expression softened, just a fraction. “And just so you know, the sex wouldn’t be meaningless with you. Not even close. It would be… very, very meaningful.”

A small chuckle escaped your mouth, and you half-hearted swat at his arm. “Don’t try to seduce me. It’s not gonna work.”

He caught your wrist gently before you could pull away, brushing his thumb over your pulse point. A beat of charged silence stretched between you, then he shifted, leaning back on his hands, trying to look casual even though the tension was rolling off him.

“Okay. We should probably establish some ground rules. Before I lose what little self-control I’ve got left.”

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling too wide. “Ground rules. Very mature of you.”

He shot you a half-amused look. “Kissing?”

You let the smile break free. “Allowed.”

Robby nodded once, like he was filing it away. “Second base?”

You tilted your head, considering, letting him sweat for a second. “We’ll see.”

His eyes darkened, and he exhaled through his nose. “Third base?”

“You’re pushing it, Robinavitch.”

He leaned in just a fraction. “I’m really good at third base.”

The confidence in it, cocky but earned, sent a fresh pulse of heat straight between your legs. You arched a brow, holding his gaze without flinching. “Then prove it. But after week seven.”

He stared at you for a long moment, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting a grin and losing. Finally, he nodded. “Week seven,” he leaned in just enough that your breaths mingled, but he didn’t kiss you. "I will."

When he walked you to your door afterward, he didn’t try for a kiss either. He just brushed a strand of hair off your face, grazing his thumb over your cheekbone for half a second, and said, “I had a really good time. Let’s do this again next week.”

After that, the rhythm established itself naturally. Every week, like clockwork, you found time. Sometimes it was a proper date: drinks at some bar near the shore with the city skyline glittering across the river, a late-night showing of some old film at a cinema where you shared popcorn and your knees kept touching the entire time. Other times, it was quieter, just takeout at your place after a brutal shift, tangling your feet under the coffee table while you binge-watched a crime documentary and argued about who the killer was. One time, he showed up at your apartment with grocery bags, insisting he was going to cook for you. He burned the vegetables and cursed under his breath, but the meal turned out surprisingly decent, and you ate it straight from the pan standing at the counter, chatting and laughing until your sides hurt.

You learned things about him in fragments: the foods he hated, the summers at his grandma’s house when he was just a child, and why he got into this job in the first place.

You noticed how, when he was anxious, he’d apply hand sanitizer and rub his palms together a little too long, to keep his emotions at bay whenever they threatened to spill over, like a tiny unconscious tic. Or how he was terrible at texting back quickly, but when he did, the messages were thoughtful, never one-word replies.

You opened up with him things, too. Told him about messy exes who’d left you shattered. Why you became a social worker after a rough childhood. How you check your phone every night before bed, terrified you’ll miss a call about a patient in crisis. 

The third date was different. It was a Saturday, and you met him at a park. He was already there when you arrived, leaning against a tree in a dark green jacket, two coffees in hand. You walked the trails for hours, talking about everything and nothing. When the sun started to dip, he stopped on a small wooden bridge over a creek. You were both quiet for a moment, just listening to the water.

He turned to you, looking at you with those soft eyes you couldn’t say no to. “Can I kiss you?”

Your heart tripped over itself. You nodded. The first kiss was slow and careful, like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth. He cupped the back of your neck, stroking the soft skin behind your ear with his thumb. When you finally pulled back, resting your foreheads together, he exhaled a shaky laugh.

“Been thinking about that since the day I met you.”

You smiled against his lips. “Good things come to those who wait.”

After that, kissing became part of the routine. Quick ones in the hospital corridors when no one was looking. Longer ones on your couch when a movie neither of you was watching faded into background noise. Stolen ones in the elevator when you were both going down to the cafeteria at the same time.

By week five, the tension was a living thing between you. It was a Thursday night. His place this time. He was off tomorrow, you had a rare three-day stretch, so you’d decided to cook together. 

Dinner was eaten at the small table by the window, and afterward, you migrated to the couch. You were curled against his side, his arm around your shoulders, tracing patterns on your upper arm.

It started sweet and innocent, nothing more than a soft kiss. Then another, hungrier, deeper. Robby slid his hot tongue against yours, and you shifted without thinking, turning fully into him. He splayed his hand across your waist, digging his fingers in possessively as he yanked you closer until your chest was pressed flush against his.

Before you could catch your breath, you were swinging a leg over, straddling his lap, sinking your knees into the couch on either side of his hips. The thick, rock-hard outline of his cock strained against his cargo pants, pressing right up against your clothed cunt. You rolled your hips once, then again, grinding down harder, feeling every inch of him twitch and throb beneath you.

A low groan rumbled from his throat straight into your mouth, vibrating through you. He shoved his palm under your shirt, sliding up your bare back as he gripped you tighter, urging you to keep moving.

“Fuck,” he rasped, dropping his head back against the couch as he jerked his hips up instinctively to meet your next grind. “You’re gonna make me lose it, baby… you’re driving me insane.”

You ground down again, rolling your hips in a filthy drag that let you feel every ridge of his cock. He clamped his fingers down hard on your hips, bruising in the best way, guiding you into a lazy rhythm, making you ride the fat length of him like you were already fucking. 

Robby latched his mouth onto the tender skin of your throat, sucking softly at first, then harder, grazing his teeth until he’d left marks on your skin.

“You’re torturing me,” he sounded wrecked against your collarbone. “Every time I see you, all I can think about is this. You on me. Under me. Bent over every surface in this house. Fuck, just… everywhere.”

His filthy words hit you like a punch, making your cunt throb against him. You kissed him harder, twisting your fingers tightly in his hair and yanking it just enough to rip a hiss from his throat. He slid one of his rough hands up your ribs, dragging his thumb deliberately under the swell of your breast, teasing the stiff peak through your thin bra until you arched into it shamelessly, chasing more of that sweet friction.

He squeezed your right breast hard, digging his fingers into the soft flesh, kneading and rolling it roughly like he was trying to brand his handprint there. Robby bucked his hips up at the same time, grinding the head of his cock right against your throbbing clit through the layers of your clothes. Even with the fabric barrier, you felt every pulse of him pressing insistently against your slick center, making your pussy clench around nothing.

Robby clamped his other hand down on your ass, spreading his fingers wide as he yanked you forward, forcing you to grind faster.

Even with his reputation preceding him, Robby had gone long stretches without sex in his adult life, but this was different, seeing you every week, being so close to you was slowly killing him. He had to swallow the animal urge to pin you against the nearest wall, yank your pants down, and bury himself so deep you’d forget your own name.

He was so pent-up it physically hurt. His cock stayed half-hard most nights, throbbing painfully against his lower stomach. The restraint was agony, his balls were full, heavy and aching, every pulse was a constant reminder of how badly he wanted to spread you open, lick into your wet pussy until you were dripping down his chin, then fuck you raw until he’d pumped you so full of cum it leaked out for days.

He’d jerk off in the shower sometimes, quick and furious, biting his fist to keep quiet, picturing your thighs clamped around his head while you rode his face. It never helped. The second he saw you again, the need roared back twice as vicious.

But then… something clicked. You froze, pushing gently at his chest to pull away. Robby stilled instantly beneath you, snapping his eyesopen, his pupils blown so wide they were almost black.

“Hey,” you whispered, your voice a little unsteady. It was difficult to remember the rules you had established for yourself when Robby felt so tempting under you. “I should… I should probably go home.”

He blinked, dazed in a cloud of pleasure. “You really have to?”

You slid off his lap, feeling your legs shaky as you stood. Your shirt was rumpled, your lips swollen, and your hair a mess from his fingers. “The rule,” you reminded him, though your own body was screaming in protest. “Seven weeks.”

He exhaled hard through his nose, dragging both hands down his face. “Right. The rule.” He looked wrecked, his cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling too fast, the obvious bulge in his pants doing nothing to hide how affected he was.

You grabbed your jacket from the arm of the couch, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” He stood too, wincing a little as he tried to adjust himself subtly. “Don’t apologize. A deal is a deal. I’m a man of my words.”

He stepped closer, not crowding you, just enough to reach out and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear. “I really, really like you,” he said quietly. “Like… stupid amounts. I love spending time with you. The dates, the quiet nights. God help me, I even love losing our silly arguments. And I hate losing.” He gave you a small, crooked smile. “I love getting to know you. The way you hum when you’re concentrating. The way you steal my hoodies and pretend you don’t notice.” He took a breath, locking his eyes on yours. “So yeah. Even if you leave me here like a horny teenager who just discovered what a boner is… I’m still in. All the way. No rushing things.”

Your throat felt tight. You stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heartbeat was fast under your ear. His arms came around you immediately, cradling the back of your head with one hand.

“I like you too,” you murmured into his shirt. “A lot.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I know. You’d be a fool not to.”

You stayed like that for a long minute, just holding each other, the tension from your shared desire easing into something more sweet and innocent.

Eventually, you pulled back. “I really do have to go. Got an early meeting tomorrow.”

He nodded, reluctantly letting you go. “I’ll walk you down.”

At your car, parked on the street right in front of his house, he kissed you again, softer this time, nothing like the hunger he’d shown you on his couch before.

“Two more weeks,” he whispered, half-laughing. “I can do two more weeks. I’m great. Abstinence is curing all my trauma. I feel reborn already.”

You grinned. “You’d better.”

He watched you drive away, standing under the streetlight until your taillights disappeared around the corner. In the quiet of your own apartment later, lying in bed, you realized something… You were not just waiting for seven weeks anymore. You were building something together.

The seventh week arrived on a Friday, exactly seven weeks from that first rain-soaked parking-lot promise. Tonight feels different from the start.

He texts you at 4:17 p.m., while you’re wrapping up notes on a domestic violence case that’s left your chest tight all day:

Dress nice. Pick you up at 7:30. I’ve got plans.

You choose the deep green velvet dress you’ve been saving, the one with thin straps, a fitted bodice, and a skirt that flares just enough to move when you walk. When you open the door at 7:29, he’s already there, ready to knock, but he freezes mid-motion.

Robby is in a navy suit, no tie, the top button undone, the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and his hair is tamed but still has that just-raked-through-it look. He’s holding a bouquet of white roses, almost shyly.

“Jesus,” he breathes, his eyes instantly traveling over you in an appreciative sweep. “You trying to kill me before we even leave?”

You smile, taking the roses. “You clean up nice, too, Robinavitch.”

He steps inside just long enough to help you into your coat, allowing his fingers to linger at your collar, brushing the nape of your neck. The touch is electric after weeks of holding back. “Ready?”

The restaurant is one of those places you’ve only ever seen in movies. None of the men you dated before would’ve dreamed of bringing you here, too expensive, too formal, too much effort for what they were willing to give. Tonight, though, the candlelight flickers across the white tablecloths, and in the corner, a jazz trio plays soft music.

He’s reserved a corner table near the window. Dinner is luxurious. Wine, plates of charcuterie and truffle oil, handmade pasta, and tiramisu shared with two spoons. 

Conversation flows effortlessly, you talk about the week’s chaos, his patient with the ruptured aorta, and your achievement with a teenage girl who finally agreed to foster care placement. You laugh about stupid things too: the way he can’t pronounce Italian words correctly, or how you’ve started adopting his little mannerisms, like scratching your neck when you get shy.

But underneath it all is a hunger that gets louder with every passing minute. Every time your knees brush under the table, every time he reaches across to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time his gaze drops to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly how it tastes.

Dessert comes and goes. Coffee, a third glass of wine. The check arrives, and he pays without fanfare, then looks at you across the candlelight.

“So,” he says, “seven weeks. To the day.”

You lean forward, placing your elbows on the table, your chin on your laced fingers. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Thought you’d ghost me by now.”

He grins, shaking his head as he places a hand over his chest. “Ouch, you had that little trust in me? Told you from the first moment… this was different, and I’m never wrong.” 

“Give me your final evaluation, Dr. Robinavitch. How’d we do?”

