nausea washes over you immediately and you throw a pillow over your face to try and muffle the sickening sounds. you can’t fall back to sleep and the longer it goes on nausea makes way for anger.

when you go downstairs in the morning your mom has already left for work, robby is sat at the kitchen table reading something on his phone. wordlessly, you grab the orange juice from the fridge and grab a glass before making yourself some toast.

“morning, sweetheart.” robby smiles at you but you ignore him, giving him a glare before taking your breakfast up to your room.

confused, robby follows after you asking you what’s wrong but you stay silent, closing the door in his face when you reach your room.

he knocks on it a couple of times before letting himself in.

“did i say you could come in?” you don’t even turn to him, your voice laced with venom as you take a bite of your toast.

robby sighs, “no.”

“then get out.”

robby sits on the edge of your bed, “what’s wrong?”

“nothing”

robby exhales an exasperated sigh, “sure. have i done something?”

“no.”

robby frowns, he knows you’re lying so he slides off the edge of the bed onto the floor. you turn to him then and watch as he gets on his hands and knees and crawls the short distance to you, where he settles on his knees by your feet.

“what are you doing? stop that.” you roll your eyes and scoot your chair away from him but he grabs your foot and begins kissing along the side of it up your leg.

“i’m sorry.” he looks up at you with pleading eyes as he kisses up your leg to the inside of your thigh where he tries to nuzzle his face in your pussy over your shorts but you push his head back.

“you don’t even know what you’re sorry for.”

robby frowns again, his bottom lip thrown out and eyebrows turned up in the middle, “tell me, i’ll make it better, i promise.”

“i heard you, you know.” you fold your arms across your chest, he leans forward to place a kiss over your shorts but you push him back with your foot.

“heard what?”

“last night, heard you and mom through the wall.”

robby closes his eyes and drops his dead down to the floor, “i’m sorry, i had to. i didn’t want to do it, i promise.”

you laugh, “you had to? come on, do you think i’m stupid?”

“no, baby, of course not. i would never think that.” he’s looking up at you again with genuine hurt in his eyes that you’d say something like that.

“sure. you just had to have sex with her, did you?” you roll your eyes, kicking him back softly every time he tries to reach for you.

“yes, she was complaining that we never have sex anymore and that she felt like i didn’t love her. i could tell she was going to leave me, and if she leaves me that means i’ll have to move out and there’ll be no more this. no more us. and i couldn’t have that, couldn’t bear to be away from you so i had sex with her so she wouldn’t divorce me. i didn’t want to. i hated every second of it but i did it for you, for us, sweetheart.” robby explains, his eyes glassy as he searches your features for any sign that you believe him.

“didn’t sound like you hated it to me.”

robby sighs, smoothing his hand over your thigh, you don’t push him away this time, “i did, i promise. she’s nothing like you, nowhere near as good as you, doesn’t even compare to you, baby.”

your lip quirks up with a smirk, “keep going.”

and he does, robby goes on for a good 5 minutes about how amazing you are. how you’re the best he’s ever had. how much he loves you. how much he needs you. how he couldn’t stand to be away from you. how he imagined he was fucking you the whole time.

eventually you stop pushing him back and let him touch you. you let him kiss up your thigh, let his lips meet the soft fabric of your pajama shorts, let him pull them aside and place gentle kisses against the outside of your pussy.

“please forgive me, i’m so sorry. it won’t happen again, i promise. i’ll let her leave me, i’ll move out, you can move in with me and we can be together. i want that so bad, want to be yours.”

you think for a second, a long second that has robby’s heart thumping in his chest as he waits for your verdict.

“okay, i forgive you.”

robby’s face lights up.

“but…”

it drops again.

“you have a lot of making up to do” you raise an eyebrow at him and nod your head to where his face rests between your legs. he understands immediately and nods before getting to work spreading your folds with one hand before eating your pussy like his life depends on it. it does.

“look at you, on your hands and knees for me like some pathetic little dog.” robby’s cock throbs at your words and he reaches his hand down to relieve some of the pressure.

“ah. ah. did i say you could touch yourself?” you knock his hand away with your foot.

he shakes his head, his tongue still exploring your wet cunt, licking and sucking on every inch. you grind the ball of your foot hard against the rigid outline in his pajama pants and he whimpers at the feeling, moaning right into your core.

“what do you say?”

“i’m sorry.” it comes out muffled and barely discernible with his face pressed right up against your glistening skin.

you press your foot down harder, “i’m sorry!” robby yelps, pulling away for only a second to take in the satisfied smirk on your face.

“good boy.”

a wittle bit of foot stuff for this fine wednesday, perhaps?

want to be added to my fauxcest taglist .ᐣ reply to this post ᝰ.ᐟ ( taglist is tagged from another acc )

Pungent, searing onions pierce the atmosphere. Feet kicked up, you wrap your hands around a glass of chilled white wine and settle into Robby's expansive couch.

"You sure you're doing alright in there?" You call out, listening for his rummaging in the kitchen.