He exhales a quiet laugh, rubbing his jaw like he’s thinking about it. Then he leans in too, close enough that you can smell his cologne, a smell that’s so familiar now. “I’m deeper in this than I’ve ever been with anyone,” he says without any hesitation. “I like you so fucking much it scares me sometimes. Not in a bad way—just… I’m used to you. Your laugh when I say something stupid. The way you steal half my blanket when we watch movies on my couch. The little crease between your brows when you’re reading a chart. I can’t picture waking up and not having that in my life anymore. I don’t want to.”

Your throat tightens, you want to speak, but you don’t interrupt. He keeps going. “That sex ban? It was brutal, I’m not gonna lie. But it was good. Really good. It forced me to stay. To talk instead of fuck my way out of feeling things. I had to learn you, really learn you. And I did. I do.” He pauses, locking his eyes on yours. “But I’m not gentlemanly enough to pretend I’m not dying here. I’ve spent the last seven weeks imagining every single way I want to take you home and rip that dress off you. Slowly. Then not slowly at all. I want my hands on every inch of you. I want to wake up tomorrow with your marks on my back and you on my bed.”

The words land like sparks, the heat floods your chest, your thighs, everywhere. You swallow, your voice coming out barely above a whisper. “Then take me home, Robby.”

His pupils blow wide. For half a second, he looks stunned, like he wasn’t sure you’d say it. Then he’s moving, standing, offering his hand, pulling you up with him. 

In the parking lot, he holds the passenger’s door open for you, and then rounds to the driver's side, starts the engine, and pulls out onto the street. You glance at him and feel a surge of boldness. Leaning over the console, you press a kiss to his jaw, soft at first, then trailing down to his neck. He inhales sharply, tightening his fingers on the steering wheel, but he keeps his eyes on the road.

"Careful," he murmurs, a smile tugging at his lips. "Trying to drive here."

You hum against his skin. "You can handle it," you nip lightly at his earlobe, sliding your hand to his thigh, squeezing gently, feeling the muscle tense under your palm.

He lets out a groan, glancing at you sideways with heat in his eyes. Emboldened, you continue, peppering kisses on his neck, flicking your tongue to trace the curve of his ear. The car swerves just a fraction before he corrects it, chuckling breathlessly. "Okay, okay… Save some for when we're not moving at sixty miles an hour."

But you don't stop entirely, just slow down, brushing your lips over his skin in lazy patterns as the miles tick by. He finds your knee, stroking it in slow circles that mirror the rhythm of your kisses. 

Finally, he turns onto a quiet residential street in one of Pittsburgh's nicer neighborhoods and pulls into his driveway. "Home sweet home," he says, killing the engine and turning to you. 

Before you can respond, he's leaning over, capturing your lips in a kiss that's deeper than the ones before. He cups the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you melt into it.

You break apart only when breathing becomes necessary, both of you grinning like idiots. 

"Inside," he says. "Before the neighbors get a show."

You nod, fumbling with your seatbelt as he comes around to open your door again, placing his arm around your waist as he leads you up the porch steps. He fumbles the key at his door, cursing under his breath while you laugh against his neck. Then the door swings open and you’re inside, coats shed somewhere in the hallway, shoes kicked off, his mouth never leaving yours.

The hall is dark, but Robby confidently walks you backward toward the bedroom. The air in the room is charged with seven weeks of anticipation. Robby's hands are on you immediately, as if he's afraid you'll vanish if he lets go. He backs you against the door for a moment, pressing his body flush to yours, claiming your mouth in a kiss that's all desperation, tangling your tongues, teeth grazing, and breaths coming in gasps.

His fingers tremble slightly as he slides them up your arms, hooking under the thin straps of your green dress. He pulls back just enough to look at you. "God, I've waited for this," he murmurs with longing. "I can't believe I finally have you here. Like this. All mine."

The dress slips down your body in a slow cascade, pooling at your feet until you're left in black lace panties and bra. Robby's gaze rakes over you, hungry, almost feral. He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing, and you can see the restraint cracking in him.

You step forward, closing the distance, your hands going to his shirt. You unbutton it slowly, revealing inch after inch of his chest, the faint dusting of dark hair trailing down to his lower abdomen. His skin is warm under your fingertips, feverish almost, and he shudders when you scrape your nails lightly over his nipples.

"You were killing me," he breathes, tipping his head back as you push the shirt off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. "Every date, every kiss… Watching you walk away, knowing I couldn't have you. I wanted you so much it hurt. Physically hurt."

His words send a thrill through you, and so you sink to your knees before him. Your hands work his belt open with ease, the buckle clinking softly. He watches you, transfixed, one hand coming to rest lightly on your head, not guiding, just needing the contact.

You yank his pants and boxers down in one rough tug, letting them pool at his ankles. His cock springs free, rock-hard and aching, the thick length curving upward toward his stomach, veins standing out along the shaft, the fat and flushed head already slick and shining with a fat bead of pre-cum that drips slowly down the slit. The sight hits you like a punch, making your mouth flood with saliva, your cunt clenching hard and empty, dripping down your thighs in anticipation.

You wrap your fingers tight around the pulsing base, stroking once, twisting at the head, and Robby lets out a low groan in response, jerking his hips forward like he can’t help it, trying to fuck into your fist.

“Fuck—baby—” His voice is already ruined, desperate, and you’ve barely touched him.

You lean in close, letting your hot breath ghost over him first, then you flick your tongue out to lap at the salty, musky bead of pre-cum leaking from the tip. Then you open your mouth wide and take him in. His grith forces your lips to stretch tight around him as you slide down inch by throbbing inch.

“You taste so good, Robby.” You say, swirling your tongue around the swollen head, sucking lightly at first, teasing the slit, making his knees nearly give out as his whole body shudders, a choked sound ripping from his throat.

“Oh God—yes—fuck—” He gasps, squeezing his eyes shut for a heartbeat like the pleasure’s too much, before snapping back open. He can’t look away from the obscene sight of your mouth stuffed full of him, lips shiny and stretched, cheeks hollowed as you start bobbing in earnest, taking him until he hits the back of your throat and you gag just a little, the sloppy sounds echoing loud in the small space.

He fists his hands tighter in your hair, holding on like you’re his only anchor while his thighs tremble under your palms, twitching his hips forward in shallow thrusts. Every time you suck harder and swirl your tongue, he groans like he’s dying, completely undone

"You have no idea… How many times I imagined this," he pants. "In the shower, at work… fuck,  I'd zone out thinking about your mouth. You're perfect— so fucking perfect."

You hum around him, the vibration making him curse under his breath. You take him as deep as you can, brushing your nose against the coarse hair at his base, and he chokes out a moan, thrusting into your mouth despite himself. Tears prick at your eyes from the stretch, but it's worth it for the way he's unraveling, his head thrown back, his free hand braced against the door for support.

But then his grip tightens, tugging you back gently but insistently. "Stop—wait, please—" His voice is desperate. You pull off with a soft pop, looking up at him questioningly. His chest heaves, and his cock twitches in the cool air, shiny from your mouth. "If you keep going, I'm gonna cum right now, and I—fuck, I need to be inside you. Need to feel you first."

The raw plea in his words ignites something fierce in you. You stand, feeling your legs a little shaky, and he pulls you into him, kissing you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue without a hint of hesitation. His hands roam your body, unhooking your bra with fumbling fingers, sliding it off, then hooking into your panties and dragging them down your legs. You're both naked now, skin to skin, and the contact is electric.

He walks you backward toward the bed, never breaking the kiss, until the mattress hits the backs of your thighs. You sit, then scoot back, and he follows, crawling over you like a man possessed. His weight presses you into the sheets, comforting and overwhelming. He kisses down your body with open-mouthed drags along the sensitive column of your throat, grazing his teeth over your racing pulse before he moves lower.

His lips map the line of your collarbone, sucking lightly enough to leave faint marks, then down to your breasts. He latches onto one stiff nipple with his wet mouth, swirling his tongue hard around the swollen peak before he sucks deep, pulling the bud tight between his lips with suction that makes you curl your toes. At the same time, his rough palm cups your other breast, kneading the soft flesh possessively,  pinching and rolling the neglected nipple until it’s throbbing and aching in rhythm with the one he’s devouring. 

You arch into him, a broken moan tearing from your throat as you dig your nails into the thick muscle of his shoulders, clawing at him like you need to anchor yourself or rip him closer, either way, you’re desperate. Every pull of his mouth sends electric jolts straight to your dripping cunt, making you grind your hips uselessly against nothing. 

"Been dying for this," he whispers against your skin, trailing lower, over your ribs, your stomach. "Every night, I'd lie here thinking about touching you. Tasting you. You drove me insane. I wanted you so bad I could barely think straight."

He slides his big hand between your trembling thighs, brushing his fingers against the drenched heat of your cunt, finding you absolutely soaked, your slick dripping down your folds, coating his palm in a slippery mess the second he touches you. 

A groan rumbles deep in his chest, like discovering your wetness is the single greatest thing he’s ever felt in his life. “Fuck, baby… you’re dripping for me. You wanted me this much?” 

You nod, and Robby parts your lips with two thick fingers, gently at first, spreading you open, exposing your pulsing clit to the cool air before he pushes them inside, stretching your tight, greedy walls. He curls them just right, hooking perfectly against that spongy spot deep inside, stroking it with firm pressure that sends white-hot stars exploding behind your eyelids and a fresh gush of slick coating his knuckles.

“Robby—Oh fuck!” You curse, bucking your hips up off the bed, chasing more of his fingers, more of that perfect friction while your cunt clamps down around him like it never wants to let go.

He watches your face intently, finding your clit and circling with perfect pressure, slow at first, then faster, matching the pump of his fingers. 

“Like this?” he asks as he scissors his fingers wider inside you, angling them higher, curling the tips harder. “Tell me what feels good, baby,” The dual assault is making you tear up.  “Use your words, let me hear how much you love it.”

“So good… fuck! Like that—yes yes yes—” you cry out, cracking into desperate sobs. 

"Look at you," he whispers. You can hear the desperation in his voice. "So wet for me. So ready. I can't believe I get to have you."

“Just like that… don’t stop, please…” You beg him as the pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your core when he plunges his fingers, curling and scissoring them inside your soaked cunt. The lewd, squelching sounds of your slick fill the room.

He ducks his head, latching back onto your breast with hunger, grazing the swollen nipple before he sucks hard. At the same time, he presses his thumb down firmly on your clit, rubbing filthy circles that match the punishing rhythm of his fingers fucking into you.

"Cum for me," he pleads, almost begs, his own desperation bleeding through his words. "I need to feel it… need to know I'm making you feel good. Please, baby. Can you do that for me?"

It crashes over you. Your cunt clamps down hard around his fingers, spasming wildly as you come undone, your walls pulsing and fluttering in rhythmic waves that milk every inch of him. He doesn’t let up. Not even close. He keeps thrusting through the slick mess of your orgasm, curling against that good spot, grinding merciless circles over your oversensitive clit until every aftershock drags another whimper.

“Oh, God. You made me cum so hard…” You giggle, blinded with the disbelief of feeling this good for the first time. “I’m still shaking…”

When you finally collapse, he drags his fingers out slowly, inch by glistening inch, strings of your creamy release clinging to his knuckles. He brings them straight to his mouth and sucks them clean, swirling his tongue deliberately over every drop of your taste

"Taste so good," he says, completely lost in the moment. "I could do this all night. But fuck, I need you now. Need to be inside you before I lose my mind."

You pull him up, kissing him fiercely, tasting yourself on his lips. "Get inside me," you manage to say through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

Robby settles between your spread thighs, pressing his knees on the mattress as he notches himself right where you’re aching most. The thick head of his cock nudges your slick entrance, parting your folds. He drags the leaking tip up and down your slit, coating himself in your dripping arousal until every inch of him glistens, strings of your slick stretching obscenely between his cock and your greedy hole.

He pauses there, just barely breaching you, letting you feel the ridge of his crown stretching your tight ring of muscle, teasing you with the promise of being filled without giving it to you yet

He pauses, pressing his forehead to yours, your breaths mingling. "Tell me you want this. Tell me you've wanted me as much as I've wanted you."

"More," you breathe, framing his face with your hands, lifting your hips to try and get him inside you. "Now, Robby—please."

“Fuck, look at you… so wet, so ready to take every inch,” He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every rigid vein, every throbbing pulse as he stretches you around his girth.

Your walls try to pull him deeper while he holds your hips steady, controlling the pace, making you take it all in agonizing slow motion. The burn is perfect, your slick dripping down his shaft with every careful slide.

When he finally bottoms out, his hips flush tight against yours, balls pressed against your ass, you both let out a broken moan in perfect unison. 

"Fuck—" His arms tremble where they brace beside your head. "You're so tight… so hot. I can't—God, I can't believe I have you. You were killing me for seven weeks, walking away every time. I wanted to pin you down, make you mine right then."

He starts moving with punishingly deep thrusts that drag him along every nerve inside you, stretching and stroking your walls. Each pull-out leaves you clenching around nothing, dripping down your ass, before he sinks back in to the hilt with a wet slap of skin on skin.

“Right there—right fucking there—yes, yes, yes—” You wrap your legs tight around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, digging your heels hard into the firm curve of his ass, pulling him deeper, forcing him to bottom out harder, grinding your clit against his pubic bone with every brutal roll of his hips.

He groans at the pressure, the way your pussy sucks him in deeper, and then he picks up the pace, snapping forward faster, until his balls are slapping wetly against your ass on every deep plunge.

"Feels so good," he groans, burying his face in your neck. "Better than I imagined… And I imagined a lot. Every night, thinking about you like this, wrapped around me, moaning my name."

The words fuel the fire, pushing you higher. You push at his chest. "Let me ride you."

He smiles as he flips you both effortlessly, so now you’re straddling him, your thighs spread wide over his hips, his fat length stretching you even fuller from this position, the blunt head kissing places inside you that make your vision flicker.

“Oh god… Robby, you feel so fucking good inside me…”

Robby clamps his hand down on your hips, digging in hard enough to bruise, guiding you exactly where he wants you. His eyes devour every inch: your flushed tits bouncing with each movement, the way your stomach trembles, the slick shine of arousal coating his shaft where it disappears into your hole.

You rise slowly, until just the head catches at your entrance, then you sink back down, taking him to the root in one plunge that makes you both groan. His cock throbs deep inside you, and the slap of your ass meeting his thighs echoes in the room as you start to ride him, rolling your hips in sloppy circles while he watches, mesmerized, like you’re the hottest fucking thing he’s ever seen.

"Ride me… Yes, just like that—" He's babbling now, completely undone, his head thrown back against the pillows until his throat exposed. " Fuck, look at you… You’re so perfect."

“You’re so deep—fuck, I can feel you in my stomach…” You grind down, dragging your clit along the base of his cock, and then you pick up speed, bouncing harder, taking him to the hilt on every downstroke.

He digs his fingers deep into the soft flesh of your inner thighs, spreading you wider as he helps guide your rhythm, lifting you just enough before yanking you back down onto his length. He meets every bounce with an upward thrust of his hips, fucking up into you with precision.

You notice him locking his eyes on where your soaked pussy swallows him whole, creamy rings of your arousal frothing at the base of his cock with every punishing bounce.

“Use my dick, Fuck, you’re so goddamn good.. I'm close—fuck, so close—" His voice is wrecked, desperate. "You feel too good… Gonna cum inside you, fill you up."

“I can’t—too good—too fucking good—” You moan, and the way he jerks his hips upward to fuck into you, tip you over again.

You come hard, clenching around him, your vision whiting out. He follows seconds later, hammering into you in erratic stutters. His cocik swells even thicker as he unloads in heavy spurts, filling you with thick ropes of cum that seem to go on forever. You feel every fat jet deep inside you, the heat of it blooming against your walls.

You collapse forward onto his sweat-slick chest, both of you gasping for air. Robby buries his face in the crook of your neck, breathing hard against your skin, while his cock still twitches weakly inside you.

Robby’s chest rises and falls beneath your cheek, with one arm wrapped around your waist before you shift slightly, propping yourself up on one elbow so you can see his face. He looks wrecked in the best way, completely blissed out, his eyes half-lidded as he watches you watch him.

“Hey,” you say softly, tracing the line of his jaw with your fingertip. “Promise me something?”

He hums. “Anything.”

“Don’t ghost me now that we’ve fucked.” The words come out quieter than you mean them to, but they land anyway. “Don’t disappear.”

He stills his hand on your back, and he shifts, rolling toward you so you’re face-to-face, your noses almost touching. “Baby, I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze, searching for honesty.  “I need to know this isn’t the end of the version of you I’ve been getting for seven weeks.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he leans in, presses the softest kiss to your forehead, lingering there. “I know it’s gonna sound like the most cliché thing in the world,” he starts, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes again, “but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this good before. Not just the sex, though Jesus, that was—”

He lets out a breathless laugh, shaking his head like he still can’t process it. “That was unreal. But it’s not just that. It’s everything about you. Being with you is different. I don’t feel like I’m running from my problems anymore. I used to, every time shit got real, every time someone got too close, I’d bolt. Find an excuse, pick a fight, disappear into work. Because staying meant dealing with the mess in my head, and I was terrified of that. But with you?”

Robby strokes your cheek again. “It feels like I’m choosing you. Every single day, because I want to stay. I want the mornings where we’re both half-dead and fighting over who gets the last of the coffee. I want the nights we do nothing but lie here and talk about stupid shit. I want your bad days, your good days. I’ve spent years convincing myself I wasn’t built for this, for someone to matter this much. But you make me want to be. You make me feel like I can be.”

He swallows, and you can see his eyes shining a little in the dim light. “So no,” he says firmly, “I’m not ghosting you. I’m not running. I’m right fucking here, and I’m staying. You’re stuck with me, okay? All of it. I’m choosing you. Every day.”

The words settle over you, comforting and easing all your doubts and fears. You feel the knot in your chest loosen, the old fear that always whispers “what if he leaves” starting to quiet.

You lean in, kissing him, tasting the truth of everything he just said. When you pull back, you rest your forehead against his. “Okay,” you whisper, smiling against his lips. “I believe you.”

A/N: Uhhh, thank you so much for all the support and love on the first one-shot I wrote for Robby. I honestly wasn’t expecting it hehe, but it made me so happy. And since he’s my latest obsession, I can’t stop all the ideas for new fics from popping into my head. I’m feeling really inspired, so I’ll probably keep writing more stuff for him in the future.

Like I said, I’m new to the fandom. I’ve read a couple of fics, but I haven’t really had time to fully get into it yet. I mostly write whatever ideas pop into my head, so if I end up writing something that’s already been done a million times… sorry jskdjd 😭

You got the documents from the Court’s Self-Help Center webpage, filling them out with your name, the date of your marriage, and your children’s information. Custody would be split 50/50, and you’d keep the house and car.

Reason to terminate the marriage: irreconcilable differences. You checked the box, printed it out, and signed it.

You left it in his document tray that morning, tucked inside a yellow envelope—just enough to keep it discreet, yet impossible to miss.

Then you went up to your floor and waited. You waited for Robby to come upstairs, to demand answers, to ask for another chance. As the hours dragged by, you occupied yourself by staring at your phone screen, drafting a mental list of terms and conditions for him to return home: therapy, a psychiatric evaluation, and absolute sobriety. But half an hour bled into noon, and by the time the clock hit 7:00 PM, your nerves were eating you alive from the inside out. Robby hadn’t called, he hadn’t come upstairs, and you hadn’t been paged down to the ED either.

So you went home, desperately hoping he would already be there, perhaps wanting to discuss it privately. Anxious tears rolled down your cheeks as you parked, both kids fast asleep in the back seat. You made them dinner in a haze and got them ready for bed. Your phone remained silent save for an irrelevant Instagram notification and the OB-GYN text group's usual chatter lighting up the screen.

It was past 11:00 PM when you finally called him, having heard nothing all night. You sat cross-legged on the bed that used to be your safe space, a sanctuary that now felt like a minefield.

“Hey.” His voice sounded deep on the other end of the line.

“I wanted to speak with you.”

“So speak,” he replied flatly.

“Did you see the documents I left for you?”

“I did.”

“And?”

He sighed. You guessed he was pissed. Your dumb, stupid, toxic plan hadn’t worked; he wasn’t calling to beg for your forgiveness—he was going to scream at you instead.

“It’s done,” he breathed.

Your heart stopped beating.

“What?”

“It’s done. I signed the papers and filed them today during my lunch break.”

You felt your dinner clawing its way back up your throat.

“You filed them?” Your mouth went dry, your voice sounding stiff and cardboard-thin.

“Yeah. You were right. There’s no way back after… you know.”

Both of you stayed on the line in dead silence, hot tears spilling freely down your cheeks and soaking into your lap.

“I was told since we filed jointly, we’ll get the order in a few days. Five tops.”

You could hear him swallowing hard on the other side of the line. You wanted to yell at him, to tell him he had completely misunderstood everything, that you just needed him to get his shit together. But you couldn’t. Your body had frozen solid, and every word in the English language had vanished from your head. So you settled for a cold, hollow, “Okay.”

He wished you a quiet goodnight before hanging up.

You remained frozen all night, feeling as though a piece of you had been violently ripped away. A whole section of your heart felt hollowed out. You wanted to scream, to smash everything in sight, to burn down the place you used to call home because it wasn't such anymore.

That night, both of you cried yourselves to sleep on opposite sides of town.

“I can’t wait around for you, Robby,” you whisper, your voice breaking in the stillness of the apartment, your hands fisting your hoodie sleeves, bunching the cotton fabric up, the ribbed pattern imprinting on your palms as you look at him, at the new grey hairs in his beard, the lines on his face. “I can’t do that. You can’t ask me to do that.”

            “So, what? You want me to stay?” he asks you, his voice harsh and cold, only an undercurrent of warmth running through it as if he can’t stand not be warm to you. As if you are the exception to his rule. 

            “No,” you whisper, a smile creeping onto your face, one sardonic and sad and bitter as you look at him, that sting of tears forming, rising and blurring your sightline. “No, I’m not asking you to stay, Robby. You didn’t ask me to come with you so why would I wait? Why would I wait when you’ve made it seem like…like you’re not coming back at all?” You can see the shift in his eyes, the darkening and saddening. The desperation like he doesn’t want to go, to leave you. 

            Or like he wants you to wait. 

            And a part of you does. A part of you wants to wait for him, wait for him to get back but you can’t do that. You can’t hinge part of your life on a man who has made it seem like he has every intention of never coming back, of staying away permanently. You can’t hinge your life on someone else’s. On their whims. 

            You want to wait for him, but you can’t. 

            “Don’t you love me?” he asks you, his voice just slightly desperate and you look at him, the tears slipping down your cheeks now, slow but sure, stinging just slightly against that is tired and dry from twelve hours on your feet, from twelve hours of tension and fights and issues that wouldn’t have happened if school still competency without electronics. 

            “More than anything,” you tell him, your hoodie sleeves now part of your hands, fused and unrelenting. “You’re impossible not to love, Robinavitch.”

            “Then why can’t you wait for me? Why are you leaving me?” he asks you, his tone beseeching as he gets onto his knees before you, his hands resting on your knees, his warm brown eyes peering into you intently, more like the Robby you fell in love with than the dick you saw all day. 

            “I’m not the one leaving, Robby. That’s you and I can’t hinge my life on yours,” you tell him, unable to stop your hand from coming out to rest on his cheek, thumb rubbing back and forth, the scruff of his beard scratching your palm in a way that is sweet. In a way that you’ll miss. 