"Yeah, 'f course babe. Don't worry your pretty little head," he replies, sweet but distracted.

A frown twists your lips, though you decide to leave him be, stomach rumbling at the garlic he's now added to the dish.

You try to relax, though a lack of Robby is making it difficult. You take in the low light of the living room, the secluded, large windows of Robby's rural cabin.

A 45 minute drive from the city, he'd purchased the home during his sabbatical. You look out the sliding glass door, where you know a calm river greeted him each morning.

The thought fills you with peace, tears glossing your eyes at the thought of who he was before he took a break. He's still not perfect, but he's so much better. You want to see him through it all.

"Smells great, Mikey," you mention, craning your neck to try and sneak a glimpse of him.

"Thhhanks, babe…" he trails off, distraction lacing his tone.

Your brow quirks, and you can't help but pad into the kitchen. It's a bit of a trek from his living room, the square footage of this place nothing to turn your head at.

"You sure you're okay?" You ask softly, and he jumps.

"Shit," he whispers, placing a large palm on his chest. "Scared me, baby," he says, but doesn't make eye contact.

Guilt pools in your stomach for scaring him, your eyes darting to the pan sizzling on the stove.

"Sorry, honey," you smile, softly nudging your way into the space.

You set your wine glass down with a soft clink, and press your hands into his lower back. You pinch the excess skin at his hips, reveling in his little flinch.

"Hey!" He playfully groans, prodding at the searing vegetables in the pan.

"Need any help in here?" You prop your chin on his back, arms wrapping around his sweet tummy.

You silently pray he can't feel the rapid beating of your heart pressing against him, the sheer proximity enough to make you dizzy.

He shakes his head, but nothing comes out of his mouth. This is his telltale sign that he's not communicating what he needs. He's working on it, but he was so excited to have you this weekend, to make you this meal.

You understand, but you're not standing for it. Your fingernails dig into the plush of his belly, giving him a menacing pinch. His spatula clatters against the counter, his hands white knuckling the marble counter top.

"Baby…" you mumble against his back, "can I help?" It's quiet, neutral and unassuming.

He shrugs, shaking his head again. You huff, pressing a light kiss on his shoulder.

"Promise, baby," he mutters, giving you a small smile.

He reaches for your wine glass, placing it back in your hands and gently ushering you out of the kitchen.

"Go sit," he encourages with a pat on the ass. "I'm fine, promise."

You look back at him over your shoulder, an unsure smile on your lips as you pad back over to the couch.

You curl into the elaborate furniture, the plush cushions enveloping you. Your lips find the rim of your glass, your eyes straining to see as much of him as you can.

Your heart drops, though, when an unmistakable burning scent fills the air. You're on your feet quickly, rushing into the kitchen to find Robby, once again gripping the counter.

This time, he's hunched over a bit more, deep breaths wracking his chest over the pan of now burnt vegetables. He doesn't seem to register you, and you're frozen for a moment, unsure how to proceed.

You decide on a slow step, the creak in the floorboard alerting him to your presence. He jolts up, his face red and blotchy, eyes glossy. Your heart clutches at the sight, and you reach a hand out.

He tenses up at the action, but you persist. You lay a gentle hand on his forearm, and he rests back onto the counter.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out. "Should've said yes, I'm sorry."

You frown, stroking his arm.

"It's okay, you wanted to do it. I understand," you say, inching closer to him. He allows it. "I appreciate you."

He melts at this, and your belly warms at his small smile. His eyes find the ground beneath him, and you take this as an opportunity to act, before he can notice.

You slink over to the cupboard, grabbing a short glass and filling it up with ice. Twisting open the lid of his favorite scotch, the liquid glugs into the glass. The sound piques his interest, head flitting up to see what you're doing.

You walk toward him as he nears the edge of the kitchen where it meets the living room. He accepts the drink, lifting his brows while taking a sip. He doesn't fully give in so easily, though.

He rests a shoulder on the archway of the kitchen, glaring up at you through the you knew he'd refuse to leave you alone with a running stove and oven.

"Let me help you?" You attempt to meet in the middle.

You watch him rattle the idea around in his brain, shaking his head from side to side as he contemplates. Your heart picks up at the sight of him, warmth swirling in your belly at his sleepy eyes, his angular nose.

"Mkay," he relents, setting his scotch down next to your wine.

He wraps his arms around your waist, pressing your back to his chest. He rests his chin on your shoulder, and you melt back into him. His warmth is all encompassing, and you have to will yourself to stand strong.

He walks with you to the fridge, where you grab a new onion and fresh bulb of garlic. You're quick at work, dicing and slicing the vegetables to sear them anew.

The wretched burning smell is quickly overpowered by the aromatic scent once again. Michael relaxes behind you, pinching your hip slightly before checking the meat that's braising in the oven.

You allow yourself a peek behind your shoulder, the slight bend in his torso allowing you a perfect view of his backside. He always claims it's unimpressive, especially compared to yours, yet you can't help but enjoy every bit of him.