            “But when I come back,” he whispers, “and if you’re single…” he trails off but you nod, biting your lip just slightly against the tears that continue to fall, unrelenting. 

            “Then maybe we can start again.”

            You’ve been watching Robby all day, the way he’s strung tight as if wound around and around and around, one end still loose and being tugged, threatening to unravel him as a whole. You know this has something to do with his leaving, his sabbatical. The idea of freedom without purpose, without ties that bind. 

            It’s the only thing that makes you regret telling him you wouldn’t wait, wouldn’t give him time to find himself while knowing you were there for him when he got back. His absolute freedom, the freedom of having no one waiting around for him is the only thing that worries you, that makes you think that maybe you did the wrong thing. Chose wrong. 

            But the larger part of you knows that you didn’t. The larger part knows that you chose right because for once you chose yourself. You chose what you needed to choose and you have spent too long putting others first—putting Robby first. 

            Since the first day you met him, three years ago, you’ve been putting him first. It started small, bringing him coffee when he was tired or before the shift had even started, walking in and giving him a drink of your choosing, telling him “just try it, Robinavitch. Might surprise you.” It began small like that, but then it became larger, something that was quiet but present. Ever there. Something that just is and you can’t pinpoint when exactly it began, just that it’s there. 

            Two years of that something. Of bringing him coffee before his shift and during. Of packing extra snacks in your bag for him, making sure he ate, making sure he had time to take a bathroom break. 

            Two years of mediating him and his care for the department, the place not the people. Two years of acting as interpreter of him for everyone else, explaining what his outbursts really meant because you understood his language from day one. Two years of being someone always there, someone who wouldn’t run away or leave. Two years of proving you were permanent to him just for one year together before he decides to leave. 

            Three years of putting him first just to end up finding out he’s leaving. A break. One that you are not a part of and so you have put yourself first yet somehow, a piece of you feels guilty, feels torn. 

            Feels regret, that slippery clenching of your throat and tightening of your chest, constricting of your heart and stinging of your eyes constantly waiting for the time to let the tears fall. 

            You know this feeling will linger longer than the good feelings he gave you. You know that this feeling of failing him will be what you have for the longest time while he searches for himself. 

            You also know that you will let these tears fall when you are alone, when there is no one around to witness you fall apart, come undone over someone who is leaving you behind on a journey to find himself when you thought he had been here all along with you. But, you suppose, maybe he’s been absent all along and he’s not really leaving you—he’s joining the parts of himself that have never been there to begin with. 

            “Robby,” you call out, your voice soft, yet echoing in the twilight air of the ambulance bay. “What’s wrong with you today?”

            “Oh, finally talking to me,” he snaps, rising from his knees where he’s been inspecting his bike, hands on his thighs as he rises, face twisted in an expression of irritation and exhaustion. 

            “What are you talking about? I’ve been talking to you all day,” you reply, hands resting on your grey scrub covered hips as you step towards him, one eyebrow arched, a pain in your lower back from the bending over patients and crouching to grab things that the doctors need. “You’re the one whose been avoiding me.”

            “I’m not avoiding you,” he says, his tone still harsh and full of irritation, but his eyes softening the longer he looks at you, takes you in, all of you, every inch that to him is perfect—or so he’s told you, over and over and over. 

            “Then why won’t you tell me what’s wrong?” you ask, your voice so soft, so terribly soft that for a moment, he just looks at you, his shoulders still moving in that brush-off shrug he has, fingers flexing out in that Mr. Darcy way he has that you like to tease him about. His gaze is steady, a thousand words passing through his eyes, those eyes having a language of their own—one you understand. “It’s okay to not be okay, you know, Michael,” you whisper, the words sticking in your throat, the feeling thick and strange as he steps to you, his arms opening just slightly and you fall into him, your arms wrapping around his waist, his around yours, palms flat, radiating heat to you, the feeling sending a shiver through your body, gooseflesh prickling along your skin for a moment like the touch of a ghost. 

            “I don’t know who I am without this place,” he whispers into your hair, the words vibrating through the top of you all the way down to your toes as your breath hitches, the weight of his words hitting you squarely in the chest. “Here…I have a purpose. I know who I am and what I do and without it…what purpose do I have? Am I too jaded? Is it time to…to pass it on?”

            You pull back just enough that you can look Robby in the eyes, that he can see your stare, your tear-filled eyes as you shake your head just once. 

            “You listen to me, Michael Eric Robinavitch,” you whisper, the words fierce and huskier than normal due to the tightness and constriction of your throat. “You are not the ED. You are not just a doctor. You are Michael Eric Robinavitch. You are a heavy metal fan and a guitar player in your free time. You are someone sweet and kind and caring and still young enough to do everything that you have ever wanted to do…You are the first man I have ever loved and that is not nothing. You have a purpose just by existing, Mikey.” 

            He’s crying, tears slipping down his cheeks, tangling in his beard and you lift your hands, wiping away his tears with tender, open handed touches that soothe him, causing him to lean into your touch, his eyes fluttering closed. 

            “Don’t…don’t let me be alone tonight,” he whispers, the words a sob, shaky and strange. 

            “Never,” you reply and press your lips against his in a kiss that tastes of salt and sadness and pain and goodbyes that are not really goodbyes, but see you laters. 

            A kiss that makes the hurt inside you burn all the more.

            “I love you,” Michael whispers, his hands soft as he traces his hands against your curves, your body flat upon the mattress, sweat already shimmering, your juices glistening on his beard as he looks up at you with eyes so hazy they almost look drunk. 

            “And I love you,” you whisper, shifting your body on the bed, adjusting as he climbs over you, pressing his weight down as presses his cock against your entrance, the sight still sensitive, swollen. 

            “Let me show you,” he whispers, his mouth just inches from yours, the smell of you upon him as he presses his lips against yours, open-mouthed and desperate as he shoves himself inside of you in one thrust, the feeling of the stretch compounded into one instant, one that has you arching your back as much as you can despite his weight pressing you down, more pleasure flooding through you as he begins to move again. 

            One hand is stroking your body, kneading the flesh of your breasts as he kisses you, kisses his way down your neck, the column of your throat, your collarbone leaving marks behind while his other strays between your legs, finding your clit and pressing upon it, circling as he begins to move in and out of you, his strokes varied, designed to bring the both of you to pleasure. 

            “Mikey,” you whimper as he thrusts in just as he presses down on your clit, hard enough to cause that jolt of pain down your spine, but not hard enough for the pain to read as pain and not a form of pleasure. 

            “I’ve got you, baby. I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your skin, your collarbone warming underneath his breath, his kisses, tongue flicking against your skin as he speaks. You can feel him inside you, the way he fits and you know that you will miss him when he’s gone, when he’s not here. 

            The thought of him not being with you brings the feel of stinging tears forwards as he lifts his head, pressing a soft yet sloppy kiss to your lips, hips snapping forwards, driving him deep, the force too much yet not enough as his tongue strokes against yours, desperation flavouring the kiss. 

            “I…I love you,” you cry out, tears sliding down your cheeks as he pulls back from you, his chocolate eyes black with a mixture of love and lust and grief. His thumb presses down again upon your clit, his index and middle fingers dragging along your folds, stimulating every inch of you, the pleasure snapping through you, winding the coil in your belly tighter, every inch of you more sensitive, more attune to sensation as Robby’s head falls against your chest, the feeling of wetness landing on your skin. 

            It’s then that you can hear the choked sounds of his sobs as he thrusts back into you, his voice choking out, “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

            “Mikey,” you whisper and he lifts his head, tear tracks on his face, the coil in your belly drawn tight, so tight, the feeling made stronger, fiercer by the press of his belly down against yours, his hands on your body, his eyes on yours. 

            Made stronger just by him. 

            “What’s wrong, precious?” he asks you, voice choked and husky in the same moment, his words making that burning stronger, that coil tighter. 

            “I’m—gonna miss you,” you whisper, the words rising on the end as he circles your clit, stretching your folds at the same time as he thrusts in, sharp and fast, the sound of his skin slapping against yours echoing, that coil inside of you snapping, releasing as you come around him and he follows you on a groan, the flutters of your walls pulling it from him, his seed spilling into you as he pulls out, falling beside you, pulling your body against his, arms tight. 

            Like he’ll never let you go. 

            “I’m gonna miss you too,” he whispers, his face creasing into sadness, tears still slipping down his cheeks, tears you wipe away with one hand, your own face twisting just like his—a twisted saddened mirror. 

            “I know I can’t ask you…to stay,” you whisper, your voice cracking on the final word, his eyes locked on yours, those eyes that say a thousand things in a thousand ways; things you learned to read a long time ago yet can’t seem to now. “But I have too…Just once. For me. So…will you stay, Michael?” You swallow around the lump in your throat, the one that’s growing larger as you speak, as you look at him, feel him, knowing that soon you won’t be able to. 

            “I can’t, precious,” he whispers and you nod, tears sliding down your skin, leaving a burning trail in their wake. 

            “I know,” you reply and he pulls you closer, impossibly close, his arms tight, too tight yet not tight enough. 

            “But we have tonight,” he whispers, pressing a kiss against your forehead, beard scratching just slightly against your skin as your eyes close, taking in his warmth, his presence. “One last night.”

            “One last night,” you echo and that’s how you fall asleep, in his arms, the warm circle of his body where you are the centre. 

            It’s peaceful there.

            When you wake in the morning, you wake to an empty bed, the creases in the sheets shadowed in the light of the rising sun. The creases in the sheets where only the memory of his body lays. 

            “You doing okay, hun?” Dana asks you; eyes narrowed in that way she has, like she can see exactly what’s wrong with you if she just takes long enough. 

            “Fine,” you whisper, a feeling of twisting in your stomach, creeping in your throat making your words a lie as you brush past her, eyes on the bathroom ahead of you, the burning in your chest and throat telling you what’s coming. “Just some heartburn. Be back in a minute.” 

            And then you push through to the bathroom, ducking into a stall, closing it behind you just in time to hurl into the basin, the burning of bile permeating your mouth as you choke and cough, your stomach contents emptying into the porcelain bowl. Your eyes stream and your nose runs as your body heaves and convulses with chills from the cold hospital floor. 

            “Oh, honey,” you hear behind you, Dana’s soft and soothing voice sounding world-weary and exhausted behind you as her hands pull your hair back, one rubbing soothing circles on your back. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. Let it out.”

            “Finally!” Parker cries as you push the door to the café open, the bell tinkling overhead. “You’ve been no fun for the past week! I’m glad to see you up and about.”

            “You act like I’ve been dead and not simply down with the stomach flu, Parkie,” you snap, sliding into the booth across from her, taking notice of the drink before you—your usual order, something you made her learn by heart—and swivelling your head, scanning the shop for the third leg of your friendship tripod. “Where’s Johnny?”

            “Here’s Johnny,” you hear behind you, the Jack Nicholson impression nonexistent, simply his quote in your other best friend’s voice. 

            “You had the perfect opportunity and you missed it,” Parker says, leaning back in the booth, linking her hands behind her head, propping her feet up on the seat beside you, barring John from getting in. 

            “Move your feet, Ellis,” he says, hitting them with his hand. “You cannot block me from a booth because I refuse to act like a maniac from a Stephen King movie in a Mom-and-Pop coffee shop.”

            “Actually,” she says, “I can because it’s a country with a shitty illusion of freedom. Meaning I can sit in a booth the way I want, I just can’t walk down the street.” John grabs Parker’s ankles and moves them off the booth, sinking down beside you, his arm going around your shoulders, a Shopper’s Drug Mart bag set on the table in front of you. 

            “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” you ask him, eyebrows rising as you look at the bag then at him, noticing the way his lips curve up in a smile—one mischievous and far too caffeinated. 

            “Open it and see,” he says and you do, pulling the bag towards you, reaching in and pulling out Gravol. 

            “Wow,” you deadpan, watching as his smile brightens. “What a wonderful gift.”

            “Now you can join us back in hell. Just pop a couple of those babies and you won’t vomit on patients anymore,” he says and you roll your eyes as Parker reaches over and slaps him on the shoulder. 

            “Grow up, Shen,” she says, but he simply shrugs, leaning back and linking his hands behind his head—exactly like Ellis had been sitting when he arrived. 

            “Who’s the attending here, Ellis?” he says, the two of them beginning to squabble just like children as you watch, like a bemused parent. 

            Like the one whose hurting too much to engage in getting more. 

            Two weeks. Two weeks with no Robby and two weeks of feeling sick, of throwing up every evening until your throat is raw and your eyes are bloodshot and your nose is stiff and dry from snot dripping. 

            Two weeks of unrelenting sickness for you to realize that you had sex with Robby that night when you had forgotten to refill the prescription for your birth control for that month. Two weeks for you to come to a conclusion that should have been high on your list. 

            Two weeks. 

            “Dana,” you hiss, pulling her aside, casting a glance around the hallway you dragged her into, noticing no one around. “I need you to run a test for me.”

            “What kind of test, hun?” she asks, but in her blue eyes, you can see that she knows. Or at least suspects. 

            “An HCG test.”

            The test results swim before your eyes as you stand outside your car, keys in one hand, the results in the other. 37 mIU/mL.

            “Well shit,” you whisper as you pull your door open, tossing the page beside you, switching your keys to your right hand, sticking them in the ignition and turning, the engine rumbling to life, A/C coming to life, blowing far too fast and far too high as you lean your head against your steering wheel. “Guess Robby didn’t want me to be alone.”

            And then you put your car into reverse, driving out of the parking lot, back towards your home, your apartment, too many things running through your head like hamsters on their wheels all at different speeds, driving you to insanity. 

            You know, without a doubt, that you are doing this. You know you are keeping this child and you will raise them. You won’t abandon them, they will know nothing but love. They will know that and never doubt it. 

            You will give them the acceptance that you never got. 

            “Woodbridge has an opening for a charge nurse on Peds Oncology,” Dana says, her hair loose for once on her day off, the bun only for when she’s working, when she’s afraid that her hair will be another thing to cause a Code Hula-Hoop, another thing to scar her. “I can put in a good word for you.”

            “Please,” you say as you bring the iced drink to your lips, the smell of citrus and raspberry wafting from the sweating plastic cup. “I love the ED but I can’t risk it. I mean…look at what happened to Heather.”

            “We’ll miss you, hun,” she says, her hand reaching out and taking yours, giving it a squeeze as you smile at her, tears stinging your eyes again as your lip wobbles, nostrils flaring as you bite your bottom lip, biting back the tears that always seem to want to fall these days. 

            “You’ll tell Robby for me when he gets back?” you ask and she nods, just once, her own eyes glimmering, glistening as she presses her lips together. 

            “Always.”

            The life on the road has been hell. There is no other descriptor, no other image that can properly present the turmoil of riding on a motorcycle seat that is by no means soft with a bad back, passing the nights sleeping in motel rooms on slowly collapsing, depressing, mattresses. 

            And through it all, Robby has been tormented by you. Every single version of you that he has had the privilege of knowing from the bright-eyed new nurse who showed up with a smile and a soft hi to the version from the night before he left, the one tear-stained cheeks and saddened eyes, lips twisted in a wry smile whispering I know. 

            And when he arrives back in Pittsburgh all he wants is to go to your apartment, bang on the door and fall into your arms, into your embrace, but he waits. He goes home, he sleeps in his bed, missing the scent of you, the feel of you. 

            He wakes up and gets ready for work, knowing that you will be there, waiting. Hopefully ready to begin again. 

            To start anew. 

            But when he arrives at the hospital to people greeting him, welcoming him back, he doesn’t see you. He doesn’t see your sardonic smile or the wry arch of your eyebrow. He doesn’t hear your voice, calling out back so soon, Michaellike he thought you would. He doesn’t feel you here at all. 

            “Hey, Jack, you got a minute?” he calls out, hand half-up in the air as he locks eyes with his best friend who sighs, rolling his eyes and walking over, his gait slightly off, probably sore in his prosthetic from the long night. 

            “What’s up?” he asks, crossing his arms when he reaches Robby, biceps flexing as he does so which is so very him that Robby wants to laugh—laugh because of the comfortable familiarity. The knowing, the lack of surprise. 

            “Where is she? Is she off today?” he asks and Jack sighs, rubbing a hand along his jaw, looking back over his shoulder in the direction of Dana who appears to be lecturing a group of med students. 

            “Dana didn’t tell you?” Jack asks. 

            “Tell me what?” he replies, the feeling of his heart rising, chest constricting and lungs burning spreading and disseminating through his body as his palms begin to sweat. Fear, he thinks. He thinks he’s feeling fear—for you. 

            “Robby, man,” he says, sighing once, shaking his head before looking back at Robby. “She left.”

            “You went with blue, quelle surprise,” Parker calls out as she lifts the paint can up in the air. 

            “It’s not just blue,” you counter. “It’s a light white with blue undertones.”

            “So, in layman’s terms, it’s blue,” John says as he steps into the room of your house, the future nursery for your child. 

            “So, sue me,” you snap as you bend down, feeling the change in your body, the heaviness and the shifting and the growing in a way that is rapid and yet slow. Heavy and yet light. “Blue is calming, okay? I would like my baby calm.”

            “We’re just messing with you,” John says, looking around at the room, at the four walls and the plastic covered carpet. 

            “Are you gonna find out the gender at the next ultrasound?” Parker asks and you can’t help the sigh that escapes from your lips as you heart leaps in rate, skipping a beat that has you leaning against the wall as you catch your breath, pregnancy causing strange symptoms. 

            “Yeah. Um…is, uh, Robby back?” you ask, tone laden with hesitation, a lump forming in your throat, the kind that makes it hard to breathe, to swallow. 

            “Uh…yeah,” John says, his eyes not on you but on Parker, the two of them sharing something in a glance, something you don’t know. Something they don’t want to tell you. 

            “Spit it out, Shen. What’s up?” Your tone is blunt, sharp. It leaves no room for argument and John has never been one to ignore you. 

            “He’s going out with Noelle Hastings,” he says and it feels like the earth has shifted underneath you, altered, your brain fuzzy, breath caught and body weak. You feel light-headed, slightly dizzy. You have sweaty palms and blurry vision; constricted chest and burning lungs. You know in the logical part of your brain that this is shock, that you’ve been here before but for once it’s not because of an injury or mass casualty or a dead child. 

            It’s your own personal life and your hormones and the fact that Robby had wanted you to wait for him, wanted to find you when he got back and begin again and like an idiot, you thought he was telling the truth. 

            You believed him when he said that he’d come back. 

            And he did come back, just not for you. 

            “Well,” you whisper, voice hoarse from the shock, from the emotion, from the feeling of the lump in your throat which feels a lot like silent screaming now. “That’s his right. Just glad he’s not dead.”

            “Jesus,” Parker cries, “you’re a saint. I’d want that man dead if it were me, but then again, I bat for the other team.”

            “I’m not a saint,” you say, voice still hoarse as John steps over to you, pulling you against him in a hug. His embrace is warm and safe and kind like it’s always been. 

            “You can cry,” he tells you. “We’re here to hold you up when you can’t stand on your own anymore.” And when Parker joins the hug you do let go. 

            You cry all the tears you were afraid to cry before. 

            You cry all your tears so that you can be ready for your baby. 

            “Hey, Dana,” you say over the phone, one hand absently rubbing your eight-month bump, feeling your son kick against your hand. “Two questions.”

            “Shoot kid,” she says and you smile just slightly, the smile lingering in your voice. 

            “What do you think of the name Jacob Ezekial and will you be there with me when I give birth?” You hear her gasp and then her cough, the one she has when she’s trying to calm down. To sound unaffected. 

            “Wonderful name,” she says, “and of course I’ll be there, hun. Always.”

            All Robby has been hearing for the past two years is how you’re changing your life for a new guy. You redid your bedroom for him, you bought a whole new wardrobe, new bed. Toys. Things that made Princess gasp and go “is that…?”

            It’s killing him knowing that you’ve moved on. That you’ve left Pittsburgh and found a new life, new love. It’s killing him to know that you’re happier without him than you ever were with him. It’s killing him that Jacob Ezekial is making you happier than he did. 

            It’s killing him to not be with you, not to speak to you or see you or know how you’re really doing without the third-party messenger system of the ED. 

            It’s killing him because you’re the only person he’s ever loved and he doesn’t get to love you close. Only from afar. 

            It’s killing him because he’s looking for you in every shattered romance that can’t last past seven fucking weeks. It’s killing him because he’s looking for you everywhere, in everything and he cannot find you. Because you have hidden yourself and it’s killing him more than the ED ever did. 

            Because he loves you. With all that he is, he loves you. Always has. 

            Always will. 

            “They say she’s the best peds charge nurse at Westbridge,” he hears Shen say, the words loud and braggy, that of a best friend that for all the world is really just an older brother. 

            “She’s back?” Robby calls, unable to stop himself from interrupting, a burning need inside of him to know. To really know. 

            “She…never left, man,” Shen says and it feels like world has stopped. Like it has tilted, shifted, gone off its axis. Like it’s been destroyed and he has nothing and yet everything at the same time because you’re not gone. 

            He has a chance. He has a chance to fix this, set this right. Get you back. 

            Which is why he leaves as soon as handoffs are done, driving the familiar route to your home, running up the steps and banging on your front door. Heavy, open-handed slaps upon the bright blue front door that he helped you paint four years ago when you complained about the white being boring. That you wanted life in the place that you lived. 

            “Please open, please open, please open,” he whispers as he continues to slam his hand on your door, the hits stinging through his palm up his wrist, echoing in his bones but he’s rewarded when your house lights turn on and you open the door, eyes squinting as if you’ve been asleep, a robe half-belted revealing a peek of a Metallica t-shirt underneath—the one you stole from his closet because he said Iron Maiden was better and you said he didn’t deserve the shirt. 

            “Robby?” you ask, your voice tired and just as beautiful as he remembers and all he wants to do is grab your face and kiss you. Kiss you hard and fast and press you against the wall and remind you of all the ways he’s yours but he doesn’t. 

            “Hi, precious,” he says, his voice just a tad too loud, just a tad too crazed as his hands flare from the need to touch you. 

            “Shh,” you whisper, glancing over your shoulder before stepping out onto your porch, pulling your robe tighter around you as you cross your arms, closing the door behind you. “You’re gonna wake him up if you keep yelling.”

            It’s then that he’s reminded of your new life, new love. The relationship that you found to replace him, one that’s better than he ever was while he searches for you in all the fraught and wasteful relationships, hoping for scraps of you in someone else and finding nothing. 

            And so, he runs. Turns and runs away. 

            It’s something he’s good at. 

            Just like he’s good at ignoring the way you beg him to stay. The same way he did that night. 

            “Okay, big guy,” you whisper to Jacob, lifting him up and placing him on your hip as you grab his baby bag. “I think it’s time we go meet your dad.”

            When Robby showed up on your porch last night, face alight when he saw you, falling when he heard you mention your son, you knew something was wrong. Something was amiss. And you are a person who likes to fix things. Make them right. 

            And especially for Michael Eric Robinavitch.

            It’s why you buckle Jacob into his car seat and drive to PTMC, despite the heaviness in your gut, the strangeness of seeing Robby after all these years. It’s why you walk into the ambulance bay, Jacob on your hip as you catch Dana’s eye. 

            “What’s up, hun?” she asks you, unable to resist taking Jacob from you for a moment, bouncing him on her hip. 

            “I need to see Robby. It’s an emergency,” you tell her and you can see the way her blue eyes darken and she nods, handing Jacob back to you after pressing a brief kiss to his chubby, year-old cheek. 