You show him so, turning to swat him on the ass with your kitchen towel. He stands up starkly, hands on his hips as he turns toward you, a smile stretching across his face. It's tight lipped, annoyed, but loving all the same.

Your smile is sparkling, and you revel in the pink tint of his cheeks. He saunters back to you, pulling him back to his chest whilst you move the vegetable pan off the burner.

"Thank you, baby," he croons in your ear, placing sweet, slow, seductive kisses along your neck.

There's a flutter between your legs as you settle into him, your head falling back onto his shoulder at his touch.

"Mikey…" you moan, squeezing your thighs together as his hands run down your waist, your hips.

He kneads your plush skin, greedy fingers squeezing and pulling you closer to him.

"So pretty, baby," he mutters, placing one last kiss on your neck. "Gotta get the pasta ready."

He moves to the cabinet, a burst of cold air rushing through you at his absence. You lean down to grab a large pot, shock reverberating through you when he gets his payback, landing a loud smack on your ass.

"Michael!" You squeal, standing up to reach for your stinging behind.

He just shrugs, though his cheeks have been flushed this whole time.

"Can you blame me? You're so pretty, baby," he shoots you his best puppy dog eyes, his lips in a soft little pout.

"I could say the same for you," you quip back, filling up the pot with water.

You place it on the stove, burner turned on all the way to ensure a quick boiling point. A soft silence settles over you two, then, no longer a need to frantically flit around the shared space.

You find your wine glass, lifting it to your lips and taking a slow sip, your eyes never leaving his over the rim of the glass. You lean back on the counter, and he does the same, taking a sip of his scotch.

Tension settles between you, thick like rising steam. You take a deep inhale, heart racing at the mere sight of him. You trail your eyes up and down, committing his look tonight to memory.

He's got jeans on, they're snug, yet low on his hips. His white button up strains against his belly, and you sink your teeth into your lower lip. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, and a bead of sweat pricks your forehead.

You look down at your own outfit, a navy blue dress that fits around your waist and flows down to your ankles, adorned with white polka dots, matched with white kitten heels.

Your eyes find his, just to see him devouring you the same way you did earlier. Your cheeks burn at the heat of Robby's gaze, worrying if this is too much. Your relationship is still new, still not official, though you've been slowly embedding yourselves into each other's lives.

Like tonight, for example. You fit into this secluded space, your ability to help him tonight proof of that.

"You look so pretty tonight, by the way," he murmurs, arms crossing over his chest.

Your heart shocks itself back to life at his compliment, and your tummy twists.

"Thank you, handsome," you smile sweetly.

He smiles, and it's sweet, genuine with no underlying teasing underneath it. He moves closer to you, your heart pumping rapidly in your chest. He places a hand around your waist as he reaches for the spaghetti noodles, cracking them in half before throwing them into the boiling water.

You flinch at the action, having totally forgotten what you were in here for.

"Oh! I could have gotten that," you mutter sheepishly.

He just shakes his head, turning your back towards his chest and walking you back to the living room.

"No, baby," he says, guiding you back to the couch. "I can take it from here, you relax, okay?" He tries to sit you down, to give you a kiss. You don't let him off so easily.

"Can't relax without you," you mutter, running your hands up his bare forearms.

He shudders as you drag your nails over his skin, and you bask in the goosebumps popping up on his skin. His head hangs back, giving you an elongated view of his neck, his Adam's apple bobbing on full display.

You place a soft kiss to the pointy skin, and he shudders once more.

"Fine, baby," he relents, and you knew you'd get your way. He swats your ass once more as you hop back to the kitchen. "C'mon, brat."

- Dinner was outstanding, more than anything you thought Robby could cook for you, even with your help. He'd pick the steaks out, seasoned and braised them, all while tossing together a tomato pasta sauce, cooking noodles, and chopping up ingredients for a salad.

He's now finally joined you on the couch, your legs propped up on his lap, refills of both your drinks in your respective hands. His large, calloused hand strokes up and down your shins, and the motion almost puts you to sleep.

"Feels nice, Mikey," you mumble, resting your head on the back of the couch.

"Yeah?" He asks, his tone light. "Makin' you feel good?"

You nod, the condescending lilt to his words burning deep in your stomach. It mirrors the way he speaks when he's deep inside you, and you can't help but press your thighs together once more.

He knows this, a small smirk playing on his lips as you squirm under his touch.

"This is so pretty," he mumbles, toying with the hemline of your dress. You want nothing more than for him to pull it up, drag you by your legs and have his way with you.

You want it so much that you kick your feet a little, twisting your body to give him as much access to you as possible. It's not the most comfortable position, but you'd rather deal with it than have him stop touching you.

He notices, though, because of course he does, and tosses your legs off him anyways. You scoff, heart sinking at the action. He sees the pout forming on your lips, a sad smile on his lips.

"C'mon, my girl, up," he pats his lap before reaching for you, essentially manhandling you onto his lap.

You allow it, grateful to be able to turn off the decision making part of your brain. You let him maneuver you onto him, knees hitting the couch on either side of his lap.

You straddle him, not sinking your weight down fully just yet. He's surprised by this, head cocking to the side, a smirk twisting his lips.

"What?" You shrug, like nothing's wrong. "You made me dinner just so you could get in my pants? Woooooow. Michael," you tease him, knowing full well you want him just as much as he wants you.

His hands grip your ass, squeezing and kneading, giving a light slap once again. You squeal, hips thrusting of their own volition. You feel a wet spot start to pool in your panties, desperate for friction. You won't let him win that easily, though.

He pulls your hips closer to him, your center pressed against his chest, his face in your tummy, your chest. He looks up at you, chin resting on your stomach.

"Not gonna sit on me, baby? Really?" He asks, soft and sweet.

"Nope!" You chirp, the heat burning in you making it harder to keep up this act.

"You don't want it?" He asks, expecting a predictable answer, expecting you to drop your core onto him and let him take you.

You decide to take his bait, shaking your head no, a proud smile playing on your face. Your heart pounds at the surprise seizing his features.

"Really?" His brows raise.

You've pushed it before with Robby, but due to the early nature of your relationship, it's never gone this far. Never have you denied him yourself, nor denied yourself him, because, as much as you pretend, this is a two way street.

"Really, 'm totally fine," you chirp, and you see his eyes darken. "In fact, is there dessert?" You twist your torso, going to move off of him, but he grips your waist even tighter.

Hook, line, sinker.

"Totally fine?" He grits, hands moving lower. "You mean, if I get my hands on your pretty panties, you won't be drooling for me?"

You bite your lip to stifle a whimper, body on fire at not only your proximity, but lack thereof. The distance between your lap and his feels like miles away, but his hands on you are electrifying.

Still, you shake your head no, defiant despite knowing exactly what he'll find. His hands travel farther and farther up your thighs, circling around to your backside, pushing your dress up over your hips.

Your pink panties give you away instantly, wet spot big and dark. His brows furrow, lips forming into an 'o' as he takes you in.

"Oh, baby," he coos, sliding the fabric to the side. "Fuck, drippin' for me, angel."

You squeal at his words, vulnerability seizing you as his thick fingers press against the damp fabric. You clench against nothing as his fingertips collect your wetness, running through your silky folds.

"Feels so good, Mikey," you whisper, grinding your hips to further the friction.

"Ooohohoho," he chuckles. "Now we want it," he teases, recalling your earlier defiance.

"You know I always did," you whine, giving him your widest eyes, the ones that get him every time.

You're proven right once more as he stands, your legs still wrapped firmly around him. He carries you to the bedroom, a large, cozy bed taking up most of the room.

The windows are floor to ceiling, and the late evening sun sets in pinks and oranges around you two. He tosses you onto the bed, and your heart picks up as you look up at him.

His eyes bore into yours as he settles a knee on the bed, his fingers reaching up to unbutton his shirt. You quickly sit up, folding your legs underneath yourself as you kneel, taking his buttons into your own hands.

You indulge in his half naked frame, trailing a finger down his chest, past his belly all the way to the waistband of his pants. You pause there, grazing your nose against his ever so slightly. His jaw goes slack, panting breaths fanning over your face.

Your heart pounds, tummy twisting with warm desire. You unlatch his belt, finally pressing your lips to his. He melts into you, lips crushing yours as he pushes you back on the bed.

He slides his pants down the rest of the way, boxers coming with it. It's always on brand for him to skip the middle man.

He shakes his head incredulously as he crawls back on the bed. He gestures to your fully clothed form.

"How's this fair?" He poises, and you can't help but giggle.

This gets a smile out of him, inching closer to you on the bed. He wraps his arms around your thighs, pulling you the rest of the way to him until his hips are flush with yours.

You whimper as your sensitive core hits his, his hard cock pressed against you. You wiggle your hips, trying desperately to feel something before he releases you from the restraints of your clothing.

He coos, tutting his tongue and swatting your inner thigh. You squeal, lifting your hips up as his hands pull your underwear down your legs. He tosses them across the room, but not without taking a quick sniff.

"Michael!" You scoff, a small smile creeping on your face. "You perv!"

He smiles at your teasing, tapping his cock onto your clit. You flinch at the contact, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest.

"Can't help it, baby, pussy's so sweet," he mutters, lifting your dress over your head to get you the rest of the way there.

The warmth from the sunset radiates from the windows, coating you in a golden sheen. You can almost feel the rays through the glass as your naked frame settles into the bed.

Insecurity settles deep in your stomach as he takes a moment to stare. He's slack jawed, eyes trailing from your face all the way down to the apex of your thighs, and back up again.

"You're incredibly beautiful, I don't tell you that enough," he mutters, pressing a finger to your entrance.

You moan, arching your back from the bed at the intrusion.

"So tight, shit," he whispers, and you clench around his digit. "No idea how you take my cock every time."

That last part seems more to himself than anybody else, and you can't help but agree. Taking in his length that sits right in front of you, you swallow. It's considerable, especially knowing the guys you've dated in the past.