            “Go to the on-call room. I’ll send him in,” she says and you nod, squeezing her hand once as you disappear around the corner, the ED still imprinted on your mind, a mental map as if you’ve never left. You know the on-call room, know where it is and you dip inside, closing the heavy metal door behind you as you sit down on the sofa, setting Jake on your leg, his small hands grasping for anything and everything, right now tangled in your shirt. 

            You love him like nothing else because he is everything. He is your present and your future and your always. He is your son and the child who can make you laugh just from a face he pulls. He is the one who pulled you from the darkness because he needs you here and present. He needed you and so you could not fall down into the darkness, that abyss that’s always close. 

            Always close when you hear of Robby’s escapades, when you watch another child die when they should have been lucky enough to live to 105. When you watch another mother fall apart because her child is dead or dying. When you hear of more attacks on nurses. When you see the fucking world. 

            But you have a son who needs you not to fall into that darkness. You have a son that needs you and now you understand those mothers who tell you that getting to be their children’s mother was worth all the pain of losing them. 

            Because Jacob is worth it. 

            “You have a baby,” comes the whispered voice of Robby and you look up to see him standing in the doorway, door only partly closed behind him. His face is twisted into shock and despair and awe, one hand flexing and the other tightening as if his body is conflicted as to what he should feel, should do. 

            “Robby,” you whisper and he steps into the room completely, closing the door behind him ever so softly, only the click of the latch echoing, mixing with the excited and unintelligible babbles of your son. “Meet your son.”

            And you watch as he takes that in, at first not feeling anything and then sinking into that knowledge, warm eyes startling and brimming with awe and love and joy as tears slide from those warm, perfect brown eyes that speak a thousand words. 

            A thousand words that you still know. Because your son has the exact same eyes. 

            “What’s his name?” he asks, coming to sit beside you on the couch, the warmth of his leg pressing into yours from how close he sits to you. 

            “Meet Jacob Ezekial Robinavitch,” you tell him and you watch as he absorbs the fact that you gave your son his name even thinking he’d never be in his life. 

            “This is…” he pauses, swallowing as a choked sob bursts from his throat and he looks away, a hand going to his mouth, a harsh move dragging it down across his beard, so hard that a few greying strands come loose between his fingers. “This is Jack Ezekial?”

            “Who else would be?”

            “I thought…” he pauses and your son chooses that moment to crawl from your lap onto his, small hands finding the ties of his hoodie, pulling with them and playing, giggling as only a baby could. “I thought you seeing someone else.”

            “Robby,” you whisper, drawing his attention back to you. “I’ve been waiting on you even though I said I wouldn’t. I thought you would find me and we could begin again but you never did.” He can’t help himself and he sets one hand against your son, bracing him on his lap, supporting him in a gesture that warms your heart and brings tears to your eyes as his other comes to rest on your cheek. 

            “I thought you’d left me,” he whispers. “I thought you’d left and I’ve been searching for you everywhere. But you’ve been here all along…with my son.” And he places both hands-on Jacob, lifting him up, smiling amidst the tears at Jacob’s giggles, until Jacob is level with him. “Hey, bud. I’m your dad.”

            “Michael,” you say and he sets Jacob back down, settling your son’s back to his belly so the two of them sit looking out at the room, identical eyes taking in the same view. 

            “Yes, precious?”

            “I can’t just let you be his dad like that,” you say and he turns to you, surprise, hurt and anger all flaring in his eyes and you swallow, shaking your head. “You started sleeping around when you thought I’d left and didn’t even try to get in touch. You show up at my house and then run away…I mean, Mikey…I need to know you’re stable. I need to be able to rely on you and I can’t right now. Show me you can be stable. Prove to me you can be the father our son needs.”

            “How do I start?” he asks, one hand holding Jacob steady on his lap, the other coming to twine with yours, fingers interlacing. “How do I prove myself to you? How do I prove to you that you don’t have to go it alone anymore?”

            “Start by leaving work tonight at the actual end shift time and joining us for dinner,” you tell him and your heart skips a beat at the smile on his face. 

            “You got it,” he says, lifting your interlaced hands up and pressing a kiss against yours. “Anything for my family.”

            And you believe him. 

            Because maybe this is when you begin again. 

            “If any of you need anything,” Robby calls out as the clock reflects 6:00 PM at them all, “direct your queries to Dr. Al Hashimi. I am leaving at our actual end shift time for my…family. I’m told I need a life. Good night!”

            “Hey,” Robby says, his hands in his pockets, a shiny new car behind him. “I’m ready to take Ezekial to the toy store.” You raise one brow as you make a pointed gesture at the car, Jacob on your hip. 

            “What’s with the SUV? Did Mr. Motorcycle retire?” Your voice is faux-surprised and he smiles while rolling his eyes. 

            “A dad needs a sensible vehicle,” is all he says and in response you step out onto the porch beside him, pressing a kiss against his cheek, the feeling of his beard against your lips familiar, causing an ache inside of you. When you pull back you can see the redness on his cheeks, the blush that spreads from his cheeks to his neck and ears. 

            “Do you mind if I come too? Or do you want a Father-Son day?” you ask and your breath hitches when he settles one hand against the dip of your waist. 

            “I want a day with my family,” he says. 

            “Well good. Let’s go.”

            “Was the zoo good?” you ask Robby, holding the door ajar for him to walk in, Jacob on his hip, clutching a stuffed tiger, the toy slapping Robby in the face as Jake moves it excitedly. 

            “It was great for the little guy,” Robby says, kicking off his shoes and turning to you with an exaggerated horrified look. “Horrible for me.”

            “What happened?” you ask as you take Jacob from his hands, transferring him to your hip as you move deeper into the house, setting him on his play mat, the toy from the zoo joining his army of others. 

            “Walking around a lot at my age with a chunky baby insisting on my hip rather than toddling along with me like I know he can is a lot,” he tells you, his hands shoving into his pockets as he rocks on his socked feet, body tense as if he’s uneasy in your house. 

            “You okay?”

            “Fine,” he says, word short. Blunt in a way. 

            “You want to stay and have lunch with me. Maybe watch some of The Rookie?” you ask, tone hopeful and rewarded by the way his body relaxes, his smile growing, those wonderful lines on his face crinkling as he lets out a small laugh, glancing down at his feet as he rocks back.             

            “I would love that,” he says, looking back up at you, warm eyes twinkling. 

            “Then what are you in the mood for? Italian?”

            “Italian is code for pizza, right?” he asks you and you can’t help the bubble of laughter that bursts from your chest. 

            “Yes. It’s code for pizza.”

            “Then perfect.”

            “Thanks,” you tell Robby as you sit down at the booth in the café. “I haven’t been out for coffee since I was four months pregnant.” He sits down beside you, passing you your drink, something warm to combat the December cold. 

            “Well…” he pauses, looking down at his hands, at the way they’ve wrapped around his mug, a mirror of yours. “You did say that you wanted to begin again.”

            “A café on Wednesday…” you muse, lips pursing together as a bolt of joy runs through you and you roll your eyes. “Clever, Robinavitch. Very clever.”

            “I have ulterior motives, rest assured,” he says and you sigh, removing one hand from the warmth of your mug, propping your chin on it. 

            “What are they?”

            “Have I proved myself stable this year?” he asks you and you can feel the hitch in your breath as you look at him, the man you love. The man you’ve always loved. 

            “More than proved, Mikey,” you whisper, lifting your head from your hand and instead taking his in yours across the table and squeezing. “More than proved. I’d be…I’d like…um…do you want to move in? To be in Jake’s life full-time?”

            “Yeah,” he says and it’s settled then and there. 

            In a Wednesday, on a café, you watched it begin again.

            “Precious?” you hear Robby call out and you turn, pausing in drying the dish currently in your hand. 

            “What’s up?” you call out, watching as he steps into the room, your three-year old son toddling after him, a gleeful, child smile on his face. 

            “I have a very important question for you,” he says, stepping closer as Jacob lets out a shrill little giggle, clapping his hands. 

            “What is this important question, Mikey?” You ask, turning back to drying the plate, turning and placing it in the cupboard before pivoting back around, tossing the dish towel over your shoulder, eyebrows raised. 

            “Well,” he says. “I know I’m old-fashioned, but I love you. I’m in love with you and I was wondering…” he pauses, swallowing and stepping closer before sinking to one knee, his face screwing up in a just a hint of pain. “Will you marry me?”

            And as you look at this man, this man who has more than proved himself as stable, who has proved that he loves you without a doubt, who has stepped into a role that he had to make, had to fit into what was there, all you can hear is his question from the day you told him, the day he left work on time and sat down with you for —How do I prove to you that you don’t have to go it alone anymore?

            “Yes,” you breathe out and then he’s there, sliding the ring of Jacob’s birthstone onto your finger, pressing a deep kiss to your lips, his hands warm on your lower back, your arms encircling his neck. The kiss tastes of love and life and second chances and family and lives one thought one could never have. 

            And when you both feel Jacob wrap his arms around your legs, you lift him up and press kisses against his cheeks, delighting in his giggles, all you can think is from the moment Robby said you don’t have to go it alone, you knew. 

            You knew you never would again. 

            Because he wanted to be there. And he is. Will always be. 

The only thing that Dylan thinks about when that bazooka round explodes is you.

He cradles the beaten-up shell between his hands like newborn, his breath controlled and measured as he takes each step towards the containment unit at the end of the corridor. His boots scuff on the tile beneath his feet, the rubber squeaking with every footfall.

Internally the clock ticks, the metronome that keeps him calm as he holds his life in his hands. If he focuses on that sound he keeps his nerve, his training taking over the same way it always does in moments like this.

Two feet, he counts down as he closes the distance.

Only two feet until he dumps this thing, strips off his blast armour and returns home to the woman that he loves, the one that made Lieutenant recently in Major Crimes. The two of you were meant to be celebrating tonight, having dinner at The Pink Door but then he’d got this call out….

There’s still time, he reminds himself as he places the explosive inside the containment unit.

He may not make dinner, but he can grab takeout on the way home, surprise you-

The shell goes off before he gets the lid closed.

He registers the explosion instinctively as the sudden, violent jolt hurls him backwards, a deafening crack erupting through the air as he hits the wall with such force, he’d be surprised if his back isn’t broken. A wave of heat hits him, surging through his blast armour, searing his skin as he collapses against the tile. Copper erupts in his mouth, his ears ringing, his face wet with tears and blood as plaster dust rains down on from the ceiling. His cheek presses against the ruined tile as he stares down the empty corridor, his life playing out in a series of snapshots.

That first kiss at Point Shilshole Beach after you’d taken him paddle boarding, the scent of sea salt in his nose, the wind on his cheeks.

His hands in your hair during that first night, the way you loved him like no one else, clinging to him in the twilight hours.

The wedding day that will never come because the ring still resides on the top shelf of his locker, waiting for the right moment.

“I’m sorry.” He tries to whisper but the words they won’t leave his throat over the gurgle of crimson that leaks from his mouth. The world starts to tip, sliding away from underneath him.

I don’t want to go…

But he can’t hold on either.

The darkness is here, and it doesn’t knock politely, instead it slams into him, stealing him away from you.

When he wakes up, he’s convinced he’s in hell. His chest burns, the agony prickling through his senses accompanied the constant heavy pressure he feels in the back of his throat. He tries to swallow but instead he almost gags around the foreign object that’s been thrust into his mouth. He starts to fight, to reach up and wrench it out but his arms feeling their moving through molasses, cumbersome, weak.

“Dylan.” Your voice is a whisper as your face appears above him, his own angel, sent straight from heaven to tear him out of this hellscape. “You have a breathing tube in, I need you to calm down.”

Your hand slips into his and he grips it tightly, muscles trembling as his lungs flood with cool air, dispensed by the machine that breathes for him. The panic subsides as awareness filters in. The rhythmic bleep of the machine that measures his heart rate, the water-stained ceiling above him, the scratchy blanket.

He’s in hospital.

He should be dead.

But then he remembers the studies he’s read of bazooka shells just like the one he handled, how they tend to malfunction after spending time in high humidity and salt air. Both of which Seattle has plenty of. The moisture infiltration must have degraded the chemical stabilizers in the powder rendering a weaker explosion.

Your face disappears from his view, and he squeezes your hand again, reassuring himself that you’re still there.

“I’m not leaving.” You promise as you reach for the call button, signalling the doctor. “I’m staying right here.”

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The black metal band on his finger was clear as day. You could see it from nearly across the room, glinting in the hanging lights where his weathered hand wrapped around his lowball tumbler. She must have been able to see it with how intently she gazed at him, drinking him in as if she’d never seen a man before. 

That made it all the worse. Accidents happened, a stumble turning into brushed shoulders that could be laughed off, but this, this, was purposeful. It was a choice she was making, to cozy up to Jack, to not look at his wedding band as if it would merely poof out of existence.

Fuck that.

You were storming over before you realized it.

Jack’s face lit up as he spotted you, still a few feet away.

“There’s my girl,” he greeted warmly. His arm was outstretched, welcoming you against his side, the spot by your stool still occupied by the pretty brunette woman who’d had her hands all over him.

“Hi, baby,” you said sweetly, stepping into his embrace and leaning even closer, one hand cupping his cheek to steady him as you kissed him deeply. He made a small sound of surprise in the back of his throat, but kissed you back without hesitation, his arm wrapping further around you to hold you close. His eyes were dark when you parted, a faint questioning look passing behind them as you grinned at him coyly, bottom lip caught between your teeth. 

“Making friends?” you asked lightly, settling yourself sideways on his lap, making sure to favor his good leg before you pressed one more kiss to his temple, your fingers combing through the thick curls at the back of his head. When you turned to face the woman, smiling overly sweetly at her, you felt a sick twinge of satisfaction to see the way her lips pursed together tightly.

“Sweetheart, this is Jessie,” Jack introduced, gesturing to the woman. His words lilted with faint humor, like he was watching his favorite reality show and the drama had just gotten good. “She was just complimenting my shirt.”

You laughed weakly. Of course she was. Just the thick flannel, surely it had nothing to do with the way he filled it out with his broad shoulders and thick, bulging biceps. 

“It looks like really good quality,” Jessie said, desperately trying to sound neutral. “What is it, cotton?”

Jack hummed, looking to you with a faint smirk. “I wouldn’t know,” he admitted. “This one bought it for me.” His arm tightened around you for a moment, giving you a slight squeeze. 

You frowned, your hand running up and down his chest to feel the fabric as you thought. She wasn’t wrong, it really was a good shirt. You’d always loved the soft feel of it under your hands when you ran your hands over his shoulders, sometimes bunching the fabric in your fists when he caught you off guard with an especially deep kiss. 

“I don’t remember.” You chuckled, giving her an easy smile. “Guess I’ll have to check later when he takes it off.”

Jessie nodded once in silent understanding, swallowing thickly before she picked up her drink from the counter. It was so close to the one you’d left Jack to look over for you that it had left a ring of condensation on the edge of the napkin you used as a coaster. 

“Right, well, I guess I’ll leave you to it,” she said, doing her best to paste on a cheerful smile to match her overly chipper tone. Her words sounded hollow, her finger tracing the rim of her glass as her eyes moved between you and Jack.

You only nodded, giving her an almost sympathetic smile to watch her go from your perch on Jack’s lap, fingers still twirling through his curls in a way you knew from countless hours curled up together that he loved. You picked up your own glass to sip, and Jack had to duck his head into the crook of your neck to muffle the sudden laugh he let slip at the way her eyes widened when she saw your wedding ring. 

A flicker of pride went through him, glad that even after so long together, he had made the right choice that day. Hours of designing had gone into your set of rings, months spent deliberating every curve of the band and cut of the stone before he finally showed you, wanting to make every detail perfect for you, to give you something as beautiful as you were that you would never want to take off. And you never did. 

“Have a good night, Jessie!” you called as she retreated. 

Jack gave you a warm look when she was out of earshot, dark hazel eyes trailing over your face like he wanted to catch every detail of it.

“You handled that mildly,” he drawled, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth. His eyes glimmered, the corners creasing the way they always did, bearing the weight of his hidden smile for him. 

You laughed, adjusting your position on his lap to wrap both arms behind his neck. 

“Careful, Jack,” you teased. “I might think you liked seeing me all possessive.”

He only hummed, the deep vibration carrying through his chest and into your side pressed against it, lifting one shoulder before letting it down into a small shrug. 

“You expect me to be upset to have you all over me, playing with my hair?” He gave you a cocky smirk, gaze lowering for just a moment to your lips before flicking back up. Your breath caught, and he noticed, head tilting slightly as he looked up at you through his lashes that had no business being so thick. 

“Thought for a moment you might smash a bottle over her head,” he continued, though his voice had dropped. His hand gripped your thigh, pulling you higher up his lap as he adjusted how he sat on the barstool. It couldn’t have been comfortable for him, but he was far from complaining. “That what you want, honey? Me having to stitch her up?”

The thought of his hands on her made you angry enough to bite your tongue. 

“That’s exactly why I didn’t,” you pointed out smugly, nestling even closer until the tip of your nose brushed the bridge of his. “I’d much rather keep you as my private doctor, Jack.”

He laughed through his nose, his unblinking gaze meeting yours without dropping. “I’ll be your anything, baby, but I don’t think I should be your doctor.”

You rolled your eyes, giving his scruffy cheek a kiss before fully melting against him, nuzzling into the side of his neck.

“Have it your way then. I’ll just make Robby my emergency contact.”

A sharp laugh left Jack before he could stop it. 

Jack smiled, remembering the overly-dramatic cold shoulder you’d given Robby for a full two weeks before he finally “earned back your trust.” He gave his friend a pat on his shoulder as Robby walked off to join you.

“That’s on you!” he called after him. “Should have said bye before you left!”

Robby didn’t look back, raising one hand to flip him off over his shoulder as he walked away. Jack watched as Robby stepped into place behind you, covering your eyes with his hands and making you jump and let out a squeak in surprise.

“Guess who,” Robby instructed.

You grinned widely but pretended to think about it. 

“Would you be offended if I said Ogilvie?” Robby let out an offended groan, dropping his hands to clutch at his chest like he’d been wounded.

“And here I was thinking you’d recognize your favorite attending.” You only hummed, holding out your hand to your husband as he drew closer.

“You’re definitely in my top two favorite attendings,” you said carefully, unable to hold back a small laugh at the amused smile Jack gave you from the corner of your eye, his warm hand wrapped around your own. “Though to be fair, you have very tough competition.”

Robby shook his head. “What I have is unfair competition,” he retorted, arms crossing over his chest. 

“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Jack’s eyes gleamed with humor, the corner of his lips twitching as his hand squeezed yours. 

Robby sighed out a laugh. “Yeah, something like that.” He turned, eyes moving over the small crowd that had shown up. “How many more do you think will come?”

Jack only hummed, shoulders shrugging indifferently. “No real way of knowing.” “Well, Mateo is still coming,” you interjected. “And Donnie said he’d come too, so I can meet the baby. Though that might not actually happen, if he’s as tired as I expect he is.” You blew out a slow breath of air, shaking your head in wonder. “That man is a saint for taking care of a baby all night and still showing up for twelve hour shifts in the morning.” Jack chuckled faintly. “And what are the rest of us?” he teased.

You shrugged, wrapping both your arms around one of his and resting your chin on his shoulder to look up at him. 

“Adrenaline junkies with control issues,” you offered, smiling at him sweetly. “Except Robby, of course.” You turned to the tall man, who suddenly looked like a deer caught in headlights, his brown eyes widening. 

“And what am I?”

You chuckled, cheek pressed to Jack’s shoulder. The thick muscle was surprisingly comfortable, but maybe that was just because it was his. “You are someone who cares far too much. The papa bear, scared to leave the cubs in charge.”

That earned a small laugh from the man, seeming to take it in stride.

“Papa bear, huh? I’ve heard worse.”

“I’ve said worse,” Jack added, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Robby nodded. “That you have.”

You grinned, looking back and forth between the two. “And yet you love each other anyway.”

Jack frowned, pretending to think it over, while Robby scoffed.

“I tolerate him,” Robby corrected, smiling despite himself.

“You wound me, Robinavitch.”

“Maybe once in a while you say something funny. Once in a blue moon.” “Maybe?” Jack’s face screwed up in offense, and you giggled, releasing your husband and covering your mouth with one hand to stifle the noise. He glanced at you in disbelief, hazel eyes narrowing while you gave him a fond look, your own silent show of support.

“This is why we can’t have children,” he deadpanned, only the slight upturn at the corner of his mouth and the warmth of his eyes showing his humor as he looked down at you. “Can’t risk having them stuck with this guy if anything happens to us.” He jerked his head towards Robby, who scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest and shaking his head softly.

“Jack,” you laughed, trying to reel him in.

“No, they’d end up just as woefully fucking unfunny as Robby,” he continued, trying hard not to chuckle. “I can handle a lot, but that just might kill me.” “You’d already be dead, brother,” Robby offered unhelpfully, his own shoulders trembling with the force of hardly restrained laughter.

Jack grimaced.

“Okay, boys,” you interrupted, seizing the opportunity before Jack could come up with another snarky remark. “Jack, any kid of yours would be too much of a smartass for even the wettest of blankets to snuff out.” You turned to face Robby, whose mouth hung open and had his hands raised in exasperation. “And you,” you continued, voice wavering with a laugh. “You would do great. Honestly, I’d pity you, having to put up with a little fusion of us. Not that we’re going anywhere anytime soon, or trying right now.”

Robby let out a shuddery laugh. “Well, thank god for that.” Jack’s brow furrowed, giving his friend a sharp look.

“The going anywhere part,” he corrected, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder. “You’d be a great father.” Jack shifted on his feet, unsure what to do with the praise. 

“And you,” his large hand clasped your shoulder next, giving you an affectionate shake as you grinned. “Well, you’re already practically a mother to the med students. I just don’t want to be left in charge of a little Abbot anytime soon.”

“And you won’t be,” you assured, giving him a sincere smile.

Jack smirked. “Yeah,” he agreed, shifting so he could take one of your hands in his own. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Takes nine months at least.”

You rolled your eyes, letting your head fall forward to rest against his shoulder again, unable to help but laugh at your husband’s antics. 

“What?” he asked innocently, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. “I might not work in pedes, but I’m pretty confident it’s still nine months.”

Robby shook his head, his tight lipped smile keeping his laughter at bay. His brows raised as he spotted someone across the park. He whistled lowly, jutting his jaw towards them. “Look who it is.” 

Jack followed his gaze, straightening up to stand taller and peering down his nose to catch a glance at the latecomer.

“Oh. I didn’t think she would come.”

You followed the men’s gaze, peering over people’s heads as well as you could without Robby’s added height to see who had caught his eye. You froze when you saw a familiar hair style weaving through the crowd, the flowing corners of a sundress drifting into view as the wind caught it just so. 

Things had been different in the ED since what had become known in your household as the “banana bread debacle”. Jack had stayed true to his word, as you never doubted he would, and went into work two hours early on the next day he was scheduled. He had filled out all of the necessary paperwork to open an HR complaint against Cheryl, and spoken to Caleb Jefferson briefly when he offered his services to help smooth over any lingering tensions. Jack had insisted that there was no tension, at least not as far as he was concerned, but agreed to consider the offer if Cheryl took the complaint poorly. The last thing he needed was personal drama gunking up his ED, throwing off the delicate balance of caffeine and adrenaline-fueled excellence that they all relied on. If he had to stay late a few times to talk with Caleb and iron out whatever he needed to to help Cheryl move on, then so be it.

It ended up not being necessary, which Jack was more grateful for than he would ever admit out loud. He didn’t want to spend his time going over something as basic as why it was important to have boundaries with his subordinates, or remind someone he only spoke with to provide guidance or basic human empathy that he was happily married. Not when he could be home, showering off the stress of the day before collapsing on the couch or in bed to have dinner straight from takeout containers, the stressors of the day melting away with every pass your hand made through his greying curls.