His finger is fully inside you now, down to the knuckle. You whine, wiggling your hips to add friction. He coos, shushing you before pulling out and adding in a second finger.

You mewl at the stretch, cheeks heating up at the gush of your wetness around his fingers.

"Y'always get so wet for me, fuck," he whispers, jaw going slack at the squelch of your pussy.

"It's so much," you whine, embarrassment creeping up your spine. "'m sorry."

He stops at this, fingers halting inside of you. He quirks a brow, and you feel yourself shrink under his gaze.

"What was that?" He asks, his voice testy. "You're sorry?"

You nod, heart pounding deep and loud in your chest.

"I'm ruining your sheets," you whimper, and he swats your inner thigh.

You squeal at the sharp contact, squeezing your eyes shut.

"Not ruining anything, sweet girl, y'hear me?" He picks up the pace of his fingers once more, massaging your sweet spot with each thrust. "Could never ruin a thing, I promise."

You nod your head, his words shining bright within you. A white hot sensation burns in your lower belly, your blissful edge nearing with each motion.

"Michaelll," you whine, throwing your arms over your face.

"Shhh, I know sweetie, I know," he whispers, maintaining his agonizing pace. "We're gonna get you nice and stretched out for me, get you nice and ready to take me, yeah?"

You whine, wriggling in his grasp, arching your hips off the bed to be closer to him.

He pushes you back down with a firm hand, and a tut of his tongue.

"Nuh-uh, baby, you're gonna sit still and take it like a good girl, hm?" He raises a brow, and all you can do is nod, the pleasure building up to its peak.

Your orgasm is achingly close, your pussy clenching down on his fingers with all its might. He laughs at this, at the heightened resistance his fingers meet inside of you.

Your orgasm hits, then, a blinding hot wave of pleasure sweeping you out to sea. Robby unravels you, continues his brutal pace until your legs are shaking, your breath small, whiny gasps.

"Good girl, good girl," he repeats as he continues to work you out. It's so genuine, your heart clutches.

Tears prick your eyes, caught in a perfect intersection of his praise and the overstimulation. He nods, kissing your cheek as his fingers slow. He pulls out gently, you still whimper at the loss.

Your pussy pulses through the aftershocks, warmth blooming bright in your stomach. Robby nudges your cheek with the point of his nose, lightly grazing your soft skin.

"You ready for me, baby?" He asks, pressing a swift kiss to your cheek.

You nod against his lips, and he lines himself up to your entrance. He slides his head up and down your folds, collecting your wetness before pushing in.

His tip breaches your hole, and you feel instantly hazy. Your eyes flutter shut, lashes kissing your cheeks as he pushes even deeper.

Your jaw falls slack, gripping his hips, relishing the plush skin there as you pull him ever more closer to you, legs spreading even wider to accommodate his large size.

Taking him has always been a challenge, though you're never one to back down. Soon enough, he's buried in you, hips flush together. He sneaks his hands under your legs, pulling them up to his shoulders. Your shins dangle down his back, allowing him to push even deeper.

"Ohhh yes," your breathing is shaky, his tip nudging your sweet spot.

"I know, baby, I know," he mutters, pulling out slightly just to thrust back in.

You whimper as his hips hit your ass, a wet 'plap' echoing through the room. The feeling of him is intoxicating, the smell of him invading your nose and making you dizzy.

Your head falls back on the pillow, eyes fluttering shut as he continues to snap his hips. He finds a steady rhythm, his length pistoning through you like a bullet.

"Feels so good," he grunts, thrusts growing sloppy. "Always so fucking good with you, baby."

He turns his head to press a sweet kiss to your ankle, maneuvering your legs back around his waist.

"Never been this good before," he mutters. "Never."

His words knock the wind out of you. Things are still so new that you never really know what he's thinking. You love when he's like this, sensitive and vulnerable and unable to stop his mouth from running.

The telltale sign of your release creeps up once again. You're more sensitive as your second orgasm approaches, positively gushing around him.

Your juices flow down your ass and onto the bedsheets, the familiar embarrassment returning. Robby catches it before you can spiral, a sharp shake of his head keeping the tears at bay.

"Don't even go there, baby," he grumbles beneath his breath. "Get me as wet as you need to, 's okay."

The tears slip anyway, soft streams rolling down your cheeks. He kisses them away, shushing you as he continues to take you apart.

"You're okay, baby, we're okay. It's all okay," he whispers, kissing all over your face. "It's so okay, so good," he mumbles aimlessly, "so good for me, gonna cum, okay? Gonna cum inside, oh God please can I cum inside?"

You nod breathlessly, tears still spilling, a quiet cry escaping your chest.

"So fucking pretty when you cry, baby, fuck, 's gonna make me cum," he groans, halting his hips against yours as he spills inside you.

You fall apart at the same time, your entire body seizing against his. He brings his mouth to yours, brows furrowed as he parts your lips with his tongue. He kisses you through it, shushing you and stroking your hair.

You shiver and shake as he thrusts through it, gripping at his biceps to anchor you.