Cheryl had taken care of the issue for him in the end. She had gotten the message loud and clear after being pulled in to speak to HR in private. The next shift, she was different, not quite meeting his gaze when he spoke to her, responding in a clipped, overly chipper tone when someone asked her how she was. She no longer gravitated towards Jack when it came time to do charting, and she began seeking Shen’s council more than his own when situations allowed it, though he still often felt a pair of eyes on him when he was working, the hair at the back of his neck prickling seconds before he would turn, catching her startled eyes for only a moment before her gaze dropped, busying herself with whatever she could to distract from her pink cheeks.

Cheryl had a similar expression now, her eyes finding yours across the crowd, her eyes widening and bright smile faltering for a heartbeat, hands stilling awkwardly when she leaned over to set down a casserole dish on the table someone had set up to hold food.

“Oh fuck,” you breathed out, quiet enough that only Jack could hear. She ducked her head, smoothing her hands over her pretty dress before turning, ducking back into the crowd and making a beeline for the cluster of people on the far side of the gathering.

“Good thing you didn’t bring banana bread again,” he teased, giving your shoulder a light knock with his own. 

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t even start.”

You could feel his smile before you even turned your head, barely acknowledging Robby as he slipped away to talk to someone else.

“She won’t do anything,” Jack assured, head dropping to the side, giving you a tender look despite his teasing smile. “You scared her off, baby. I’m all yours. Always was, always will be.”

You gave him a sweet smile. “I never doubted it,” you promised, taking his hand in your own and giving it a single squeeze. “Still, I wish it wasn’t weird now. It can’t be fun for either of you, ducking around and avoiding each other all the time.” “Sweetheart, I wouldn’t call any part of my job fun.” You interrupted with a scoff. “And I’m not avoiding her,” he continued, frowning. “I still talk to her, help her as she needs it. I just don’t seek her out to chit chat.”

Your eyes followed Cheryl as she scurried off like a field mouse. 

“Still.”

You’d given Cheryl as wide of a berth as you could without making it obvious you were avoiding her. You moved like two magnets with the same pole, one taking a step back whenever the other took a step forward. You managed like this for over an hour before your patience began to wear thin. 

“This is ridiculous,” you’d muttered to yourself, not minding if Cassie overheard you where she stood at your side. “We’re two grown women. I shouldn’t be hiding from her, I haven’t even done anything wrong.” Cassie shrugged, taking a sip from her cup of soda. She’d handed off her drink tickets to Princess, not wanting to even think about alcohol when she had Harrison to drive home. 

“Is she avoiding you too?” You gave her a look. 

“What do you think?” She laughed. “Fair. I wouldn’t want to see the spouse of someone I’d gone all gushy over either.” She scoffed weakly, finger training over the rim of her plastic cup. “Not that I’ve been able to see anyone worth getting gushy over,” she added quietly. 

“I’m just going to talk to her!” you burst out suddenly, nerves coming to a peak in your stomach. You couldn’t handle seeing her at any more staff functions with this weight hanging over your head. You blinked when you realized your outburst, giving Cassie an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” you said weakly. “I’m listening, I promise. And there’s someone out there for you.” You gave her a playful smile. “Someone hot who doesn’t have a dickhead name like Chadwick.”

She exhaled sharply, somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “We’ll see. Maybe sometime next week. Harrison’ll be with his dad, and I’ll be a free agent.” She sighed softly. “Might actually go out, wear something that isn’t scrubs or covered in mystery stains.”

“Ah, there you go!” you encouraged. “You’re kind, smart, and hot. If you can’t get laid, there’s no hope for single women anywhere.” You gave her a sly smile. “I can come with if you want. Play your wingwoman, play bodyguard if anyone gets too handsy.”

Cassie chuckled, brushing her bangs out of her face. “And leave Abbot home alone?” she teased. 

You shrugged. “We can go while he’s at work. Unless you want Jack around as muscle too.” You scratched the tip of your nose, trying in vain to hide your grin. “Can’t promise I’ll keep my hands to myself if we’re drinking though.”

She shuddered, letting out an exaggerated groan.

“Okay, never need to see that,” she laughed. “But I’ll let you know about the bar hopping. It’s not a bad idea, and I’d rather have a friend to hang out with if I can’t find someone.”

“You will!” you insisted stubbornly.

“Yeah, sure.” 

She nudged you with her hip, nodding her head towards the table holding the food everyone had brought. Cheryl was scurrying down the line, picking a few items and glancing your way more than once.

“Now’s your chance if you’re feeling brave.”

You let out a heavy sigh.

“I’m not. But it won’t get any better by doing nothing.”

Cassie slung an arm around your shoulder, giving you a brief side hug. 

“Attagirl. You’ve got this.” You were a few feet away when she called after you. “Let me know if you want me to play bodyguard!”

You could feel your heart thumping in your throat when you walked towards the woman you’d spent the whole party avoiding. You could see the moment she realized you were approaching her, turning slightly on her feet before her stilling, deciding not to attempt to flee. You didn’t know what to say when you came to a stop before her. 

“Hi.” 

Cheryl smiled pleasantly, eyes flitting between yours and somewhere near your left shoulder. She gave a small nod.

“Hello.”

“I guess I should probably introduce myself this time.” You laughed awkwardly, suddenly wondering if you had made the right choice in coming, or if you should have just stayed home and curled up on the couch with Jack, letting him play with your hair while you half listened to whatever documentary he put on. 

Cheryl offered an awkward smile of her own. Her fingers ran along the edges on the side of her red solo cup, glittery nails scratching down each divot with a small thunk.

“I think I’ve figured it out this time.”

You nodded. “Right. Yeah, that makes sense.” You wished you had a cup to fiddle with. Your hands were empty, and it took half your mind’s energy not to dig your nails absentmindedly into your cuticle. The rest was spent trying to think of any way to make this conversation feel less like pulling teeth.

“You know, I wanted to talk to you about…” You trailed off, waving a hand vaguely, nerves crawling as Cheryl tensed slightly. She probably thought she was about to get chewed out in public for the whole ED and their families to see. “I just want you to know there are no hard feelings. Everything you said about Jack is true.” You chuckled again, your nerves needing you to fill the silence that spread between you like an ocean. You felt like you were drowning in it. “Obviously I think that, I wouldn’t have married him if I didn’t.” You cleared your throat. Why was now the time you tried for a joke? Stupid. 

“I should have told you who I was,” you said, taking a more direct approach. “I was a bit overwhelmed in the moment and didn’t, and I’m sorry if that made things harder for you.”

Cheryl nodded slowly. 

“Thank you.” She was still guarded, but a bit of her apprehension melted away now that she knew this wasn’t some dramatic confrontation from a scorned lover. She sighed tiredly.

“I’m sorry too,” she admitted softly. “I shouldn’t have said those things. Even if you weren’t married, it wasn’t my place.” She offered a small, cautious smile. “And I appreciate you not tearing me a new one in front of everyone.”

You exhaled a small laugh, for the first time smiling genuinely. She seemed relieved, giving you a small smile of her own.

“I came to terms with the fact that people were going to be looking at Jack a loooong time ago,” you said, hoping she could tell it was okay to joke about. “If I had to fight everyone who’d ever made eyes at him, we wouldn’t even be able to go out and get groceries anymore.”

Cheryl laughed and a small part of you relaxed a bit more. 

“Still,” she insisted, giving you a conspiratorial look, “if someone even looks at my man, I have to do something. Let everyone know he’s taken. Doesn’t matter how, marking him up with hickies, packing him lunch, whatever. My man is my man.”

You chuckled. Your eyes slid past her for a moment, catching Jack’s where he stood with Mateo and Victoria, a plate of food in his hand. He mouthed a silent You good? You gave him a small smile, seeing his relief in the way his eyes softened at the edges, before focusing back on the conversation at hand. The thought of marking him up didn’t sound half bad.

“Ah, yeah, well, I never want to get added to Dana’s list of people caught fighting in the ED,” you joked, so thankful when Cheryl laughed instead of being stuck in that dreadful silence again. “The day that happens is the day I leave Pittsburg.”

“Right? That girl’s scary.” You lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Only if you’re a dumbass.” Cheryl nodded. “And we’re all dumbasses in comparison.”

You laughed, cut short with a slight startle when an arm wrapped around your waist from behind. Any surprise faded when a light scruff tickled your cheek, recognizing the freckled forearm that loosely held you back against a strong chest.

“How you ladies doing?” Jack asked, chin resting on your shoulder. His face was turned towards your cheek slightly, asking you more than Cheryl. Despite that, she spoke first. 

“We’re doing well. How are you, Dr. Abbot?”

No one used their professional titles at the annual picnic, not even the senior residents or attendings, but Jack didn’t correct her.

“Doing alright. Just thought I’d bring some food over before the med students hit the tables.” He held a plate up before you, loaded with all of your favorite foods, complete with one of Dennis’ snickerdoodles that were quickly becoming a department-wide favorite. The young man was a surprisingly good baker, but he rarely had the time for it between shifts at the hospital and what Trinity was calling his “farm simulator time share,” whatever that meant. If you hadn’t already been in love with Jack Abbot, you would have fallen for him right then and there.

You beamed at him, head turned awkwardly to look at him as you accepted the plate, still positioned behind you with an arm slung around your middle. 

“Have I told you how wonderful you are?” He pretended to think about it.

“Not enough.”

You wiggled in his grasp, just enough to lightly nudge him in the chest with your elbow.

“Careful,” he cautioned, whispering next to your ear, “or I won’t share the extra cookies I smuggled out for you.”

It took everything in you not to grab him and kiss him hard for all of his coworkers to see.

“Can we renew our vows?” Jack laughed, the vibration rumbling through your back and making your chest feel warm and fuzzy. The feeling only grew, along with a fresh heat to your cheeks, when his mouth found your temple, pressing a lingering kiss to your skin.

“We can do whatever you want,” he whispered into you. He pulled back, giving you an even smile, and pressed the plate of food into your hands. Your back missed his warmth the second he was gone. 

“I’m going to make my rounds,” he explained, already looking back around to see if he could spot any newcomers. “You,” he continued, pointing a stern finger at you, “eat. And don’t forget to hydrate. I put some electrolyte packets in your purse, but I don’t want you getting a headache just because you got too excited to drink water.”

You pursed your lips, and his eyebrows raised in response. 

“Please,” he tacked on, his big hazel eyes pleading. “Please drink water, sweetheart. This heat is brutal. I don’t want us to have to take an emergency trip to the ED, especially since it seems everyone is here somehow.” His broad hand gingerly tucked a lock of hair behind your ear and you nodded.

“I’ll do my best,” you promised, unable to help a small smile at the way the corner of his lips flicked upward for just a moment. 

“Thank you.” He stepped closer, catching you by surprise with a short kiss on the lips. 

Jack was never into PDA, and certainly not around his coworkers. Holding hands was about as far as he’d ever wanted to go around them, aside from flirty jokes that he could throw around just as easily with Robby or even Dana on a day when she didn’t fix him with an acidic look for wasting precious seconds of her time.

It would be a lie to say it didn’t do something to you, being kissed in public. Your stomach fluttered with butterflies like you were first courting each other again, suddenly as giddy as you were after your first kiss. 

Jack gave Cheryl a polite nod, his eyes flickering over her once. “Nice to see you. That’s a pretty dress.”

Cheryl smiled awkwardly, looking down at herself like she couldn’t remember what outfit she’d put on that day. 

“Oh! Thank you, Dr. Abbot.”

He gave her a brief, flat smile, and shot you one last warm look before walking off again. You looked down at the plate of food in your hand.

“Well. Guess I have to eat all this good food now. Doctor’s orders.”

Cheryl sputtered a weak laugh, and you took it as a win.