"That's it, you got it, you got it," he whispers, bringing your ankle back to his lips for another sweet kiss.

He pulls out slowly, collapsing next to you. Wasting no time, he pulls you into him, wrapping yourself around him so he can bring you to the bathroom to get cleaned up.

There's a shift between you two, you can feel it as he lays down next to you. The air is thicker, more intense. You lean into it, hands immediately finding his bicep and sinking your nails in.

He hisses at the contact, furrowing his brows before pulling you in for a sweet kiss. You melt into him, his firm grip allowing sleep to fall over you, content and in his arms.

The start of the week at PTMC is, as always, loud, chaotic, and smelly. Though, the influx of patients is not what's on your mind most, even though it should be.

You're eager to find Robby, missing him already, though you spent the whole weekend together.

You fill your locker and make quick work of rushing onto the scene, finding your guy immediately. You walk with him alongside a gurney from the ambulance bay as he describes the state of the new patient.

A child with bruises littering their skin and a head injury from a fall at the skate park nearby. This is fairly routine, and you go to retrieve the proper paperwork when he gives you a small tug on your elbow.

Your heart picks up in speed at the touch, albeit professional.

"We don't need you here," he mutters, and your heart drops.

After this weekend, the words feel like poison bubbling in your gut. You jerk your head back to look at him, brows furrowed in surprise and hurt.

He clocks it immediately. You watch his eyes shift momentarily before finding his work zone once again. You feel like you're drowning, like he was throwing you out to sea.

It's just your job, you know this. It doesn't stop the ache from nearly splitting your heart in two.

"It doesn't look like an abuse case," he eases your professional worries, and it helps, though it's not enough to quell your personal ones. "I'll call you if it ends up going that route."

You nod slowly, your ears flooded with anxious noise. You feel as if you're traipsing through water, movements fluid and languid, like you're not even here.

The juxtaposition of the Robby from this weekend and the Robby standing in front of you nearly gives you whiplash, and you're unable to take your eyes off of him.

"Go work with Langdon," he nods across the E.R, and you turn your head.

He's in Trauma 1, barking orders and checking a young child's pupils. You chew on your bottom lip in contemplation, turning your head back to find his face a hell of a lot closer than it was when you looked away.

"Robby-" you start, trying to knock some sense into him.

"What?" He quips. It's short, punctuated, and thoroughly pissed off.

This sparks something within you, a fiery combativeness that you can't seem to find the off switch to.

"Really? Langdon?" You prop your hand up on your hip, rolling his eyes.

He scoffs at your attitude, and 48 hours ago, you know he'd have you over his knee for this later.

Now? You're not so sure. The uncertainty knocks you off kilter, your legs like jelly beneath you.

You knew this was a possibility when you'd started seeing him, you've worked with him for five years now. The mood swings aren't surprising. What is surprising, is the fact that he's never taken it out on you before.

It's terrifying.

"You'll be of better use there," he clips, your heart sinking to the bottom of your stomach.

"But, Robby-" you try, but he cuts you off.

"Now," he punctuates, and leaves the room.

The kid Langdon was with has been discharged, though a pile of CPS paperwork is going to loom high on your desk for the next few days.

As you scan the busy room for more cases to jump on, you spot Robby, still with the same child.

Your brow quirks, making your way over to the scene. He seems to be in some sort of verbal altercation with the mother, who is getting closer and closer to Robby, unkind words spewing from her mouth.

"I'm going to sue you, and I'm going to sue this entire fucking hospital!" She shouts.

Robby has two defensive hands up at his shoulders, and you can tell he's struggling to maintain his composure.

You slink in between him and this woman, a public service smile plastering your face.

"Hi!" You chirp, giving her your name and a hand to shake. "I'm our pediatric specialist. What seems to be the problem here?"

Your tone and demeanor soften the woman, a skill you've honed over half a decade of working this position. Really, all these parents want is for someone to listen. That's where you come in.

You shoot Robby a look as you guide the ever calming woman away from the scene, allowing them to work. He looks sheepish, eyes not leaving yours even after he moves back to the child on the hospital bed.

A sense of pride floods your veins at his battered expression, a smile reading 'I told you so' spreading your lips.

Around 2:30, you're able to steal ten minutes in the break room for a 'lunch' break. Your teeth sink into a granola bar, your chin in your palm as you allow yourself to zone out for a moment.

Since your earlier interaction, you've quietly eyed Robby's every move, tracking the way he darts from one patient to the other with learned ease. Not once had he looked at you, not even to spare a glance.

It's starting to chip away at you, withering you down to your rawest parts. You decided to give him the rest of the morning to reset- knowing the transition from his cabin back to reality can be tough for him.

His behavior today surpasses that, though. Blatantly ignoring you all morning- not letting you help, assigning you to cases with Langdon, of all people.

You've got nothing against the guy, you'd even consider him a friend. It still doesn't explain why Robby would hand you off to him instead of keeping you to himself.

By the time you've scarfed down a semblance of food, you're angry all over again. You march back out into the Pitt, greeted by all the familiar sounds and smells.

You wrinkle your nose, spotting Robby at the charting station. His glasses sit low on his nose, fingers clacking on the keyboard.

You stop in your fiery tracks as you take him in, heart pattering against your chest like a caged bird. It knocks you off kilter for a moment, the mere sight of him standing there.

His head snaps up instantly, and you roll your eyes, annoyed once again at how deeply he feels you. You stomp over, plopping yourself on the stool at the station opposite him.

You don't even pretend to look at the computer, folding your hands on the counter as you glare at him. His eyes divert from the screen to you, still glancing over his glasses.

His brows are arched, an expression on his face that, at home, usually reads as 'I'm done with your shit.'

But you're not at home. You're at your jobs, and the feeling is mutual.

"What's going on with you?" You ask, clipped and blunt.

He flinches at your brusque tone, still not fully used to your direct way of communicating. You don't let him get away with anything. He needs it, even if he doesn't like it all the time.

He averts his gaze, tapping his fingers against the keyboard once again.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he mutters, and you're seeing red.

You roll your eyes, wrapping your fingers around his wrist and dragging him through the E.R.

"Are you kidding-" he begins to complain, but you shove him into the ambulance bay.

"Do not whine at me, Robinavitch," you hold up a finger, and he relaxes just slightly. "Don't lie to me, either," you prop a hand on your hips, eyes big and sad. "What's going on?"

He's quiet for a moment, pensive and sad. The air hangs thick between you, flooded with the words you're too scared to say.

"It-" he starts, but you stomp down a foot.

"Do not tell me it's nothing, again, Michael!" You whine.

It's petulant, bratty, even. He's seen this part of you. It's not that you're worried about. What worries you is the pained crease resting between his eyebrows.

"What is it?" You whisper, heart pounding against your chest.

You're officially considering worst case scenarios. You lean into the anxiety, let it consume you whole.

"I don't know if this is working," he whispers. It's broken, his eyes sad. You feel your heart lurch at his words.

"What do you mean?" You ask, voice low.

"I think we may be taking things too fast," he mutters, and the words dart around in your brain like a pinball. They just don't make sense.

"What is going too fast for you?" You ask, the words wobbling from your lips.

He scoffs, shaking his head and avoiding your gaze, his telltale sign that he is not planning on telling you the answer.

"You're really going to let this go, just like that?" You ask, the reality of the situation settling over you like a cold, wet blanket.

"I didn't realize there was much to let go," he mutters.

You scoff, rolling your eyes. Your bold facade does nothing for the pounding of your heart against your rib cage, each throb a chip in your armor.

Logically, you knew you'd be getting this version of Robby eventually. You've worked with him for five years. You'd been there for PittFest, Adamson's death, but also for all the people he'd saved, the children's lives you'd changed together.

Then, two months ago happened. A shared beer on a late night after a long shift leading to a salacious make out against the hood of his truck, leading to dates and cabin trips.

You recount this past weekend, now in more detail. The nights you spent in his arms, in his bed, in his space. The breakfasts you'd shared as the sun crept through the windows. It was glaringly, achingly intimate.

Embarrassment burns low in your belly, acidic and tangy. as you study his face.

"I know you don't mean that," you power through, refusing to take your eyes off him. "Come find me when you're ready to talk about how you're actually feeling."

You slide off the stool, leaving him to stew in his own bad attitude.

The painful adrenaline coursing through you gets you to the end of the day. Shift hand off goes relatively smooth, essentially updating Abbot on all of your ongoing cases

Before you can turn to leave, he stops you with a quiet, 'uhm…'

You turn, immediately receptive to the shift in his tone. It's no longer work related, you can tell by the lost puppy look in his eye.

"Jack…" you start, inching closer.

"How's Robby?" He asks, and your heart stops.

"Not great, actually. Why?" You cross your arms in defense.

"I-I think I may have said something to freak him out," he confesses.

You arch a brow, heart ricocheting off your ribcage. It's all you can manage to not lose your mind.

"I'm sure you're aware of his…uhm, history," he starts, and loose pieces of this puzzle start to form together in your brain.

"The 'seven-week-itch'," you remark, recalling years worth of gossip of Robby's dating habits.

"And, how long have you two been seeing each other?" He supplements, and the final piece clicks into place.

"Two months," you whisper.

Eight weeks, more specifically. You had both let it fly right by you, not even noticing the passage of time.

"And I made a joke about it," Jack says, guilt lacing his tone. "On Sunday, after you guys had gotten home."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, squeezing your eyes shut so you don't take your anger out on the wrong subject.

Jack is a dear friend, to both you and Robby. You know he'd never intentionally say something hurtful. You also know that Robby's triggers, while on the mend, are still raw and vulnerable.

"Okay," you sigh. "Thank you for telling me, Jack. I appreciate the honesty."

You mean it, because, although it's not the best case scenario, you now know how to tackle it accurately.

"For sure," he nods, guilt spreading across his soft features. "I'm sorry, bud."

You smile softly at the nickname he'd bestowed upon you at your first handoff.

"It's okay, I can handle it," you assure him, before spinning on your heel in the direction of the lockers.

Robby's not there, and you curse softly under your breath. You make quick work of gathering your things and running out to the parking lot.

You catch his broad frame across the parking lot, and you break into a jog, catching up with him swiftly.

"Robby!" You call, slowing your pace as you reach him, and you can feel the iciness radiating off of him.

He stops, takes a deep in hale, and turns to stare daggers at you. You take a step back at the look in his eyes, a dark, distant sadness to them that stuns your nervous system.

"Is this about the seven week itch?" You ask, and now it's his turn to take a step back.

The space between you is deep and vast, an ocean of swirling emotions. His chest begins to heave, and for a brief moment, guilt bubbles low in your belly.

Maybe you took it too far, but you're nearing your point of no return. He can deal with it.

You adjust, rolling your shoulders back- standing taller, unafraid. You stare down the empty barrels of his eyes, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip.

"The what?" Is all he manages, and you scoff.

"Really, Robinavitch? That's how you want to play this?" You ask, giving him another shot.

He shrugs, and you just fold your arms across your chest.

"We've been dating for eight weeks, dummy. Jack told me about what he said. Is that really what this is about?" You ask, rage boiling from the tips of your toes to the top of your head.

He laughs sardonically, a furious smile painting his lips.

"This isn't about Jack, or the-what the hell did you call it?" His tone is gruff, and he runs a palm down his face.

"Your seven-week-itch, Michael? Ringing a bell?" You poise, brows raised. "I'm not an idiot, you know. I know I'm not the first girl in this department that you've dated, hell, I'm probably not the youngest, either," this part is a little hyperbolic, but you wouldn't be surprised. "People talk, and if Jack's joking about it, that all but confirms the gossip."

He scoffs, hands coming up to the nape of his neck.

"Fuck," he growls, and you flinch.

You watch him falter at that, and it pauses you for a moment. Each beat of your heart is a throb of affection, for him, for your relationship- or what's left of it.

"You heard all of that and still wanted to be with me?" He asks, and it's insecure as much as it's defensive.

"Yes," you breathe, your heart clutching. "Because I got to know you for myself, and I really like the Michael I know. It doesn't feel like I'm talking to him right now."

He scoffs, walls immediately shooting back up.

"I'm not one of your case kids, y'know," he remarks, and you roll your eyes.

"Okay, so stop acting like a child," you quip back, not missing a beat.

An incredulous chuckle wrestles itself from his chest, eyes glossing over. In this agonizing, purgatorial waiting game, you've stopped feeling sorry for speaking your mind.

"I can't," he mutters, eyes focused on the ground.

You see the wet drops fall from his eye and hit the pavement, fighting your resolve down to the bone.

"I'm sorry, it's not fair," he croaks, and rage pounds in your ears. "But I just can't. I think you need to find someone better."

Your heart burns, tears stinging the backs of your eye ducts.

"But I don't want that," you grumble, pouting your lip. "I want you. Do I not get a say in this?"

He shakes his head, and annoyance pricks at your stomach.

"Really? I don't get a say in my own relationship?" He flinches at that word, and it's like a knife to your gut.

"Relationship?" He repeats, and you throw up a disbelieving hand.

"What the hell else are you calling this?" You ask him, voice raising.

"Of course I'm calling it a relationship I just don't think I've ever actually…" he trails off, and you nod, not needing the rest of that sentence.

"Got it," you press your lips together, egging him to say more.

"I don't know if a relationship with me is what you want," he mutters.

"Well, I know for sure that it is," you stand firm, despite his denial. "What do you want?"

The question hangs in the air like a bomb, prompt and deadly.

"I don't know," he says, and it's the final nail.

"I guess that's our answer, then, isn't it?" You croak, not daring to look at him as you walk past him to your own vehicle.

"Congrats on a new record, Robinavitch," you shout across the parking lot, slinking into your car and slamming the door.

The tears are immediate, flowing down your cheeks, smudging your eyeliner. Your hands white knuckle the steering wheel, chest heaving as your sobs rack through you.

You knew seeing Robby wasn't going to be necessarily easy. He's your colleague, an attending at the hospital you work at, not to mention multiple decades your senior. Plus, everything else.

You're sure of your choices, though, and it's agonizing to know that he's not.

Your mind goes back to this past weekend, how sweet and assuring he was, how safe he made you feel. The difference between that Robby and this one is enough to give you whiplash.

A new set of cries strangle you, clutching your stomach and wringing it out like a dirty dish rag.

You lift a shaky finger, pressing the on button of your car. You let the cool air hit you, drying the wet streaks on your cheeks.

Your veins rage with a cocktail of shame, hurt, and embarrassment. You should have listened.

You should have listened to Princess and Perlah when they dropped you subtle hints on his dating life. You should have listened to Trinity when she told you this was crazy. You should have listened to Dana when she told you he'd break your heart.